Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue

On the second day of New Year in Tenpō Era Year 5 (1834), an eccentric named Nakamura Butsuan died of illness at a place called Shirakawabata near Kameido Tenjin Shrine in Honjo District. He was eighty-four years old. He was a master carpenter and tatami maker, but was also skilled in calligraphy and went by the name Unkeisha Yadayū. It was when he went to Hakone for a hot-spring cure that he bought a walking stick from palanquin bearers, had commemorative poems from various households engraved on it, hung it on a pillar, and boasted about it. Thus he apparently adopted the name Unkeisha, but before that, when he lived in Koame, Honjo, the actor Iwai Shijaku purchased that land. Since Shijaku was building a house there, Butsuan—evicted in frustration—scrawled a satirical poem like the one below on the wall of his long-inhabited home before departing.

Since it was the house where Unke had lived, Riverbank outcasts would not deign to wear its remnants. Though he was an eccentric, he didn’t seem to have been well-liked by society.

About one chō south of Butsuan’s residence, also in Shirakawabata, stood Musashiya Kihee’s dormitory. Musashiya was a pharmacy in Nihonbashi Honmokuchō 3-chōme that also operated an oil shop next door, and as both a long-established business and wealthy household, was widely known throughout the city.

Four days after Butsuan’s death—on the sixth day of that same New Year, at midnight—the Musashiya dormitory burned down in an act of arson, and three corpses were discovered in the ashes. Perhaps due to oil from the shop’s side business stored inside, the flames appeared to have been fueled by the liquid; even the pillars burned clean away, leaving the three corpses nearly indistinguishable by gender. In the dormitory lived a middle-aged maid named Omasa and a manservant named Gosuke. Gosuke commuted daily and returned home each evening, while Omasa naturally resided there full-time. Yet even Omasa had gone back to her brother’s house in Honjo Narihira that day, and only upon returning to the dormitory the following morning did she learn of what had transpired.

In response to the town magistrates’ questioning, Omasa answered as follows. “The mistress was always at this dormitory,” Omasa said, “but on December 29th—yes, since Mr. Butsuan passed on the 2nd, the dates are correct—she went out that morning, and I kept watch here ever after. Then on the afternoon of the 6th, Miss Oshino arrived from the Nihonbashi shop with Master carried on a stretcher. Yes, Miss Oshino was Musashiya’s only daughter, having just turned eighteen that New Year—a lovely, quiet young lady with such gentle manners.”

Master Kihee was an adopted heir. He was forty-five years old and had collapsed from tuberculosis three years prior, but his wife who lived with him, Osono—fearing infection from the disease—entrusted his care to their daughter Oshino and moved to the dormitory. Since then, they had lived separately, and she never once set foot in the shop. "The master was carried into the inner room still on the stretcher, and the young men immediately left to return home," Omasa said. "Miss Oshino remained constantly at the master’s side in the inner room. Even when I went to ask if anything was needed, she would only reply, ‘Please just stay quiet—Father’s illness is grave.’"

Before long, the scent of incense began wafting through, and when it grew overpoweringly strong, I went to check if something was wrong. Oshino replied they were burning incense because the patient's body had developed an odor, so there was no need for concern. When evening came, Oshino came to the kitchen herself, washed rice in the yukihira pot, announced "I'll cook the gruel over the brazier," then added that her own dinner could be anything before retreating to the inner rooms. After that, Omasa went shopping as far as Tenjin Bridge, bought fish and vegetables, then cooked rice and prepared stewed dishes. It seems that during this time, Osono—the mistress who had been away for seven days—had returned without Omasa's knowledge, when Oshino came and instructed her to prepare sake since her mother was back.

“Just as we had run out of sake,” Omasa continued, “when I said I would go place an order at the liquor store, she told me to get some side dishes while I was at it. Since she said, ‘You must know Mother’s preferences, so handle it as you see fit,’ I went to the liquor store and caterer.” When the sake arrived and side dishes were delivered, as I set up the meal tray, Oshino came again and said: “I’ll take care of the rest. It’s grown quite late—I’ll grant you leave. Go stay at your brother’s house in Narihira.”

Omasa had left her child at her brother’s house. The year before that, she had separated from her yakuza husband, left her seven-year-old son with her younger brother, and gone into service as a maid. This year she hadn’t even returned home for New Year’s—this was because Mistress Osono had been entertaining guests day after day, making it impossible for her to get time off. “With that,” she said, “I told her ‘I’ll leave it to you,’ quickly got ready, bought some souvenirs along the way, and returned to Narihira.” Omasa continued: “Indeed, since there were no other people present, the bodies found in the ashes must have been Master’s, Mistress’s, and Miss Oshino’s. Whatever one may think of Master and Mistress, I do believe Miss Oshino was truly pitiable.”

Kihee was in critical condition, but when the town officials asked why she didn’t pity Osono, Omasa answered that she couldn’t explain the reason. “Though I served there,” Omasa said coolly, “I cannot speak in detail from my own mouth. But I believe the mistress met such a death as divine punishment.” The shop was also investigated, but in the end, with no clear circumstances determined, the corpses were confirmed to be those of the parent and child trio. On the fifth day, a funeral for the three was held at the Honmokuchō residence. After that, relatives and associates gathered to discuss matters and concluded it would be shameful to let a long-established shop like Musashiya go to ruin. Thus Ishirō—the second son of Kameya Ihee from a branch family—was adopted to succeed Kihee.

Chapter One

I

Kihee’s condition took a turn for the worse on the night of December 27th. After closing the shop at dusk and finishing dinner, it was customary at the shop to settle accounts with the head clerk and two clerks; but with year-end approaching and transactions from regional clients also requiring attention, they didn’t reach a stopping point until past eleven.

As usual, Oshino instructed two maids to serve tea and sweets at nine o'clock, then went to the room where her father's and her own bedding had been laid out side by side to prepare for bed. She checked the hibachi's fire intensity and sprinkled ash over it before setting up an earthenware pot for decocting medicine. On an adjacent tray lay a teacup and cloth-covered metal basin containing water alongside five folded hand towels. Oshino meticulously inspected these items and verified three sets of her father's sleepwear had been prepared. Such extensive preparations were unavoidable since he endured violent night sweats and nightly coughing fits requiring constant care.

As Oshino was about to change clothes, Kasuke, the head clerk, called out and entered. He was thirty-seven years old, a commuting worker with a house behind 4-chōme, and had two children with his wife. It was his rule to return at nine-thirty, and he would usually only offer greetings from outside the sliding door before leaving, but that night he called out and entered the room. “What’s wrong?” Oshino asked quizzically. “It’s about the master...” Kasuke whispered. “He seems to be in worse condition than usual. Could you please persuade him to retire for the night?”

“What’s his condition?” “He must have a terrible fever—his face is flushed and he seems to be struggling for breath, with two violent coughing fits already,” said Kasuke. “No matter how much I urged him to rest, he just kept telling me to go home instead.”

Oshino nodded. “All right, I’ll go check on him, so please go home now, Kasuke-san.” “I’ve decided to stay a bit longer tonight.” “No, if anything, Father would worry. It’s better to keep things as usual.” Kasuke seemed very reluctant to leave, but Oshino told him to go home and immediately went to check on the shop. The clerks Chuuzou and Tokujirou sat across the desk from Father, settling accounts. Chuuzou was twenty-one and Tokujirou twenty-three years old; come the new year, they were set to split off under the shop’s banner and open their own store. There were seven shop members including apprentices, all practicing reading, writing, and abacus in the next room.—Oshino observed her father’s condition. Kihee, at forty-five years old, looked far older than his age. His frame wasted away completely; his face revealed every bone from cheekbones to jaw, while sunken eyes, hollowed temples, and lusterless gray hair seemed to manifest death itself.

No, that wasn't it. Oshino shook her head. Father had always looked that way. He had entered service at twelve and become an adopted son-in-law at twenty-five. For twenty years since then, he never indulged in leisure outings, never attended variety shows or plays, and of course never tasted alcohol or tobacco. He had lived solely for Musashiya, putting business first and duty above all. Though the shop's longstanding reputation preceded it, the steady amassing of assets, the acquisition of the neighboring paper merchant, the opening of the oil shop—all these were Kihee's doing.

——Fatigue had begun to show five or six years prior. It was from when I was eleven or twelve, Oshino thought. From early childhood, Oshino had been made to sleep between her father and mother. That had been Mother’s insistence, but from around age eleven or twelve, when she awoke in the dead of night and saw Father’s sleeping face by the dimmed lantern light—so haggard it seemed ghastly—she had many times even wondered if he might not already be dead.

—From around that time, there had been occasions when he appeared like this. This wasn’t what they called a deathly pallor—Oshino told herself as she casually drew closer to Father and leaned against the shop counter with a childlike gesture.

“What’s wrong?” Kihee raised his eyes. “Haven’t you gone to bed yet?” “Tonight feels somehow lonely.” Oshino gave a small shrug. “I don’t think I can sleep unless you go to bed, Father.” Kihee smiled gently. “Thank you, but I’m all right.” “I’m truly lonely.” “I know,” Kihee said, facing the account book and taking up his brush again. “I’m all right—I know my own body well enough. You must go to bed now.”

And then he continued verifying the accounts with Tokujirou.

Oshino gave up. She had given up because she knew all too well that once Father started saying such things, he wouldn’t listen. She returned to her room, changed into her nightclothes, checked the buried embers in the hibachi once more, slipped into the bedding, and opened the partially read storybook titled Matsushiro Monogatari. It told of sisters born in Matsushiro, a castle town in Shinano Province, who journeyed through various regions searching for their true mother while enduring hardships and sorrows—a story Oshino had read twice already to the point of memorization, yet she never tired of revisiting it. But that night, she seemed to have fallen asleep before reading much. When shaken awake, she opened her eyes to find Tokujirou standing there with an ashen face. “The master—” he said hoarsely, pointing toward the shop. Seeing Tokujirou’s altered expression, Oshino came fully awake, sitting up and throwing on her haori.

Father lay on arranged zabuton cushions—he must have coughed up blood—with splatters around his mouth, kimono collar, and tatami mats while shop members wiped them away. “No fuss,” Kihee said without opening his eyes. “No medicine needed. Bring lukewarm saltwater instead. Don’t rouse Oshino.” This wasn’t his first hemoptysis episode but marked unprecedented severity. Oshino’s trembling started at her feet while breath clogged her throat. Wordless, she signaled Tokujirou with her eyes before retreating to prepare medicinal brine. The doctor had instructed this protocol for blood-spitting crises. To steady herself, Oshino drank water slowly before returning. Kihee opened his eyes wide to watch her reenter.

“Here’s the saltwater,” Oshino said with a smile as she sat down. “If it’s too strong, I’ll dilute it.” “You didn’t have to get up.” “Don’t speak,” Oshino said. “Just lift your head gently now—Toku-san, Chuu-san, please support him softly from behind.” The two supported him from behind, and Oshino made her father drink the saltwater. Since he couldn’t be moved for a while, they left his soiled kimono as it was. After adjusting his pillow and covering him with a quilted robe, she wrung out a hand towel in hot water and wiped from his chest up to around his mouth.

“My chest won’t settle,” Kihee said. “Cool a hand towel and apply it for me.” “I’m sorry,” Oshino said immediately, standing up. “I completely forgot about that.” “You don’t need to stay.” Kihee said to the shop members, “It’s already late. Clean up tomorrow and all of you go to bed.” “Let’s call Dr. Yokoyama.” “No—that can wait until tomorrow too. Even if we call him now, there’s nothing the doctor can do. There’s no choice but to stay still.”

II

When morning came, they called Dr. Yokoyama Santoku. He was a physician from Kofukebashi who had treated Kihee since his tuberculosis developed. After finishing his examination and preparing to leave, he gave a slight headshake to Oshino who had come to see him off. "This has turned critical," Dr. Yokoyama whispered. "Unless we exercise extreme care from this stage onward, there may be no recovering." Oshino swallowed a yawn. "We can't leave him at the shop," Dr. Yokoyama said while tilting his head. "Given his disposition, he'll resume activity the moment he regains any composure. This time we must transfer him to the dormitory and make him abandon all business matters for proper convalescence—the sooner done, the better."

“Yes,” Oshino nodded and said. “Is there any particularly effective medicine available?” “There probably isn’t—with this disease in particular, there doesn’t seem to be any especially effective medicine.” Dr. Yokoyama shook his head again quietly. “The only course of action now is for him to stay in a place with clean air, relax without worries, eat nourishing food, and wait for the disease to subside—there’s no other option at present.” “I understand.” Oshino nodded again. “I will make sure to arrange that as soon as possible.”

As soon as the doctor left, Oshino sent a messenger to the Kameido dormitory. She had ordered the message requesting her mother’s presence and dispatched the young maid Otami by palanquin, but when Otami returned, she conveyed this reply to Kihee: “The mistress says she’s unwell and cannot come.” This occurred during Oshino’s brief absence from the room—a moment when Kihee uncharacteristically erupted in anger. “Why did you send for her?” Kihee said in a piercing voice, “You know she won’t come even if summoned.”

“I’m sorry.” Oshino answered with apologetic eyes, “There’s something I absolutely must discuss. May I go out for a little while?” “What do you mean by ‘discussion’?” With a feeling of mustering courage, Oshino told her father what the doctor had said. Without listening until the end, Kihee harshly interrupted her. “I won’t go to any dormitory. There’s no need for that.” “But Father,”

“No—if I say I’m fine, then I’m fine,” Kihee said. “When it comes to this illness, I understand it better than any doctor. I’ve been mindful of my body since youth, and since contracting this disease, I’ve learned its rhythms—how to steer clear of its crests. No, truly.” Kihee paused to suppress an oncoming cough. “Humans have their allotted lifespans. Poor care may shorten one’s natural span, but if you attend closely to your body’s condition, you’ll know how to preserve it. Besides, with year-end pressing near, I can’t possibly shutter the shop. I’ll be fine—spare your worries.”

That day was the final koto lesson of the year. Around noon, Kihee said to Oshino, "I've settled now, so go change your clothes and be off." "If you don't get up later," Oshino said, "but Father, you'll surely rise once I'm gone." "Are you still saying that?" Kihee shook his head on the pillow. "Don't badger me so—when illness takes hold, patience wears thin."

“I’m sorry,” Oshino said brightly. “Then I’ll be going now.” “I’ll be sleeping, so take your time.” “Yes.” Oshino nodded vigorously. Having properly asked the two maids—especially Oko and the clerk Tokujiro—to look after things, Oshino quickly finished her preparations and, after leaving the house, hailed a street palanquin. Of course, she wasn’t going for her final lesson—she had it head straight for the Kameido dormitory. Along the way, rain began falling, the temperature dropped, and by the time they reached the dormitory, the surroundings had already transformed into an unbroken expanse of snow.

It was the second snowfall since winter began—unusually heavy for the season with large, peony-like snowflakes so abundant that even the dormitory’s doorway became invisible from the gate.

The one who emerged was Omasa, but upon seeing Oshino, she became terribly flustered, said "Please wait a moment," and scurried off toward the back. From the back came the sound of a shamisen and singing; Oshino ignored it, stepped inside, and removed her tabi there. When Omasa returned, she said the other room was currently in disarray and ushered her to the eight-mat guest room.

“I’ll fetch the fire right now.” Omasa adjusted the floor mats and brazier while speaking, “Something unpleasant started falling so suddenly—you must have been terribly cold on your way. The mistress will be here shortly.” “It’s fine, there’s no need to rush.” “She said she’s coming down with a cold and feeling restless, so...” “I was just in the middle of something,” Omasa said with a dazzled look, “I’ll fetch the fire now.”

The sound of the shamisen and singing could no longer be heard. When Omasa lit the brazier and brought tea and sweets, her mother Osono soon appeared. She was thirty-five years old—large-framed yet with a beautifully proportioned figure, her chest and hips as slender as a girl’s. Her slightly dusky, narrow-faced countenance—with its sorrow-tinged long narrow eyes and similarly delicate, small lips—possessed a striking charm enough to make even her daughter Oshino gaze in admiration.

“It started snowing on your way here, didn’t it?” Osono sat hunched over the brazier, her moistened gaze fixed intently on her daughter. “Let me get you something warm since it’s cold,” she said. “You just keep growing more beautiful.” “Mother said you were unwell,” Oshino said, “but weren’t you actually resting even though there seemed to be visitors?” “There were no visitors to bother with—I was resting, but my head felt all muddled, so I was just fidgeting about on the bedding. What shall I prepare you for lunch?”

“Mother, you heard from Otami, didn’t you?” Oshino said. “Father’s illness is terribly severe this time—he’s coughed up more blood than ever before.” “No, no.” Osono waved her hand with its beautiful long fingers and frowned like a mischievous child. “Hearing such talk makes me queasy. Dr. Yokoyama’s attending him—we should leave patient care to the doctor.”

“That’s what Dr. Yokoyama says.” Oshino spoke with patient firmness, using a tone meant to soothe a child: “This time we really must take proper care of him. We can’t leave him at the shop—we need to move him to the dormitory and let him recuperate properly.” “No, I won’t have it. Absolutely not—such a thing.”

Three

“Mother,” Oshino said. “No, that’s impossible!” Osono turned her face aside, then immediately turned back and stared into her daughter’s eyes. “You know it too—even if you say such things, he won’t listen. That man isn’t the sort to leave the shop, not even if a doctor threatens him with death. Isn’t that right?” Oshino watched her mother’s face. “See? I can tell just by looking at your eyes,” Osono said, narrowing her eyes with a smile. “Since he won’t agree, you came here intending to have me persuade him, didn’t you?”

“Father,” Oshino said, “he’ll surely listen if it’s you who tells him.” “Do you think I’d be pleased about that?” “Please, Mother.” Oshino gripped her mother’s hand and said, “This time it looks truly dangerous. Just come home this once—please tell him to recuperate at the dormitory. I’m begging you with my whole life, Mother.” Osono gently stroked her daughter’s hand and spoke in a coaxing tone: “Now now—don’t make such a fuss. How cold you are to your own mother, yet you grow frantic over that man. Couldn’t you spare a thought for me once in a while?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Oshino nodded with stiff movements. With a stiff nod that seemed to suppress what she wanted to say, she continued, “I truly feel bad about not taking care of you, Mother. Once Father settles down, this time I’ll do whatever it takes to please you. So please listen to my request.” “Fine, you win.” Osono lightly tapped her daughter’s hand and, while releasing it, said, “Tomorrow or the day after… Let’s see—the evening of the day after tomorrow. I’ll come then.”

“I’m so glad. Truly.”

“I’ll tell you this upfront—whether things will go as you imagine isn’t something even I can guarantee.” “You will really come, won’t you?” “If I said I’ll go, then I’ll go,” said Osono. “What should we eat for lunch? Let’s just have chicken hot pot.”

Oshino ate lunch with her mother.

They had brought a kotatsu into the room and sat facing each other for the first time in ages while eating and talking; yet she felt someone might be in the back room and grew unsettled. There were neither sounds nor signs of anyone present, and neither Omasa nor Mother showed any unusual behavior. Perhaps it was because she still heard in her mind Omasa’s flustered state when she first arrived and the plucked shamisen with its low singing voice. In the silent back room lingered the sensation that someone held their breath while observing them—a feeling that refused to leave her mind.

“All right, then.” As she was leaving, Oshino pressed once more: “I’ll be waiting the evening of the day after tomorrow.”

“And don’t you forget what we just talked about,” Osono said. “Skin care and makeup—and pay a bit more attention to current hairstyles. That’s all.”

The palanquin they had called arrived, and shielding herself from the snow under the umbrella Omasa held over her, Oshino stepped out through the gate with careful steps. “Skin care.” After the palanquin began moving, Oshino muttered suspiciously, nodded to herself with a “I see,” then added, “We talked about nothing else through lunch.”

Hairstyling, obi, kimonos—Mother had no interest in anything beyond such things. It had always been that way, Oshino thought. When she closed her eyes to recall Mother, only certain images surfaced—Mother applying makeup, Mother selecting bolts of fabric, Mother dressing up to go out. She remembered being held by Father to sleep and hearing him sing lullabies; during her measles and smallpox bouts, of course, but even when she caught a mere cold, Father had never left her side as he nursed her. Yet she could recall no memories—none that lingered in her mind—of Mother ever having tended to her like that, Oshino reflected. Mother would do her makeup, dress her up, and take her along to plays and vaudeville shows, on excursions and sightseeing trips. There had been countless instances when Mother summoned favorite actors to theater teahouses, seating herself beside some child performer as they held raucous banquets; nor was it rare for Mother to gather with companions at restaurants under the pretext of practicing Ichikotsu-bushi ballads—though no actual rehearsals ever occurred—only to invite entertainers and actors for revelries.

—I’ve wronged Father. In those moments，my conscience would prick me，and I’d vow never to go out with Mother again even if invited—but the thought of those dazzling，merry parlors would make me forget the pledge，and such lapses continued until I was around ten or eleven. —Mother was unperturbed. Mother had never said，"This is a secret，" nor had she ever sworn me to silence. From around age eleven，I began rejecting Mother’s temptations and gradually grew distant from her. Mother seemed oblivious to such matters and had continued living exactly as she pleased ever since. "That my absence had even struck others as liberation itself，" Oshino reflected.

"Would she really agree so readily?"

Oshino muttered as she rocked in the palanquin, "Given how things stand, she'll likely come—but if she doesn't... This time I'll tell her." This time I'll say what must be said, Oshino thought.

When night fell, the snow turned to rain, and by the following morning, the skies cleared completely. Kihee’s condition showed no change, and the lack of appetite remained a concern, but his cough lessened and his fever appeared to subside. Osono did not come. She had been waiting since afternoon on the promised thirtieth day, but even by nightfall, no messenger had been sent.

―So it was like that after all. Oshino trembled with frustration. She immediately wanted to go fetch [her mother] herself, but the merchant household was bustling at year’s end—even the maids were occupied assisting in the shop—and with no one but Oshino available to care for Father, she had no time whatsoever to make the trip to Kameido.

On New Year's Eve, past twelve o'clock, Kihee coughed up blood again. At ten o'clock, they closed the shop, and the head clerk and clerks began settling accounts. After that was completed, the three of them brought the ledgers and gave an explanation at Kihee’s bedside. Kihee sat atop the bedding, listening as he meticulously cross-checked each entry in the ledgers. Just before twelve o'clock, the New Year's Eve soba arrived, and the three clerks ate. Oshino barely touched her chopsticks and tried to have her father drink the medicinal broth, but Kihee refused to put down the abacus, saying, “I’ll finish soon.” When everything was completely finished, Kihee went to wash his hands, and upon returning, he coughed up blood and collapsed in the corridor.

The amount of blood was not particularly excessive, but given that the previous episode had been severe and his physical strength had yet to recover, after coughing up blood he lost consciousness and remained in a comatose state until daybreak.

IV

Oshino waited for dawn and sent a messenger to Kameido. The physician Yokoyama Santoku shook his head.

“No famous doctor could save him now,” Santoku said at the patient’s bedside. “It’s beyond human hands—I doubt he’ll last through tomorrow.”

Oshino consulted with the clerks and decided to celebrate New Year’s Day as usual. No matter what happened, Father had always kept the shop’s customs. Oshino used that fatherly temperament as a shield to overrule the clerks’ objections and made them prepare the ceremonial arrangements as usual.—The one dispatched to Kameido was the senior maid Oko, who returned swiftly despite having gone by palanquin. She called Oshino to the corridor and whispered, “The mistress was out.”

“Out... What do you mean?” “She’s gone to Enoshima, apparently.” Oshino’s mouth slowly opened. “On the morning of the 29th,” Oko continued, “the mistress of Ishichō’s Isekyu, the mistress of Tōri Nichōme’s Yoshiidani, and two others—all together—had gone on a seven-day pilgrimage to Enoshima’s Benten-sama.” “Mother... on the 29th...” Oshino dazedly asked back, "...Even Enoshima?"

“Omasa-san said that.” “The 29th...” Oshino asked again, “Is that really true?” But without waiting to hear Oko’s reply, Oshino staggered unsteadily into her room and collapsed onto the tatami mats. The 29th was the day after Oshino had visited; at that time, Mother had promised to go on the evening of the day after tomorrow. Father had clearly stated that this was different from before—that he was truly in critical condition—and she should have realized this was no exaggeration.

_Mother deceived me._ “Mother deceived me,” Oshino muttered between her teeth. “You’d already decided then—that trip to Enoshima was settled from the start.” From the night of the 27th, the room they had not heated grew so cold the chill seeped through the walls. However, Oshino remained unaware of the cold, sitting perfectly still alone until Otami came to call. Otami called out from outside the sliding door and, receiving no reply, slid it open.

“Have you arrived?” said Otami. “The master is calling for you.”

Oshino slowly looked at the maid. “The master has closed his eyes,” Otami said, “and he’s asking where Oshino-san is.” Oshino let out an “Ah!” and stood up as though roused from a dream.

At Kihee’s bedside was Chuzan, the clerk, leaning forward to listen as Kihee spoke, but he left for the shop as Oshino took his place. When Kihee saw Oshino, he nodded as if relieved and closed his eyes. Oshino sat down and asked how he was feeling. After a while, Kihee said in a weak, low voice, “I’m all right.”

“There’s no need to worry—I’m all right,” Kihee said in a voice that seemed to come from beyond the wall. “I know I keep repeating myself, but I’m fine. I won’t die from this. Dr. Santoku doesn’t understand.”

“Father, you mustn’t talk so much.” “There’s just this one thing I need to say,” Kihee said, eyes still closed. “I’ve been aware of everything since I collapsed at midnight—every moment except when I briefly lost consciousness and those short spells of sleep. I even heard Dr. Santoku say no physician could save me now.”

And Kihee opened his eyes, looked at his daughter, and formed a smile on his lips. "You understand," Kihee said, "I won't die yet. What I coughed up last night was the remaining bad blood—the corrupted blood that had taken root in my illness. It all came out cleanly last night. The doctors don't comprehend this, but I know it well. Never since—" Here Kihee closed his eyes again—"never since contracting this disease have I felt so unburdened as today. My chest feels refreshingly clear, as if scrubbed clean."

“That’s wonderful, Father, truly wonderful,” Oshino said. “But let’s stop here for now—please try to sleep.”

“Ah… I’ll sleep.” Kihee said, “I’ll sleep, so you needn’t fret over needless worries—it seems everyone has arrived.”

Oshino turned around. Immediately, the sliding door opened, and the head clerk, assistant clerks, and all the shop members entered, lining up along the doorframe and sitting down. “I was the one who said that,” Kihee said. “You give the formal greetings.” Oshino turned back. “Happy New Year,” said the head clerk Kasuke as he placed both hands on the floor and bowed deeply. The others also bowed in unison, and Kasuke continued, “We are deeply grateful for your support throughout last year. May the shop prosper ever more this year, and we humbly ask for your continued favor.”

And the others chorused, “Congratulations.” Oshino clenched her teeth.

“Yes,” Oshino answered, bowing her head. “Congratulations.” Then with great effort she continued, “I humbly ask for your continued favor this year as well.” The shop members left as if fleeing. —Happy New Year.

Oshino remained in that posture, repeating the words over and over in her heart.

—Happy New Year. Oshino was overcome by an impulse to scream out, and to suppress it, she clenched her hands with all her strength. Kihee sighed and said, "Now it finally feels like New Year's Day." "I'll sleep, so you celebrate the zōni and greet the guests in my place. I'm sorry about this, but we mustn't be rude to the relatives either," Kihee said.

On the third night's midnight—around one o'clock in the morning—Oshino awoke to her father's voice. She must have fallen into a dead sleep from the year-end exhaustion. Though she could hear her father's voice calling, she found herself unable to open her eyes. Kihee was beaded with oily sweat, rasping short, feeble breaths. Oshino jolted upright in her nightclothes, but Kihee faintly shook his head.

“Stay as you are—keep lying down,” Kihee said. “You mustn’t catch a chill. Just listen like this. There’s something I need to tell you.” Oshino nodded but threw on her hanten and rose anyway. She scooted closer to her father’s bedside, wiped his sweat with a hand towel, then asked if she should prepare some medicinal broth. “I don’t want anything. It’s cold—lie back down quickly,” Kihee said. Oshino did as she was told.

Five “In the Okura storehouse’s second floor—there’s my trunk,” Kihee began. “Inside are eight hundred seventy ryō in gold coins. Listen well—the trunk on Okura’s second floor. The same one I carried on my back when I first came to serve at Musashiya, packed with my clothes. It’s grown old now, holes worn through its four corners. The gold’s wrapped in oiled paper inside,” Kihee said. “I’d meant to make it a thousand ryō but only reached eight hundred seventy.”

“Why are you talking about such things?” “Because it’s your money,” Kihee said. “If it had reached a thousand ryō, I meant for us—you and me—to leave this house and start our own business. Osono isn’t a good woman. I couldn’t stand leaving you at her side. Since she’s from an established family, divorcing her wasn’t an option. Shameful as it is, you know full well how I—an adopted son-in-law—could never oppose her. No—listen—I’ve endured unthinkable hardships to reach this age. When I married into this family, I stayed only because the late master begged me through tears and because you existed. Otherwise, I’d have left ages ago—or maybe sunk into something far worse.”

“Stop talking like that, Father,” Oshino interrupted. “What if it worsens your illness? I can’t bear to hear any more of this.” “It’s nearly time—just a little longer, so listen,” Kihee said. “Understand this: I’ve lived depending on you alone. The reason I never settled marriage arrangements was because we were meant to leave this house together. Once we’d begun a separate business, I had plans to establish your match then.”

The money had been saved for that purpose. "Even as an adopted son-in-law, being Musashiya's master means I can claim this household's property as my own." "But I wanted money of my own." "That’s why I opened the oil shop and set aside my share from the profits of both this shop and the oil business to save up." “It didn’t reach a thousand ryō,” Kihee continued, “but it should still be enough capital to start a business. If—if something were to happen to me, take that money and go with Tokujirō—”

“No—stop.” Oshino sat bolt upright. “I won’t hear such talk, Father.” “Let me speak plainly, Oshino,” Kihee said. “I’m finished.” Oshino pulled on her hanten and went to sit at her father’s bedside. Her whole body trembled, her tongue turned rigid, and no words would come. “When I collapsed on Ōmisoka,” Kihee continued, “I knew then. Though I hid it to spare you worry—this time I understood it would be the end.”

“If Father dies,” Oshino said in a stiffened tone, “I’ll die too.” “Do you think that would make me happy?” “How can I go on living without Father?” Tears spilled from Oshino’s cheeks. “If Mother’s left alone, she’ll turn this shop into chaos in no time, and who knows what’ll become of me?” “That’s why you must leave this house.”

“If Father dies, I’ll die too.” Oshino burst out sobbing. “How can I go on living without Father? What joy is there left to live for?” “One final word—listen well,” Kihee said. “I’ve settled everything with Tokujirō. Understand? When I’m gone, you two must leave this house at once. He’s young but steadfast—a man you can trust. I’ve told him about the money too. No matter what Osono says, abandon this place without delay. Do you grasp this?”

“Father, are you intending to put me together with Toku-san?”

Kihee shook his head. “No—that’s not my intention. Tokujirō wouldn’t be thinking such things either. If you were to come to like him, then by all means be together. Even if that doesn’t happen, Tokujirō will surely protect you. This much I know for certain—believe me.” With this their talk was settled; having said everything, he felt unburdened. “I’ll sleep now—you should rest too,” Kihee said, closing his eyes.

―Father will die.

When she returned to the bedding, Oshino pulled the quilt over her head down to her forehead and wept in a stifled voice. Could such a thing be allowed? Father had endured nothing but hardship. Though he had a wife, he was never treated like a husband. He had worn himself out for the sake of the business, working even after the employees went to bed—though Musashiya’s assets were said to have grown to nearly double those of the previous generation, Father sacrificed his own life to achieve it. In reality, he had indeed worn away his own life.

—And now, without having tasted a single joy from the life he had lived, he was dying having done nothing but endure hardships. This was too cruel—too unbearably cruel—Oshino screamed within her heart. I don’t know if gods or Buddhas exist, but if they do, please save Father. If gods and Buddhas truly exist, they could not stand by silently watching Father die like this. Even if it shortens my lifespan—even if I must give part of my life—please don’t let Father die now. Oshino sobbed, clasped her hands together inside the quilt, and prayed with her entire body tensed.

The next morning—after taking just two sips of rice gruel mixed with egg yolk—Kihee said that if there were any camellias, he would like to see them. “If there are any red mountain camellias… I want them.” Kihee looked searchingly at his daughter. “Since childhood, I’ve loved mountain camellias. Having not seen them for so long—if any remain, I’d like to… but isn’t this their blooming season?”

“No, they’re blooming. I’ll go buy some right away.” “You’re buying them?” “They grow around the Kameido dormitory, but it’s impossible here in town.” Oshino smiled. “Even if I buy them, they’re cheap enough. I’ll just go get some.”

Oshino went to the florist herself, chose branches that resembled mountain camellias and bought them, then selected the simplest Banko ware pot to arrange them in. After taking it there and arranging it for optimal viewing, Kihee remained silent, gazing at it for a considerable time with an entranced look. “Wasn’t it good?” “No, no—it’s fine. The branch formation is excellent.” Kihee kept staring at the flowers as he spoke. “My childhood comes flooding back. Ah, how nostalgic.”

Noticing tears spilling from the corners of her father’s eyes, Oshino slid closer and gently wiped them away with a hand towel.

Six

Kihee spoke. —He grew up in a farming family in Kawasaki. Now his elder brother had taken over the household and become a substantial landowner in the village, but during his upbringing they had still been half-tenants and life had been quite harsh. But that’s neither here nor there—behind the house stood a small hill, and beyond that hill lay a little pond surrounded by bamboo thickets. In the thicket several young mountain camellias grew, while the ancient tree at the pond’s edge submerged part of its thick roots in the water and stretched its branches over the surface. When blooming season came, fallen flowers would cover the pond so completely that the water became invisible.

“When I close my eyes, I can still see that scene as vividly as ever,” Kihee said. “When I was a child—when I was scolded by my parents, after fighting with friends, or when I felt sad and helpless—I would often go alone to that pondside and pass the time in a daze.”

Other seasons he did not know; what remained in his memory were only the times when camellias bloomed. The bamboo thicket stood yellowed and frost-withered; the pond water lay chill and stagnant. The camellia tree’s trunk was gray, and the sky appeared oppressively cloudy. Amidst everything colored in bleached-out pale hues, the camellia leaves’ darkened clusters gleaming amid their foliage and the red flowers blooming modestly beneath the leaves stood out conspicuously vivid yet poignantly forlorn, their presence seeping into one’s heart.

“This flower,” Kihee said, turning his gaze toward it. “When I was small, I would stand by the pond’s edge and gaze at these flowers all alone—sometimes weeping, sometimes feeling utterly lost. When I look at them now, my own figure from decades past rises vividly before my eyes. So nostalgic.” While murmuring “Truly nostalgic,” Kihee shed tears again. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Oshino wiped his cheek as she said, “Had you told me earlier, I could have arranged camellias for you anytime.”

“You’re right,” Kihee nodded. After remaining silent for a while, he eventually spoke in a low voice, as if talking to himself: “—But Oshino, merchants don’t meddle with flowers unless they’ve retired. Especially someone like me—a son-in-law with obligations to the late Master. Truth be told, I never thought of anything beyond building Musashiya’s success. I hadn’t even recalled camellias until today.”

Oshino quietly turned her face away.

When evening came and she had confirmed her father was asleep, Oshino visited Isekyu in Ishichō. "Isekyu" was a pottery wholesaler whose housewife Otoyo had long been close with her mother. Though her complexion was poor and she carried an unsightly corpulence about her frame, Otoyo’s gaudy style and fondness for revelry closely resembled her mother’s. The wife of Yoshiiya in Nihonbashi-dōri Nichōme also belonged to their circle, but whether through proximity or temperamental affinity, it was Isekyu’s mistress who had been most intimate with her mother. If one departed on the 29th for a seven-day round trip, the return would fall on the fourth. Had she returned to Isekyu—Oshino would have sent word to Kameido at once—but when she went herself, there sat Otoyo. Otoyo—her obese form swathed in an ostentatious kosode kimono and leaning back in exaggerated posture—shook her head at Oshino’s questioning and answered in a girlish falsetto: “I don’t know.”

“But...” Oshino was bewildered. “Didn’t you go to Enoshima with Mrs. Yoshiiya and Mother?” “I didn’t go,” Otoyo shook her head again. “Mrs. Yoshiiya also came to stay here from the evening of the 2nd until yesterday evening.” “Then you haven’t gone anywhere since the end of the year?” “Mrs. Osono went to Enoshima,” Otoyo retorted. “Then she must be with Tozou—absolutely must be.”

“Tozou—where is he from?” “He’s an actor at the Nakamura-za—don’t you know?” Otoyo said with a straight face. “Just earned his official stage name recently—still a junior—but there’s quite a buzz he’ll make it big soon. Plenty of fine patrons lining up too.” However, upon hearing that since last year’s kaomise performance, Osono had begun to grow infatuated and had nearly monopolized him, Oshino took her leave as if fleeing.

“Ah, Oshino,” Otoyo called from behind. “If you ask Sakichi at Masuya, he’ll tell you all the details.” Oshino felt her body shrink with anger and shame. The vulgarity of Otoyo’s manner of speech and the filthy sordidness of her story were unlike anything Oshino had ever experienced. When she realized this involved her own mother, a violent nausea assaulted her, leaving her on the verge of vomiting.

But what should I do? Father was dying. No matter how repulsive and defiling it might be, I couldn't leave Mother as she was, unaware.

――I'll go to Nakamura-za. Masuya was Nakamura-za's theater teahouse, and Sakichi served as an attendant affiliated with that establishment. The idea of a young actor skipping New Year performances seemed somewhat unnatural to her, but when she stated the palanquin's destination, it emerged that Nakamura-za was undergoing renovations to widen its facade, with the spring season apparently set to open around the 10th.

“Fine,” Oshino said. “Just go to Masuya, please.”

“If you ask Sakichi, he’ll tell you everything,” Otoyo said. Sakichi was a man who had long been around, and Oshino knew him well. If her mother was with that actor, Masuya couldn’t possibly be unaware—and they would know whether she had returned—that was what Oshino had concluded.

When she stepped out of the palanquin before Masuya, Sakichi stood chatting with a young man in front of the closed shop front. Having not visited in nearly a year and a half, Oshino found he didn’t seem to recognize her at first glance. Then he jerked back as if startled, hand flying to his head. “Oh my! I’ve been completely negligent! How you’ve bloomed since last we met—” he began effusively, but Oshino cut him off with a “Wait,” gesturing him closer as she moved sideways. The young man silently retreated in the opposite direction while Sakichi came to her side.

“You know about Mother,” Oshino said in a low voice. “I’m not blaming you—just tell me honestly. You know she went to Enoshima with that actor Tozou.” “Oh dear, no—I would never dream of hiding anything from you, but—” Sakichi scratched his head and shrugged as if thoroughly perplexed. “That, um, actor Tozou is right over there—yes, that man I was just talking to.”

Oshino turned to look. The young man was toying with the pine needles of the New Year decoration erected before the shop. “His stage house is Sawadaya—Shimamura Tozou. As an onnagata, he’s currently—” “Then who was it?” Oshino interrupted again, “Who? What sort of person?” “Kikutarou was a child actor, but after last year’s kaomise ended, he left the theater. Since then, he’s apparently been under the Mistress’s care. So if she went to Enoshima, it must have been with that Kikutarou.”

“Where does he live?” Oshino pressed. “Where is this Kikutarou staying?” “W-well,” Sakichi stammered, “they say he’s been at the Kameido dormitory all along—though I couldn’t say for certain.” Oshino’s face drained of color; perhaps from biting down too hard, blood welled at her lower lip.

Seven Oshino was about to leave when she suddenly noticed Shimamura Tozou’s figure and stopped. Tozou stood by the pine decoration, his profile turned toward her, yet clearly observing her movements from the corner of his eye. “Let me speak with that person,” Oshino said to Sakichi. “I won’t take much time—there’s just something I need to ask. You’ll allow it, won’t you?” “With Sawadaya?” Sakichi pursed his lips.

“Just a moment, I beg you,” Oshino said. “Even a corner of the shop will do—just let us have a quick word alone.” Sakichi went over to Tozou and spoke in a low voice. Tozou promptly nodded and entered Masuya’s shop as he was. Sakichi returned and waved a hand in invitation. “You’re familiar with the Paulownia room on the second floor, aren’t you?” “Was it the left end?” Sakichi nodded. “Please go ahead first. I’ll follow shortly afterward. However, we can’t offer any hospitality.”

“I need to hurry back too.”

Oshino told the palanquin driver to wait, then briskly wrapped something in paper and handed it to Sakichi. Sakichi skillfully received it with an air of feigned ignorance and guided Oshino into the shop. And he whispered that since patrols were strict except during performances, it would be better to make it quick. Oshino nodded and swiftly ascended the dimly lit stairs without making a sound.—Having often come here with her mother before, she immediately recognized the Paulownia room. Only one storm shutter was open, and with twilight already deepening, the unlit eleven-mat room lay hushed in darkness, the cold seeming to pierce through her very being.

Oshino slipped her hands into both sleeves, folded them over her chest, and while trembling, stared at the pair of folded screens leaning against the wall. ——New Year decorations were usually paintings of pines and cranes. Oshino vaguely thought. ——A folding screen depicting pines and cranes against a cut-gold ground stood erected; hundred-momme candle stands blazed; lacquered dining trays stood arrayed; actors and geisha sat playing their roles—dazzling light and gaudy hues and songs and instruments and coquettish voices……all had once filled this very room to bursting.

I too had sat through such gatherings many times. While actors, geisha, and Masuya people showered me with flattery and pleasantries, I would bask in good spirits—eating delicious things and thrilling to theater talk. ――That was how it had been until Father collapsed.

Father always sat in the shop. Apart from unavoidable interactions such as colleagues’ gatherings or celebratory and condolence events, he rarely went out and kept the shop running alone all this time. "In this parlor," Oshino murmured, "even when I was merrily playing with Mother like that, Father was in the dimly lit accounting lattice in the shop—" Oshino tightly shut her eyes. At that moment, Tozou entered. When she heard the voice from behind saying "Sorry to keep you waiting," Oshino tightened her hands folded over her chest, took a deep breath, and stood motionless for about five beats.

“What might your business be?” asked Tozou. Oshino slowly turned around. Her movements were sluggish from tension, but the eyes she fixed on Tozou were sharp—piercing with an intense light that seemed determined to probe every corner of his heart.

“You know my Mother, don’t you?” Oshino asked without moving her eyes. “You do know her.” “I know,” Tozou answered. “She was most helpful in my becoming a name-titled actor, but beyond that there’s been no involvement.”

Oshino narrowed her eyes.

Tozou was probably nineteen or twenty. For an onnagata, his face was angular—the gaze too sharp, the lips too severe—yet he maintained an overall clean-cut appearance. This man could be trusted, Oshino instinctively felt. "I couldn't entertain patrons like the others do," Tozou continued. "That displeased her, so I stopped visiting altogether. Is that all you wanted to ask?"

Oshino shook her head. “Father is dying. That’s why I want to bring Mother back home, but they say she went to Enoshima with someone.” “I see.” Tozou nodded. “I shouldn’t speak of this, but given the circumstances, I’ll tell you. The Mistress was accompanied by a child actor named Kikutarou. Their destination wasn’t Enoshima—it was Hakone.”

Oshino's eyes flew open. "Kikutarou had been taken back to his residence in Kameido," Tozou said. "There's nothing to do but wait for his return to Kameido. The Mistress certainly committed her share of misconduct, but being caught by Kikutarou was a calamity. He turned eighteen this year, but that one's wicked from birth—a veritable plague upon ladies." "You know Mother quite well."

“I don’t know the details—Sakichi-san has been her patron for years, so he’d know better,” Tozou said. “If the patient is in such a state, wouldn’t it be better for you to return now?”

Oshino thought there was something she needed to ask. This person was dependable—this person would know the truth—there was something crucial she must inquire about. Though these feelings pressed heavily upon her, in reality she found herself unable to formulate the questions, and Oshino offered her thanks before taking her leave.

“How awful, how awful, Mother!” Oshino muttered aloud during the hurried palanquin ride home, “How could you go to Hakone with that man knowing full well how grave Father’s illness was?”

Oshino spread open her hand and brought it close to her eyes to look at it. Through the faint afterglow seeping through the palanquin's hanging cloth, Oshino saw her own fingers trembling in the dim light. Kikutarou had been taken back to the dormitory. When she had gone on the 28th, Kikutarou had indeed been hiding in the back room. The sound of shamisen and song—Mother had deceived me. Until I arrived, Mother and Kikutarou must have been carefree drinking sake while snow-viewing, just the two of them. And after I left, they must have drunk and talked it over again, deciding to go to Hakone. Oshino clenched her opened hand tightly, shut her eyes, and murmured as if in prayer.

“Mother, please come back—if Father dies like this, even you won’t be able to face the world. I’m begging you, Mother—please come back in time.”

Eight

Upon returning to Honcho, Oshino explained the circumstances to Tokujiro and dispatched an apprentice named Tomokichi to the dormitory in Kameido.

“Stay and wait there until Mother returns,” Oshino said. “When she comes back, have her come here immediately. Do you understand?”

“How many days should I wait?” “Until Mother comes back.” “What if the mistress doesn’t come back?” “Don’t say unnecessary things.” She glared, then said to Tokujiro, “Please have her come by palanquin.”

That night, Oshino hardly slept. Kihee’s condition appeared calm, and his coughing occurred only occasionally. However, Yokoyama Santoku said, “It won’t be long now.” He explained that the apparent calm was due to his physical strength being exhausted and declared it was already a matter of time.

When the night of the fifth arrived, as if proving Santoku’s diagnosis correct, Kihee began saying, “Call Osono.” His voice was weak and hoarse, and his face—with its hollowed temples and sunken cheeks—bore no trace of living color. Yet his eyes alone burned with a bloodshot, razor-sharp light. “Send a messenger and tell her to come immediately,” Kihee said. “There’s something I must say to her—have them hurry so she makes it in time.”

Oshino felt her breath constrict. The words "in time" were because Father had realized his death was imminent. She wanted to deny it, but seeing the fierce light in Father's eyes left her tongue immobilized, and she rose to order the messenger.

Tokujiro went to Kameido. Upon returning, he called Oshino and shook his head slightly. “Ah,” Oshino sighed deeply, returning to sit by her father’s bedside, “they say Mother is unwell and lying down.” The anguish and guilt of lying to someone on the brink of death were palpable in Oshino’s voice. “Alright, alright.” Kihee said with his eyes closed, “If that’s how it is, then so be it. At this point, it makes no difference.”

“I’ll go check later.”

“No—don’t go. You stay here.” Kihee opened his eyes and looked at Oshino. “You mustn’t leave my side—anything could happen at any moment.”

“Alright,” Oshino nodded. “Then I’ll have Toku-san go again.”

“That can wait until tomorrow,” Kihee said. “It doesn’t matter either way now.” There was no need to send a messenger—if Mother returned, Tomokichi would accompany her back. Even if he didn’t bring her along, there should have been word of her return. Mother, come back. Please come back soon—Oshino kept screaming in her heart.

Kihee appeared to wander between darkness and dawn. His breathing stayed shallow and brief, sometimes faltering altogether. Though asleep, his eyelids never fully closed—they remained half-open with an eerie pallor. At intervals he would glance toward Oshino as if startled, then sink back into fitful slumber once assured of her presence. When Santoku came at dawn on the sixth day to examine him, he marveled that Kihee still clung to life. "The body's half-corpse already," he said, "yet that heart pounds fierce as ever." "I've never seen such a patient—how it beats so stubbornly strong."

Since he had lost strength in his throat, when he expressed thirst, there was no choice but to dampen cotton with lukewarm water and allow him to suck it gently. His consciousness seemed to be gradually dimming as he muttered incomprehensible delirious words, but around ten in the morning, he suddenly opened his eyes wide and declared, “I’m going to the dormitory.” She thought it was delirium, but no—he looked up at Oshino with glaring eyes and spoke in a voice that was hoarse yet clear.

“If Osono won’t come here, I’ll go there,” Kihee said. “There’s something I must say to her while I’m still alive.” "But Father, that’s impossible!" “No—carry me there even if it’s on a plank! There’s something I must tell her—I can’t die without saying this. Please, Oshino.” “I’ll send a messenger again.” Oshino desperately tried to stop him. "If you go to Kameido in your condition, Father, you’ll only make yourself suffer!"

“I’m used to painful ordeals.” Kihee bared his teeth. “In nearly twenty years, I’ve endured agonies worse than death countless times,” he said. “Oshino—I must go to the dormitory. Have them prepare the plank. I beg you.” Oshino stood up.

Even if we went to the dormitory, Mother still probably hadn't returned. Should I just tell him the truth? Would that be for the best? No—Oshino shook her head. That could wait until later—she might return before Father went to the dormitory, and if she hadn't come back by then, telling him then wouldn't be too late. Having resolved herself, she informed the head clerk Kashu and Tokujiro of her father’s wish and requested they prepare a plank stretcher. The regular palanquin bearers brought a plank stretcher, and Kashu and Tokujiro lifted Kihee onto it. Kihee, who lay in the layered bedding, immediately had them cover him with an oilcloth and insisted, "No one is to follow." Kihee repeatedly instructed Kashu: "If people follow, it'll draw attention. Tell the neighbors I went to the dormitory for recuperation. I leave the shop in your hands."—Oshino tied her sandals securely, carried a bottle filled with herbal medicine and a bundle containing cotton and paper, and accompanied the stretcher as they set out from Honmoku-cho.

“Ride in the palanquin,” Kihee repeated three times. “Walking will wear you out—ride in the palanquin.” “I’ll ride when I’m tired. Please don’t trouble yourself over me,” Oshino answered. The four young bearers worked in alternating pairs. Though their burden was light, maintaining a steady gait without jostling made their task unexpectedly arduous.

Oshino periodically called out to her father, asking if he was in pain or suggesting they rest awhile, but Kihee kept answering “I’m alright” until they crossed Ryogoku Bridge. When they crossed the bridge from Koizumicho to Kamezawacho, Kihee called Oshino’s name. “Just a moment—let me rest.” Oshino had the stretcher lowered. “Is it painful?” Oshino asked. “Should I ease your throat?” Kihee shook his head “No—” while steadily staring at Oshino’s face. It was an earnest, impassioned gaze—as though questioning or pleading, laden with unspoken emotion.

“What?” Oshino put her head inside the oilcloth and brought her ear close. “Do you want to say something? Is there something you need to tell me?” “One word—” Kihee rasped from his throat, “to Osono… One word—while I’m alive.” “I’ll say it,” Oshino pressed her ear closer. “Since I’ll be the one to speak it, tell me—Father, what should I say?” Kihee opened his mouth but said nothing. When Oshino repeated the same words, Kihee’s pupils rolled upward, leaving only the whites of his eyes.

“Father,” Oshino called.

A sigh escaped from Kihee’s mouth, and then his breathing ceased. As the faint breeze that had been blowing in through the gaps died away, his breathing stopped smoothly, and neither inhale nor exhale could be heard anymore. —In the middle of town, on the road like this. Oshino nearly let out a scream, pressed both hands over her mouth, and barely managed to suppress the sound. —It must not be noticed. I don’t want others to know he died in a place like this. "It must never be noticed"—Oshino thought this as she lowered the oilcloth and said to the young men, "Please go ahead."

What did you want to say, Father? As she walked alongside the stretcher, Oshino called out to her father in her heart. He had never so much as mentioned mother before, yet once he knew death was imminent, he suddenly wanted to see her—insisting he be carried there even on a plank stretcher—saying there was something he had to tell her. What could it be? What had he wanted to say? Oshino kept thinking about that until she arrived at the dormitory.

When they arrived at the dormitory, she had them carry the stretcher into the tatami room as it was, made everyone leave the room, lowered Father from the stretcher by herself, rearranged the bedding, and transferred him into it. Then, after surrounding the area around the pillow with a small screen, she called Tomokichi, and together they carried out the stretcher, handed it over to the young palanquin bearers, and gave them a slightly extra payment wrapped. “Tomokichi, go back now,” Oshino said. “Tell the head clerk that Father has arrived safely.”

Tomokichi left.

Oshino called Omasa, had her bring an incense burner and incense, and lit it at her father’s bedside. Although Father was critically ill, he disliked being seen by others, so Oshino instructed Omasa in a stern tone not to enter this room. Until Mother returned, she had to maintain the appearance that he was alive. Fortunately, it being winter, the body wouldn’t begin to smell so soon, but just in case, she lit strong incense and hung herbal medicine over the brazier. When evening came, Oshino went to the kitchen, saying she would make rice gruel, took rice from the Yukihira, and washed it herself.

“What will you have for dinner?” Omasa asked. “I’m about to go out shopping, but...”

“Whatever’s fine,” Oshino answered. “Please handle it as you see fit.” And as Omasa went out, her mother returned almost at the same moment. Oshino remained unaware as she added more incense to the burner. Then came the presence of someone, followed by a voice remarking, “What a terrible smell.” Oshino quickly rose and went. When she slid open the fusuma, she found Osono standing entangled with a young man. —That’s Kikutarou. Oshino stepped out into the four-and-a-half tatami room and closed the fusuma behind her. The man was small in stature, his body supple like a woman’s, and with an affectedly coquettish gesture, he was helping Osono out of her dust coat. Both appeared quite drunk; even in removing their dust coats, they staggered against each other, making little progress.

“Masaya,” Osono said. “Come here for a moment. Isn’t she here?” “She has gone shopping.” Osono turned around and narrowed her eyes. “Oh,” she said. “If it isn’t Oshino—you’re here? Then give me a hand.” The man staggered feebly aside, and Oshino helped her mother out of her coat. “This person here,” Osono waved her hand toward the man and said, “A disciple of Harimaya named Kikutarou—Kiku-chan, this is my daughter Oshino I told you about the other day.”

“Good evening,” Kikutarou said with a bow. “I am Nakamura Kikutarou. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Oshino shuddered. The way he bowed—his nasal, cloyingly sweet affected voice—both were so vile and repulsive they made her spine curl. "Come now, let's start drinking again," Osono said, taking Kikutarou's hand and entering the inner six-tatami room. —Oshino did as instructed, lit the kotatsu, and prepared the sake. There was only one heated sake decanter, but Osono poured it cold into teacups and drank with Kikutarou, the two of them gulping it down like water.

Before long, Omasa returned and they ordered more sake and food to be brought, but Oshino thought that Omasa must not see Mother and Kikutarou in such a state. Of course Omasa must have known already, but being witnessed by her here made Oshino feel as though she herself were being vilely tainted.

There were things I needed to tell Mother about Father. I would dismiss Omasa. Oshino thought this and，as soon as the sake and food arrived，said，“I’ll take care of the rest，so go back to your child.” In Narihira，Honjo，Omasa had a younger brother，and she had left her child in his care there. Though the hour was late，saying she was granting New Year’s leave，she wrapped a sum in paper and handed it over，telling her to buy something for her child on the way. Omasa was delighted and left without even changing her clothes.

—She’d noticed. Oshino thought Omasa had realized why she’d been dismissed so late in the evening. The maid’s delighted manner and hasty departure without changing clothes made this all too clear. Shame and humiliation burned through Oshino’s entire body.—Even as she carried in the sake and dishes, Mother drew Kikutarou close, cheerfully swapping amusing stories from their trip and laughing together.

“You come in too.” When preparations atop the kotatsu were complete, Osono said to her daughter in a coquettish voice, “If we just slide the long brazier closer, we can heat the sake without even getting up.” “I hate kotatsu,” Oshino said. “You know I’ve always hated them. I’d rather stay here.” “But if you don’t warm yourself, the way home will be cold.” “Oh, I’m staying the night.” “Staying the night?” Osono narrowed her eyes. “But if you stay, won’t that person be inconvenienced?”

“I’ll discuss that later,” Oshino said. “Yes, let’s have it heated.”

Nine “Oshino-san staying over? Isn’t that delightful!” Kikutarou said. “The more the merrier—let’s all pile in together!” Within the kotatsu, hands stirred. Kikutarou gripped Osono’s hand—through that grip, he must have signaled something. This became clear from how Osono’s voice shifted tone. “A group sleep sounds amusing,” Osono said while taking her cup. “Why don’t we let Omasa join us too?”

“I dismissed that person.”

“You let her go?” “She hasn’t even gone home for New Year’s yet,” Oshino answered. “I felt sorry for her, so I told her to go see her child and let her leave earlier.” “But what will you do without Masaya?”

“I can manage replacing Omasa.” “Oh, how dreadful!” Osono laughed. “Cooking rice isn’t some trifling matter, you know. Even I’ve never done it once—how could someone like you manage such a thing?” “That’s not true at all,” Kikutarou said with a squirm. “I’ve been watching all along—Oshino-san is so composed. Even if she’d been raised under a silken parasol, I’m certain she’d have that much mettle.”

“Oh my, you’re really taking Oshino’s side, aren’t you? Have you fallen for her?” Osono said. “Is that so?” Kikutarou replied. “I’ve gone and fallen head over heels!” “You said it.” “But it’s true!” “You said it—dare say such things with that mouth.” “It hurts! It hurts, Mistress! How cruel!” —Oshino’s body began trembling; to suppress the urge to scream, she clenched both hands’ fingers with all her strength and quietly stood to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” Osono called out. “Just a moment—” Oshino answered without turning back, “I’ll be right there.”

Oshino went to the eight-tatami room. This was unbearable.

She sat down beside the hibachi, lowered the snow screen that had been set up, and called out to her father’s lifeless face. Even me—your only daughter—she deceived me and doesn’t even try to explain herself. She probably doesn’t think she needs to apologize—in fact, she might not even remember having deceived me. And now she lies drunk and fooling around with a youth my own age. I can’t bear this—I’ll tell him. Once that man falls asleep, I’ll say everything I need to say. Please listen, Father—Oshino declared in her heart.

From the six-tatami room in the back came the sound of vocalized shamisen rhythms and singing. Oshino’s absence didn’t seem to concern them in the least; amidst the singing came Osono’s laughter and exaggerated shrieks, even sounds resembling a scuffle.

“Ah, I want to die.” Oshino covered her ears with both hands. “Why did you leave me behind and die, Father? If I must endure such shame, dying would be better than this.” But if I were to die, I wouldn’t go alone—I’d take Mother with me. “I’ll bring her to where you are in the afterlife and make her apologize,” Oshino resolved. “That’s right,” Oshino said, lifting her gaze. “I truly want to do it. If I were a man—no, even without being a man, if I had courage—I would do it. This person we call Mother only heaps more disgrace upon herself the longer she lives. If it can be done, it should be done.”

How much time had passed? When she suddenly became aware of it, the sliding door behind her opened quietly, and someone drew near without a sound. When she looked back, it was Osono. "Kiku-chan’s fallen asleep," she said while noticing Kihee’s form and fixing her gaze. “There’s someone here!” Osono staggered. “Who’s lying there?” “It’s Father.” “That’s no absurd trick.” Osono giggled, “That patient couldn’t possibly come here—who is it, you know?”

At that moment, Osono was rendered speechless. Her eyes opened so wide they seemed about to split; her jaw dropped, leaving her mouth gaping like a hollow. “Father,” Oshino said quietly. “He had something he wanted to say to you—just one thing. We carried him here on a door plank. He passed away on the way, but since his final wish was to see you, we brought him here as he was.” “He’s dead,” Osono murmured in a voice like a tongue gone numb, “—he’s dead.”

“Father’s corpse.” Osono let out a shrill cry and tried to stagger away. Oshino leaped up, seized her mother’s arm to stop her, then shoved her with all her strength toward her father’s bedside and forced her to sit there. “Let go,” Osono thrashed, “This is cruel—let me go.” Osono was nearly comatose with drink and couldn’t wrench free from her daughter’s grip.

“Father is dead. He can’t do anything anymore—can’t even speak—so there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Oshino said. “Now sit down properly, calm yourself, and listen. There’s something I need to say to you.” “No—no,” Osono shook her head violently like a child. “I won’t stay beside a corpse! It’s bad luck—have mercy!” Oshino grabbed her mother’s shoulders and shook her while saying, “Mother.” Osono fell silent. Her body seemed to lose all strength; after her head drooped heavily once, she listlessly raised it to look at her daughter. When she lowered her head, the flat silver hairpin clattered to the floor.

“Tell me,” Osono said to her daughter. “What do you want to say to me?”

“You don’t think this is excessive at all, Mother,” Oshino stared into her mother’s eyes. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes since gaining awareness—for twenty long years since you became husband and wife, Father was treated like a hired hand, living without a single complaint. Isn’t that right? He didn’t drink sake or smoke tobacco, never peeked at plays or vaudeville halls, never once went out for pleasure—and he died continuing that very life.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” “I don’t consider this excessive,” Oshino continued undeterred. “Father worked himself to death—not because of you, Mother. He did it believing himself an adopted heir who must safeguard Musashiya. But if that were so, then all the more should you have treated him as a proper husband.”

Ten “You’re still young,” Osono said. “There are things you couldn’t possibly understand.” “Yes, that’s right,” Oshino cut in. “I know there are many things I don’t understand. But whether what you’ve done to Father—especially since he fell ill three years ago—was good or bad, I can at least judge that much.” “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“What about the end of the year?” Oshino retorted. “Father coughed up blood and was told it was critical—we came to fetch you as his final plea! You promised to come the day after tomorrow—don’t you remember that promise?” “Because you kept pestering me about it.” “Even though you properly promised, and even though Father was in critical condition, you took that childlike person along and went to Hakone for fun, didn’t you?”

“That’s a lie—nothing like that happened!” Osono swatted at the air with one hand. “I went to Enoshima with Iseku’s Otoyo-san and others.” “Stop it, Mother. I went to Iseku’s place too.” Tears welled up in Oshino’s eyes. “I met Mrs. Iseku—she directed me to Nakamura-za.” “Oh my, what lengths you’ve gone to!” “Father collapsed again on New Year’s Eve—this time it was said no doctor could save him.” Oshino wiped beneath her eyes with a finger. “Even Father’s iron will broke this time—I had no choice but to drag you back.”

“Even so,” Osono said, “how cruel to go tracking people’s movements.” “Cruel? — Mother, don’t you see your own cruelty? Leaving your mortally ill husband untended while carousing with another man—do you feel no shame at all?” “Let me speak—just let me say this!” Osono tried to straighten her posture but, hindered by drunkenness, remained slumped sideways as she continued, “You couldn’t possibly understand, Oshino—our marriage was flawed from the beginning. We only united at Grandfather’s bidding. I never cared for him. True, he knew no diversions—toiling dawn till dusk with the hired hands. Earnest, honest—he expanded Musashiya beyond his predecessor’s achievements, even established the oil shop. All true enough. But as a husband? No savor, no tenderness—a dreary, insipid man. Blind to a woman’s heart, utterly devoid of charm.”

“Let me finish,” Osono continued, swaying her head unsteadily. “Women need—listen, Oshino—someone who’d abandon everything for my sake and dote on me obsessively. If he’d thrown himself into loving me so completely that Musashiya’s shop and wealth meant nothing—then maybe I could’ve felt some affection for that man.” “That’s all obvious!” Oshino cut in. “Such affection isn’t special—it’s just your excuse, Mother.”

“What exactly am I covering up?” “Mother, you just love your amusements and pleasures—it wasn’t enough to spend all your time at the theater or obsess over artistic pursuits. You had to call actors and performers to teahouses, reveling in their flattery while you drank and feasted. All this talk of love is nothing but an excuse.” “You’ll understand soon,” Osono smiled. “Once you become a woman, you’ll surely grasp my feelings.”

“Your feelings belong to you alone—you think only of yourself. You’d do anything for your own pleasure but wouldn’t lift a finger for others. After being so heartless to Father all this time—not even giving him his final water—and then calling him dull and charmless…” Oshino’s voice caught as she covered her face with both hands. “To call him flavorless and cold, a boring person—then Father is pitiful, isn’t he?”

“There’s no need for you to grieve so much over this man,” Osono said. “I’ll tell you the truth now—Oshino-chan, this man wasn’t your father.” “I don’t want to hear such excuses.” “This man was a complete stranger!” “Don’t talk nonsense,” Oshino said. “You don’t even understand what you’re saying, do you? What do you mean by ‘a complete stranger’?”

“Your parent isn’t this man—your real father is someone else.” Oshino stared at her mother’s face. “Mother, stop saying such nonsense.” “Don’t be absurd!” Osono interrupted. “I’m only telling you this because you’re grieving so over him. In Nihonbashi Yorozuchō, there’s a bag wholesaler called Maruume—the owner, Genjirō, is your real father.”

Oshino silently watched her mother. "It’s shameful to admit, but it’s true," Osono said. "Though I only associated with him for about half a year, the fact that you’re his child—Gen-san of Maruume knows it too." Oshino sat with a mask-like rigid face, remaining motionless for a long time. She stared vacantly ahead with unseeing eyes, then finally asked in a terribly dry, rasping voice, "So it’s really true?"

“Would I lie about something like this?” Osono replied. “If you don’t believe me, go ask at Maruume and see for yourself.” Oshino paused for a moment and said, “Please go over there.” “Go over there, you say? Oshino-chan.”

“Don’t say anything,” Oshino interrupted in a toneless voice. “I have something to think about. Please go over there.”

Osono started to say something, but overwhelmed by her daughter's rigid expression and unyielding posture, she said "Fine," and staggered to her feet. Oshino gently closed her eyes.

Eleven

In the six-tatami room at the back, Osono’s voice was heard rousing Kikutarou. “Let’s drink again—wake up now! It’s barely nightfall yet.” Kikutarou’s sleep-thickened voice protested, “I can’t go on anymore.” “We stop the palanquin to drink, then drink while being jostled in the palanquin—I’m exhausted to the marrow of my bones. Any more and I’ll die.” “What spineless talk—I’ll tickle you then!” Kikutarou let out a yelp, followed by his voice complaining, “How cruel!”

“Still planning to drink?” Oshino muttered. The words formed mechanically—her mouth moving independently from conscious thought—as though controlled by some external mechanism.

After a while, Oshino looked at her own hands, frowned, and muttered, “It flows here—Mother’s blood flows through this body of mine.” And then, as if shaking off something filthy, she violently shook both hands. “Not human,” Oshino muttered again. “Mother isn’t human. This body flowing with Mother’s blood isn’t human either. How filthy.”

Oshino shuddered. She shuddered violently as if from a spasm, then her upper lip curled back, baring her teeth.

There was something she wanted to say to him—one last thing. Kihee’s voice was heard deep within her ears.

"I cannot die without saying this." From between her bared teeth, Oshino whispered in a tone meant to confide a secret to someone, "You knew, didn't you, Father?" Then she whispered again, "Everyone knew." Even if she had to ride on a door plank to reach the dormitory and say those words to him, she couldn't rest in death without doing so. The obsessive manner she had displayed then—something never before seen—made it abundantly clear that he had known.

Father had known, Oshino thought. That I was not Father’s child. He knew everything yet said nothing, and cherished me as his own child. “For my sake,” Oshino whispered, “you saved money too, didn’t you? Hoping we’d leave Musashiya and live together someday.”

Oshino tightly closed her eyes.

"I'll do it," she vowed inwardly. "I'll make sure of that." After a pause stiffened by resolve rather than hesitation,Oshino rasped words into existence like blood clotting into vows:"For every woman.This shame stains womankind entire—no,beyond.Beyond gender—all humanity corrupted.This cannot stand unaddressed.Someone must atone.Such degradation—to let this fester would mock creation itself."

Oshino quietly opened her eyes and looked toward Father. "There was a small pond where camellias bloomed, wasn't there, Father? Please wait by that pond. I'll come soon too. Since I don't know the way, you must come meet me."

Oshino tried to stand up. Having sat motionless for so long, she couldn't rise immediately and waited for the numbness in her legs to fade, bracing herself with one hand against the floor. Then her hand pressed against the tatami touched the Silver Flat Hairpin. It was what had fallen from Osono's hair earlier; Oshino fixed her gaze on the hairpin. Her face stiffened mask-like once more—her upper lip gradually curling back to bare her teeth.—Oshino took the hairpin, transferred it to her right hand, and stood. The six-tatami room at the rear had long fallen silent; Oshino slid open the door, stepped out into the central corridor, then opened the six-tatami room's door.

Still inside the kotatsu, Osono and Kikutarou slept embracing each other. The remnants of their meal lay scattered about, with a sake-warming flask and teacup overturned near their heads. Osono had folded a zabuton cushion into a pillow, while Kikutarou used her arm as his. She held him with one arm, faces pressed together as she slept with her mouth agape. —Worn out from travel and drink, they seemed to have shed all pretense of dignity; Kikutarou snored raucously. Oshino did not look away. Though the sight of the two entwined in sleep was unbearable, she watched them for some time as if verifying their sin and defilement.

“No,” Oshino soon murmured. “I cannot die yet. There are those who shared Mother’s sin—men who conspired with Mother to torment Father, just like the man sleeping there now. Those men must atone for their sins too. I will make them all atone for their crimes.”

Oshino threw down the hairpin she was holding, went out into the central corridor, fetched a hand lantern from the storage room, lit it, and entered the maid’s quarters.

And then, about half a koku later, Oshino emerged from the dormitory’s back entrance. The time was past midnight, and a weak north wind was blowing. The completely frozen ground creaked beneath Oshino’s feet. The surroundings were dark, and no matter which direction she looked, not a single light could be seen. To the south was a local farmhouse; to the north stood the dormitory of a certain long-established establishment from Kyobashi. Both had spacious gardens and trees, but in the darkness of night, the houses themselves were invisible. After searching for the gate in the hedge, Oshino returned and stood still at the back of the house. She layered a purple hifu coat over her kimono and wrapped an okoso hood around her head. The face peering from beneath the hood was pale, and even her lips lacked any trace of blood.

The fire first became visible from the storage room. As smoke began to flow through the gaps in the door, soon those gaps turned red, and the smell of burning lamp oil spread through the air. Oshino panted and began walking toward the kitchen entrance, but when she stopped in her tracks, she turned her face upward to the sky.

“I’m about to lose, Father—lend me your strength,” Oshino pleaded as if in prayer. “Hold onto me, Father.” Dense smoke billowed from under the eaves; then tongues of fire flashed red and vanished. The smoke billowing from doors and under eaves finally enveloped the entire house, spreading an oily stench as the crackling sound of burning grew steadily louder. Then suddenly, orange flames flared up as if rolling up the eaves, tearing through the darkness.

Oshino stepped back and listened intently to the sounds inside the house. Amid the crackle of burning objects and the roar of flames, what seemed like a cough could be heard. But it lasted only an instant—no screams arose, and the cough never sounded again. Oshino slipped through the gate and stepped outside, standing awhile longer as she watched the house wrapped in flames.

“It’s alright now,” Oshino whispered. “Father, please wait for me.” Part of the roof burned and collapsed, roaring as a terrible pillar of fire rose. Beautiful sparks—dazzling to the eyes—scattered through the air while distant fire bells began tolling. Oshino walked quietly away toward Tenjin Bridge.

Part Two

1

On the afternoon of January 28th, Tokujirou, a clerk at Musashiya, received a single letter.—It had been delivered by a town courier, and the letter bore no sender’s name. Tokujirou opened the seal but immediately frowned in puzzlement. Then, after tucking away the half-read letter into his breast pocket, he purposefully lit a wire-meshed lantern and entered the inner storehouse.—He emerged shortly after, but his face stiffened fearfully, narrowed, and his eyes lost focus. “No way…” he muttered without moving his lips, “No way such a thing…”

The following day, the 29th, Tokujirou left the shop carrying a small package. The previous day, Head Clerk Kasuke had received word from his hometown that mother had fallen ill and requested a day’s leave.

Tokujirou's family home was located in Ebara District—a landowning family of considerable standing that had persisted for over a dozen generations, granted permission to bear a family name and wear swords. He was the second son and had voluntarily entered service at Musashiya, but everyone knew that when he would soon be granted permission to open a branch store, there would be assistance from his family.

Tokujirou walked to Ichikokubashi Bridge, hailed a street palanquin, and instructed them to go to Yanagibashi. After alighting at Yanagibashi, he found another palanquin there and this time rode to Kanda Myojin-shita. After alighting from the palanquin and walking along Dōbōchō’s street, he found Taizandō—a brush, inkstone, and ink wholesaler—on his left, and Tokujirou turned into that alley.—It was all quiet shuttered houses; a single drunkard, swaying unsteadily, was arguing with a dog. The small black-mottled dog barked furiously as if deranged while circling the drunkard; the man, looking ready to keel over at any moment, shouted—perhaps thinking the dog barking at him suspected wrongdoing—"If I’m doubted by the likes of you, my honor’s ruined! I’ll take this up with your owner—lead me there!"

Tokujirou slipped past them and, looking to his left, found a house with a black-painted board fence and latticed gate, its gatepost bearing a sign that read: “Yabunouchi-ryū Tea Ceremony Instructor Kitao Rinjo.” —He glanced around briefly before opening the lattice gate to enter, then called out from outside the entrance’s latticework. A reply came immediately; the shoji on the far side slid open, and a beautiful young girl of about seventeen emerged. “I am Tokujirou,” he said. “Is the instructor present?”

“Please,” said the girl with a smile. “She’s expecting you. Please come in.” He entered the house. It appeared to be a rather sprawling house; proceeding down the central corridor and turning left, the girl stopped before a sliding door on the right and announced, “He has arrived.” “Please,” came a young woman’s voice from within. “Masa-chan, that’s enough for now. You go take care of that errand right away.” “Yes,” the girl replied. “Should I leave the gate open?” “Close it on your way out.”

“Please close the gate on your way out.” The maid named Masa left, and Tokujirou announced himself as he opened the sliding door. As soon as he entered the room, a voice instructed him to close it and come closer—he complied without hesitation. For about half an hour, the sliding door remained shut while the room stayed deathly quiet. Though they were conversing, both kept their voices hushed to near-whispers, rendering their words practically inaudible.

At the back of the house, in the direction of Kanda Myojin Shrine, a bush warbler kept singing incessantly. The bird appeared still young, its song a halting, childlike chirp that occasionally slipped in a "ho, kyokyo" amidst its bush warbler calls. Then, perhaps startled by its own voice or overcome with embarrassment, an awkward silence would linger before it began singing again in a tentative, uncertain tone. About half an hour had passed when Tokujirou’s voice rose slightly.

“I’ve brought the money here,” he said. “I’ll deliver the remaining portion too. But I promised the late master I’d take responsibility for you. Until I hear what you intend to do from now on, I cannot hand over this money.” The woman gave some reply. "But even if you tell me to consider yourself dead," he continued, "as long as you remain alive like this, I cannot simply stand by and watch." After a brief pause, he continued, “It’ll cause me trouble—what kind of trouble?”

For quite some time, the woman spoke at length. "Is that true?" Tokujirou pressed insistently. "If it's true, I won't inquire further now. I'll deliver the remaining money within two or three days. In return, you must keep your promise." The woman replied. Soon Tokujirou emerged, and from within the room came her voice: "Forgive me for summoning you here." "Since the main gate should be locked, please go around to the side and exit through the kitchen gate." "And when you come next time," her voice continued, "enter through that same kitchen gate."

Tokujirou visited the house in Myojin-shita again after two days. At that time, he returned in about half an hour, but when he left, his eyes were red and swollen as if he had been crying, and his eyelashes were wet. Both the greeting and the sending off were handled by Omasa, the maid; the woman in the back did not show herself.

“Please take good care of her.” With those words， Tokujirou handed Omasa a paper-wrapped item． “I’ll come again， okay? I’m counting on you．”

Omasa said, “Yes,” and smiled with an air of practiced obedience. Shortly after February began, on his way back from an errand to Shitaya, Tokujirou stopped by Myojin-shita again. Then, the signboard that had been hanging on the gatepost was gone, the gate and entrance were both closed, and a lock had been placed on the kitchen door from the outside.

“No one’s home,” he muttered outside the gate. “Looks like the two went out together.”

Then from the other side of the alley came a voice: “The people there have moved out.” When he looked back, he saw a white-haired old man of refined appearance wearing a juttoku robe watching him from within a masaki wood hedge. He had likely been tending to the hedge—he made snipping sounds with one hand while addressing Tokujirou in an easygoing tone. “It was the evening before last, I believe—after dusk had already fallen—when they suddenly moved out.” The old man nodded to himself. “We never interacted much, but it seemed to be a household of women. No—actually, the agent came by just earlier and told me they were simply returning to their parents’ home, but even the destination wasn’t clear. You’re—”

Tokujirou expressed his thanks and left the place.

“Oshino-san, what are you going to do?” He walked on, muttering vacantly, “Where have you gone? What are you going to do now? What exactly do you intend to do, Oshino-san?”

Two

“The first time I met you was on the twentieth day of the New Year. Do you remember, Oriu-san?”

“Of course I remember, Oriu-san.” The woman called Oriu looked at him through half-lidded eyes, her words dripping with affected languor. “—Well I was the one who summoned you first, wasn’t I?” “From then till May we met monthly—twice some months—then silence through summer. Now October’s here. Nearly a full year.” “Another year etched in my bones. How dreadful.” “Oriu-san.” “Drink,” she said, tilting the sake flask. “Must you tally months like beads on an abacus? Now you’ve made me count my years—you wicked Master.”

“How strange,” the man said. “The way you modulate your voice, drop your left shoulder, and tilt your body—it’s exactly Sawataya’s signature style.” “Not that again.” “Look at those eyes—young lady, you must have some connection to Sawataya.” The man set down his cup and said, “No—it’s not mere fandom. Merely watching performances wouldn’t make Higashizō’s vocal techniques and gestures replicate so perfectly. I am Kishizawa Chōdayū—I can discern such things.”

“If you’re going to press me like that, I’ll leave.” “So I’ve hit the mark?” “Now, now, Master.” The woman adjusted her seating position—perhaps unconsciously—but this only accentuated the soft curves of her figure and her practiced coquetry. “Listen well, Master,” she said in honeyed tones, “I adore theater and never miss a performance—why, I’ve seen every Sawataya production—but I’ve never once met any actors personally. Not a single one.”

“Since I’m carrying on like this with you,” the woman continued, “I suppose I can’t blame people for calling me a philanderer. But for you to think of me as that kind of woman... it’s unbearable.” “If that’s true,” the man said, “why make me endure this half-crushed snake torment forever?” “You don’t understand my feelings at all, Master.”

“Oriu-san,” the man said, reaching out his hand.

The woman offered one hand to the man while pulling her body away in the opposite direction and let out a heated sigh.

“Don’t touch me, Master,” the woman said in a trembling voice, “you mustn’t touch me—it’s my nature, Master. Even without that, my patience hangs by a thread. If you lay hands on me, all will be lost.” “What exactly are you enduring? If you truly care for me, Oriu-san, there should be no need for endurance.”

“That’s cruel,” the woman said, softly shaking the hand that was being held. “—You know full well.” “What do you mean?” “Your wife,” the woman said, “you do have a wife, don’t you? The one from Yanagibashi—yes, a top courtesan in this district. A splendid woman with a fine disposition and elegance, who gave up everything to be with you.”

“Wait—wait a moment.” “I could never measure up to such a person,” the woman pressed on unabated, “but neither will I suffer being some passing dalliance or kept woman while fully knowing you have a wife—that much I refuse outright.”

“I’ve said that before,” the man pressed urgently. “If Oriu-san truly means it, I’ll break things off with her.” The woman let go of the hand he was holding. “Lies—nothing but empty words.” “It’s no lie—that woman’s a jealous fiend who can’t cook rice properly or even hold a needle. I’ve been sick to death of her for ages now.” The man modulated his tone and declared, “Truthfully, without a shred of deceit—I’ve been ready to leave her any time. If Oriu-san would stay with me, I’d cast her off tomorrow—truly.”

"I can't even cook rice properly." “Would I ever make Oriu-san do such things?” "I can’t hold a needle, and I can’t do laundry or cleaning either." The woman said in a sweetly coquettish tone, "Besides, I'm terribly jealous—if by some chance I were your wife and you carried on like this with another woman, I wouldn’t let either of you live." The woman reached up to her head, pulled out the silver flat hairpin, and gripping it in reverse, said, "I’ll definitely kill them both—definitely."

“How delightful! What admirable spirit!” The man laughed with a parched voice, his eyes glinting beast-like as he licked his upper and lower lips. “To be so deeply trusted by someone like you, Oriu-san—what more could I ask? Oh yes, splendid! If such a thing were to happen, do kill me. I won’t run or hide.”

The woman switched her grip on the hairpin and, while quietly tapping it against her left palm, whispered, “This will do.”

The man abruptly rose to his feet, and the woman lifted her gaze.

“I’ll go to the restroom and come back,” the man said. “I’ll take care of the sake while I’m at it.” The woman nodded.

The man went downstairs, called the maid, whispered something to her, and headed to the lavatory. On her taut, oblong face with thick eyebrows—what people called a bitter countenance—a smile surfaced as she hummed a merry tune. That bitter face abruptly revealed a shallow vulgarity, her eyes now gleaming with beast-like avarice. "They say her dancing's refined," he sang cheerfully in Tokiwazu-bushi style, "-and I've taken quite a fancy to this leading melody's feminine phrases, returning now with shivers to my very core."

After climbing the stairs and finishing his song before the tatami room, he slid open the shoji screen and entered. The young maid was clearing away the empty sake bottles and small dishes; the woman was nowhere to be seen. "The sudden rain soaks deep—" Still seated, he called out to the maid, "What happened to the one here?" "Are you asking about your companion?" the maid said. "She left just moments ago." "Wh—" The man gaped, then asked suspiciously, "She left? But she was here—my—that woman?"

III

About an hour later, the man left the restaurant called "Hanada."

The day was growing dim, and though lamps had begun lighting across the town, the sky remained a polished indigo stretching high above. From the direction of the Ōkawa River blew a faint breeze—cold enough to seep through one’s very skin. “The bill has been settled,” came the voice behind him, “and we’ve received your gratuity.” The man staggered as he walked, swinging the boxed meal clutched in one hand. “This souvenir,” he muttered, “—left ‘for the Master’ they said. Open it and there’s just one ryō. Heh—their idea of going all out.”

He seemed to have drunk himself into a stupor. After being left by the woman called Oriu, he had likely drowned his despair alone; staggering in all directions, he muttered fragmented words under his breath. “Hey, pull yourself together,” he told himself. “You’re Kishizawa Chōdayū through and through—right? The disciple of Tokiwazu Tsunadayū they called Little Tengu. That Tsunadayū nowadays? Hah! Used to fix my sandals back then. True story.”

As dusk fell, the streets teemed with people coming and going. Beneath the eaves of the houses, shadows thickened rapidly as the aroma of evening cooking drifted through the air, seeming to hasten those hurrying past. "But truth be told," he muttered to himself, "I always favored the strings over the vocals. Yeah—whenever I heard Master Koshikibu pluck those cords, it felt like my very marrow was melting away." He gave a firm nod. "That's it exactly—jōruri lives or dies by the shamisen! Doesn't matter how that Bungo no Daijō preens about his singing—my plectrum work holds his fate. Why, with a few well-placed jeers from the crowd, I could shut his gullet for good. Swear on my life."

Since his final words came out in a shout, the man approaching from ahead nimbly stepped aside, but he, oblivious, continued across Yanagibashi Bridge.

“Hmph! So they go around saying Nakajirō’s shamisen is superior? What nonsense are they spouting?” He shook the boxed meal he held. “The world’s full of tone-deaf bastards who couldn’t tell a tightened shamisen string from a fart—screw ’em! Nakajirō’ll end up just like that too.” “What the… Why the hell am I even bringing up that bastard? Tch, screw him and his bad omens.” “What I’m tryin’ to say ain’t any of that.” He swayed his head unsteadily as if negating his earlier ramblings, then staggered and muttered while walking diagonally across the road, “I’m the great Kishizawa Chōdayū—when it comes to women, I’ve never taken second place to anyone. From green girls to seasoned matrons, daughters to wives to widows, pros or amateurs—not a single woman I set my sights on ever got away. Didn’t even need to lift a finger—they’d come swarmin’ till I was burpin’ up their advances. But that one...Oriu...of all people...heh. Nearly a year since we first met, and today’s the first time I held her hand? What galls me is I’m the one left feverish with want.”

He stopped. “What the—” he looked around. “What’s this about Nakajirō? Who’s saying anything about Nakajirō?” “Heh,” he shook his head and started walking again. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, little girl. The reason I never held your hand until today was because I wanted to watch you burn with desire. And then what? I tell you to go downstairs and prepare the small room, only to find you gone when I return? Heh—what a joke! To think I, Kishizawa Chōdayū, had to request room preparations… ‘Your companion has departed. The souvenir box remains untouched—how splendid.’”

He crossed the crowded Hirokōji avenue, passed through the area from Yagenbori to the lower-ranking samurai residences, and made his way toward Sumiyoshichō. He said nothing for a time, his chest filled with an oppressive anxiety and the anger of one whose pride had been wounded—What a strange girl, he thought. From their first meeting until today, he still didn't know where her home was, whether she was a merchant's daughter or a wealthy man's daughter, how old she was—none of it. Even the name Oriu might be a pseudonym. First when someone came to invite him to the Nakamura-za's greenroom, their meeting had been at Nakasu's Daihachi, he thought. At Daihachi twice—next would be Horidome's Tsutaya. No—Tsutaya came after that. The third time was at Igaume.

“By May, we met seven times, but no meeting place was used more than twice,” he muttered. “Only Daihachi saw us twice—the other five times were all different establishments.” “She doesn’t want her face to be recognized,” he thought. He’d been treated to lavish meals, made pleasantly drunk, then led about by this coquette—not even a proper mature woman—as if she’d been trained by Shimamura Tozou himself. Left perpetually unfulfilled, yet whenever summoned again, he came wagging his tail like some starved mutt. "Is this still Kishizawa Chōdayū? Hey—is this still Kishizawa Chōdayū?" he jeered at himself inwardly.

“Hey Master, where ya goin’?” a voice called from behind. “Ain’t ya headin’ home?” He stopped, turned around, and staggered.

“Who’s there?” he narrowed his eyes. A man wearing a solid-colored long happi coat with a three-shaku Chinese-striped happi draped over it, barefoot in hemp-lined sandals and a hand towel covering his cheeks, was looking this way while picking at his teeth with a toothpick. “You’re headin’ home, ain’t ya?” the man said again. “You’ve gone right past the alley, I tell ya.” “Who the hell are you—Matsukō?”

“Ah, never mind. Let’s head to my place.” “You’re a strange fellow.” He turned back while saying, “You’re not Matsukō. Who are you?” “Don’t raise your voice—don’t you get it?” As they entered the alley, the man whispered, “Musasabi no Roku.” “Heh,” he said, suddenly stopping to take a slow, deep breath. “—Who did you say you are?” “Quit makin’ people suspicious—I just came back from Kamigata. Quit stallin’.” The man started walking ahead. “There’s somethin’ way more shockin’ at my place.”

Chōdayū followed behind the man. The alley lay in complete darkness, devoid of playing children, with cooking smoke having cleared from the row houses where lively voices of families eating their evening meals could now be heard. The man who called himself Musasabi no Roku walked humming a tune, wordlessly opening the lattice door of Chōdayū's residence—third from the well—and briskly entered. Chōdayū stood frozen at the threshold as if his very soul had been torn away, vacantly staring like a stranger visiting another's home.

“Quit dawdlin’ out there and get in,” the man called from inside the house. “Your wife’s gone and left.”

IV Around the butterfly-legged dining tray stood two one-shō sake flasks. Scattered in the dim, flickering light of an oil lamp whose fuel had burned out lay dishes, bowls, and serving pots containing appetizers likely procured from a caterer - all left in disarray after being messily picked over.

Chōdayū sat rigidly, both hands pressed against his knees, his bowed head wobbling like a papier-mâché tiger's nodding head. His face bore a bluish-black pallor with slackened muscles; every now and then—as if suddenly remembering—he would swipe sideways with his right hand's back to wipe drool trailing from his lip corner. Musasabi no Roku sat cross-legged noisily slurping sake from a rice bowl clutched in his left hand as he spoke with relish. "She couldn't take it no more," Roku said. "When I showed up see, she'd already got this indigo wrap-bundle ready—'Oh if it ain't Mister Roku' she goes—then slaps on that stone mask outta nowhere! Just like that! 'I'm quittin' this house for good' she says."

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” Chōdayū said flatly, his tone not so much questioning the other as addressing himself. Then he raised his eyes to look at Roku. “—When did you get here?” “How many times I gotta tell ya? Got to Edo yesterday afternoon, stayed last night at Lord Oda’s companion quarters in Sambanchō, came here this noon. Then just like Yū said—tearful scene, she’d even laid out the sake. Nah, scratch that—not tearful at all. Crisp as a winter radish, she gave ya the cold shoulder. A proper dismissal, Master—heard you’ve got yourself a fancy new piece now.”

“So…she left.” He laughed slovenly with a pout-like expression, wiping sideways around his mouth with his hand. “That’s tailor-made for me.” “Well ain’t that just perfect.” “Perfect interlude—I was right wondering how to broach ending things.” “Well ain’t that grand,” Roku said. “Makes jawin’ easier. Had you gone and disappointed me, Master—even bein’ Musasabi no Roku, I couldn’t handle this favor solo. Was fixin’ to consult Nakajirou or such.”

Chōdayū narrowed his eyes at Roku. “—What about Nakajirō?” “Need you to come up with fifty ryō for me.” “Is it me or you,” Chōdayū said, setting down his cup, “that’s drunk here?” “Ain’t this new floozy somethin’ fierce?” Roku slurped from his bowl. “Seventeen-eighteen years old, looks like a damn goddess—household’s rollin’ in coin. They say she’d toss a hundred—two hundred ryō your way for Master here without blinkin’.”

“That’s quite the story,” Chōdayū said. “Lies or not, it’s entertaining. If you’ve got such a goldmine, by all means—introduce me.” A sharp crack sounded, and Chōdayū’s head tilted to the left. Roku’s slap was so fierce that Chōdayū’s cheek turned white, then gradually reddened. Roku took the 1.8-liter sake flask and poured a generous amount into his own rice bowl. “Forgive me, Master,” Roku said in a gentle voice. “I’ve been losin’ my patience lately—did that hurt?”

“You think slapping me around’ll make me cower, Roku—” Chōdayū retorted in a dripping tone. “You’ve gone hasty—downright impatient. Never pulled such crude stunts before. Must’ve eaten rotten grub out west.” “That’s about the size of it,” Roku smiled meekly. “Even I’m shocked at my own thin patience—what with havin’ to sell out Edo again any day now. —So when’m I gettin’ that fifty ryō?”

“Want to slap me again?” “No way—that was my blunder. Didn’t I just say to cut me some slack?” “Not gonna try that again?” “This hand’s hurtin’ too,” Roku said with a soundless laugh. “But goin’ to Master Nakajirou’ll settle things quicker.”

Chōdayū fell silent. “Seven years ’go—yeah, exactly seven years ’go,” Roku said after taking a swig. “Back then in Kishizawa, Nakajirō—who was playin’ lead shamisen for the Master—got strong-armed into a quarrel and had his right arm smashed to splinters. They set the bone, but he couldn’t work the plectrum proper no more. Ended up leavin’ Kishizawa in ruin. But that Nakajirō’s bad luck—it’s come ’round to you now.” Roku pressed the rice bowl to his lips, slurped noisily with relish, let out a thunderous belch, and continued: “—Master Chōdayū here’s Kishizawa’s lead shamisen player, drowned in cheers from the crowds—married Yanagibashi’s top courtesan too—never wants for women or coin. But stack that ’gainst poor Nakajirō—now he’s just a doorstep beggar soakin’ in sake, passin’ out drunk in pleasure quarter alleys from what I hear.”

Chōdayū snickered. Reaching out, he skimmed the broth from the soup bowl, poured sake into it, and slowly took two deliberate sips. “That’s pitiful,” he said. “Poor Nakajirō ending up like that—truly pitiful. How about it, Rokusuke? Why don’t you take him in and look after him?” “We’ll settle this through talk,” Roku said. “Seven years ’go—why that fight got forced on him, why his arm got broke—we’ll hash all that out first, then figure what’s to be done.”

Chōdayū laughed again, “Hope it works out.” And he laughed again, “I’ll be rootin’ for it to go smooth.”

“That all you got to say?” “There’s one thing I wanna ask.” Chōdayū said in a hushed voice, “You just got back from Kamigata, yet you managed to dig up all that.” “Wanna know?” said Roku, staring at the empty rice bowl. “Lousy sake.”

Roku threw the rice bowl onto the tray. The soup bowl rolled off, and the small dish shattered into flying fragments. "You—" Roku looked at Chōdayū. "Know a fixer named Sakichi who worked at Masuya in Nakamura-za?"

Chōdayū remained silent. "You don’t know ’bout Masuya quittin’ since New Year’s?" "I see," Chōdayū nodded after a pause. "Did you get that from Sakichi?" "Seems Sakichi’s bein’ kept by someone—don’t know who or why, but he wouldn’t crack on that no matter what. Since he’s the bastard who’s been arrangin’ meetups between ladies ’n’ actors, there’s gotta be some scheme brewin’ there. You’d best watch your back too."

Five

“Where did you meet Sakichi?” Chōdayū asked. “That was some rotten sake,” Roku said as he stood up. “When you get the money ready, send word to our usual hangout. I’ll give you five days—counted from today. No extensions.” “My apologies for the swill,” Chōdayū said. “Next time I’m flush, I’ll buy you proper drink.” Roku left without another word. When Roku’s carefree humming faded into the distance, Chōdayū lay back using his arm as a pillow. His face had turned leaden, lips gone slack, eyes frozen on a fixed point of the wall. Oyu’s gone, he thought. But it hardly mattered now. Oyu’s body held rare charms true enough—the sort that cloyed faster than fine sweets. That very rarity had started grating on him anyway. All his romantic conquests boiled down to two outcomes: sweating buckets trying to make stones dance only to fail spectacularly, or being danced ragged until he collapsed exhausted. Either way—he always ended up flat on his back.

“With this, I won’t let that girl say no anymore,” he muttered. “Since she’s the one who started saying we must marry—this time I won’t let her escape.” Women with such coquettish suppleness and expressions overflowing with sensuality were generally said to become reserved when it came to that matter—modest in their approaches and quiet. In Chōdayū’s experience too, there had been many such cases, and he had shown no interest in such women. But now it was different.

"I'm reaching the age to settle down," he thought. It wasn't about permanent stability—as a man, his prime still lay ahead—but establishing a proper household now and focusing wholly on his art might be worthwhile. That's right—thirty-two was about that age. Oriu would suit perfectly. Her parents would likely provide funds too. He'd take half a year off from theater and rigorously hone his skills, he resolved inwardly.

"But Rokusuke..." After a while, he spoke up abruptly. "No—that’s not it." He shook his head at himself. "Nakajirō doesn’t matter. Even if someone spills how his arm got broken—the one who broke it was that bastard Roku. There’s no proof I asked for it. If Nakajirō wants payback, his target’s gotta be Rokusuke. That’s settled." Then he closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, "What gnaws at me more is Sakichi being kept by someone—Sakichi quit Masuya at New Year’s—I just thought ‘Huh’ and let it slide—but someone bankrolling him? Fishy. Who? Why? He wouldn’t crack, they say... But a theater teahouse guy who set up ladies with actors and performers... That angle’s gotta have some scheme behind it."

Chōdayū fixed his eyes and stared at a single point on the dark ceiling. You’d better watch your back too.

The mocking voice of Musasabi no Roku echoed deep within his ears. Certainly, he too had met several female clients through Sakichi's arrangements. Widows, married women, young women. There were middle-aged ones and youthful ones. Though he couldn't recall most of their faces, there remained two or three he still remembered.

“But what of it?” he muttered defiantly, eyes still closed as he recalled the women from his memories, “―Every woman I got involved with at Masuya was the one who made the first move. All I did was play my part in the banquet rooms. There’s no grounds for anyone to hold a grudge over that. Quit your damn threats.”

The muttering lacked the force of his words; he opened his eyes and sat up.

“I’ll move out,” he said aloud. “Having that bastard Roku prowling around is trouble enough, and I’ve stayed in this neighborhood too long. To clear my head, I’ll relocate.”

The next day, Chōdayū moved.

He was in financial straits. That month’s theater work saw him appear only in the crucial dance piece “Matsuchō Ōgi Utsushie,” but with his accumulated salary advances, his pay had been halved and banquet-room engagements had dwindled. From the one ryō he received from Oriu—itself long overdue—he put just one bu toward back rent, kept only the barest essentials among his household goods, and sold off everything else. Though this included Oyu’s clothing, he sold it all together, entrusted his meager belongings to a cartman, and set out to find new lodgings. In Kugengabori lived a colleague named Tokiwazu Sanzendayū; after consulting him, they went together to Fukui-chō in Asakusa. There, in a side street of Fukui-chō’s first block, an elderly couple ran a hardware shop on the ground floor while offering a six-mat room upstairs for rent. The shop seemed retirement work for them, their living expenses likely covered by their son. When they heard his profession, they grimaced slightly, but upon his promise not to take disciples there, the deal was struck.

After that day’s performance concluded, while sharing a drink with Sanzendayū, he informed him that Rokusuke had returned from Kamigata and requested that his new residence be kept confidential. Sanzendayū also knew that Rokusuke had returned, and said, “I won’t blabber, but you probably can’t escape Roku’s eyes.” “It’s not that I’m running away—it’s just annoying,” said Chōdayū. Sanzendayū shot a sidelong glance but said once more, “I’ll keep quiet.”

Chōdayū waited for a "message" from Oriu. These messages always came to the Nakamura-za greenroom, but with the October performances concluded and the next kaomise season not opening until November 20th, he was at a loss for how to receive word. Even during theater closures, the greenroom attendant remained on duty constantly. Though backstage activity continued for the upcoming production, narrative performers couldn’t check the greenroom daily. He had informed Heizō—the elderly greenroom attendant—of this arrangement, and Heizō understood his role perfectly. Yet visiting to ask "Any messages?" violated Chōdayū’s self-respect.

"After meeting for nearly a year," he thought bitterly, "I couldn't even learn where she lives." He clicked his tongue at himself. "Kishizawa Chōdayū—a man of my standing mired in such slovenly affairs." No—perhaps he'd been careless too—but that girl had shown no openings either. At that critical moment when one more push would have succeeded—how skillfully she always slipped away! He contemplated this before laughing darkly to himself. "Get a grip," he growled. "I held back because she's untouched—that's all! This time I'll take her by force if needed—just you wait and see."

Musasabi no Roku did not show himself. Roku

Rokusuke did not come, and there was no sign of Nakajirō appearing. Chōdayū spent his days commuting to his master Kishizawa Koshikibu’s training hall to conduct lessons for disciples, then proceeding to Tokiwazu Bungo no Daijō’s residence to coordinate the shamisen accompaniment for the narrative piece in the upcoming kyōgen performance. About once every three days, he stopped by the Nakamura-za greenroom, but there was no message from Oriu, and his finances kept getting tighter. As if everyone had colluded, Oyu too continued to stay away. Even if she felt no attachment to the tools and clothes she’d left behind, she should have at least come to say a single word of farewell. "Then I could wheedle at least a bit of pocket money from her," Chōdayū muttered deep in his heart. If by any chance Oriu were to never return, he couldn’t just cleanly break things off with Oyu. Oyu was good at managing a household and skilled at securing funds when in a pinch.

“Breaking things off with Oyu would be bad news, hm,” Chōdayū muttered as if reconsidering, “Either way it’s risky now—better keep a thread attached for the time being.” He made up his mind to go to Yanagibashi. In Yanagibashi there was Omasa, who served as an elder-sister figure to Oyu. If he were to seek shelter anywhere, Omasa’s place would be first. Just as he resolved to do this, the Nakamura-za theater changed its kyōgen repertoire, resulting in the cancellation of Tokiwazu performances and leaving him unexpectedly free. This occurred on November 10th—Chōdayū fell into complete panic.

“Everything’s going off track—how strange.” “Aren’t they all watching me,” he muttered uneasily, “stripping my things away piece by piece?” Just as he resolved—If things have come to this, I must mend ties with Oyu without delay—a message arrived from Oriu. After learning about the program change at Bungo no Daijō’s residence, when he visited Nakamura-za, the greenroom attendant Heizō handed him a letter. Heizō had been at a loss about what to do since he didn’t know Chōdayū’s new address. Brushing aside Heizō’s explanations, Chōdayū hurried away from the theater.

He felt his heart pounding. Just as when he had received a letter from a lover in his youth, warmth surged at his solar plexus, leaving him light-headed as if his feet were lifting from the ground. "So this still happens," he murmured with self-conscious embarrassment. "Hey Chōdayū—who knew even you had this in you?"

The location was written as Okada, a restaurant-teahouse in Monzen Nakachō, Fukagawa, at 4:00 PM. Even running wouldn't make him reach in time—Chōdayū hastily summoned a palanquin. He hadn't bathed in two days, his hair still tied as it had been three days prior with the cord now loosened—a detail that bothered him. Though he'd shaved that morning, his thick beard already felt rough around the mouth and jaw when he ran his hand over it. "This isn't how one dresses for an assignation," he clicked his tongue. "Looking like this, even a love scene would appear suspect."

The teahouse did not seem to have been built long ago—a large two-story structure with a spacious central courtyard containing a pond, where stones and plantings were arranged with meticulous care. The maid guided him to a room at the end of the second-floor hallway that turned right—a space standing apart like a detached annex. In the eight-tatami room, a meal tray had already been set out; steam rose from a sake warmer atop a well-stoked brazier, and two vividly colored floor cushions lay prepared.

“She is currently retouching her makeup,” said the maid, “and asks that you please begin eating first.” Then she took a sake decanter from beside the meal tray and placed it into the sake warmer. When he looked, there on the tray were seven sake decanters lined up. —A setup with all sake and no water, perhaps. The intention was probably to heat the sake there and have just the two of them drink together. The preparations were too elaborate for someone so young. “This one might be formidable,” Chōdayū thought. Saying he would heat the sake himself, he dismissed the maid, moved a floor cushion beside the hearth, and sat down. He took out the sake decanter and drank two cups—then Oriu arrived. When someone called out from beyond the sliding door, he assumed it was the maid—but upon seeing who entered, it was Oriu.

Had she bathed? Her freshly washed hair was gathered loosely and cascaded down her back. Over a yukata layered with a padded tanzen robe, she wore a black-edged hanten coat—its purple base boldly patterned with tie-dyed maple leaves in full scatter—draped casually over her shoulders. She wore no lip rouge, only light makeup. Chōdayū muttered inwardly, "Ugh." Her appearance now inverted her former girlish demeanor—brazenly alluring, almost rakish in its boldness. Yet the fluidity of her movements and the youthful freshness of her expression, seemingly veiled by modesty, exuded an ineffable allure, sensually vivid beyond words.

—Sawadaya, Chōdayū thought. She was the spitting image of Tozou.

Oriu came to sit before the meal tray and, with a faint smile, looked down. Chōdayū felt his heart race again and took another drink by himself, but spilled the sake.

“You’re a heartless woman.” He noticed his voice growing shrill. “You vanished that day—slipped down some weasel’s path! However I longed to meet you, there was no way to find you. How cruel you are, Oriu-san.” Oriu turned her face away. Still bowed low, she shifted heavily toward the wall and fell utterly silent. Chōdayū poured out his grievances—how he’d yearned for her, how desperately he’d wanted to meet, how there was this vital matter concerning their very lives that demanded swift resolution—until his breathing turned ragged and strange emotion set his body trembling.

“This was the first time I ever felt this way,” he said, “the first time in all my life I learned that love could be so painful and bitter.”

Oriu said nothing and did not move a muscle. "Listen, Oriu-san," he said in a desperate tone, "I've broken up with Oyu - just as you wanted me to. It's what you wished for, Oriu-san. You remember the promise we made back then, don't you?" Keeping her face turned away, Oriu asked, "Do you know a wholesale pharmacy called Musashiya in Honmoku-chō?" Chōdayū looked perplexed. "Well... I believe I may have heard of it."

“I heard there was a mistress named Osono,” said Oriu quietly as she turned around, “—Master, you know about her, don’t you?” Chōdayū nodded vaguely. “Now that you mention it,” he replied evasively, “it seems there was a time when she patronized me.” “Don’t lie,” Oriu said. “I’ve heard everything.”

Seven “So what if you did?” “You sweet-talked that woman and kept meeting her for over three years, didn’t you?” Oriu gazed at him with liquid eyes that seemed to melt everything they touched. “She had a sickly husband lying at home, but she became so infatuated with Master here that she abandoned her wifely duties and kept chasing after you in secret—or so I’ve heard.” “Wait—hold on.” He threw up a hand to block her words. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Do you think knowing the name would let you talk your way out of this?” “I am a performer,” he said, sitting up straight. “Patronage comes naturally to performers—without patronage, a performer cannot sustain themselves.” “Was the Musashiya woman just another patron too?” “At least that was before I knew Oriu-san.” “Don’t be so stiff.” Oriu smiled, slid closer on her knees, and took the sake decanter. “Let me pour for you. Oh—your hands are trembling, Master. I’m not burning with jealousy or anything. I simply wanted the truth.”

“I’ll tell the truth.” “Don’t be so stiff.” Oriu smiled again. “Please have another.” “Oriu-san,” he said, putting down his cup and stiffening, “don’t you believe what I’m saying?” “Are you telling me to believe some made-up story?” “I did indeed meet with the Mistress of Musashiya.” He spoke as if testifying, “But that wasn’t love or anything of the sort—it was merely a patron’s association with a performer. You must have some idea yourself—performers can’t sustain themselves without a patron’s backing and promotion.”

Oriu cast a sidelong glance at him. “Oh, is that so?” “It’s a flashy profession, so money is essential—it’s embarrassing to say, but there’s clothing and accessories to maintain, social obligations with colleagues, and when appearing in plays, you have to give gifts to the front-stage staff, backstage crew, props crew, for example.” He said mournfully, “Because those gifts weren’t sufficient, the narrator’s platform collapsed—there was even a performer who got injured from that.”

“So even Musashiya’s mistress was just meeting you for money too, then?”

“Of course.” He swallowed hard. “You likely don’t know this, but that woman was an incorrigible philanderer—who knows how many men she took besides me. Though mind you”—he added—“they say her husband was a consumptive wretch, gloomy and utterly devoid of charm.” “Let me pour.” Oriu took up the sake decanter. “Do keep talking while you drink.” Chōdayū gripped his cup. “There’s naught else to say. The master of Musashiya died spewing blood, burned alive with his mistress in a fire he set himself. When you flaunt wealth and act as you please, retribution finds you—as it should.”

“Do have some more.” “There’s such a thing as karma.” Chōdayū continued while drinking, “Making that Mistress into such a philanderer was the husband’s fault. They’re both equally guilty—in the end, they were punished by each other’s sins. That those two became husband and wife at all—that’s what you call karma.” “So...” Oriu said, “Master doesn’t receive any punishment then?” “Punishment for me?” He looked at Oriu. “Why should punishment fall on me?”

“Very well, have some.” Oriu poured him a drink. “Let’s continue.” And just as Oriu stood up, heavy footsteps approached from the hallway. They halted outside the sliding door, and a voice called out, “Is Master Kishizawa here?” Chōdayū started. Unmistakably Musasabi no Roku’s voice—he frantically waved at Oriu. But before he could intervene, Oriu answered the voice.

“Yes, Master is here, but who are you?”

“Rokusuke’s the name,” came the reply from beyond the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon—’scuse the intrusion.”

Sliding open the fusuma door, two men entered. One was Rokusuke; the other wore a striped cotton quilted kimono with a stiff sash and had thrown on a straight-sleeved workman’s coat. He appeared to be thirty-two or thirty-three, but his complexion was poor, his eyes and cheeks sunken, and perhaps due to his grown-out sakayaki, he looked much older. “Hey, Chōdayū,” the man said. “It’s Nakajirou. Do you remember?”

Chōdayū remained silent, still holding his sake cup. He looked as though bracing his entire body to support its weight. Both men appeared thoroughly drunk. Rokusuke grinned vacantly as he crashed down into a cross-legged position, while Nakajirou approached and dropped to one knee before Chōdayū. The man's sallow face darkened to a livid hue, sunken eyes blazing with hatred like kindled flames. "Can't you manage a damn greeting?" Nakajirou spat. "Not even a grunt when you're staring at my face?"

“Can’t even grunt out a ‘guu’?” Rokusuke sneered from across the room. “How ’bout the ‘Chō’ part? Can’t choke out a ‘gutt’ either?” “You’re a beast wearin’ human skin,” Nakajirou spat. “You came crawlin’ to Kishizawa as an apprentice ’cause you couldn’t make it in jōruri—*I* was the one who took you in! Got instincts, sure—but art ain’t just instincts! Your damn instincts *wreck* your art! I taught you startin’ from scrapin’ off those instincts!”

“Wait,” Chōdayū cut in. “I’ll own up to my mistakes—let’s have that conversation over there.” “Don’t want the lady hearin’ this, huh? Quit your bullshit,” Nakajirou said. “You think pluggin’ one or two ears now’ll keep your deeds hidden, Chōdayū? —You clung to the shamisen thanks to me. I propped you up in shadows and daylight both. Ain’t that the truth?”

Chōdayū hung his head.

“Chōdayū, wasn’t that how it was?” With his head hanging low, Chōdayū nodded. “But once you started gettin’ a bit of recognition, I became a damn obstacle—said you couldn’t pluck your shamisen proper with me around! Didn’t even have the balls to outplay me fair! So you pulled coward’s tricks—you listenin’?!” Nakajirou rolled up his right sleeve. “Used lackeys to start fights with me—look here! Had ’em break my arm! If you’d done it yourself like a man, maybe—but hidin’ behind hired thugs while keepin’ that pretty mug spotless! You fuckin’ beast!”

Remaining on one knee, Nakajirou raised his fist and struck Chōdayū’s cheek.

Eight “I’m sorry.” Chōdayū pressed his hands to the floor. “A demon possessed me—show mercy!” “Bastard!” Nakajirou roared as he lunged at Chōdayū, pinning him down and pummeling him again. “You inhuman wretch!” With fists and open palms, he struck from all sides before pressing his right hand against Chōdayū’s throat. “I’ll kill you!” “That’s twisted logic—utterly wrong!” Chōdayū rasped hoarsely, “I didn’t break the arm! It was Roku over there! I only paid him—Rokusuke did the breaking!”

Rokusuke laughed. “He finally blurted it out—knew he’d come out with that!”

Rokusuke stood up nimbly and came over. "Naka-san, let me take over," said Rokusuke. "I want to reap what I sowed myself. Since you broke his arm, I'll break this guy's arm too. Move aside." "Please, Oriu-san," Chōdayū pleaded in a strained voice. "He'll really do it—do something, Oriu-san! I beg you!"

Nakajirou released his grip and stood up, and Chōdayū sprang to his feet. Rokusuke let his opponent rise to his feet, then swiftly swept his legs out from under him, pressed down on him as he lurched forward, climbed onto his back, and twisted his right arm behind him. “Oriu-san!” Chōdayū shouted. “Alright, you ready, Chō character?” Rokusuke pressed his left hand against the base of the twisted arm and steadily tightened his right grip. “I did the same to Naka-san’s arm—like this.”

Chōdayū let out a scream—“K—!” “That’s enough,” Oriu said. “You’ve done enough to satisfy yourselves. Now let him go.” “Stopping us now?” Rokusuke raised his face. “Here’s what was promised,” said Oriu as she placed two paper-wrapped bundles there. “Use this to help your master establish himself. One portion’s for Mr. Roku.” “Hear that?” Still twisting the arm, Rokusuke said, “Since the young mistress says so, I’ll let you off here—now apologize proper to Naka-san.”

Rokusuke released his grip and stood up. Chōdayū remained prostrate, panting heavily as he lay stretched out; Nakajirou apologized to Oriu for his rudeness while Rokusuke accepted the paper bundle. "Hey! Aren't you gonna apologize to Naka-san?" Rokusuke barked, as Oriu intervened to calm the situation. Though Nakajirou refused to take the money, pressured by Rokusuke's insistence, the two men soon departed. "It's all right now, Master," Oriu said softly, "They won't come back anymore. Come—let's get up and start drinking anew."

Chōdayū let out a groan.

Oriu gazed at him. Chōdayū clutched his head with both hands, turned his face to the side, and groaned, "That scoundrel!" "That bastard'd sell out to anyone for coin," he said. "My mistake was trusting such trash. I must've lost my mind." "A demon made you do it—what does it matter?" "You don't get it—there's layers to this," he said. "But after tonight's mess, even if I laid it all out, you'd never buy it. Now I can't even see you anymore."

“Oh, why? It’s nothing to me,” said Oriu. “That’s exactly why I arranged the money for those men—otherwise they would’ve run off.” “Money—” He held his breath, then said as if weighing his words, “Did you just give those men the money?” “But Master, you did promise fifty ryō, didn’t you?”

Chōdayū startled, then suddenly sat up. The edge of his left eye was swollen, both cheeks reddened and puffed. He looked at Oriu with anxious, restless eyes. "Who told you that?"

Oriu suppressed a knowing smile. She touched the sake flask in the warming pot, said, “This one’s still not warm enough,” and took the one that had been placed on the tray. “It’s cooled a bit too much, but please bear with it until the next one is ready.”

“You… them…” he stammered.

“Come over here.” “If you have a drink, your mood will lift,” Oriu coaxed in a sweet tone. Chōdayū came to sit by the tray. “I’ll handle it here,” he said, opening the soup bowl. Growing impatient with Oriu’s pouring, he gulped down the sake, reached for the cold flask, and launched into incessant chatter. He seemed to be trying to cleverly justify his dealings with Nakajirou. But then, as if suddenly remembering, he asked Oriu suspiciously: “How do you know about the fifty ryō?” “What does it matter?” Oriu deflected. “It’s all in the past—you should forget it.”

“But I can’t let this end here.” He said while pressing his swollen eye, “The money matter was strictly between me and Roku—no one else should’ve known.” “You’re so fixated on this…” Oriu smiled. “Stop toying with me—where did you hear this? From whom?” “Sakichi,” Oriu replied slowly, “who used to work at Masuya in Nakamura-za as a stagehand. Now you see.” “Sakichi—you know him?”

“When I went to see plays at Nakamura-za, Sakichi was in charge,” Oriu answered. “I’ve grown bored these past two years and haven’t peeked into any theaters. But about half a month ago, I met Sakichi on the street and we ended up talking about you, Master.”

“Where did you meet?” “At that time, regarding Master Nakajirou,” Oriu pressed on undeterred: “I heard you were being threatened by Roku—I didn’t know whether it was true or false, though I suspected it was likely false—but I was worried about you, Master. I thought it would be best if Nakajirou could establish himself in some small trade, so I decided to arrange the money for both Roku’s share and his.” Chōdayū swallowed hard. “Then,” he asked haltingly, “the matter concerning Musashiya’s mistress—did that also come from Sakichi?”

“Yes.” Oriu nodded. “It gave me chills when I heard.” “What do you mean, ‘chills’?” “The master of Musashiya, they say, died a resentful death while vomiting blood.” Oriu shuddered. “They say that daughter named Oshino also died consumed by resentment upon resentment.”

Nine "The daughter Oshino," Chōdayū shot back, "I don't know any such person." "I don't know her either," said Oriu. "I only heard this from Sakichi—they say that Oshino-san kept vowing she'd kill every last man who'd done wicked things with her mother."

“But now I’ve heard that that daughter is dead.”

“She died in a fire along with her parents, they say,” Oriu said. “—But human resolve can be terrifying—you’d do well to be careful too, Master.” “Such...childish threats—” he stammered, pouring the soup bowl full of sake again and draining it in one gulp. Suddenly appearing drunk, he laughed carelessly. “This isn’t a joke—if a wife strays, it’s because her husband lacked the backbone to keep her. And that daughter? If she’s going to resent anyone, she should resent her mother. If I got killed every time something like that happened, I wouldn’t have enough lives to spare—would I?”

“I’d love to make her hear that, wouldn’t I?” Oriu’s eyes gleamed strangely. “If she heard that, how bitterly Oshino-san would resent it in the afterlife.” “Once you’re nothing but bones, you can’t even grind your teeth.”

Oriu abruptly stood up. By some invisible force, in a motion as if being hoisted upward from above, Chōdayū was startled.

“What’s wrong? All of a sudden?”

“I’ll have some too,” Oriu said, removing her work coat. “I’ll take this off and come back—wait for me.”

Oriu slid open the sliding door to the next room, tossed her work coat aside, and immediately returned. When she opened the door, she saw a six-tatami room with a folding screen erected and bedding laid out. At the sight of the gaudy bedding and standing screen, Chōdayū flushed crimson, suddenly rose to his feet, and embraced Oriu as she tried to sit down. "Oh, how dangerous!" Oriu staggered and clung to Chōdayū. "What are you doing, Master?"

“Wait.” His tongue turned stiff and knotted. “Let’s rest—I beg you, Oriu-san. Tormenting me further would be sinful.” “Wait.” Oriu trembled. “Wait, please.” She turned deathly pale, her whole body radiating revulsion—yet her quivering hands kept clutching Chōdayū. “Father,” she whispered through chattering teeth, “lend me strength...”

Chōdayū didn’t seem to have heard it. Even had he heard, he likely wouldn’t have understood its meaning; clutching Oriu, he staggered into the adjoining room and shut the sliding door behind him with his free hand. About half an hour later—in the downstairs sitting room—Oriu changed her clothes. With the maid’s assistance, she hastily retied her hair. Midway through this process, she was suddenly seized by nausea and rushed to the privy to vomit. The abruptness left the maid gaping in astonishment, but Oriu said, “It seems I drank too poorly.”

“Your companion,” the maid asked, “shall I call your companion?” “No, he’s passed out drunk and asleep.” Oriu shook her head. “It might be a bother, but please let him sleep undisturbed until he wakes up.” “It’s no trouble at all,” The maid said hurriedly, “—But you—are you certain you’ll be all right alone?”

“I’ll hail a palanquin, so I’ll be fine.” Oriu gave the maid a paper-wrapped item. “This is for you—thank you for your care.”

And then she left the sitting room.

It was discovered past ten o'clock at night that Chōdayū was dead. He had been stabbed through the heart with a silver flat hairpin left embedded in place, with a single camellia petal fallen by his pillow.—Since no camellias were displayed in that room, it must have come from elsewhere. That crimson petal, as though hinting at some unspoken truth, left people with an eerie impression.

“She did it,” the maid in charge said fearfully. “That’s why she was vomiting. Oh, how awful.” “Could it be a failed love suicide?” said another maid. “She seemed so quiet—she might’ve thrown herself into the Ōkawa River by now.”

Chōdayū’s identity was soon uncovered, but the girl named Oriu—neither her background nor her whereabouts could be ascertained.

Part Three

1

“It’s done,” Umino Tokuseki said. “Get up and straighten your clothes.” The woman lay supine on the examination futon, hiding her breasts with the collar of her kosode while remaining oblivious to her exposed lower body, breathing quietly and deeply as if thoroughly satisfied. “Come now, you’ll catch cold.” After wiping his hands, Tokuseki drew the spread-out hems of the kosode over her. The woman sighed ecstatically, opening her eyes narrowly to look at him.

“Does it feel lighter now?” Tokuseki asked.

The woman nodded with her eyes. "Much better, thanks to you." "If it hurts, come again," Tokuseki said. "I must go visit a patient’s house—I’ll have someone bring the medicine now."

Tokuseki left the woman behind and exited the sitting room. When he peeked into the pharmacy room across the central corridor, his wife Okuni was grinding medicine. She was thirty-five, three years his junior, but no one would have taken her for under forty. Her sparse hair made the topknot small; with bloodless dry skin, a flat chest, and hips that looked as though the flesh had been scraped away—her entire body appeared withered and shrunken. Her face alone was angular and large; with sharp cheekbones and eyes that, though sunken, seemed to bulge outward, it displayed a ruggedness so incongruous with her frail physique that it demonstrated tenacity and vigor.

“I’ve finished treating Nodaya,” Tokuseki said to his wife. “Is the medicine ready?” Okuni remained silent and jerked her chin toward the side. “Take that and collect the medicine fee,” Tokuseki said. “Today’s fee is the ‘B’ category.” Okuni stopped her hands and looked at her husband. Tokuseki closed the sliding door, went into the kitchen, and meticulously washed his hands. As if some filthy thing were clinging to them, he washed clean even between his nails, then took a hand towel and, wiping them meticulously while doing so, entered the inner living room.

"October 21st—today, huh?" He muttered this while hanging the hand towel on the clothes rack in the corner of the room, went to the window, and opened the shoji screen. "—Seven and a half at Yoshidaya on Ukiyo Alley... Plenty of time left." Outside the window lay the Thirty-Three Ken Canal. This being Kyōbashi Mizutani-chō, the window offered a full view along the canal's length. Likely at ebb tide, the lowered water surface mirrored the winter afternoon sky's steely blue and faint white clouds. Tokuseki narrowed his eyes, surveying the rows of houses along both banks before lifting his gaze to the clouds above.

“I’ll settle it today,” he muttered under his breath. “Even if I have to use force, I’ll settle it today.” Tokuseki formed a lump in his right cheek with his tongue, then quietly stroked it with two fingers. His lips—red and plump like a young girl’s, glistening with moisture—twisted as a greedy, glinting grease surfaced in his clear, unwavering eyes. The two fingers of his right hand kept kneading the cheek lump pressed by his tongue—pushing down, stroking upward, smoothing downward—their motions persisting with skillful tenacity as though divorced from his will.

“Oh—” He listened carefully. “That’s the fire bell—a midday fire.” When he counted, there had been one and a half tolls. “Too far,” he muttered while closing the window. “There’s no wind either—this one’ll go out soon enough. How pointless,” he muttered to himself, opening the chest of drawers and taking out clothes. Having finished taking everything out, as he was about to change, Okuni roughly slid open the shoji screen and entered. Her angular face wore an expression of poisonous contempt and disgust, while her bulging eyes gleamed with jealousy and mockery.

“You used that trick again.” Okuni spoke moving only the corner of her lips: “Disgusting. You used that trick again.” “What would you know? Don’t interfere with my work.” “Your fee.” Okuni threw the paper-wrapped bundle at her husband’s feet. “Acting filthier than gutter scum—how can a man stoop to taking money like this?” Tokuseki’s well-tended mustache twitched to one side. Yet this stemmed not from anger, but resembled the defiant expression of a drunkard who had sunk into mud and now sat entrenched.

“It’s with that money you’ve sheltered yourself from rain and dew,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ve eaten what there was to eat, worn what there was to wear, lived without being battered by wind and rain—all thanks to that.” “You saying I oughta be grateful?” Okuni snorted through her nose. “Hmph! I’d sooner starve than live off such filthy money.” “Then why don’t you?” He kept changing clothes as he spoke. “I ain’t gonna stop you.”

“You should think carefully before saying such things. If you carelessly put on airs, you won’t be able to back down later.” Tokuseki looked at his wife.

“What did you say?” His eyes narrowed sharply.

“It’s nothing… for now.” “For nine years since I became yours,” Okuni said slowly, “I’ve ground medicines in the mortar, handled customers, managed kitchen work—serving as both assistant and maid alone until I could vomit from exhaustion. I endured it all believing we’d someday become true husband and wife—that I’d bear children, become Umino Tokuseki’s proper spouse, and hold my head high in society. But these past months made me finally see your true heart—you never meant to truly wed me from the beginning.”

Tokuseki made a face that said “How dull,” then tightened his obi, took the paper package at his feet, checked its contents, and slipped it into his sleeve. “To be worked to the bone for over nine years, worn down in body and soul, then cast aside when I’ve aged beyond use—you must think I’m a complete fool.” “That’s right—I’m a fool,” Okuni continued. “A complete fool to think I could ever find happiness by the side of a doctor like you who does such filthy things.”

“The pathetic thing about humans,” he sneered, “is realizing later that they’ve done something foolish. Beasts never realize such things.” “Are you saying I’m no better than a beast?” Tokuseki turned around and looked at his wife. On his handsome, mustached face—which was rather feminine—a cruel, inhuman expression appeared. Okuni reflexively raised one arm, trying to protect herself with it. For until now, whenever such an expression had appeared on his face, a slap or fist had invariably come flying. But Tokuseki did not strike now. With an ice-like gaze, he looked over his wife’s entire body, then quietly put on his haori coat.

“If you don’t want to be cast out, stay meek as you are now,” he said. “Thinking yourself a proper person will only bring you sorrow.” “You said you wouldn’t stop me from dying.” “I’m going out. Bring my footwear.” “I can’t take it anymore. I’m sick of this,” Okuni said, stepping aside with a bitter expression. “I can’t go back to my parents’ home now, and there’s nowhere else for me to turn. If this miserable life in the shadows is all that’s left, I’d rather just die.”

“I said bring out my footwear!” “I’ll die then!” Okuni said venomously. “But I won’t die just like this—not until I’ve reported you and exposed everything.” Tokuseki froze. “There’s no one who knows you like I do—right?” Moving along the wall with ragged breaths, Okuni continued: “You were Dr. Sekijun’s front-door attendant while I worked as a maid in back. Then you seduced Musashiya’s mistress—that wholesale pharmacy mistress in Honishi-cho! I knew all along! Even while still an attendant—when Dr. Sekijun and his assistant were away—you treated gynecological patients with that vile, filthy method of yours—didn’t you?”

Tokuseki tried to step forward, but Okuni swiftly slipped out through the open fusuma door.

“After seducing Musashiya’s mistress and extracting money through some scheme, you left Dr. Sekijun’s estate to build this house in Mizutanicho—Umino Tokuseki! When you hung out your Honmachi Gynecology sign, that license wasn’t properly obtained but secured entirely through Musashiya’s financial pull, wasn’t it?” Okuni bared her teeth in the corridor. “You brought me along because you realized I knew all about your filthy treatments and sordid relations with female patients—maybe even on that Musashiya Mistress’s advice! For over five years since, you never cut ties with her. Whenever your botched treatments nearly caused scandals, you’d always beg that Mistress for help—listen well, I know everything! The worst was Nakabashi’s Mistress of Manriya—after bewitching her with your usual tricks until she got pregnant, the poor woman hanged herself when she found out.”

“What do you hope to accomplish by reciting all that here?” Tokuseki interrupted softly, “That’s something you’ll babble about when taking it to the authorities.” “Do you imagine I won’t speak out?” “Consider carefully before babbling,” he said. “Whether officials will heed every jealous accusation from a woman with blood rushing to her head—a fool like you couldn’t grasp this, but the world’s workings turn two-and-one into seven or three or nine. Here I stand as Dr. Tokuseki, attending households of hatamoto retainers and gokenin samurai. Remember this well.”

II

Tokuseki went outside, walked to Kyōbashi, hailed a palanquin, and said, “To Eitai,” as he boarded. “There’s such a thing as a mantis’s axe,” he muttered inside the palanquin. “She was a woman who never made a sound no matter how you stepped on or kicked her—hmph. If she learns the truth, she’ll surely cause another commotion.”

After alighting from the palanquin at the foot of Eitai Bridge, Tokuseki went along the riverside road to the right. That place was called Ōkawabata-chō, where aside from boat inns and fishing tackle shops, fishermen’s houses stood densely packed along the waterway, with mooring posts forming an orderly row on one side of the canal. The fishermen must have been out at sea—only a handful of boats remained tied up, while groups of children played on the bleached, dry path along the embankment. At the far corner of the town facing Ōkawa stood a restaurant-teahouse named "Kaiiseki," its stylish hanging lantern marking the entrance. Though boasting an imposing gate structure, the property felt cramped—one could step directly from the gate into the entrance hall, with barely three feet separating the plank fence from the main building. The establishment contained merely three small rooms downstairs and two upstairs—an eight-mat room and a six-mat room—yet its front eight-mat room overlooked the Ōkawa River. From its veranda stretched a view of the broad river mouth, Tsukuda Island lying close at hand, and beyond it the sea reaching toward Shinagawa Bay. Kaiiseki built its reputation on this panorama and its fresh seafood cuisine. Though operating less than two years, it had already prospered considerably and cultivated a devoted clientele.

When Tokuseki entered, a young woman came out and, looking startled, rushed to the back. Then, sliding open the inner shoji, Okane emerged. Tokuseki noticed the woman’s face had turned red. “Welcome back,” Okane said with a smile. “I was just keeping Lord Fujii company. Please go upstairs.” “Who is Fujii?” “Oh, come now!” Okane pretended to strike him and lowered her voice. “Lord Fujii Shingorō of Lord Kuze Izumo’s lower residence—you know him, don’t you?”

“Is he drinking in the inner room?” “Let’s go upstairs.” Okane skillfully steered him toward the stairs. “Last night he went to Nakano—Shin-Yoshiwara—with a friend, and they had a fight when parting this morning. Now he wants to drink again and demanded I keep him company.” “You haven’t forgotten about business, have you?” When they reached the top of the stairs, he turned to face the woman and said, “This is a restaurant-teahouse. Customers should be shown to the tatami rooms. If they want entertainment, have them call geisha or party jesters. Even if you personally entertain them in the inner room, it won’t benefit the business.”

“What nonsense about geisha and jesters! Lord Fujii has quite the tab running up,” Okane said, plucking something from his collar. “That’s why today too, we’re serving him tsukudani preserves and pickles exactly as requested, with cooled-down heated sake. He was already drunk when he arrived—it’s not like he’d notice whatever we made him drink anyway.”

Then she looked toward Ōkawa and said, “My, what a lovely color the water is,” before entering the tatami room. Tokiwa stroked his mustache with the back of his finger while settling onto the zabuton cushion Okane had provided, placing the deerskin handbag beside him. Okane pulled the brazier closer and, saying she would bring fire now, started to leave. “Reheated sake?” Tokiwa muttered. “Huh? Did you say something?” “I said ‘reheated sake?’” He reached for the edge of the brazier without fire. “Well, fine. I’ll take the fire.”

While saying “I’m back,” Okane turned aside and made a grimace. “Don’t get angry. In this world, the one who gets angry loses.” After Okane left, he twisted his mouth and muttered: “Fujii’s her old acquaintance—they must have been involved since her days as a maid at Manseirō. Does she think I’m blind to something that obvious?” Tokiwa took the handbag, untied its cord, and pulled out a writing set and a small ledger from within. At that moment, a young maid named Ohatsu came up carrying a charcoal container and shovel. She bowed with a “Welcome back,” then began transferring fire to the brazier. Tokiwa sullenly commanded her to tell the mistress to come for account settlement when she went downstairs. Ohatsu acknowledged and left. Next, someone brought tea, but there was no sign of Okane coming. The month-end, eleventh, and twenty-first were account settlement days—he had to make rounds to Hiramatsu-chō as well, and he had an appointment at Yoshidaya at five o’clock. “What are you playing at?” he clicked his tongue, restraining himself from anger as he clapped his hands.

It was Ohatsu who came up. "What’s become of the mistress?" he said calmly. "Didn’t I tell you we were to settle accounts?" "Yes."

Ohatsu’s round cheeks flushed crimson. “I did tell her, but the mistress is... occupied at the moment. She asks you to wait a little longer.” “I’m in a hurry,” he said. “Since I have other business to attend to, tell her to come immediately—once more.” Ohatsu went downstairs, and after a little over a quarter-hour had passed, Okane finally came up. She appeared thoroughly drunk—her eyes bloodshot to the core, hair roots loosened, kimono slipping forward in disarray. Staggering into the room, she stepped on her trailing hem and nearly fell.

“I’m sorry—they made me drink, you know.” Okane slumped down beside the brazier and blew irritably at the strands of hair falling across her face. “Oh my, she hasn’t brought anything at all—what a hopeless girl Ohatsu is.” “Today is the twenty-first,” he cut in. “I came to settle accounts. You should know today’s the day for account settlements.”

“Oh, that’s a lie!” Okane glared. “Today’s the twentieth, isn’t it? The twenty-first is tomorrow.” “Today is the twenty-first.” “It’s the twentieth.” Tokiwa pulled a brush from his writing set and opened the inkwell. “Enough—bring me the ledger and cashbox.”

“How can I manage when you spring this on me now? I've been swamped here these past two or three days—the ledger's been the last thing on my mind. Oh yes, now that you're here—I was meaning to ask a favor of you.” Okane twisted her body with affected grace. “The sake merchants keep hounding me about their mounting tabs—be a dear and arrange just three ryō for me, won't you?”

Tokiwa stared fixedly at the woman's face. "I came to settle accounts and collect money—I even left three ryō and two bu remaining from the eleventh's settlement. What do you mean asking to borrow three ryō?" "Didn't I just tell you? The sake merchant's been pestering us." "Which month's account?" "From two months back." Tokiwa coughed and stroked his mustache with his knuckle. "You're drunk senseless. That sake merchant's Harimaya, isn't it? We've paid them properly every month—we've got the receipts to show for it."

“Oh, that’s a lie! I did tell you about that.” “What do you mean by ‘that matter’?” “Harimaya’s clerk did something bad—ran off with the money,” Okane said. “It’s been going on for over half a year now. The payments we made haven’t been recorded at their shop since the month before last. Didn’t I mention that?” “This is the first I’m hearing of it—but if that’s the case, it’s none of our concern. We’ve paid what we owed and have the receipts in order.”

Okane waved her hand to cut him off. “Those receipts are worthless—the paper differs from Harimaya’s official stock, and the seals don’t match either.” That clerk Toyoji had apparently commissioned counterfeit paper from some printer and stamped it with fabricated seals; our failure to detect this had been an inexcusable oversight. Harimaya’s owner was said to have declared they’d extract payment through legal channels if necessary. “Then let’s settle this in court,” he said. “Harimaya bears responsibility for employing such a man—preposterous! No judge would entertain that absurd logic. Now—exactly how large is this supposed debt?”

“It’s nothing serious.” Okane puffed at a stray hair dangling before her nose. “I believe it was exactly twelve ryō and a bit more, wasn’t it?” “Twelve ryō—” Tokiwa inhaled. “You say we should take it to the authorities, but if you really intend to do that, please handle it yourself—I want no part in legal disputes.” “You’re telling me to handle it?” He stuttered slightly, “But this shop’s registered under your name—I can’t be the one appearing publicly for official matters.”

“How should I know that?” Okane snorted derisively. “Even if it’s registered in my name, I’m treated like some maid who hardly gets paid—and on top of that, my body gets played with like a toy. Honestly, I’m fed up with my own foolishness.” “You’re drunk out of your mind.” “So what if I am?”

Today was a strange day, Tokiwa thought. No sooner had Okuni made some odd remark than here came Okane stirring up trouble again—if he wasn’t careful, there was no telling what might happen. Having reached this conclusion, Tokiwa softened his voice. “Think carefully,” he said. “When you were at Banseirou, I saw your potential—that you could competently manage a restaurant-teahouse and wouldn’t shame me as a wife. It was precisely that judgment which—”

“Oh, enough already!” Okane waved her hand again. “I’m sick of hearing that.”

III “I’ve been tricked by those promissory notes and used however you wanted until now—from managing this bothersome shop to serving as your mistress—and all I’ve gotten are four or five kimonos and two obi sashes. Then when push comes to shove, you’d just throw me out!” Okane belched shamelessly. “Even working as a tavern maid would’ve earned me more—how ridiculous.” “We’ll discuss that later.” Tokiwa replied with strained patience, “When the time comes, this shop will be yours, and I’ll certainly leave my current wife. I’ll live with you here and commute to Mizutanichō.”

“I’ll go downstairs—the customers are waiting. Oh, and how will you handle the three ryō for the sake merchant?” “I don’t have that money.” “Are you really fine with the restaurant being cut off from sake?” “There are plenty of other sake merchants.” “Fine. Then please find us a new sake merchant.” Okane stood up. “I’m just an employee here—I won’t get involved in such matters.”

“You call yourself ‘just an employee’?” “Perhaps it’s best we settle this now,” Okane said, remaining standing. “You’ll pay me all my wages from when this shop opened until today—both for my work as a maid and the use of my body. We’ll discuss what comes next after that’s done. Understood?” Tokiwa spat “You—” and tried to rise. At that moment, footsteps pounded up the stairs as a man bellowed “Where’s Okane?” Reaching the top, Okane slid open the shoji screen and called back, “I’m right here!” The man swayed toward them and peered into the room from the hallway. He looked thirty-one or thirty-two—his frayed kimono missing its waist sash, his gaunt frame and swarthy face marked by a razor-sharp glare that suggested not a samurai, but a rootless drifter. Though unrecognized by the newcomer, Tokiwa had seen this man before—two or three times at Banseirō. Fujii Shingorō: retainer to Lord Kuse Izumonokami stationed at the Kita-Shinbori annex across the moat. Notorious at Banseirō for drunken antics, yet rumored among the maids to be the object of Okane’s desperate affections.

“How long are you going to keep messing around here?” Fujii Shingorō said to Okane while glaring at Tokiwa. “Leaving customers unattended to flirt up here is unacceptable. Quit dawdling and go downstairs to tend to them properly.” “I’d like to go,” Okane replied, “but this person keeps complaining.” “Complaints!” Fujii snapped. “What’s with that man—does he think he’s the only customer here?” “No, he’s not a customer,” Okane said. “He’s the master of this house.”

“So this is your master?” Fujii staggered from side to side, narrowed his eyes, and licked his lips. His sharp eyes glared fiercely, his cheek muscles twitching. “So this is that greedy doctor? The one who runs a teahouse while practicing medicine and skims off all the profits—what a shameless bastard.” “Okane, go downstairs—” “Go downstairs and keep him company,” Tokiwa said with a meaningful glance. “I’ll be leaving now for today.”

“What about my share?” “We’ll discuss that next time.” “What about the money for Harimaya?” “I’ll come tomorrow or so and handle it then.” “Hey, greedy doctor!” he said. “If you’re hiding shady dealings like this, you must be skimming profits from your real job too—killing dozens of patients with misdiagnoses while raking in cash, then using that money to run daily loansharking, ain’t ya?”

“How harsh of you,” Tokiwa said lightly, deflecting the remark as he tucked the account books and writing set into his handbag. “Okane, why not move the gentleman’s seat over here? I’ll be taking my leave now.”

“Looks like you’ve got something to hide, running away like that,” Fujii jeered. “Growing a damn mustache—what a ridiculous bastard.” “Now, now,” Okane said, grabbing Fujii’s hand. “What will you do? Will you have a drink here?” Tokiwa swiftly exited into the hallway. “A weasel-like bastard,” Fujii Shingorō called after him as he hurried down the stairs. “Women are all the same.” When he stepped outside, he muttered sorrowfully, shook his head, then laughed cunningly. “Fine then—if that’s how you want to play it, all the better. I’ll cast out both Oku and Okane. Think you can handle being thrown out naked? Since that naive one knows nothing… over here I have Omino.”

Tokiwa jolted to a halt. "Right—there's no time to make rounds to Hiramatsuchō now. The Hiramatsuchō accounts require too much effort. A bit early, but I'll carry on as planned."

"I'll have a drink before Omino arrives and fix this unpleasant mood," he thought, hailing a palanquin. Even in Nihonbashi's Ukiyo Alley—as that neighborhood was known—Yoshidaya stood out as an unconventional teahouse. Its facade showed lattice doors and fire buckets stacked according to regulations, but without hanging lanterns or shop curtains, making it indistinguishable from an ordinary residence to unfamiliar eyes. Though built entirely in commoner-style utilitarian construction, the interior proved surprisingly spacious, containing five rooms on the lower floor and six above in its full two-story layout.

Tokiwa arrived at Yoshidaya just before four o'clock—Omino had not yet appeared—and began drinking in the downstairs four-and-a-half tatami room. The establishment bustled with activity that day; both upstairs and down, the voices of multiple groups engaged in lively conversation mingled with shamisen music. "There should be a reservation under Omino—is the room prepared?" "Yes, I'm aware," replied the middle-aged maid serving him. "The room has been properly arranged, and the current guests will likely depart before dark."

“Pour me a cup.” He extended his sake cup to the maid. “What’s your name?” “Otoki. Your continued patronage would be appreciated.” The maid took a ceremonial sip from the cup, murmured that she would return shortly, and departed with businesslike efficiency.

Okane—that woman—might’ve been instigated by Fujii, he thought as he poured himself another drink. The liquor store story didn’t add up either—trying to pin their clerk’s embezzlement of twelve ryō on me. Even if the receipt was forged, where was the logic in making that my responsibility? They were colluding—maybe even with the liquor store people too, he thought. “You think I’d fall for such a naive scheme?” He snorted through his nose. “Just watch—I’ll strip off that disguise of yours clean. Don’t go crying when I do.”

"Enough," he shook his head. "Stop thinking such foolish things," he chided himself inwardly. Wasn't today meant for claiming Omino? Those trivial matters needed blasting clear from his mind. Yet immediately he wondered—why had both Okuni and Okane turned on him simultaneously? Until now, they'd both been docile. Certainly they must have harbored complaints, but never before had they confronted him so directly. And wasn't it strange their attitudes shifted on the very same day, as if conspiring? This thought made him rap his forehead with a knuckle.

"Forget it—just forget about that," he clicked his tongue at himself. "How can you seduce Omino with that mindset? Don't think about anything else—this is the critical moment that'll change your entire life." He clapped his hands when the sake ran out. A reply echoed from down the hallway, footsteps drew near, and the sliding door opened. Tokiwa stared sharply at the girl who entered. "Miss Omino," he said, straightening his posture. The girl addressed as Omino smiled sweetly at Tokiwa, wordlessly glided closer, then circled behind him to lay both sleeves across his shoulders and softly embrace him from behind.

“You didn’t wait for me?” Omino murmured in a honeyed whisper. “How detestable you are, Doctor.” She bit Tokiwa’s left earlobe. Tokiwa twisted his torso to pull her into an embrace, but Omino—laughing deep in her throat—skillfully slipped free of his grasp and settled herself primly beside the charcoal brazier.

“It’s not that I didn’t wait,” he said, offering Omino the cup. “I grew tired of waiting and took a sip—though I suppose it’s just sake.” “I’m here now,” Omino said, extending a hand. “No, not the cup—show me what you promised the other day.” “The promised item—” “You promised to bring all the loan documents to show me, didn’t you?” “Oh, right.”

The maid Otoki brought sake and asked, “Will you be moving upstairs?” Omino shook her head, saying they would move a bit later, and the maid left. “I’ve been swamped today,” Tokiwa said while holding the heated sake decanter. “I didn’t have time to stop by Hiramatsuchō. I’ll definitely—definitely bring them next time. Now have a drink.” “No.” Omino shook her upper body in refusal and glared at him. “I won’t take anything unless you keep your promise.”

"I’ll definitely bring them next time—definitely. I swear I’ll keep my promise, so just accept one drink for now."

Four "But you're such a mysterious woman," Tokiwa said, licking his mustache with alcohol-loosened lips. "You know about my dealings with Musashiya's mistress, everything from the Umiiwa affair to Toyoshima-ya in Hiramatsu-chō—even that I run a moneylending operation there. Honestly—it feels like you've got me by the scruff of the neck." "Of course I do." Omino poured her sake into the rinsing bowl and handed him the empty cup. "When it's someone I mean to spend my life with, any woman would want to know everything—especially a man like you, Doctor, so popular with women."

“It’s those eyes,” he said. “With those killer lines and that look of yours, you always render me powerless, Miss Omino.” Tokiwa extended his left hand while still holding the cup. Omino gently evaded his touch, glared with a “No,” and shook her head.

“You’re cruel,” he said resentfully. “You get me all worked up like this, then slip away every time it matters—you’ve dug up every root and leaf about me while keeping your own affairs sealed tight. You won’t even tell me where you live—what exactly are you playing at? Just toying with me?” “Shall I tell you the truth?” Omino smiled, casting a sidelong glance at him. “I came today prepared for whatever might happen—I even had them ready the upstairs room for that very purpose.”

“If that’s true…” “No, you can’t.” Omino shook her head again. “You didn’t keep your promise, did you? We made such a firm vow—yet if you won’t honor it, then I too must reconsider. For a woman, this concerns her entire life—no, that’s not it, Doctor.” “You’re a strange one.” Tokiwa poured his own drink. “I don’t get it—a woman your age interested in moneylending? Never heard of such a thing.”

“I just want to know everything about you, Doctor—that’s all there is to it.” “Then once we’re together, you can look your fill until you’re sick of seeing it.” He poured himself another drink. “I don’t see why we need to look at such mood-killing things at a time like this.” “Oh, but I do love money.” Omino poured him a drink and said, “Even meeting you like this is only possible because I have money at my disposal. You’re a doctor, yet you run a restaurant-teahouse, an inn, and even moneylending operations—I think our natures align perfectly. And if I could be with you, I intend to take charge of managing Toyoshima-ya for you.”

“So that’s why you want to see the promissory notes?”

“All of them, every last one,” said Omino. “That way I’ll fully understand you, Doctor, and I’ll know you truly trust me.” Tokiwa looked at Omino’s cup on the dining tray and realized she hadn’t taken a single sip. If he offered her a cup, she would accept it only to pour all the sake into the rinsing bowl. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be the one crushed, he thought.

“Very well, I understand,” he said, stroking his mustache with the back of his finger and straightening his posture to prove he wasn’t drunk. “I understand completely. If you’re truly serious about this, I’ll definitely bring them for you to see next time without fail.”

And suddenly, with a staggering motion, he grabbed Omino’s hand. Omino did not refuse. While her hand remained gripped, she arched her back—frowning as she said “That hurts”—and stood up.

“Miss Omino.” He straightened up abruptly. “Not here,” Omino whispered. “I’ll go upstairs.” “It’s true then.” Omino smiled with her eyes. “If you tell the maid that, have her come here.” “You’re not thinking of running away again, are you?”

Omino smiled, gently released her captured hand, and with a leisurely gait stepped out into the hallway. "Did she get away again?" He muttered to himself while clutching the heated sake decanter, "No—that can't be. Today feels different from usual. No matter what—today's surely when—"

The heated sake decanter had no sake. Tokiwa set it down, clapped his hands roughly, and when no reply came, clapped again. But with that motion, his seated body lurched sideways, and he thrust out his left hand to keep from falling. "Hey, this is a battlefield." He told himself, "Steady on, Tokiwa. This is Sekigahara here—the first battle's about to begin. Steady on." A young maid brought sake, and after a short while, Otoki came. Tokiwa was drinking by himself, but when Otoki tried to sit down, he waved his hand.

“No need to say it—I know,” he said while waving his hand. “The upstairs room’s prepared—I know.” “Are you going upstairs?” “Going upstairs? — Didn’t you come to fetch me there?” Otoki held the heated sake decanter, covering her mouth as she laughed and poured a drink. “My apologies—your companion has already left.”

Tokiwa’s hand, holding the cup that had been poured for him, stopped moving. “You shouldn’t do that,” Otoki said. “It’s a sin to seduce such a young, beautiful lady, Doctor.” “Even if she left—did she really leave?” “Since you didn’t keep your promise,” Otoki said as she took Omino’s cup, drank the cooled sake, and held it out to him. “Won’t you have one.”

Tokiwa drank his own sake and poured Otoki a drink. "If you break your promise when next notified," Otoki said, "she told me to inform you she'll have nothing more to do with you ever again."

“Got me good,” he said. “Look at this disgrace—what a fine mess.”

“She’s so young and beautiful, yet remarkably composed,” Otoki said while offering him a cup. “When she first came here yesterday with what looked like a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old maid in tow, she stated clearly herself—‘I want a quiet upstairs room, and prepare it for resting after drinking.’ Even old women like us would hesitate to say such things outright—we all exchanged glances afterward.”

“Got me good,” he gulped the sake from his cup, “No moves left to make—is this place one of her regular haunts?”

“No, as I just said, yesterday was her first time here.” “Let’s make it a large one.” He removed the lid of the soup bowl. “Today’s the day I’ll get good and drunk.” “Shall I call someone?” “I did call you Otoki.” He handed the cup to Otoki. “If you’re fond of it, I’ll have you keep me company if you like.” “That young lady will scold you.” “She’s a demonic creature.”

Tokiwa was more drunk than he himself realized. The sake he had started drinking with the resolve to make Omino his today had instead robbed him of his strength. If he hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t have let her escape—he would have certainly made her his. When he thought that, he grew irritated at both Omino and himself, and under the influence of alcohol, became talkative. “That girl is a demonic being,” he said. “I first met her six months ago—since it’s October now, that would be May. She came for a consultation accompanied by a maid—I practice medicine in Kyōbashi, you see.”

“If I take a look at that head of yours, I’ll understand.”

“Pour.” He held out the bowl lid. “She said her chest hurt and wanted me to examine her—before I could say anything, she spun around and boldly stripped down to her underrobes. No—the beauty of it! I’ve seen my share of women’s skin, but never such exquisite breasts before.” Tokiwa narrated in an excited tone, gesturing animatedly as he described in detail—from what is vulgarly called “blind breasts” (small yet firm mounds with only pale birch-colored areolae lacking prominent nipples), to fine-grained skin smooth and bluish-white like refined silk, rounded petite shoulders, and a slender cinched waist.

“Here, around your mouth.” Otoki took out folded paper from her kimono sleeve and handed it to him. “You’re drooling.” “She wasn’t sick at all.” He accepted the paper and said, “There was nothing wrong with her anywhere, but since it’d be a shame to end things there, I told her we should monitor her condition.” When he instructed her to come for four or five days, she left a consultation fee and departed. When he opened it afterward, there were two ryō of gold inside—he gasped in astonishment. He had only learned her name was Mino and that she was eighteen; she hadn’t disclosed her address or family’s occupation. Assuming she must be from a wealthy household, he thought she might never return—but after a day’s interval, a messenger arrived from Kiyokawa restaurant in Kobiki-chō. It purported to express gratitude for his previous services. When he went there, Omino awaited him—a lavish three-tray feast accompanied by sake. Omino dismissed both junior maids and housekeepers, personally serving him while artfully stoking his desires. “Ah—she’s taken an interest in me,” he thought, but since she appeared to be a respectable daughter from a good family, he affected nonchalance at the time.

“From then until today—over half a year—we must have met twelve or thirteen times,” he said. “Each time she grows more alluring, acting like she’s about to yield any moment… but at the critical point she slips away—just slips away—”

Tokiwa demonstrated a gesture with his hand.

Five

She never spoke of her residence or family business. When they met, it was always Omino who sent word first; the locations were invariably first-class tea houses, and she never once let him pay the expenses—the total spent must have been close to fifty ryō. He became utterly infatuated. “With that porcelain beauty, money to burn, and an allure that says ‘touch me and I’ll fall’—any man would lose his head over this, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It feels like I’m being bewitched—isn’t this your doing after all?”

“If this is being bewitched,” he said while taking a sip of sake, “then I’d want to stay bewitched my whole life.”

The intoxication seemed to have reached the very core of his brain; after working himself into a terrible fervor and rambling incessantly, he collapsed in a drunken stupor. He had naturally assumed he'd passed out in that Yoshidaya room, but upon waking found himself in his own home in Mizutanichō with dawn fully broken—when and how he'd returned remained utterly lost to him, every memory after his collapse erased. By his pillow lay a lunchbox, handbag, wallet, tissues—all items unchanged from when he'd carried them out, the bag and wallet showing no signs of disturbance upon inspection.

"What a mysterious girl." Grimacing from the headache, he muttered under his breath, "She should be angry that I broke my promise—and yet she still paid the bill and even prepared a parting gift?"

Even a highly experienced woman of the world couldn’t do something like this. In the heavy haze of his hangover, he shivered with exhilaration. He was thirty-eight years old and had grown thoroughly accustomed to women, yet he honestly acknowledged that he was now trembling with delight. That day, there were few patients coming for treatment. After eating his breakfast near noon, Tokiwa announced he was going to visit a patient’s house and set out for Toyoshimaya in Hiramatsu-chō. Toyoshimaya was an inn managed by a man named Monoshichi. Having opened five years prior, it had only seven rooms, but thanks to its excellent clientele and thriving business, they were now in the process of expanding. However, the inn was not his only business—he also had Monoshichi engage in moneylending.

Just as Okuni, who cohabited in Mizutanichō, had done, Monoshichi had also been a servant at the home of Tokuda Ishiyuki, a gynecologist in orthodox practice. While training at the Tokuda household, Tokiwa had recognized Monoshichi’s capabilities, and when he purchased Toyoshimaya five years prior, he extracted him from the Tokuda family and entrusted him with its management. Just as he had anticipated, Monoshichi proved quite sharp; within less than two years, he recovered the initial investment. At this point, Tokiwa saw no sense letting capital sit idle. After consulting Monoshichi, he had him try daily repayment loans. These too generated steady profits at first, with total loans now exceeding 120 ryō. They still focused primarily on “daily repayment” loans, but given their proximity to the wholesale district, began offering thirty-day “term loans” last year.

“Luck has taken root in me.” On his way to Tairamatsu-chō, he muttered with satisfaction, “It’s uncanny how thoroughly luck has taken root.” His childhood home in Toshima District belonged to small-scale farmers. Called Matasuke and eldest of five siblings, he had clung to less than five tan of land, working himself raw while barely scraping together enough to eat—until he abandoned that life at thirteen to become an Edo apprentice. He first served at Shimousaya charcoal merchants in Shitaya Okachimachi, but after half a year took his leave and moved to Tokuda Ishiyuki’s household in Chōjamachi Nichōme. The Tokuda family being Shimousaya customers, Matasuke came to be noticed by Ishiyuki’s wife through his charcoal deliveries.

"My luck was brought by women from the very beginning." He now thought. Matasuke had put on a show of tears before Ishiyuki’s wife. Becoming a doctor was his lifelong wish; he wanted to become one no matter the hardships, he had said through tears. "I was born with a knack for grasping women’s hearts," Tokiwa muttered. "And not just their hearts—I understand the sensitive spots of their bodies in ways others can’t fathom." He became the gatekeeper at seventeen; though he had studied diligently until then, his formal studies hadn’t advanced much. While observing Ishiyuki and the substitute doctors at work, he gradually learned the nuances of examinations and administering medication. During his sneaked-out escapades, he would test these techniques practically on women in the Okabasho district—through repetition, he came to realize that most illnesses afflicting middle-aged women were not true diseases but rather blockages and stagnations of vital energy. He was able to forge his path there once again through the women. When Ishiyuki and the substitutes were away, he tested it on the gynecology patients. Then about three out of five clearly showed reactions and confirmed their discomfort had been alleviated.

――That treatment method was considered shameful. In gynecology, such examinations and treatment methods were said to be the most vile and shameful. He was unaware, but as more patients began specifically requesting him, Ishiyuki—likely having discerned the reason—admonished him about how disgraceful it was for a physician and forbade him from conducting examinations in his absence. However, as the Tokuda household was thriving and Ishiyuki and the substitute doctors were frequently absent, his conducting examinations naturally came to be tacitly permitted. Thus, before long, the wife of Musashiya appeared.

It seemed someone had heard about his treatment method and come driven by curiosity. Osono, that wife, became captivated by him from their very first meeting, and after visiting about five times, she began saying, “I’ll provide the money, so why don’t you start your own practice?” He had been in a precarious position at that time. One of his female patients had become pregnant with his child and, upon being discovered by her husband, committed suicide. During treatment he had momentarily committed an indiscretion—though there was no evidence identifying who it was—and the husband seemed to have suspected him.

“I was saved back then,” he murmured, shuddering slightly as if recalling the perilous situation he had been in. “If Musashiya’s Osono hadn’t appeared, I likely couldn’t have stayed at the Tokuda household either—by now I might’ve ended up a laborer or something.” When leaving the Tokuda household, bringing Okuni along had also been a good decision. Okuni had known his secret, but that had not been the reason for bringing her along. Since maintaining a household required someone to manage daily affairs—and given his “treatment method” was special—he naturally couldn’t employ substitute doctors; it was better to have someone who understood the circumstances. Okuni not only met these conditions but could also be easily expelled if necessary.

“Once I’ve built up my assets properly,” he resolved inwardly, “I’ll take a wife from a respectable family.” He had always considered Okuni merely a stopgap until that day arrived. Then Omino appeared—as though tailor-made for his ambitions. “Women always bring me fortune,” he muttered under his breath while walking through Tairamatsu-chō’s streets near Toyoshimaya Inn. “This time I’ll secure my position properly—she spends lavishly when we meet yet claims she loves money too... Even her curiosity about loan documents suggests our temperaments might align.”

There must be a considerable dowry as well. Perhaps he could quit practicing medicine and focus solely on Kaiseki and Toyoshimaya. As he pondered this, the palanquin came to a stop. It was at the corner of Tairamatsu-chō where he never allowed his palanquin to approach his own shop. He always alighted about a block away from his destination, but when he paid the fare and began walking, someone called out to him from behind.

“You’re from Toyoshimaya, ain’t ya?”

Tokiwa turned around. A disreputable-looking man who resembled a ruffian stood there. He wore a striped hitoe undergarment layered with a twill-patterned awase coat, three-shaku straw sandals on his feet, with a tenugui cloth tied around his face and knotted at the nose tip, hands tucked into his sleeves. Tokiwa shook his head with a curt “No.” “I do visit Toyoshimaya, but I’m not affiliated with that household,” he replied. “I’m a physician from Kyōbashi Mizutani-chō.”

“You’re that Tokiwa Unno, ain’t ya?” said the man. Tokiwa’s hand went to his mustache. “Walk with me a bit,” the man jerked his chin. “Just to the vacant lot behind here. Won’t take long—come on.” “If you have business, let’s discuss it here,” he answered in an unflinching tone. “Just who exactly are you?” “You’ll get it once we’re out back. Quit stallin’ and come with me.” The man sneered, “We can do it here if you want, but there’s eyes on the street. You ain’t exactly keen on being shamed in public, are ya?”

“But what exactly is this business about?” “Shut it!” the man barked, cutting him off roughly. He pulled his hands from his sleeves and swiftly seized Tokiwa’s arm. “Think actin’ nice’ll save ya? Bastard—you comin’ or not?” Already, four or five passersby stopped on the street and were watching them. “Understood,” he said, trying not to show any weakness, “If you insist that much, I’ll go. But no rough stuff.”

“Ain’t like you.” “Come on, this way,” the man said, keeping his grip on Tokiwa’s arm as they passed through the alley between the paper shop and the dry goods store.—Emerging from the alley, they came to a vacant lot of about 100 tsubo where old lumber was piled in one corner and the ground had turned into a squelchy mess from the thawing frost. “Hey, I brought ’im!” the man shouted toward one side. “This here’s that swindlin’ bastard!” As he shouted, the man swept Tokiwa’s legs and roughly shoved his shoulder. Tokiwa pitched forward neatly and fell onto the muddy ground. Then two more men appeared there.

Six

Tokiwa remained on all fours, holding his breath. His face, both hands, and the front of his kimono were thickly smeared with mud from the thawing frost he had been slammed into. If he carelessly tried to get up, they would undoubtedly attack him again—since he thought this, he called out while remaining in that posture. “If we talk, you’ll understand—don’t resort to violence,” he said. “What do you want?” “Don’t spout nonsense, you bastard!” With that roar, one of the men kicked Tokiwa’s lower back with all his might, sending him lurching forward once more. As his face sank into the mud with a squelch, humiliation and rage jolted through him like an electric shock. These bastards mean to kill me, he screamed inwardly, but as he rose—wiping his face sideways with the back of his hand and spitting out mud—he barely managed to suppress that fury and let the tension drain from his limbs.

“What does this accomplish?” Tokiwa said quietly. “You must want something. Wouldn’t settling things through proper discussion be quicker than tormenting me?” “Stubborn fucker, ain’t ya?” jeered a man with a gruff voice. “Think you can fix everything with finger-pointing or petty cash? Might just have to turn you into a proper cripple, you piece of shit.”

“Then that’s my job,” another man said. “Which’ll it be—hands or legs?” “Wait,” Tokiwa raised one hand, “stop this violence. Explain it so I can understand—why exactly you’re doing this, what I must do—let me hear it.” “Can’t you figure it out yourself?” The deep-voiced man spat in disgust: “You perform filthy treatments on cheating wives and widows to charge exorbitant fees, use that money to start eateries and Toyoshimaya, even run high-interest daily loans sucking the poor dry—just in this neighborhood’s tenements alone, dozens weep because of you. Listen—if usury were your main trade and you flaunted being hated, that’d be one thing. But you’re supposed to be a damn doctor.” The man flushed crimson. “Even doing those filthy treatments, you’re still a doctor by trade! But you skulk in shadows, wringing every last drop from the poor with your daily loans. We ain’t sittin’ quiet while this shitheel prowls our turf!”

“A scoundrel like you,” another man growled, “oughta be beaten dead and dumped in the Ōkawa. But that’d make us murderers too. So we’ll just cripple you proper—leave you so you can’t go skulkin’ round no more. That’s mercy, eh? No complaints now.” “Understood. I understand completely.” Scraping mud from his face with fingernails, Tokiwa bowed his head solemnly. “If that’s how it stands—I’ll comply. If coin settles this, I’ll pay. Want me to quit the daily loans? I’ll stop today itself. Your terms—just spare me further violence.”

“If money settles this, huh?” The deep-voiced man bellowed at the top of his lungs, “You still spoutin’ that horseshit, you bastard?” “Do him in!” another man shouted. Tokiwa screamed, “Someone! Help!” The three men took turns kicking him. “Murderers!” he shrieked. The commotion must have drawn attention—footsteps approached rapidly, followed by voices shouting, “What’s going on?” “Stop this violence!”—five or six bystanders now crowding around.

“Please help!” Tokiwa cried. “I haven’t done anything, yet these people are—” But the mud in his mouth slid down his throat, leaving him lying on his side, curled up and coughing. The kicking stopped as the men began arguing among themselves, the three departing while hurling final threats. Those who remained were likely townspeople, calling out to Tokiwa with questions like “Are you hurt?” and “Where are you from?”—Tokiwa had someone summon Monshichi from Toyoshimaya. He requested something to cover his head and asked whether the three men were from this neighborhood. They turned out to be strangers unfamiliar in the area, but when the name “Toyoshimaya” was mentioned, those people suddenly turned cold, muttering excuses like “I have business to attend to” or “Well then, I should be going” before walking away.

“Please contact Toyoshimaya,” Tokiwa said, unable to properly open his eyes through the mud coating them and growing disheartened from uncertainty about whether his message had been relayed. “I’ll express my gratitude—please forgive the imposition, but I beg you to deliver this request.”

“I don’t want no thanks from the likes of you!” came a hoarse voice. “We passed your message—so quit your whinin’!” That must be the neighborhood head, Tokiwa thought. Before long, Monshichi arrived wearing something like a raincoat over his head. Finally, he stood up, expressed his thanks to no one in particular, and began walking with Monshichi’s support. No one responded to his thanks, but as he began walking away, laughter erupted behind him, and he heard someone say, “He’ll learn his lesson now.”

Until the bath was ready, Tokiwa washed his face and limbs and changed his clothes while outlining what had happened, asking if Monshichi had any inkling who might have done this or why. Monshichi replied that he couldn’t begin to guess. "If this were about resentment over daily loans," Tokiwa said, "they’d be after you, not me." Applying a plaster to the bruise on his right thigh, he added, "What’s strange is how they knew everything—from Ōkawabata’s Kaiseki dealings to the medical treatments."

“Did they mention even that?”

“They seem to know everything,” he said, tilting his head. “This isn’t resentment over daily loans—there’s another reason behind this.”

Tokiwa fell into deep thought.

—Okane, Fujii Shingorō.

The names Okane and Fujii flashed through his mind. And then Okuni’s name as well. That’s right, he told himself. Either of them could have done it—it might well be one of their doing. If not them, there was no way anyone could have known those internal details so thoroughly. As he wondered whose work it was, the name Omino surfaced in his mind again. "What about that girl Omino?" he muttered aloud. "She knew me well too."

But he immediately shook his head—foolishness! Omino was a girl who intended to become my wife; she had plenty of money and no reason to resent me. "If anyone were to do it, it would be either Okuni or Okane—most likely Okane, who's tied to Fujii." When Monshichi came to notify him the bath was ready, he said, "A messenger just brought this," and handed over a tied letter. When Tokiwa opened it, he found it was a summons from Omino.

Seven

After getting out of the bath, Tokiwa kept repeating to himself—This is bad, this is bad—as he had his hair tied before a mirror. Two large bruises marked his face, and his left eye was nearly swollen shut. His right thigh throbbed with heat where the bruise had formed, forcing him to limp slightly when he walked. "Wait at 'Hirano' in Asakusa Miyoshi-cho." The message instructed him to come prepared to stay overnight. With this face? Limping like this? No—I can't do it. Letting anyone see me like this wouldn't just destroy my dignity—I'd become a laughingstock outright. He resolved to decline for today.

“Did you say something?” asked the hairdresser Matahachi. “It’s nothing. Hurry up,” he said. As soon as his hair was done, Tokiwa ordered sake. Monshichi warned that alcohol would worsen his bruises, but he roared at him to stop meddling. This outburst being so uncharacteristic, Monshichi promptly summoned a maid and had sake prepared in the room adjoining the accounts counter. All private parlors were occupied, they explained—even vacant ones had been reserved. “Anywhere will do. I need no cup-bearer—leave me be,” Tokiwa commanded.

"Alright, just wait," he muttered while pouring himself a drink, "I'll find out who's scheming this. I won't swallow this defeat. Today's payback will be served full measure."

The sake tasted foul, and no matter how much he drank, it refused to intoxicate him. Some worthless ruffians of unknown origin had shoved him about, kicked him, left him caked in mud as he cried out. When he contemplated his own wretched, pitiful state, rage made his entire body tremble - sake spilling repeatedly from the cup clutched in his hand.

The shop was bustling. It seemed there were not only overnight guests but also some sort of gathering; with people coming and going and trays being carried in and out, both the accounts office and the kitchen were in a state of feverish activity. “Wait—hold on,” he said while taking the fifth sake flask, “Don’t dwell on it, Doctor. What’s revenge achieve? Even if venting your spleen gives satisfaction, that’s where it ends! Hmph—moneyed men don’t brawl. Whether Okane’s work or Okuni’s—they’re both women I’ll cast off soon enough anyway. Toss ’em out like stray cats. Then there’s Omino for me.”

He held his breath there, pressing a hand to his swollen eye as he sank into deep thought. "Hmm," he eventually muttered in a low voice, probing and deliberate. "That's one approach. Yes... There's still something unknowable about that girl's true feelings. Right—showing her this face might reveal her real intentions." Tokiwa stared at the cup in his hand. "If she truly loves me and means to become my wife, seeing me like this wouldn't make her lose interest. If she laughs at this state or turns cold, it'd be wiser to cut ties now."

He clapped his hands and ordered sake. "There's still plenty of time," he said, soothing himself like a parent calming a child. "Let me think a bit longer—after all, she's still just a girl." Tokiwa drank two more bottles. The old saying about girls laughing at fallen chopsticks kept nagging at his mind—that age when everything seems amusing. Even if Omino genuinely loved him, a girl her age might still burst out laughing at his battered face. To test her sincerity through such means felt like a sin, he thought. Yet the words from her letter—"Come prepared to stay"—tightened their grip with each passing moment, an irresistible force pulling him toward Omino.

"Alright—time to test my luck," he nodded to himself. "A man needs guts—charge head-on and let the pieces fall where they may." Tokiwa clapped his hands to summon Monshichi and ordered him to fetch a palanquin, but immediately changed his mind and barked at him to gather the promissory notes instead. Monshichi hesitated upon seeing how thoroughly intoxicated he was. Before Monshichi could even ask, "What will you do with the promissory notes?" Tokiwa roared again, "Do as you're told!"—Unaware of his own condition, he had descended into a drunken stupor, forgotten the appointed hour entirely, and ended up boarding the palanquin.

Hirano was a restaurant-teahouse facing the Sumida River—an old single-story structure but seemingly quite spacious, with two small detached teahouses standing in a garden planted with pine trees.—When one gave their name at the entrance, a maid came down to the earthen-floored area and declined with “Your companion has not yet arrived,” then guided them via a side doorway around to the garden and toward one of the riverside teahouses, explaining that preparations had been made here.

“I was informed your appointment was at seven bells (four o’clock),” said the maid, adjusting the cushion by the brazier while watching the flames. “Would you prefer to wait until then, or shall I bring you something now?” “Give me sake,” Tokiwa said, “and bring a chilled towel.” “Oh my—” The maid looked at his face as if noticing for the first time, her eyes widening. “How dreadful! What happened?” “The palanquin collided—some idiot bearer and another charging head-on from the opposite direction with two men.” He smacked his left palm sharply with his right fist. “Like this!”

“Oh dear, how dangerous! One can’t just carelessly ride palanquins anymore,” said the maid as she stood up. “I’ll bring them right away.” The maid first brought a hand towel placed in the metal washbasin’s water, then carried in the sake and accompanying dishes. In the meantime, Tokiwa looked around the house—it had two rooms: one of six tatami mats and an adjacent one of four-and-a-half tatami mats. If one opened the window of the six-tatami room, they could see the river, but the four-and-a-half-tatami room had its storm shutters closed, with bedding laid out within a screen enclosure. At the bedside were arranged a silk-covered round lantern, a tobacco tray, and even a water jug. While cooling his eyes with a water-wrung hand towel, Tokiwa drank cheerfully with the maid. All anger toward the ruffians and any thought of who had manipulated them had completely vanished from his mind; now there was only his anticipation of Omino’s arrival and what would follow—so much so that he couldn’t sit still.

I won’t let you slip away today. While half-listening to the maid’s chatter, he repeated it dozens of times in his mind. Starting today, my new life begins. It’s just that she’s an inexperienced girl—her lack of experience makes me uneasy—but no matter, with my skills, I’ll manage. Moreover, considering her bold methods up until now, she might already have known men. Right—no, that’s not it. I’ve examined Omino’s chest. Those breasts are proof she hasn’t known a man.

“Oh dear,” said the maid, “my name is Ofumi.”

“Did I say something?” “You just said ‘Omino,’ didn’t you?”

"My apologies." He struck a pretentious bow and said, "Well then, Lady Ofumi, I'll have sake."

Eight

He didn't know what time it was. He couldn't remember when Omino had come either. When he regained awareness, he found himself lying down with Omino directly before his eyes. The pillow had toppled over, and his head had struck a box, leaving that particular area numb.

“That’s enough now—you should wake up,” Omino said. “It’s such a special night—wouldn’t that be a waste if you passed out drunk already?” “Sorry—I’m not that drunk,” he said as he sat up, but when a sharp pain stabbed through his right thigh, he let out an involuntary groan. “This is bad—what happened?” “What a dreadful misfortune,” Omino said. “What kind of people were those three men anyway?”

“Those three men—” Tokiwa reflexively covered one eye while asking suspiciously, “The palanquin I was riding collided—” Omino smiled and shook her head. “Telling lies won’t help,” Omino said. “Those three men came here earlier demanding to see you, you know.”

Tokiwa's face stiffened with fear. "H-here..." he stammered. "They said those three came here." "They apparently followed your palanquin here, Doctor." "And then," he said, his voice faltering, "what happened to those men?" "They're drinking over there." "Did you give it to them?" "But they said they followed the palanquin all the way to the front of this shop." Omino smiled softly as she took the heated sake flask. "Now, now," she said, "won't you have just one cup?"

“But those men—” “Holding your cup like that—there’s no need to be so jittery, is there?” “Are you saying I’m the one who’s jittery?” Tokiwa sat up straight and took his cup, though his hand trembled violently. “Ridiculous—those third-rate yakuza... Hmph. Perfect timing—could you call the maid for me?”

Omino straightened her posture. “How rude you are, Dr. Tokiwa,” Omino said. “Today you’re using the kind of tone one would with a servant. I detest being spoken to in that manner.”

“No—this is—this is inexcusable.” He hurriedly bowed his head. “This was inexcusable—I let my guard down and acted carelessly, as you see. If I’ve offended you, please forgive me.” “That’s quite enough.” Omino nodded. “Since I was raised rather spoiled, I’d like you to treat me carefully until we’re properly together.” “Understood. I’ll take thorough care from now on.” “What did you mean to do by calling the maid?” “Those men assaulted me,” he said again, covering his eye, “though they had no connection to me whatsoever—three of them kicking and stomping me without any reason at all.”

“Are you certain there was no reason?” “Of course,” Tokiwa stammered, “of course there couldn’t possibly be any reason.” “So you just stayed silent and let them do as they pleased?” “There was nothing I could do—they were reckless outcasts who don’t value their lives, and it was three against one after all,” he said with feigned humility. “I clenched my teeth and endured it, fearing what might happen if I resisted clumsily.”

“How very noble of you.”

Omino chuckled derisively. “According to those three, you were completely covered in mud—from your head to your face, hands, and feet—so much that your eyes and nose were indistinguishable. Though of course that must be a lie.” “Did you talk to them?” “They said if I didn’t come out they’d barge in here, so I had no choice but to go over there, prepare some sake, and calm them down.”

Omino poured him a drink, and Tokiwa took a sip but choked and coughed violently. “So, what do you intend to do by calling the maid?” “I intend to file a complaint with the town authorities,” he said, pressing his swollen eye, the bruise on his face, and his thigh. “As you can see, evidence of the assault remains, and people from Hiramatsu-cho will testify for me.” “Hmm, it’s better to have such wicked people dealt with by the authorities.” “That’s all well and good,” Omino said abruptly, looking at Tokiwa’s face, “but what about you, Doctor? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“As for me...?” “As for your business dealings, Doctor.” Tokiwa looked at Omino suspiciously. “But,” Omino said, “isn’t there a regulation from the authorities that doctors aren’t allowed to engage in other businesses?”

Tokiwa did not know. However, when Omino mentioned it, he began to think there might indeed have been such a prohibition. "That may be so," he said hesitantly, "but that's an entirely separate matter." "Those three know everything about you, Doctor—about Tokiwa, about Toyoshimaya, about the daily loans," Omino said. "If those three get bound by the law, they'll surely confess everything. Would that be acceptable to you?"

Tokiwa was cornered. Right after he had blustered about filing a complaint, now he had to retract it. Moreover, since this involved Omino, he couldn't maintain any semblance of dignity. "Please let me have a little drink." He poured himself two cups' worth and drank them down. "My drunkenness seems to have worn off—would you care for some as well?" "You're going to call the maid, aren't you?" "It's troublesome—no, rather, it's become a bother," he said, drinking another cup. "On this special evening with you, let's not trouble ourselves with such bothersome matters. Just thinking about it is exhausting."

“Then I’ll go send those people away and come right back.” Seeing Omino stand, Tokiwa half-rose in surprise. “What are you going to do, Omino-san?”

“Those people are demanding money and refuse to leave,” Omino said. “So I’ll use some money to send them away and come right back.”

“How much money are they demanding?”

"That's my job to handle." Omino fixed Tokiwa with a coquettish glare. "You needn't trouble yourself over such matters, Doctor." "You wouldn't dare leave me waiting again?" She answered only with a silent smile, shaking her head slowly.

Nine

When she stepped up to the main house’s corridor, Omino went straight ahead and opened the sliding door of the small room. Inside, a young girl sat hugging a brazier, reading an illustrated book by the light of an oil lamp.

“Masa,” Omino said, “have you already eaten?” “Yes, I have eaten.” “Then please go on a quick errand for me.” Omino took out a purse from her sleeve and handed some coins to the girl while saying, “Use this to buy plum blossom incense—the powdered kind that comes in a box. You know the one, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know.” “And then, once you’ve bought it, come to the detached room over there and quietly call me out—don’t mention the errand, just call me. Understood?” “Yes, understood.” After the young girl went out toward the shop, Omino went to the counter, ordered sake and food from the maid, and slowly returned to the detached room. She did not encounter “the three men,” and there was no sign of such people. She seemed to have spent her time merely talking to “them.”

“Ah, you’ve returned.” When he saw Omino, Tokiwa stroked his chest with one hand. “That took so long—I thought you’d abandoned me again.” “After what happened...” Omino sat beside the hearth, testing the warmth of the sake warmer hanging above it as she cast a sultry sidelong glance. “—Didn’t I write in my letter that I meant to stay tonight?” “This time I mean it.” “Then until now, you didn’t?”

Omino transferred the sake into the flask, added fresh sake to the warmer, then poured him a drink. “Don’t joke—I’ve been serious from the start, but you always slip away at the crucial moment, Omino-san.” There, as if remembering something, he hastily looked around. “I did bring the promised item today, and—how strange, earlier here…” “The handbag?” Omino said. “If it’s the handbag, it’s right here.”

Taking the handbag from beside the hearth, Omino passed it to his hand. He hurriedly tried to open the bag, but the cord was tangled and wouldn’t come undone easily. “What are you trying to take out?” “It’s the thing I promised you earlier,” Tokiwa said impatiently as he tried to untangle the knotted cord, “I’ve brought all the loan documents bundled together.” “Oh my, if that’s the case, didn’t you already show me earlier?” Tokiwa raised his face. “Did I show you?”

“You showed them to me and then lay down beside me—don’t you remember?” “Was that so?” He stopped struggling with the cord, set the handbag aside, and took his cup. “So I really was drunk after all.” “You showed me the documents, but there’s just one more thing I need to ask.” “Good grief—is there still something else?”

At that moment, the maid brought sake and food. Omino went out to the entrance step and carried it in herself. At that moment, Tokiwa overheard Omino whispering something to the maid.

“What is it?” he said, unable to wait for Omino to sit down. “Is something wrong?” “It’s nothing,” Omino said. “They say those men are still drinking, but since I’ve properly sent what needed to be said, they’ll surely go home now. It’s fine.”

Tokiwa apprehensively raised the cup to his lips. Omino watched his movements from the corner of her eye, then poured him a drink and began to speak. “I did say before that I wanted to know everything about you, Doctor, didn’t I?” “You already know everything inside and out.” “There’s still so much I want to know—how you became so popular with women, Doctor, how people have apparently died for your sake, how the mistress of Musashiya turned away from her husband to devote herself completely to you—why you can enthrall everyone so utterly. Tonight I want to learn it all from you.”

“You don’t need to say it—you’ll soon know for yourself.” “I want to know before that.” Omino swayed her upper body. “Surely you’re not using sorcery?” “It’s one of the finest medical techniques,” Tokiwa said, taking a sip of sake. “Though it’s not something just anyone can do—this is a talent one’s born with— —Didn’t someone just arrive?”

A voice called “Excuse me” at the entrance step, and Tokiwa stiffened his body with a start. Omino stood up and went over, exchanging words with someone, then returned and sat down with a smile at Tokiwa. “What is it?” he asked. “They said those three had left, so you can relax now,” Omino said as she took the cup from the tray. “I’ll have some too—do continue your story.” Tokiwa began to speak. Freed from anxiety and tension, his body and mind seemed at ease.

Omino kept pouring without pause, gulping down her drinks as she maintained her cheerful chatter. He started explaining women’s bodily functions, though the specifics seemed lost on Omino. Or perhaps she only pretended not to hear—mechanically nodding while focusing entirely on reheating sake and refilling cups. “That wife hanged herself.” “How dreadful.” “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Everyone except her would pity her—but truth be told, that wife died content.”

“How do you know?” “That woman wanted a child,” he nodded to himself. “She’d been with her husband for seven years but couldn’t conceive no matter what—she was twenty-six, I believe—and on top of not having children, she was dissatisfied in that department too. Do you understand?” “Please continue.” “I realized it immediately upon examination—the woman herself knew nothing. All she ever said was that she wanted a child but her husband was unreliable.” He then repeated his explanation about the subtleties of a woman’s body: “When I treated her, that woman was astonished—she couldn’t comprehend what had happened to her, saying she’d never experienced anything like it since birth. After that, for approximately two months, excluding days when she was indisposed, she came regularly every other day.”

“You’ve been neglecting your cup,” Omino said.

10 "The woman kept saying she wanted to bear a child." He took a big gulp of sake. “Because she kept pleading so desperately, I ended up overstepping the bounds of treatment. I must have been carried away at the time. When she became pregnant, it turned out the husband had contracted an illness in his youth—a doctor had told him he’d never father children.” “Who knows if it’s true or false,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Even if true, she should’ve endured it—but women always crumble so easily. Yes, she came to me and said it herself then—‘For the first time in my life, I’ve tasted joy from the very core of my being. Even if you torment me to death, I’ll die content,’ she said.”

“So she intended to die right then, then?” “It happened about ten days after that.” Tokiwa picked up his chopsticks to take some food, but his hands wouldn’t steady. Unable to pluck the salt-grilled sea bream, he immediately set down the chopsticks and gulped his sake roughly. “She didn’t mention my name,” he said. “The kawaraban news sheets came out, but they only wrote about the affair. Did you read them?” “I didn’t read them.” “There was no suicide note either, I suppose. Of course, the husband knew she’d been coming to me for treatment—that’s why he seemed to suspect me.” He jerked his upper body as if coughing. “—But no matter how much he suspected, there was no evidence. Without evidence, there’s nothing to be done.”

“Even if that person said it was their true wish,” Omino asked, “once they’re dead, you’d realize it was wrong, wouldn’t you, Doctor?” “That I—was wrong?” “A person died.” “Don’t be absurd!” He laughed. “Someone as innocent as you wouldn’t understand yet, Miss Omino, but most women live their whole lives without ever knowing true joy. When she said she’d die content even if tormented to death—that was her true heart speaking.”

“Then don’t you think it was wrong?” “I’d sooner call it charity. You’ll understand that yourself soon enough.” “Drink up,” Omino said as she poured more sake, “—it was just like this at Musashiya too.” He murmured “One moment,” rose carefully to his feet, and shuffled out to the rain-dampened veranda to feign sobriety. “Papa,” Omino whispered, arching her neck back, “lend me your strength.”

Tokiwa, having returned, tried to sit down but lost his balance and collapsed sloppily onto his side.

“Oh no, you’ve gotten so drunk!” “What? I’m just getting started.” He sat up and pressed his right thigh. “It’s because this spot hurts that I messed up. Do you think I’d get so drunk on this little sake that I’d fall over?” “Then drink as much as you like,” Omino said with a coy smile as she poured. “You’re staying over anyway, aren’t you?” “Tonight’s finally the night,” he said while drinking. “—Now, where were we?”

“It’s about Musashiya.” “Ah, Musashiya’s Osono-san?” He smirked sharply, his face growing pale. “That woman was something else. I’ve known plenty of women, but never met one like her before or since—must’ve been born that way.” “And it wasn’t just needing to love someone—she had to keep changing partners. To make matters worse, the husband she took as a son-in-law was no good.”

“Was he a bad person?” “You could say he was that sort of man.” Omino’s face stiffened, a fierce light flashing in her eyes, though Tokiwa naturally remained oblivious. “He was a decent man—mild-mannered, never once raised his voice,” Tokiwa continued. “The model son-in-law type, but taken to an extreme. Of course he knew nothing about handling women. A true dullard through and through.”

Omino squeezed her eyes shut.

“They say this sort of person is neither poison nor cure, but for someone like Osono-san, he was nothing but poison.” Omino asked, suppressing her trembling voice. “For what reason does he become poison?” “For example,” he abruptly hung his head, then continued as if suddenly inspired, “It’s like someone who lacks the strength to feed firewood to a burning fire. The fire wants to keep burning fiercely, but if those tending it can’t add fuel, the flames will die out.”

"That doesn't work as a metaphor for poison, does it?" "Imagine Osono-san as fire, ah—" he suddenly raised his voice, "Yes—the reason I used a fire metaphor is because she burned to death with her husband, yes, exactly. She was always burning like fire, but that son-in-law of hers didn't have the strength to add even a single log to keep it burning. On top of that, he was bedridden with tuberculosis—for Osono-san, he might as well have been poison."

"But, that's—" Omino said trembling, "how do you know such detailed things?" "Pillow talk, you see." He laughed triumphantly and drank the poured sake. "No matter how prim and proper women act normally, once it comes to pillow talk, they become utterly frank—so frank it makes us men blush with how boldly they lay everything bare." "And then—you two laughed about that son-in-law together, didn't you?"

“Isn’t it better to laugh than be laughed at—or so they say?” “Now that those two have died, it’s your turn to laugh alone, Doctor.” “That’s all settled business.” “I want to see you laugh, Doctor.”

“I told you it’s in the past.” Sake spilled from the cup he held. “Now there’s this lovely person called Omino-san—to hell with all that old business!” “Here, let me pour you another—drink up.” “That’s enough—I’ll stop here.” “Oh my, how spineless of you.” “Let’s take a break.” As he lay down, he swiftly grabbed Omino’s hand. “Omino-san, let’s rest a bit before resuming our drinking.”

“Let go. I don’t like rough things.” “Then shall we move to the next room?” Omino averted her face and nodded. “Yes.” “No more games tonight.” “Let go,” Omino whispered. “I’ll go prepare first.”

Eleven Omino stood up, entered the adjacent four-and-a-half-mat room, and whispered seductively while closing the sliding door. “Please don’t come in until I say it’s okay.” Tokiwa nodded without lifting his head from where it rested on his arm. “Hey, Dr. Tokiwa,” he muttered under his breath, “you’ve finally seized your fortune—a grand auspicious fate. Splendid work.”

Tokiwa’s face relaxed, and a smile rose to his lips. He closed his eyes and yawned, then opened them wide as if startled.

“Omino-san,” he called. No reply came. Tokiwa sat up straight.

“Omino-san,” he called again.

In the four-and-a-half-mat room, a voice faintly saying “Please” was heard. Tokiwa stood up, staggered, and stumbled out to the veranda. When he returned, his face had grown even paler, now bearing an inhuman expression of naked desire. He carefully watched his footing as he opened the sliding door to the four-and-a-half-mat room, then closed it behind him with his back hand.

Omino had changed into a nagajuban undergarment and was sitting by the bedding’s pillow. When Tokiwa entered, she took his sleepwear and stood up. Tokiwa approached without hesitation and tried to embrace Omino with both hands. “No—after I change.” “Wait—before that.” “That won’t do.” Omino dodged sideways. “The door isn’t even locked!” “No one’s gonna come.” Tokiwa tried to catch Omino, stumbled over the lit round lantern, and hurriedly steadied it. Omino placed the sleepwear there and said, “Then please change by yourself.”

“I’ll go lock the entrance.”

“Surely not,” he said with a serious face. “After coming this far, you’re not going to run away, are you?” “In this outfit,” Omino said, spreading the sleeves of her long underrobe, “—I’m the one who won’t let you escape tonight, Doctor.”

And she went out to the six-mat room and closed the sliding door. Omino crouched beside the hibachi, listening to the sounds of Tokiwa changing clothes next door, then tilted her head back and tightly shut her eyes. Her face stiffened from tension, and her body trembled in small, rapid shudders. “Father,” Omino murmured as if in prayer, “please lend me your strength.”

A thud sounded in the four-and-a-half-mat room. Tokiwa had likely fallen asleep; Omino lowered her head and remained perfectly still for some time. She seemed to wait for her body’s trembling to subside—then pulled the silver flat hairpin from her hair, gripped it in her right hand, and quietly opened the sliding door to the four-and-a-half-mat room. “Finally decided to show up, have you?” Tokiwa’s voice rasped. “Come on—hurry over here.” Omino entered and closed the sliding door behind her. Less than half an hour later, she emerged with her appearance neatly arranged. Stepping onto the veranda as she was, retching sounds echoed briefly before she returned to the six-mat room and produced a small paper box from her sleeve. Though its lid read “Plum Blossom Incense,” Omino pinched green powder from within and fed it repeatedly into the hibachi’s flames. A crisp fragrance filled the room as she lifted Tokiwa’s handbag and rose. With steady steps toward the entrance, she murmured, “This can be thrown into the river.”

Around ten o'clock the following morning—

The maid Okinu, who had gone to clean the annex, came tumbling into the main house while screaming. Someone had been killed in the annex.

“Who was on duty last night? It was Ms. Ofumi,” they said, and thus Ofumi was called in. “A woman named Mino-san was with him,” Ofumi said. “No—I don’t know where she was from—she was a first-time guest. Last night around nine o’clock or so? The companion said he’d gotten terribly drunk and asked if we could let them stay over. We refused outright—said we couldn’t accommodate them—but they insisted he couldn’t even stand.”

“You were bribed with a tip again, weren’t you?” the master said. “So you didn’t go check after that girl left?” “Yes, I was so busy that I just…” “Someone call the town officials.”

Two town officials arrived; the master guided them and went to the annex. The corpse lay within the bedding of the four-and-a-half-mat room. The coverlet had been thrown off, his sleepwear had come undone, and beneath the left nipple of his exposed chest, a silver flat hairpin was thrust. “There’s blood splattered by the pillow,” said one of the town officials.

“No—this isn’t blood,” said the master of Yoshidaya, peering closer and shaking his head. “It’s a camellia petal.” “A single camellia petal by the corpse’s pillow…” The other town official licked his lips while glancing upward and tilted his head. “Seems like I’ve heard about this somewhere before.”

Fourth Chapter

I “A silver flat hairpin,” Aoki Chinosuke murmured. “One side carved with a reverse plum blossom, the other with a floral diamond pattern—not custom-made, but likely purchased from a notions shop.” As the hastily moving palanquin shook, the sword guard nestled between his cross-legged knees kept annoyingly knocking against his chin, causing Chinosuke to unconsciously turn his face aside. Adjusting the sword’s position would have been simple, but so absorbed was he in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice such a thing.

"The killer is one person," he murmured again. "After luring them into bed together, stabbing the heart with a hairpin—the method perfectly identical both times. What's more, leaving one red mountain camellia petal by each corpse's pillow... Since both victims were women, there can be no mistake—the culprit must be that woman."

One was an entertainer, the other a town doctor—both men of ill repute, he thought. The first victim, Kishizawa Chōdayū, had people who held grudges against him. His senior apprentice brother Nakajirou had his arm broken because of him. It was said he had employed yakuza to usurp his shamisen position, resulting in Nakajirou’s dominant arm being broken. Upon investigating Nakajirou, the name of a woman called Oriu emerged. She had no known residence; eighteen or nineteen years old and graceful, she gave the impression of a prominent merchant’s daughter. Musasabi no Rokusuke, a ruffian brought along for the job, admitted breaking the arm at Chōdayū’s request and disclosed a restaurant called Okada in Monzennakachō, Fukagawa. There, Nakajirou confronted Chōdayū to verify the facts, intending to break his arm in retaliation, but was stopped by Oriu and sent home. At that time, Oriu reportedly gave Nakajirou fifty ryō of gold, urging him to start some legitimate business.

“This part I don’t understand,” Chinosuke muttered. “After killing Chōdayū, why summon Nakajirou beforehand? What connection does it have with Musasabi no Roku? What reason could there be for giving such a large sum of fifty ryō to Nakajirou? None of it makes any sense.” It had been the same with the next doctor too, he thought. Unno Tokiwa, a physician who made money through dubious medical treatments, operated a restaurant called "Kaiseki" in Ōkawabata-chō and an inn named "Toshimaya" in Nihonbashi Hiramatsu-chō. They had heard about the dubious medical treatments, and it also became known that this physician—who was prohibited from running side businesses—operated a restaurant and even engaged in "daily repayment loans" at his inn. Then, on the seventh day after Chōdayū was killed, Tokiwa was also murdered by a young woman at "Hirano" in Asakusa Miyoshi-chō. The woman was named Omino; this time, she took away all the promissory notes for the loans.

――This too seemed like a mystery. The fact that Tokiwa had taken all the promissory notes for the loans was clearly acknowledged by Toshimaya’s manager. But "Hirano" had nothing. Beside the corpse, there was not even the handbag that was said to contain the promissory notes. "Since it appeared in the kawaraban news sheets, those in debt must have rejoiced," Chinosuke murmured. "First she gave money to Nakajirou, second she aided those suffering under daily repayment loans—but there’s no mistaking that killing those two men was her true purpose."

That became clear from the killing method and the placement of a single camellia petal. The killings had been planned from the beginning; distributing money and destroying promissory notes were merely incidental tasks. “A single red camellia petal,” he muttered again. “What does it mean? Why would a girl so young and exceptionally graceful kill two men? —What does the camellia petal mean?”

The palanquin stopped, and a voice said, “We have arrived.” The one who aligned the sandals was Shichizō of Kazusaya, who had come to greet him.

The streets were already deep in twilight, and the lantern marked "Kanemoto" at the entrance of the restaurant before him was lit. “The woman’s here, isn’t she?”

“Everything is in order,” Shichizō said. “Please.” “Have the palanquin bearers wait.” When he stepped through the entrance, there was an earthen floor stretching all the way to the back, with rooms lined up on the right side. It was likely a rustic-style structure. Shichizō walked straight across the earthen floor and slid open the second-to-last shoji screen from the end—there lay a small four-and-a-half-mat room, brightly lit with an andon lamp. Beside a hand warmer sat a middle-aged woman, who drew back and pressed her hands to the floor upon seeing Chinosuke. Chinosuke stepped up, placed his sword to the right, and sat down.

“No need for formalities; make yourself comfortable,” Chinosuke said. “You’re the maid from ‘Okada’ in Monzennakachō, I hear.” “Yes, at ‘Okada’ I go by Tsuru, but my real name is Hana. I am twenty-six years old.” “Keep it brief.” “My younger sister works at this establishment, so today being my day off, I came to visit for an errand. Though she goes by Ohatsu here, her real name is—”

“Stick to the essential details.” “I’m sorry.” Ohana bowed. “Since things are slow here today, the mistress said we could go to a vaudeville show if we liked. So my sister began changing into her out—”

“Cut out the unnecessary parts.” “This isn’t unnecessary—it’s the most important part here!” Ohana shot back indignantly, “Or are you saying my sister shouldn’t get changed?”

Chinosuke obediently removed his helmet. “Let her change. Continue.” “I’m sorry, but please don’t interrupt,” Ohana said. “When you speak up like that, my head gets all tangled—now where was I? Ah yes, my younger sister had just started changing.” “That’s right,” Chinosuke nodded with patience. “I left the maids’ room and started chatting in the hallway with Oshin-chan—she’s another maid here and good friends with my sister—but since Oshin-chan’s such a theater obsessive—please don’t interrupt me.”

Chinosuke nodded. "'The Nakamura-za plays this month are so fascinating,' she started talking enthusiastically," Ohana said, lowering her voice, "when suddenly Oshin-chan began saying there was a customer here who looked exactly like Sawataya. You know Sawataya, master?" "I don't," Chinosuke said. "Oh now really!" Ohana made a show of swatting at him with one hand. "Sawataya's the shop name—the actor is Shimamura Tozou, currently the most talked-about onnagata rising in fame, isn't he?"

Two

"Ohana continued, startled by what she'd heard." "The reason was that when Chōdayū had been killed recently, the woman who came with him—the one suspected of killing Chōdayū—bore a striking resemblance to Sawataya." "Her bearing, speech mannerisms, and alluring qualities perfectly matched Sawataya's." "'So I decided to verify it properly,' Ohana said breathlessly, 'After consulting with Oshin-chan, we went to replace their tea. They must've forgotten—I got right up close and examined her thoroughly.'"

“Was it that woman?” Ohana stared at Chinosuke with a weighty gaze and nodded very slowly, as if demonstrating just how crucial her testimony was.

“Her hairstyle, kimono, and obi were all different,” Ohana said in a hushed tone, “but there’s no changing one’s build, facial features—or even voice.” “No mistake?”

“Absolutely, there’s no mistaking her for that woman Oriu from back then. I can certainly serve as a witness.”

“Good.” Chinosuke nodded and said, “Call the master of this house.” Ohana stood up and left, then immediately returned accompanied by a man of about fifty. He was the master of this “Kanebon” and said his name was Yosuke. “I am Aoki Chinosuke of Hatchōbori.” Yosuke bowed and said, “You’ve gone to great trouble.” “I rushed here after receiving word from Shichizō of Kazusaya,” Chinosuke said, “but you’ve likely heard the essentials already.”

“Yes, having heard it from Oshin and the other person, I immediately went to inform the boss of Kazusaya.”

"There was something I needed to consider," said Chinosuke, "which is why I took charge of this case myself. I notified all the town informants—three times now they've reported finding a woman matching the description, but all three turned out to be complete misidentifications." "I didn't make any mistake," Ohana interjected. "I saw with my own eyes—" "Be quiet for a moment," Chinosuke cut her off and continued, "Given that we can only rely on appearance and demeanor now—if what Oshin says—"

“I’m not Oshin-chan—I’m Ohana, sir.” “My mistake.” Chinosuke said patiently, “Even if Ohana’s eyes weren’t mistaken, there’s no conclusive evidence here.” “Well, why is that?” Ohana indignantly snapped back, “With me as a witness here, do you need other evidence?” “Be quiet—I beg you, just stay silent a little longer.” Chinosuke looked at Ohana pleadingly, then continued addressing Yosuke: “—In short, you understand—without undeniable evidence that permits no refusal, we can’t haphazardly arrest someone. Correct?”

“You are absolutely correct, sir.” “So I have a request.” Chinosuke slightly lowered his voice. “I want to observe that woman in the neighboring parlor. I hear a companion will be arriving later—I want to see how they interact. Depending on their behavior, I’ll decide how to proceed.” “Understood,” said Yosuke after a brief pause. “Then let us change parlors. Though—no, you must already be well aware of this—as this setup was created at the request of a client with particular tastes, I must ask you to keep this discreet.”

“There’s no need for concern.” Chinosuke gave a wry smile. “I don’t know about that yet, but it’s hardly anything out of the ordinary.” “Then please wait a moment.”

Yosuke left.

There, Ohana began chattering again. This time, she launched into personal stories—about her estranged husband and young daughter sent to live with foster parents, complaints about how no matter how much she earned she couldn’t afford even a single obi—before finally starting to ask whether there might be some reward from the authorities if this really turned out to be that woman. Aoki Chinosuke looked at Ohana with evident displeasure, his brows furrowed. He thought this woman had informed on someone with the reward in mind—but if that were true, then she was suspicious. She’s the woman who killed Chōdayū—he couldn’t just casually believe that, Chinosuke thought.

“If this truly proves to be the culprit, you may receive some reward,” he answered Ohana. “However, if it turns out to be a complete case of mistaken identity and she is not a woman who should be under such suspicion, you might face severe punishment for causing trouble to the authorities and inconveniencing an innocent person.” Ohana’s mouth fell open, revealing her large, yellowish front teeth. “Th-that’s…” she stammered. “But I—I only meant to be of service to the authorities! I even gave up going to the variety hall on my precious day off to do… all this!”

“If that woman is the culprit, I’ll see to it that you receive a reward.”

Ohana licked her lips and began, “But what if—” when Yosuke returned. “The preparations are ready,” said Yosuke. “I will guide you.” “You come along too,” Chinosuke said to Ohana.

They were led to the annex. This annex also appeared to have a rustic design, but the room the two entered was a six-tatami space resembling a storage room—it contained a tokonoma alcove and staggered shelves, but there were no windows. Beside a lit andon lamp and a brazier with a sake warming pot sat a tray of food and drink accompaniments, along with a square sake cask. On one wall, at eye level when seated, there was a small window-like frame with a sliding door measuring three sun in height and one shaku in width.

“Please take a look.” The master called to Chinosuke, “If you open this door, you can see into the next room. No, they haven’t arrived yet.”

Chinosuke opened the door. The door was made of paulownia and appeared to have wax applied to its grooves; it opened lightly and without a sound. The back of the door was fitted with a rosewood panel, at whose center were two small horizontally narrow holes; peering through them showed that the neighboring parlor could be seen quite clearly. Chinosuke examined the holes and observed black gauze stretched over them.

“The adjacent wall has decorative paper collage there,” Yosuke explained. “So long as we don’t make our light brighter here, there’s absolutely no risk of being noticed from the other side.” "What a sinful contraption they’ve created," Chinosuke thought, but he didn’t voice any of it.

III

Within Edo city, the only places that could accommodate guests besides inns were the four locations of Shin-Yoshiwara, Shinagawa, Naito Shinjuku, and Itabashi. However, this was merely the official account; depending on time and circumstance, one might stay at small eateries. Such arrangements remained constant across eras, but particularly in teahouses near theater districts and pleasure quarters—or those situated in quiet surrounding areas—it had been customary for these establishments to maintain small parlors built for discreet encounters with all necessary provisions prepared, even when guests didn't stay overnight, given how many patrons came specifically for secret rendezvous. Moreover, there existed customers with unsavory habits who would observe such activities from adjacent rooms—and shops equipped with special mechanisms to accommodate these patrons—facts Chinosuke had long known through his duties as a magistrate officer.

Humans are such strange creatures. It was undoubtedly a base, obscene act. To imagine being the watched one would mean facing an unforgivable humiliation. Yet Chinosuke thought this too was undeniably a manifestation of desires and wisdom unique to humankind. "They should arrive imminently," said Yosuke. "Though humble, please partake of these refreshments while waiting. The andon's illumination has been set to this level for optimal visibility."

“I don’t need sake,” Chinosuke said. “Have this tray removed and bring tea instead.” “However, since we went to the trouble of preparing this...” “I won’t drink sake,” Chinosuke said firmly. “Have it removed.”

“Ah,” Yosuke said.

Soon after the master left, the woman entered the adjacent parlor. She was a girl of about seventeen or eighteen, and when he had Ohana peer through the peephole, she said, "That's her." The maid who had guided them was apparently named Oshin; she adjusted the brazier's fire and brought in trays of sake and appetizers. A sake warming pot had been placed on the brazier; there were two trays and a one-shō square cask. In the meantime, someone cleared away the sake preparations here as well, and a young maid brought a sweets bowl and tea utensils. Since she had whispered "I leave it to you, Sister" into Ohana's ear—likely indicating this was her younger sister Ohatsu—she silently bowed to Chinosuke and left on tiptoe. He waved his hand at Ohana. He waved his hand as if to say "Tea later," and continued watching the situation next door.

This was a sin. Even as part of his duties, this felt sinful, he thought. Even if she were a murderer, peering at someone like this was inhumane—it even seemed like a desecration of something sacred. The girl in the adjacent parlor held one hand toward the brazier while reading a book with the other. From his diagonal vantage point, he could see her profile—a face bearing faint melancholy with demure features. Her upright posture, the quiet page-turning motions, and graceful composure all gave such an impression that one could only see her as a sheltered daughter raised in the inner quarters of a wealthy merchant household.

――This isn’t right.

No matter how he considered it, she didn't appear capable of killing anyone. If one had murdered two men in their prime, there ought to be some trace of that quality discernible. Through his tenure as a magistrate officer, he had dealt with countless criminals—while there had been notable misjudgments, he could distinguish between guilty and innocent individuals through uncanny intuition. Though he might mistakenly identify innocents, he had nearly never failed to recognize those who had committed crimes.

This girl wasn't capable of murder. As he thought this, Chinosuke suddenly realized that this sheltered daughter was waiting for a man in such a place. The murder itself was extraordinary; he retraced how the pairing of a 'hairpin' and single 'petal,' both men's questionable conduct, and the fact that both perpetrators appeared to be women all converged.

At that moment, Chinosuke stepped away from the wall. The girl next door, who had been holding her hand over the brazier, slipped it from her cuff into the front of her kimono. Her hand seemed to have come to rest over her breast—likely an unthinking gesture—but to Chinosuke, peering through, it felt as though he had glimpsed something forbidden, and he was seized by a guilty conscience.

――There’s no need to wait for the man—I’ll confront him directly. Thinking matters might grow more complicated if the man arrived later, Chinosuke motioned Ohana closer with his hand, brought his lips to her ear, and explained the role he needed her to play. “You understand?” he pressed. “The timing’s crucial—got that?” “Yes,” Ohana nodded. “I believe I can manage it.”

Chinosuke stood up.

The entrance to that room was on the opposite side from the adjacent parlor. Chinosuke stepped outside once, followed the stepping stones along the low sleeve wall, and opened the lattice door to the parlor. The entryway measured three tatami mats wide with a folding screen, the parlor itself appearing immediately to the left. Gripping his sword in his right hand, Chinosuke soundlessly slid open the paper-paneled door and stood observing the girl.

“Oh, you’re late…” she began, then fell silent, eyeing Chinosuke suspiciously. Chinosuke looked down at the girl. The girl lowered the hand holding the book to her knee and, looking up at Chinosuke with calm eyes, said, “Do you have some business with me?” There was not the slightest sign of surprise or panic; her demeanor remained composed and relaxed. “I am Aoki Chinosuke, a town magistrate investigator,” he responded. “There are some matters I wish to inquire about—may I sit down?”

The girl said, “Please,” then—as if suddenly remembering—took a zabuton cushion from before one of the trays and offered it to Chinosuke. He sat there and placed his sword to his right. “I must adopt formal speech for official proceedings.”

“Yes,” the girl said, sitting up straight. “First, I will ask for your address and name.” “My residence is Yushima Yokochō, and my name is Rin.” “Are you dependent on your parents?” “Yes and no.” The girl shook her head while lowering her eyes as if dazzled. “There are... certain circumstances. I have left my parents’ home and now work as a tea instructor in Yushima Yokochō.”

“How old are you?”

“I am twenty years old.” “Twenty years old and a tea instructor?” Chinosuke said. “I’ll ask about your family home—the location, their trade, your parents and siblings.” The girl hesitated. “Um,” she stammered, looking up at Chinosuke with imploring eyes, “I would be in trouble if my parents learned of such matters.” “I’ll ensure they don’t find out. Though if you truly cannot speak of it, you needn’t force yourself.” “My family home is in Nihonbashi Iwachō, where we operate a paper wholesale business called Iseya.”

IV "My father’s name is Kihee, and my mother passed away two years ago," the girl said. "There are two siblings—at home is my seventeen-year-old brother Masakichi." “Why did you leave home?” “I’d rather not say,” the girl hesitated again, then lowered her eyes and continued in a low, reluctant voice, “—but after my mother passed away, a new mother came soon after.” The girl cut off her words there, raised her face, and looked at Chinosuke suspiciously.

“You mentioned this being an official duty earlier, but might I inquire why I’m being investigated?” “There have been two murders.” Chinosuke said casually, “Since Kawaraban news sheets have circulated, I presume you know—the first in Fukagawa, the second in Asakusa. Both victims were men, both perpetrators young women. You’re aware of this, aren’t you?” “No,” the girl replied, eyes widening as she stared at Chinosuke with feigned surprise and shook her head. “I don’t associate with neighbors, nor do I partake in reading news sheets.”

“Didn’t you hear about it from your tea disciples either?”

The girl lowered her eyes again. “To tell the truth, I have put up a signboard, but I have not taken any disciples.” “What do you mean by that?”

Chinosuke coughed. Then came the sound of a lattice door opening. Chinosuke thought, That was quick. He had instructed that three coughs would be the signal. He thought it was too early for her to come now, but it was already too late; the sliding door opened, and Ohana entered. Carrying tea utensils, she entered saying “Excuse me,” placed the tea utensils beside Chinosuke, and upon seeing the girl, let out a loud “Oh my!” “My, how unusual,” Ohana said. “Didn’t I have the pleasure of meeting you once at a shop in Monzen Nakachō—aren’t you Oriu-sama?”

Chinosuke stared at the girl's expression. The girl’s face appeared stiff, but she showed neither fear nor any sign of agitation. “I don’t know you,” the girl said. “You must be mistaking me for someone else.” “Oh my, how can you say such things? Didn’t you go to Okada in Monzen Nakachō with Master Kishizawa? I was the maid on duty who attended to both of you that time!” “Is there no mistake that it’s this woman?” Chinosuke said.

“Yes, it’s this person.” Ohana raised her hand and pointed at the girl. “There’s no mistake in my eyes—it’s definitely this person.” Chinosuke rose to one knee and grabbed the girl’s left wrist. “You—speak truthfully. You know this maid, don’t you?” “I don’t.” The girl made no move to free her captured hand. In a calm voice, shaking her head, she said, “I have visited Lord Hachiman and Lord Fudō, but I have never entered any restaurant teahouses.”

“Restaurant teahouse?” Chinosuke retorted sharply. “How did you know it was a restaurant teahouse?” “But this—” the girl stammered, “if you look at this person, anyone can tell she works at a teahouse.” “Don’t play dumb!”

Chinosuke yanked the girl's captured hand sharply downward. He had meant to shake her roughly, but she remained completely unresisting; her body followed the motion limply, collapsing forward at an angle. Shifting his hold, Chinosuke pressed his right hand firmly against the base of her arm.

At that moment, the sliding door opened, and a man looked over and cried out in astonishment, "Ah!" "What're you doing?!" the man shouted in a voice that nearly leapt from his throat. "Who the hell are you? What's happened to Rin? What's all this about?"

“Please don’t make a scene, Sei-san—it’s a case of mistaken identity,” the girl said quietly. “I apologize, but I won’t try to flee, so please don’t resort to violence.”

Chinosuke released his grip and looked at the man. “Come in and shut that.” Trembling, the man closed the sliding door, approached them, and sat beside the girl. The girl straightened her posture, smoothed her collar and hemline, then touched her hair. Though her face looked pallid, her composure remained steady—in contrast to the man’s visible agitation. “I am Aoki Chinosuke of Hatchōbori,” he told the man. “Do you know this woman?”

“Y-yes, well—” The man flusteredly composed himself. “In truth, she is someone akin to my fiancée.” “What do you mean by ‘akin to’?” “Well, there’s a bit of a reason...” The man looked toward the girl and faltered in his speech. “It’s fine,” the girl said to the man. “Please say I’m your kept woman.”

“A kept woman? That’s absurd.” “I’ll ask you this,” said Chinosuke. “Does that mean you’re the one managing the house in Yushima Yokochō?” “Though terribly rude of me,” the man straightened up slightly, “I am Seiichi, son of the Kuramae bills broker Kaya Chūbei. This is Rin, who will soon become my wife. Might I first inquire what suspicion warrants this interrogation?”

Chinosuke looked at the man. The man who gave his name as Seiichi was probably thirty-one or thirty-two—tall, handsome, dressed in expensive clothes—but every bit the indulgent heir of a bills broker family, his defiant posture somehow lacking proper composure. "It's suspicion of murder and criminal acts," Chinosuke said. "There have been two killings at restaurant teahouses in the past half-month or so."

“Murderer?” Seiichi laughed. “That’s no joke—how preposterous!” “Sei-san,” the girl interjected softly, “since these are official proceedings, please listen calmly.” The man fell silent with a sullen expression. The girl called Rin glanced at the maid from the corner of her eye. Chinosuke continued explaining the particulars while Ohana shrank back awkwardly in the corner.

Five

After Chinosuke and Ohana left, Seiichi amused himself by drinking while using the recent incident as a topic to dwell on. “To suspect you of murder and violent crimes—that yoriki’s eyes must be seriously off-kilter. If this were about killing men, then his suspicion might make sense, but...” “You’ve got such resolve about you, Sei-san,” O-Rin said while pouring him sake. “A town magistrate’s yoriki holds tremendous authority, don’t they? Yet you just coolly straightened up and stood your ground right to his face. I was on pins and needles wondering what might happen.”

“Yoriki, machi bugyō—who gives a damn about them?” Seiichi said, bracing his hands on his knees. “As long as you don’t do anything wrong, there’s nothing to fear. Go take a look at the Kuramae shop—samurai like that come borrowing money all the time, sweet-talking the head clerks.”

"But that person will go to the shop, you know." "Of course," he nodded firmly. "If you truly agree, O-Rin-san, I'll go speak with my uncle in Asakusabashi. Once the old man sees I'm settling down by taking a wife, he's bound to lift the disownment."

“I wonder if it will go that smoothly.” “Smoothly—yes, that’s right.” Seiichi knocked his knee. “That commotion was a ridiculous farce, but thanks to it, I’ve discovered your whereabouts, O-Rin-san. There’s no use hiding anymore.” “Yushima Yokochō—you’ve managed to uncover it, haven’t you?”

“That much was thanks to Yoriki-sama,” said Seiichi. “Now that I know where you are, I’ll be visiting from now on, all right?” “I’ve told you before—people from the shop come to check on things,” O-Rin said. “If they were to find out you’ve been coming here, everything would be ruined.” “What’s the problem? Once you’re with me, you won’t need to rely on your parents anymore—right?” said Seiichi, suddenly setting down his cup and edging closer to O-Rin. “—But before that...”

“No—Sei-san,” O-Rin said in a coquettish tone, “let’s not—let’s leave here.” “Leave here?”

“Because of what happened earlier, I feel uneasy. Let’s go to my place.” “That’s considerate of you—but can I trust that?” “Well, you’ve discovered it—there’s no helping that now,” O-Rin said. “But in return, I won’t tolerate any selfish demands from you.” “Selfish?” Seiichi heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Keeping me waiting again tonight? How heartless, O-Rin-san.” O-Rin gazed at him through half-lidded eyes, rested her hand on his shoulder, and rose with deliberate languor.

“Come now, let’s go.”

Six

That was close. It was truly close—my chest still pounded this violently, and if I didn't clench my hands into fists, my fingers trembled wretchedly. But this weakness only came when I was alone.

Why was the maid from Monzen Nakachō's 'Okada' in that house? If she worked at a teahouse in this vast Edo, she must have dealt with countless customers daily. Why would she remember someone like me whom she'd only met once? Though remembering patrons' faces was likely part of those women's trade. Had Aoki Chinosuke seen through me as Oriu? Or had he believed that person's words and dismissed his suspicions? I couldn't tell either way. It seemed he'd abandoned his doubts completely, yet that might not be true. Given his position as yoriki, he wouldn't relinquish suspicion so easily.

That’s right—there’s no way that could be. When that maid said “My, how unusual,” I stopped breathing. A lump like a clenched fist rose in my throat, my breath caught, and my vision swiftly darkened as if everything were turning black. Aoki-sama had turned his face away but was watching me from the corner of his eye. Though his head was angled aside, his eyes remained sharply fixed on me. The sensation felt precisely like being pierced by a needle—yet paradoxically, it was what let me stifle the scream rising within.

That was when the match was decided. Even I find women terrifying. My breath stopped, my vision went dark, and when terror nearly made me scream out, I realized Aoki-sama was watching. Then that reaction happened in my body. My breasts grew heavy and taut, hardened nipples rubbing against my underclothes, the depths of my thighs burning like spilled boiling water. The pleasant fullness of something overflowing being quietly released—the fear eased, and confidence with calmness returned. Even when Aoki-sama pinned me down, I never doubted I would win. Because I had not committed a "crime."

Only when that maid called me "Oriu-san" did I feel what could be called sin. Nor was it that I felt guilt for having killed Chōdayū or Tokiwa. It was absolutely not that—something entirely different from that—how should I put it? I don’t know—there’s no way to describe it. In the words that maid spoke—"You’re Oriu-san, aren’t you?"—there seemed to be something that made me feel guilt.

That's right—I "never" committed a crime. If that were murder and a crime, I would have inevitably felt it myself. If you wear wet clothes, there's no one who wouldn't feel the cold and discomfort. Moreover, shortening a person's life is a terrifyingly grave matter that cannot even compare to a metaphor like wearing wet clothes. And yet I felt not even a speck of guilt—save for that brief moment when the maid called out to me...

When I killed Chōdayū for the first time, two reactions occurred in my body. One was vomiting; the other was that. After stripping him naked and pressing close, as I had been instructed, I felt under the left breast, placed the tip of the hairpin there, then gathered my strength and plunged it in with both hands. —I am Oshino of Musashiya,…… And I tried to voice my father’s grudge, but my tongue cramped and the words wouldn’t come. My head went fuzzy, and my vision darkened. Then suddenly my breasts became painfully heavy and taut; I could feel my hardened nipples brushing against my undergarments, and the depths of both thighs grew hot as if scalding water had been spilled. In my palms and the soles of my feet, a tingling itch—a piercingly pleasant sensation—arose, and my entire body went numb.

For about three beats' worth of time, I felt as though I had lost consciousness.

The exact same reaction occurred with Tokiwa Unno as well. Had I vomited because I smelled blood? No—there was almost no blood. Some might have come out—since I couldn’t bring myself to look away, perhaps a little did—but there was no such smell, and when I later washed my hands, they weren’t even slightly soiled. As I placed a single camellia petal by the pillow, I called out to Father. Father, with this, one grudge has been erased, hasn’t it? —And then I saw Father’s smiling face. I could see it with strange vividness—the smile that appeared on Father’s face, which had wasted away to nearly bones, and how he nodded gently on the pillow. Surely, Father’s soul must be with me, helping me in what I do and finding solace in what I have done.

――Before dying, he wanted to meet them once—there was something he wanted to say, just one word. Father’s voice from when he said that, and his expression—so anguished it was unbearable to look at—remain vividly etched in my memory even now. Together with those men, Mother trampled Father’s heart and tore his life to shreds. It was as if they had ganged up on him and hounded him to death. Powerless and gentle Father... How excruciating, bitter, and full of regret it must have been. “I want to say just one thing,” he kept saying—yet died without even managing to utter that single word.

―Three still remain. Sakichi of Masuya had listed eight people, but I chose five from among them. Those five, even now, in various ways cause suffering, deceive, and make people weep. The other three might be forgivable, but these five alone are people who cannot be forgiven. ―Three left.

I must move from this house in Yushima Yokocho. Aoki-sama will surely be watching this house without fail. If he investigates my family home, the lie will be quickly exposed. That is my friend’s house - and my friend’s Oise-san must have already married and left.

From now on, I will choose locations more carefully. It’s possible the town officials may have already extended their arrangements to all teahouses in the city. That would be an enormous undertaking—arranging it for every last one might prove impossible—but even so, there’s no harm in being cautious.

―Kaya Seiichi, now it's your turn.

Seven

Kaya Seiichi was drunk. "The first time I met her was at Komian in Negishi," he said. "That was late February, I think. Though Komian closed in June, it had thrived for years with its shōjin ryōri as the specialty."

“But more than that, it was a convenient place for secret rendezvous, wasn’t it?” one of the middle-aged geishas said. “There’s no way you’d go there to eat vegetarian cuisine, Young Master, riiiight?”

The five geishas cried out, “That’s right, that’s right!” and the jester Yonehachi struck his pair of wooden clappers. “Tozai to-zai! I’ll allow interruptions during all-night kyogen performances as you please—but thou shalt not disrupt the Young Master of Kaya House in Narihira as he delivers his confessional tale! All present shall keep silent!” he shouted in a shrill voice. “I had Yonehachi with me,” Seiichi continued, “and truth be told, just as Koine said, Komian had three separate detached buildings—perfectly suited for clandestine meetings where one could avoid prying eyes.”

“There, he confessed!” said the geisha called Koine. “It must’ve been that Umeji-neesan in there.” “Enough! I was just the matchmaker,” Seiichi cut in. “It’s tiresome being falsely accused, so I’ll come clean—the truth is, Yonehachi here found himself a sweetheart.”

“Wait, wait—hold on!” Yonehachi made a gesture as if covering something with one hand. “There are things fit to speak and things unfit,” he said. “You, sir, ought not reveal secrets sworn between men through blood-pact before mere maidens unworthy of regard.” “Don’t say such unsavory things—since when would I exchange blood oaths with the likes of Yonehachi?” Seiichi said. “Falling for this fellow reeks of questionable taste. At any rate, they ended up arranging a rendezvous somewhere, but being under his master’s thumb, he couldn’t act freely. ‘Please, Young Master, show me mercy’—and this wretch here clasped his hands and wept, that’s how it ended.”

“We don’t need to hear about Yonehachi,” said one of the middle-aged geishas. “Do open the curtain on how you became acquainted with that young lady, won’t you?” “That’s right, that’s right!” the other geishas chimed in. “Then let’s strike the clappers,” said Seiichi, taking a sip. “After settling this guy and that woman in their room, I was drinking with a maid when the proprietress appeared and said, ‘The customer over there wishes to offer you a drink.’ When I said I didn’t want to meet some stranger, she replied, ‘But she’s a lovely young lady—shall I refuse on your behalf then?’”

“And that’s when your eyes changed,” said Kogiku.

Among the six geishas, Kogiku appeared the most radiant. She appeared to be twenty-one or twenty-two years old. Her grace and artistic skills showed no particular difference from the other geishas, yet despite this, she alone seemed to shine. “I grew curious about this ‘young lady’,” Kogiku said. Seiichi glanced briefly at Kogiku but continued his story undeterred. “When I inquired further,” he said, “it seemed she was a wealthy merchant’s daughter who had come to dine accompanied only by a single maid. She’d apparently spotted me in the garden and claimed there was some urgent reason she absolutely had to meet me.” He had the geisha Kikuya pour him another drink and took a sip. “When I pressed about her reasons, the proprietress said she knew nothing—that the young lady would explain everything when we met face-to-face. That’s when I realized—this must be someone I already knew.”

“So—” he drank again, “when the proprietress led me to the room, there were two meal trays with drinks served. On one lay nothing but a red plum branch—the girl had vanished.” “That area too,” Kogiku remarked, “has its share of cunning weasels, doesn’t it?”

Seiichi drank the sake as if it had lodged in his throat, groaned thickly, and momentarily pressed his lips together. "That person," Kikuya interposed, "must have suddenly grown bashful, you understand." "Apparently so," Seiichi resumed. "When the proprietress and maids went searching, they claimed she'd departed mere moments before. That's when I noticed the red plum branch on the meal tray—something fastened to it. Upon retrieving it, I found a missive left behind: 'Having grown ashamed to meet you here, I shall soon send word to your residence. Pray come see me then.' Such was its substance."

“How wicked of her!” The eldest geisha, Omasa, said, “My! To think there exists a young lady in this day and age who performs such artful schemes!” “I’d say it’s akin to Gojō Bridge,” Yonehachi declared. “What drivel about Gojō Bridge?”

“If someone charges in and makes a quick cut,” Yonehachi gestured theatrically as if reciting a noh chant, “dodge to the right, leap aside, reposition, and sweep away the hem—” “That’s not even a joke,” Seiichi cut in. “The one here’s already gone.” “Ah! So Young Ushiwaka retreats to Kurama! Will you be retiring to your quarters now?” “Shut up and listen,” Seiichi said. “—I thought it was hatefully cunning too. To summon me there only to leave a letter on a red plum branch and slip away—such a cleanly executed, provocative method, don’t you think?”

“That’s an old trick,” said Kogiku. “If you read sentimental novels, you’d find plenty of such ploys.”

Seiichi abruptly splashed the sake from his cup onto Kogiku's face. "Ah!" Kikuya grabbed Seiichi's hand. "You mustn't, Young Master! What's come over you?" "You keep butting in at every damn turn," Seiichi barked. "Eyesore. Get out." Yonehachi and the other geishas tried to intervene. Kogiku wiped her face and collar while glaring at Seiichi with blazing eyes. "Please don't stop them." "I'll take my leave now," Kogiku declared, "but before I go, there's one thing I must say before everyone here."

“Shut the hell up! I said get out, so get out!” “Are you scared of being told?” “Kogiku,” Omasa said. “Let me be,” said Kogiku, straightening her posture as she glared sharply into Seiichi’s eyes. “Young Master Kaya—are you frightened of what I’ll say? Or is it having Kowaka-neesan’s affairs exposed that terrifies you?” “Go ahead and say it,” Seiichi said while having Kikuya pour him a drink. “I’m the one who’s been wronged by her. As a man, I’ve kept quiet about it. But if you’ve got any complaints against her, go on—spit them out.”

“You say you’re keeping quiet because you’re a man? Oh? So you think that makes you a man, Young Master Kaya?” Kogiku sneered, “You toy with vulnerable women endlessly, then when you hear a child’s been conceived, suddenly it’s ‘I know nothing about that’—‘I paid the proper pillow fee’—‘Who could possibly know whose child a pillow geisha carries?’ But Kowaka-neesan protected only you, Young Master. I was there—I know everything from the beginning.”

Eight “Yonehachi!” Seiichi barked. “What’re you gaping at? Get this madwoman out!” Yonehachi stood, Omasa stood—they tried dragging Kogiku out from both sides. “I can’t stand this!” Kogiku writhed and shrieked. “Kowaka-neesan protected only you, Young Master—she even funded you! Because of that, she owed everyone and had to sell herself to Yoshiwara! And you call her a pillow geisha? —She’d be better off dead!”

Yonehachi and Omasa forcibly led Kogiku away, but her words—"Kowaka-neesan will die"—lingered in the parlor with painful clarity, as though carved into the very air. "Shall I play something cheerful?" said Matsuji, a young geisha holding a shamisen. "Now, Young Master, what would you like?" "The story isn't finished—aren't you going to hear the rest?" "Oh, we must hear it!"

Kikuya said in a disinterested yet earnest tone, "It's a crime to stop such a story halfway through, don't you think?"

“Yes indeed, I absolutely want to hear it,” said Matsuji.

Matsuji set down the shamisen, Omasa and Yonehachi returned, and then a maid arrived with sake and appetizers. Seiichi kept talking as he drank. The six listeners clearly looked bored; even their motions of pouring drinks and serving dishes seemed distracted. Seiichi continued his story trying to lift the awkward mood caused by the earlier commotion himself. Whether Kowaka's death cry didn't much concern him or not, he soon became fully animated, his narration growing ever more passionate.

“The girl’s name was O-Rin, seventeen or eighteen years old,” he said, licking his upper lip. “She looked every bit the sheltered young lady—fair-skinned and finely dressed—but with a figure and bearing that spilled sensuality from her very manner of speaking, coupled with a gentle grace that seemed to emanate like fragrance.”

Seiichi owned a house in a side street of Asakusa Kawaramachi and lived there with his old maid. He had been disowned seven years prior due to his excessive dissipation and was prohibited from entering or leaving the Kaya household, but his mother’s monthly allowance was more than sufficient. He was already thirty-five years old but showed no interest in anything beyond physical pleasures, his mental growth seemingly having stopped at fifteen or sixteen. His masculine appeal was considerable, and since the Kaya household ranked among the foremost wealthy families of bills brokers, he had no lack of women or hangers-on.

—I am an only child.

He always said that. ——Even if I was disowned, when the old man dies, I’ll be the master of Kaya. With this mindset, he had never once considered reforming his conduct. He did as he pleased, and when trouble arose, had his mother clean up his messes. When living at his family home, he hadn’t limited himself to carousing outside—he’d laid hands on every maid and servant girl within reach. The cause of his disownment had been an indiscretion with a neighborhood carpenter’s wife, but this habit remained unbroken even now; aside from courtesans and geishas, he would seize any opportunity to make advances toward teahouse mistresses or any maid who caught his eye.

Even among libertines, one wasn't necessarily free with their money, but he was thoroughly self-centered—he would never spend money except on his own pleasures, and his spending habits were so miserly as to border on stinginess. Yet women and hangers-on did not leave him—likely because of the allowance from his mother and the allure of the Kaya name. However, even that had now become uncertain. The funds from his mother had been halved with the arrival of autumn, and his father Tadahyo had given up on him, deciding to adopt an heir from their relatives—this was what his mother had informed him.

―The adoption talk was a bluff. He thought this was a bluff, but the rumors spread like wildfire. Lately, even his regular teahouses no longer gave him favorable looks when his bills began accumulating. It was at such a time that O-Rin appeared. He had no idea why she had taken an interest in him, but five days after receiving the letter at Kobai-an, a messenger came to his house in Kawaramachi. How did she know about this house?

Did she hear it from someone, or had she known all along? When he met O-Rin, he immediately tried to verify this, but she only smiled without saying a word. "What do you think, Yonehachi?" Straightening his drunkenly swaying body, he continued: "We began meeting in spring—now it's winter. Three or four times a month we've met in that span. Yet she absolutely won't tell me where she first noticed me or how she knew about the Kawaramachi house."

For their meetings, O-Rin would inform him of the date, time, and location. While they were together, she was extremely coquettish, appearing on the verge of baring her flesh, yet at the very last moment would skillfully evade him. Moreover, as their meetings multiplied, her demeanor grew increasingly coquettish, and when they met in November, she proposed that they become husband and wife. "She says she's been testing whether I was serious until today." Seiichi took a drink of sake. "If it's just fooling around, I don't want it—but if she'll properly become my wife... Yonehachi, Granny Omasa—listen here. If she becomes my wife, she says she'll bring two money chests with her. Two money chests!"

“What’s this ‘two thousand ryō’ nonsense?” Yonehachi said. “The Young Master of Kaya shouldn’t raise his voice over mere pocket change like that.” “Hell no—it ain’t about the damn money! It’s the guts she’s showin’! Two thousand ryō ain’t even enough for tissue paper, but I’m thrilled she’s got the spine to bring it! Right, old hag?” “That’s all well and good,” Omasa said skeptically, “but just what sort of young lady is she?”

“I hadn’t the faintest idea,” he said, bringing the cup in his left hand to his mouth while hurriedly waving his right. “No—I know now. There was a strange mix-up the day before yesterday—that’s when I learned about her family home and residence. She’s the daughter of an established major merchant, living apart in Hongō with only a single maid for company.”

“Well now,” Yonehachi said, “Surely she hasn’t been disowned or something like that?” “Don’t go borrowing trouble—anyway, the night before last, I went to that house in Hongō together with her.” At that moment, the maid entered hurriedly with a tied letter and, saying, “The messenger just now brought this,” handed it to Seiichi. “Oh!” He half-rose to his feet. “It’s here—the summons!”

He untied the letter with trembling fingers.

Nine

When he finished reading the letter, Seiichi relaxed his facial muscles, placed the letter into his sleeve, and stood up. "Finally, my great wish comes true," he said. "Taking a bride with two thousand ryō dowry means I can stride back to the Kuramae house without shame. About time I settled down proper-like." "Let's make the wedding celebration properly lively then," Yonehachi said tonelessly, "--Heh, you must've been born under one hell of a fortunate star, Young Master."

“I’ll be heading back now,” Seiichi said. “I’ll have the parlor set up for everyone, so stay and enjoy yourselves at my little celebration.” “Shall I call an attendant for you?” Kikumi asked. “You’re going to Hongō, aren’t you?” “Hongō isn’t some provincial backwater, but let’s keep this between ourselves for now.” Everyone stood up and saw Seiichi off with perfunctory compliments. Yonehachi and the five geishas soon returned to discuss their plans. “Should we keep drinking like this, or should we leave? No one has another parlor booked after this,” someone said. It was then decided they would continue drinking together as comrades of kindred spirit.

“If what he said holds true, we needn’t fret over the bill,” Yonehachi remarked. “Shall we summon the mistress too?” “But can we trust it?” Matsuji murmured, her voice trembling slightly. “Something about this gives me an uneasy feeling.”

Kikumi laughed as she took her cup. “There you go with your old routine! You’d jump at a bird’s shadow on the shoji!” “That’s not it! When Kogiku-chan mentioned nasty weasels around there earlier, I got chills down my spine!” “Not ‘nasty’—as if there’d be any fancy weasels in that area!” “Eek!” Matsuji covered her ears with both hands. “Don’t say ‘weasel,’ please! I saw one stand up and wave its paw at me!”

Everyone started laughing, and for the first time drank together in relaxed fashion. For a while, aimless talk continued until Yonehachi abruptly adopted a serious expression. "You're absolutely right," Yonehachi said. "There's something fishy about this whole affair. A sheltered young miss of seventeen going to Kobai-an in Negishi for meals seems odd enough, and if she knows about the Kawaramachi house, she must understand what sort of man the Young Master truly is. Wouldn't you say so, Omasa?"

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Omasa nodded. “His masculine charms are fine enough, but he’s well along in years—and for a sheltered daughter from some major merchant family to willingly offer herself as bride to such an incorrigible libertine along with a hefty dowry... Well, if the story’s true, it’s hardly what you’d call normal.”

“That man has done so many wicked things,” Kikumi said. “Perhaps that girl isn’t human at all—she might be some sort of vengeful spirit.” “No, no!” Matsuji interrupted. “Please, I’m begging you—stop that kind of talk!” “Oh, Matsuji-san,” Omasa said, pointing behind her, “what are you carrying on your back?”

Matsuji let out a shriek and jumped up.

At that moment, rounding the corner of the latticed fence, the old footwear attendant guided a man into view. The man was around thirty, wearing a striped cotton-lined kimono layered with a workman’s coat, his hem tucked up into linen-lined work pants.

He confirmed with the old man, “This parlor?” before approaching the veranda. “Open up,” the man called out. “I’m from Kazusaya in Suga-cho.” The commotion in the parlor stopped abruptly, and Yonehachi stood up and opened the sliding door. “You know who I am—Shichizō from Kazusaya the informant,” the man whispered. “There’s a customer named Kaya Seiichi here, right?” “Hmph,” Yonehachi said, sitting back down. “The Young Master has returned.”

“He left? When did he leave?” “It was just moments ago,” Yonehachi answered. “A messenger came with a letter, and upon reading it, he departed immediately.” The man called Shichizō tightened his expression. “That letter—wasn’t it a summons from a woman?” “Indeed, that was the nature of the matter.” “Where did he go?” Shichizō pressed further. “Do you know his destination?” “No, he didn’t say anything at all.”

“Is there a letter?” Yonehachi shook his head. “The Young Master took it with him.”

Shichizō turned sharply around. Behind Yonehachi’s “Thank you for your trouble,” Shichizō rounded the latticed fence and broke into a run. It being the beginning of evening and the area known as Yanagibashi, the town’s lights glowed brightly; among the people coming and going, geishas in parlor attire could be seen, while from the restaurants came the sounds of music and singing—the whole area bustled with such liveliness that one would hardly believe it was winter.

Aoki Chinosuke stood at the base of Yanagibashi and recognized Shichizō running toward him.

“Was Seiichi there?” Shichizō waved his hand while panting, barely managing to catch the jitte slipping from his pocket. “He wasn’t there,” he said. “A summons letter came—he left just now.” “The summons letter,” Aoki said. “Damn it. Were we one step too late?” “What should we do?” “You’re done here. I’ll check Kawaramachi.”

And he started running.

—He might have gone home to change.

Kawaramachi was a stone’s throw away. If he was going to meet a woman, it was conceivable that he would stop to change clothes. If he hurried, he might make it—thinking this, he ran.

He had just visited the house in Kawaramachi and had been directed to a teahouse by the elderly maid left behind, but when he rushed back, Seiichi had not returned. “No, he hasn’t returned,” the elderly maid said anxiously. “Has something happened to the Young Master?” “I hope that’s not the case, but...” Aoki sighed, “—If he returns, tell him to stop by Kazusaya in Suga-cho. No—the person in question isn’t at fault, but carelessness could cost him his life. Understand?”

“You mean Kazusaya the informant, sir?” “That’s right—there’s no need to worry, so tell him he must come by without fail.”

Reiterating the instructions to ensure she wouldn’t forget, Aoki Chinosuke left the house.

Ten On his way back to the samurai residences in Hatchōbori, Aoki Chinosuke repeatedly berated himself for his incompetence in always being one step behind.

The night before last—he had followed the two of them. Though Shichizō would have sufficed, he had taken precautions and followed them himself. And after confirming that the two had entered the house in Yushima Yokochō, he asked the neighbors about Orin. She was gentle, pretty, and good-natured—a fine young woman. He asked at three houses, but all three praised her in the same way. Her family home seemed to be a large merchant house in the downtown district; they advertised themselves as tea instructors but did not take disciples. Perhaps due to her frail constitution, she was convalescing, living alone with just a maid, with no visitors calling on her, let alone any scandalous rumors. In this way, everything Orin had said aligned perfectly.

――Had I missed the mark? With that thought, he returned directly. The previous day, he had attended the magistrate’s office. There was a thief requiring interrogation, necessitating coordination with the assigned magistrate; afterward, he handled administrative duties until evening. Then today, having business at the North Magistrate’s Office, he went there—but on his return journey, something suddenly occurred to him, prompting a precautionary detour to Ishimachi. There existed a paper merchant called Iseya. The proprietor’s name was Kihee; his wife had passed away two years prior, and he had a seventeen-year-old son named Masakichi. Up to that point, everything aligned—but the critical detail regarding the daughter differed. Iseya’s daughter was named Oise and had married into Yoshinoya, a thread and cotton merchant in Nihonbashi Makichō. Naturally, she remained at Yoshinoya currently pregnant—her due month being next month, it was said.

“Do you know a woman named Orin?”

Aoki Chinosuke asked in that way. He inquired in exhaustive detail about Orin's character, current residence, and her display of a tea instructor's signboard, but Iseya answered they knew no such person. "But since she seems intimately familiar with this household," he pressed, "there must be some daughter among your child's friends or neighbors matching this description." "Our Oise was always withdrawn and timid—she only kept two or three friends," replied Iseya. "And I don't recall any neighborhood girls fitting that description."

“What about these two or three friends she had?” Aoki Chinosuke pressed further with his questioning.

"That is correct, sir." Kihee paused to think before answering. "Two were daughters from this neighborhood—one took a husband, and one still remains at home. The third girl, who was closest to Oise, passed away this New Year." "She died? Where was that girl from?" "In Honkoku-cho, there is a drugstore called Musashiya. Their only daughter was named Oshino-san."

——Musashiya, Musashiya. Two of the friends had lived in the neighborhood, and one was said to have died. Though he seemed to recall something about the store name "Musashiya," he decided capturing Orin took priority and immediately hailed a street palanquin to rush to Hongō. But Orin was already gone. When he asked the neighbors, they said she had moved out early yesterday morning—having gone around to inform them she was "returning to her family home"—with no one knowing her destination.

"She's sharp—terrifyingly sharp," he muttered as he walked. "I thought I could at least get Kaya's heir, but even that was beaten by a single step. What a disgrace."

He clicked his tongue. ——Kaya’s heir might be killed. He might return safely, but the woman had likely moved suddenly because she sensed danger. If that’s the case—in other words, if the woman was lying in wait for him—he likely wouldn’t return safely, and there was no way to prevent it. "Is there any way?" Aoki asked himself. "After being burned the night before last, a girl this sharp wouldn’t choose a place where she could be easily caught."

Even if they were to summon her again to a restaurant-teahouse, covering every corner of this vast city of Edo would prove impossible. "I should have arrested her outright that night before last." Muttering this through clenched teeth, he gave a sharp shake of his head. "Enough wallowing—what matters now lies ahead. We'll abandon pursuit of Kaya's wastrel heir. How do we apprehend that girl?"

His pace slackened, and he walked in silence for a while along the row of houses lining the moat. Then, when he crossed what appeared to be Edobashi Bridge, he saw a Yotaka Soba vendor who had unloaded his wares by the roadside and was boiling water while fanning the fire beneath the pot. He passed by after just a glance, but after proceeding about a block, he suddenly stopped and stared up at the night sky.

——Musashiya. The Yotaka Soba stall's lantern bore the characters "Benkei." He had passed it with only a glance, but those written characters must have stirred an association. It was then he first remembered—the incident where three family members had burned to death.

“At a dormitory in Kameido, the parents and daughter burned to death—it was certainly something like that.” As he began walking, he said aloud: “From what I vaguely recall—the mother and daughter were healthy. The father was critically ill, but the mother and daughter were perfectly robust. I heard people questioning how they could have all burned to death together.” It was said that Iseya’s daughter had been closest to the daughter of that Musashiya. He quickened his pace, hailed a street palanquin at the foot of Kaizoku Bridge, and had it hurry to Hatchōbori.

When he returned to the compound, he summoned Constable Iida Juubei and had him investigate who had conducted the corpse examination of the Musashiya parent and child. And when he found out it was Uchimura Itadayu of the regular rounds, he immediately went to visit his residence. Uchimura was drinking sake and first suggested sharing a drink, but Chinosuke declined and stated his business.

“Ah, I remember that well.” Though quite drunk, Uchimura snapped to attention when discussing official matters. “Putting aside the critically ill patient, it seemed strange for a healthy wife and daughter to burn to death. I conducted an exceptionally thorough investigation.” “What condition were the bodies in?” “They were completely burned—all three reduced almost entirely to bones,” Uchimura said. “I had a doctor attend as well. Two bodies were male and female, while the third was smaller-framed with bones clearly indicating youth. Thus it was confirmed as the daughter’s remains.”

“Is it possible for bodies to burn down to bare bones?” “I believe it was due to the oil—the scene reeked intensely of it, and there appeared to be a substantial amount of lamp oil stored in the storeroom. While their main business was pharmaceuticals, they also operated an oil shop as a sideline.”

Eleven

Uchimura Itadayu recounted these details as he dredged up his memory—the maid Omasa at the dormitory, the mother who had been drinking, and the daughter worn down from long nursing duties, appearing quite frail. “What’s wrong?” Uchimura asked after finishing his account. “Is there something suspicious about that case?” “No,” Chinosuke replied evasively, “I just thought of something else, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Apologizing for the intrusion, Chinosuke immediately stood up. Even accounting for the oil, would three people burn down to their bones in a mere house fire? Moreover, the mother and daughter had been in robust health. Though the mother had been drunk and the daughter weakened from caregiving fatigue—there had to be some underlying reason. Oil. One drunk, one exhausted, and one critically ill patient. The oil had burned with terrible intensity. The maid had been abruptly dismissed and sent home at dusk.

“It’s not unusual for coincidences to pile up like this,” Chinosuke muttered. “But we must consider the possibility of tampering. If there was tampering—who would’ve done it, and for what reason?” He concentrated his thoughts on that question.

The next day, Aoki Chinosuke went to investigate at Musashiya. The current master was Ishichirou - adopted from Kameya Ihei of a branch family - though nearly all shop employees remained unchanged. Only clerk Tokujirou had reportedly taken leave to open his own shop. Chinosuke made discreet inquiries from head clerk Yoshisuke down to apprentices and errand boys. He gained nothing. The deceased master and daughter must have treated their staff exceptionally well. All praised them extravagantly and still grieved deeply over their tragic deaths. In contrast, mistress Osono seemed unpopular - though none spoke ill outright - even amiable Yoshisuke showed reluctance discussing her.

After inquiring about Tokujirou’s shop, Chinosuke left Musashiya. Tokujirou’s family home was in Ebara District—a large landowner with over ten generations of history, said to hold the privilege of using a family name and bearing swords. He was the second son but had entered service at Musashiya of his own volition. Last autumn, having completed his apprenticeship, it had been decided that this year he would be granted a branch of the shop. In May of this year, he opened a shop in Shitaya Okachimachi, but it was said there had been substantial financial assistance from his family home for this.

——He would try approaching Tokujirou.

When he returned to Hatchōbori with that thought, a constable named Yonezawa Sakuma, who had been waiting impatiently, said, “Another camellia petal.” Chinosuke opened his mouth. “A killing?” “A man was killed,” Yonezawa said, “with a single red camellia petal at his bedside.” “So it’s come to this after all.” “The murder weapon was the usual hairpin—a single stab to the heart, they say.” “Who was it?” Chinosuke hurriedly asked. “Where’s the location?” “The location is the second floor of an inn called Yamatoya in Shirakashi Tsukimachi,” Yonezawa answered. “No one has gone there yet. Ida is keeping watch to preserve the scene. We were waiting for your return, Aoki-san.”

“Let’s go immediately. Get things ready.” That damned playboy heir, Chinosuke thought.

You brought this upon yourself. Back then you'd said things like "She's practically my fiancée" and "I'm looking after her." If you'd listened to my warnings and used that head of yours to question her background, this wouldn't have happened. Must've been completely besotted. What a damned fool you are at your age.

He rode ahead alone in the palanquin, hastening its pace as these thoughts churned. Though the man had reached his mid-thirties and wallowed in every vice imaginable, what a fool he remained—this judgment Chinosuke leveled even as he scorned his own incompetence for failing to save him. To let himself be manipulated by some chit of seventeen or eighteen, scampering about like a lost pup—the sheer absurdity of it made him curse himself as the greatest laughingstock of all. Yamatoya stood as a substantial inn establishment where Nizaemon, its proprietor, awaited alongside two municipal officials and members of the fire brigade. Chinosuke obtained a cursory account from the assigned maid, the head clerk, and Nizaemon himself—the sequence matched the prior two incidents exactly: first the man's arrival, then the woman's appearance shortly after to order food and drink. She came unaccompanied by any attendant. Already deep in his cups upon arrival, the man proceeded to down nearly a shō more of sake without touching his meal before declaring he'd stay the night, prompting the maid to prepare his bedding.

“Then—about half a koku [an hour] must have passed,” the maid in charge said. “I realized I’d forgotten to prepare water for his sobering, so I got it ready and went to the parlor. I called out softly, but thinking he must already be asleep, I slid open the sliding door as quietly as I could… And there was the female guest facing this way, wearing just her long undergarment. I was so startled—”

The maid faltered shyly. The female guest seemed to have just risen, her upper body exposed with only a single undergarment. Perhaps she hadn’t heard the maid’s call; startled, she hid her beautiful breasts before whispering in a hushed voice that she would be leaving now. “Since my home is nearby, I will return,” she instructed, “but this man is quite drunk and, as you can see, sleeping soundly, so please let him rest quietly until morning.” The maid continued, “Then she paid for both their charges and gave me a generous tip. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about her manner.”

"She said she had discovered the man had been killed a little past ten in the morning."

While listening, the constable and scribe arrived, so Chinosuke went up to the second floor. The crime scene was an eight-mat room at the end, where Ida Jūbei sat listlessly smoking tobacco. In the center of the parlor, bedding had been laid out, with a pillow screen surrounding the head area. The corpse was Kaya Seiichi; the quilt had been thrown back, and a flat silver hairpin was thrust into his bared chest beneath the left nipple. Chinosuke shuddered violently. The silver hairpin thrust deep and straight into the yellowish, wax-like skin seemed to cry out with voices of resentment and curses. He averted his eyes and looked toward the bedside. There, as though blood had been shed, a single red camellia petal lay placed as if to hint at something.

“There was something like this,” Ida Jūbei said. “I noticed it peeking out from under the pillow, so I took it out.” It was a rolled and folded letter, with "Aoki-sama" written on the front. Since it bore his surname, he was slightly startled, and still crouching, he unfolded it. When he read it, it was indeed addressed to him, and the following was written. “I am Rin whom you met the other night. At that time I deceived you, and now I cause you trouble again. You must surely consider me a hateful woman, but there are profound circumstances behind this. Moreover, if fortune favors me, I believe I shall trouble you only twice more. Once that is done, I intend to surrender myself to you and explain these circumstances in full. But for now, let me state one thing alone: ...that in this world, there exist crimes which established laws cannot punish.” Rin.

Chinosuke pursed his lips. Crimes that cannot be punished by law. He kept his eyes fixed on that phrase in silence for a long time. "Two more..." he muttered to himself. "Is there no law to stop this? ...What exactly have these men done? What do the camellia petals mean?" Ida Jūbei tapped his tobacco pipe, and at the sound, Chinosuke regained his composure.

“Kurahashi,” he said to the clerk while rolling up the letter, “draw me a floor plan.”

Chapter Five I

I

“Aren’t you going to take a cup, Oyone?” Genjiro said. “You could at least join me once in a while.” “When I drink, I get loud.” “That’s fine—I don’t mind a little noise.” Genjiro picked up the heated sake flask. “If you get drunk and rowdy, you’d look all the more charming. No need to hold back—have one.” Oyone gave a bashful smile and took the cup with a graceful tilt of her body, but when sake was poured for her, she kept holding the cup as she glanced at the garden from the corner of her eye, then immediately looked back at Genjiro. The man was Genjiro, proprietor of the Maruume bag shop in Nihonbashi Yorozucho. He was said to be exactly forty years old, but his appearance was much younger; even at most, he did not seem to be over thirty-five.

“What should I do?” Oyone said. “They say you have a bad reputation with women, and I still don’t fully understand your true feelings. I’m worried about what might happen once you’re drunk.” “Don’t be absurd—saying you don’t know my true feelings? That’s my line!” Genjiro poured himself a drink. “We first met at the Morita-za’s summer play, didn’t we?” “It’s autumn—July—and what’s more—you made it so that I, a woman, was the one approaching you. That’s more frightening than hateful.”

“Don’t be absurd—that’s a complete fabrication,” Genjiro said. “I didn’t even know you were in the box seats then. At the time—well—I’d been drinking with friends since the night before.” “There were geisha there too, weren’t there?” “They were just... friends.” “Does your good friend cling to you like this?” Oyone glanced toward the garden again but immediately turned back to glare at him. “To think you’d cast those sinful eyes my way too—flirting openly in box seats packed with spectators without even lowering the screens—you truly are a terrifying man.”

“That’s a complete fabrication! I had no memory of seeing you until the maid called me to the teahouse parlor—first of all,” he said, pouring himself another drink. “—First of all, if you thought I was such a frightening man, you wouldn’t have summoned me to a teahouse parlor in the first place.” “You’re such a hateful man.” Oyone looked at him with eyes brimming with molten allure. “Those versed in society’s ways might not understand, but a woman like me—ignorant of worldly affairs and men’s hearts—when faced with your gestures and those piercing gazes of yours, finds herself utterly powerless to control her own being.”

“You do remember, don’t you?” “Wasn’t I just flustered because it was my first time? If I’d known better, would I ever fall for someone as ill-natured as you?” “There—that’s exactly it,” Genjiro said. “Your eyes, your gestures, even your way with words—they’re just like Sawadaya’s, only more alluring still. Miss Oyone, you must have either been Shimamura Tozou’s favorite pupil or else polished your skills through countless affairs.”

“Yes, I do like Sawadaya.” “There you go changing again.” Genjiro kept hold of the heated sake flask as he watched Oyone with wondering eyes. “That’s precisely what baffles me. One moment you appear an innocent maiden who knows nothing of the world, the next as someone thoroughly skilled in amorous arts, then flutter back to maidenly decorum. Over a hundred days have passed since we first met, and we’ve encountered each other alone like this seven or eight times now. Yet still I cannot fathom you.”

Oyone tilted her head with a smile. "It’s I who should say I cannot fathom your true feelings," he said as a serious gleam appeared in his eyes. "Oyone, tell me the truth—who are you, and why do you torment me so?"

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” Oyone shook her shoulders with affected sweetness. “I’ve pleaded with you countless times not to ask until I say so, haven’t I? I don’t pry into your affairs either—I like you, I meet you because I want to see your face. Isn’t that enough?” “That may suffice for you, Oyone-san, but it doesn’t satisfy me.”

“Oh, come now! Wasn’t that our agreement from the very beginning?” Oyone straightened her posture. “If you’re so displeased, I’ll cease meeting you altogether.” “Have you grown weary of me already?”

“You’re the one saying such mean things,” Oyone replied in a subdued voice. “I’ve never once asked you to make me your wife, nor have I caused you any trouble through these meetings. Even if my family were wealthy, a daughter like me would have to endure great hardships to do such things—yet for the sake of meeting you, I’ve borne struggles I can’t even put into words.”

“Alright, alright—spare me,” Genjiro flusteredly cut in. “I was wrong to bring up such childish talk—I’ll own up to that—but seeing you shoulder these hardships pains me as a man! Haven’t I told you time and again I’d do anything I can?” “My struggles are my own doing. You needn’t bother yourself over them.”

“That’s what I call cold—this chilly attitude of yours is unbearable, Oyone,” he said in a voice that suggested he’d straightened his posture. “Let me ask just one thing—are you truly satisfied with merely meeting like this?”

Oyone softly averted her gaze.

“You’re no child of twelve or thirteen, Oyone. If you truly loved me and met me for that reason, we couldn’t keep having these child’s play meetings forever,” Genjiro said. “—If you’re satisfied with just this, then your claim of loving me isn’t genuine.” “You wouldn’t understand, I tell you.” “You and I are a man and a woman, you know.”

“You don’t understand, do you?” Oyone whispered in a voice so low it was nearly inaudible, “...since we can’t become husband and wife. A woman can’t make such a clean break as a man.” “When you put it that way, I’ve no retort—but for a man, there’s nothing more agonizing than this kind of endurance.” “I’m suffering too,” Oyone whispered. “—Actually, I… tonight…”

2

A voice came from beyond the sliding door. Oyone cut off her half-spoken words and responded, “Yes.” A young maid slid open the door, revealed her face, and spoke while remaining seated in the corridor. “Would you be the master of Maruume?” “Yes, that’s right.” Oyone answered before Genjiro could stop her. “Is there some issue?” “Well... there’s someone here to see you...” “A visitor?” “You see...” The maid hesitated slightly. “A woman accompanied by two small children—she said her name was Tsuru-san—wishes to see the master, even if just briefly.”

“No no, that won’t do!” Genjiro hurriedly waved his hand. “Who in their right mind would relay such a message? Tell her I’m not here! Say I’m not here!” “But she says she followed you here and saw you come in.” “Please keep her waiting.” “Yes, I’ll be right there—tell her that,” said Oyone. The maid closed the sliding door and left. “This is no joke—what are you planning?” Genjiro panicked. “I won’t meet with such people!”

“I’ll be the one to meet her,” Oyone said. “If she’s come trailing after you with two small children in tow, she must be someone you’ve driven to tears—this Otsuru-san. Just what kind of person is she?” “This is troublesome.” He frowned, though his expression—more foolishly boastful than troubled—betrayed him. “How embarrassing for this strange matter to surface now. It’s not some romantic tale you’re imagining—just a maid who worked at a shop in Yorozu-cho.”

“My, what excellent taste you have.” “A spell came over me—I was drunk and knew nothing,” he said. “My wife happened to be away taking the waters, so I had Otsuru bring me sobering water. She must have been the one with notions—I hadn’t the slightest intention of such a thing.” “So you made her bear two children,” Oyone gently glared, her tone sweetly venomous. “They say you’ve a silver tongue, but you’re the wicked one here.”

“No—it truly was a demon’s possession! I wasn’t some woman-crazed fool—who’d go out of their way to meddle with a maid?”

“Kōraiya—that’s the place, then,” said Oyone as she stood up. “What are you doing?” Genjiro said. “There’s no need to meet her—just leave it be.” “My conscience won’t allow it—things can’t be left like that.” Oyone said in a tone meant to stoke male pride, “Since I’m essentially stealing you away from that woman, I must at least make some recompense—it’d be ungrateful not to.”

Oyone took a small furoshiki-wrapped bundle she had placed in the corner of the staggered shelves and quietly slipped out into the corridor.

After about a quarter of an hour—when the sake ran out and someone clapped their hands—the middle-aged maid brought two warmed sake bottles on a tray and said, “Your companion has returned home.” “She’s gone back, you say? Really?” “Yes, she said she would take her leave early due to our circumstances.” The maid sat down to pour sake and made a gesture as if striking Genjiro. “She settled the bill and, saying the master might drink more, left us not just a tip but something extra too.”

He clicked his tongue. "Again?" he said. "Complacency is the enemy." "For such a beautiful young lady to go this far," the maid said while pouring sake, "you must have quite the skills, sir."

“Let’s have one.” He handed the maid a cup. “What’s your name?”

“I am called Osada. Please continue to favor me with your patronage.”

“About what was mentioned earlier…” He jerked his chin. “Is that girl a regular here?” “Oh, not at all!” The maid returned the cup, pantomimed a slap with one hand while pouring sake with the other. “Why feign ignorance when you know perfectly well?” “No—I don’t know this establishment. This is my first visit.” “Then that woman must also be new here—unless you’ve another paramour to meet in such places.”

Genjiro waved his hand to cut her off. “No, that’s not it—that’s not what I meant! I was just asking whether you frequent this place or not. If it’s your first time here, then let it be your first time—that’s fine.” “Do regale me with all the details—I’ll handle it,” the maid said as she took a cup from the tray unbidden. “If you’d be so kind—pour me a drink.” Genjiro gripped the sake flask with a sullen expression.

The establishment was called Igamasa in Bakurochō, Nihonbashi, serving as both an inn and restaurant-teahouse. Going from there toward Kodenmachō and turning left just before the moat stood a two-story building housing a Yabu Soba restaurant. In that small second-floor room, Oyone spoke with a woman named Otsuru. The five-year-old girl clutched an egg-topped rice bowl, splashing broth incessantly as she devoured her soba, while the younger girl—who would turn two after the New Year—suckled at her mother’s breast.

Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed since they arrived here. Otsuru kept wiping her eyes as she continued to recount, in slightly accented speech, the course of her relationship with Genjiro.

“I was such a fool.” “But why is it,” Otsuru said in a stuffy-nosed voice, “that when things come to this, all women end up saying the same thing? ‘In the end, I was just a fool’… How strange it is.”

Otsuru was fifteen years old at the time. She had come from some mountain village in Hitachi Province to work as a servant, and before half a year had passed, someone had sneaked into the maids’ quarters. In that room, three others were sleeping—a female cook, a maid, and an errand girl. If she had cried out, she might have escaped harm, but fearing that being noticed by the three would lead to disaster, she could neither scream nor struggle. Having grown up in the countryside until she was fifteen, she knew quite a lot about romantic matters. Of course she had only seen and heard about such things, had no concrete experience, and her body had not yet matured into that of a woman, but she thought this must be "that act," and believed it marked the divide between happiness and misfortune.

In the countryside, that was how it was. If such a thing happened even once, they were destined to become husband and wife; but if the man had no true intentions and it was done in jest, then the woman had no choice but to weep.

III

Hitachi Province was said to have strong-willed country folk. It couldn’t be said that was entirely true, but Otsuru was indeed strong-willed. Genjiro had a wife and three children. The Maruume shop was thriving, and their finances were prosperous. In this situation, there was no hope of becoming his wife; if she remained silent, she would merely become a plaything. Having thought that, she requested future security from Genjiro. “Ah, of course. That’s my intention as well.”

Genjiro said so. “Even if I were to say right now, you’re still too young. In two or three years, I’ll have you settled in a house and set up a bag shop for you. “Because I like you more than my wife,” he said, “once that happens, I’ll leave the shop to my employees and live with you—that’s what I promised.” That was not a lie. When she became pregnant at seventeen, she rented a house in an alley off Horie Sanchōme, hired a single maid, and began living comfortably.

For over a year, the allowance was sufficient—he bought me kimonos and hair ornaments too—but gradually his visits grew sparse and the payments dwindled; when I became pregnant with our second child last autumn, he began claiming it wasn’t his. “I only come once a month or once every two months.” “I know exactly what you were up to during that time.” “He clearly stated, ‘That child has a different father.’”

“When I heard that, I nearly fainted,” said Otsuru. “By then, life was already so hard that I’d let the maid go—but maybe she’d made up some groundless tale? He claimed he had witnesses.” Oyone gave a slight nod. “After that, he stopped coming altogether—even the small allowances that had been arriving bit by bit ceased entirely. Not a single coin came anymore.” Otsuru mechanically wiped her eyes. “Even without this, I had to do piecework to get by. But being heavy with child and not receiving a single coin in allowance left me no choice—I closed that house and moved to a backstreet tenement in the same Nichōme district.”

From then until childbirth, and from childbirth until today, she sold the kimonos, obis, and hair ornaments she had received from him, supplementing her piecework to somehow manage to get by. However, there was no hope of Genjiro changing his mind, and if things continued like this, the three of them—parent and children—might starve to death, so she decided it would be better to return to her rural hometown in Hitachi. “I still have my parents back home—they probably won’t turn me away—” Otsuru continued, “but I can’t possibly return empty-handed in front of my brother’s wife when I’m bringing two little ones along. So I worked up the courage and went to Maruume’s shop.”

The child who had finished eating soba came over to her mother and began to fuss. The child insisted on eating something more; Oyone took out some coins and gave them, saying that since it was already late at night, they should make do with that for now, and comforted them by saying that once tomorrow came, they could buy whatever they liked to eat. "I knew it was hopeless." After expressing her thanks, Otsuru continued, "They said the master was out, then the mistress came and spoke of me like I was some dog or beast."

Of course there was nothing to say—from their perspective, she had stolen their husband. No matter how much they might hate her—and hate her they did—Otsuru returned without saying a word. It was then that she thought, just once, *Should I just die?* “I only thought that once then,” Otsuru said, “and immediately changed my mind—no, rather, I thought better of it. There are plenty of people in this world who lose their husbands while being proper wives and manage to raise two or even three children. I thought to myself—damn it all, I won’t just die like this.”

After that, she tried to catch Genjiro outside, keeping watch for when he would emerge from the shop whenever she found time. She had managed to catch him about three times, but each time he had forcibly shaken her off. So tonight, thinking to settle matters in front of others, she had followed him all the way to Bakurochō—such was her account. "That must have been dreadful for you." Oyone sighed and said, "But you're right—if you cling to lingering feelings for that man, he'll only ruin your entire life. A woman can certainly raise one or two children she's borne—return to the countryside and raise them properly. Show that worthless man what you're made of."

Then Oyone opened the fukusa-wrapped bundle, combined twenty ryō in gold with two small ryō coins, wrapped them in paper, and held it out. Otsuru stared dumbfounded, but as it was held out before her, she shook her head and recoiled. “This may not be enough,” said Oyone, “but it should suffice for a small gift to take home. Take this and return to your hometown as soon as possible—there’s no need to hold back at all.”

“What do you mean by this?” Otsuru looked suspiciously at Oyone. “Why would you give such a large sum to a complete stranger like me?” “I’m a woman too,” said Oyone. “As women, we understand each other’s hardships. I don’t need this money.” “You’re trying to—” “No, don’t speak.” Oyone shook her head while folding the fukusa. “This isn’t the time for pride or pretense. This money is rightfully yours—take it properly for your children’s sake. You understand?”

Otsuru bowed her head and said, “I’m sorry,” then immediately raised her eyes. “But truly—who are you? Could you at least tell me your name?” “I’m just someone you passed by on the roadside.” “But I just can’t accept that.”

“Fine,” Oyone said, rising to her feet. “If you ever find yourself thinking of me, just consider today the anniversary of my death and burn half a stick of incense. That’s more than enough.”

“Oh, how could you?!” Otsuru’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?!” “Just a joke—please forgive me.” Oyone said while touching the children’s faces, “You’ll return to Grandpa and Grandma in the countryside. Be strong, good children—and be dutiful to your mother.”

And Oyone left the room.

IV

The night she returned from Bakurocho, Oshino appeared to have caught a cold; from midnight onward, she suddenly developed a high fever and was confined to bed for five full days.

The current house was located beneath Dōkanyama, the retirement residence of a large plant nursery. It was Sakichi who had found it; Oshino had borrowed it under the pretext of being the daughter of a Kyōbashi draper recuperating after an illness, while Sakichi was registered as the store’s visiting clerk. It was Oshino who had pulled Sakichi out of Masuya. Bound by a monthly stipend of one ryō, he now lived in Negishi and visited Oshino once every ten days under the pretext of "checking in on her." He was an indispensable person to Oshino. Sakichi was the man who had arranged her mother's affairs; his past and disposition made him well-suited not only for finding her partners but also for investigating necessary matters, and he himself had something he needed to repay Oshino.

While bedridden with a cold, Oshino thought of Genjiro of Maruume. What a terrible person he was. He had taken advantage of a country girl barely fifteen, gotten her pregnant twice only to cast her out. Moreover, he had made a fuss claiming one child wasn’t his own. He’d likely coerced some dismissed nursemaid into it—to go so far as procuring witnesses marked utter depravity. "How could anyone do such things?" In her sickbed, Oshino asked herself: "However wicked one might be—could any human truly commit such atrocities?"

If she were to believe only Otsuru’s one-sided account—wouldn’t that be a mistake? Oshino posed this counterquestion as if trying to calm herself. But immediately—“No”—she shook her head against the pillow.

"That man is exactly that sort of person," Oshino whispered in a hushed voice. "Both he and Mother are capable of such things. What Mother did to Father after he died wasn't something any human could do. They resemble each other closely—both completely alike in their ability to commit heartless, cruel acts without hesitation." I am the child of those two—in this body of mine flows the blood of those two.

“Ah!” Oshino screamed, “Ah!” When the maid Masa came rushing in, Oshino was clawing at her chest with both hands, groaning with an animal-like voice as she writhed beneath the futon. Masa sent the elderly maid Okiba running to fetch a doctor and tried everything to calm Oshino down, but meanwhile Oshino began coughing violently, and just when it seemed she might stop breathing, she coughed up blood. Seeing blood gush two, three times from her mouth and scatter from the futon to the tatami mats, Masa nearly lost consciousness.

I’ve contracted the same illness as Father. Looking at the color of the blood she had vomited, Oshino thought this while desperately suppressing the urge to faint. Father has come to take me—this is proof that Father is waiting for me to join him. The doctor did not tell the truth. The cold had worsened, causing a wound to form in the throat, which then tore open from coughing and resulted in bleeding. He offered such strained deceptions and repeatedly emphasized an excessively strict treatment regimen despite that.

“Soon, Father,” Oshino whispered in a half-conscious state, “it’ll be soon, so wait for me.” But the illusions of her mother and Genjiro did not easily fade, and for two more days after that, Oshino continued to writhe in agony, cursing her mother, cursing Genjiro, and cursing the blood flowing through her own body. During this time, Sakichi came to visit, but as the doctor had prohibited it, Masa conveyed the refusal, and he left without meeting Oshino. He had apparently said there was something important to discuss, but without waiting for his next scheduled visit in ten days, he came again and insisted, “I absolutely must meet her.”

Oshino got up and met him. For those two or three days, she began eating thick gruel, eggs, and small portions of pounded chicken, and felt no fear of the illness. Once I finish off the remaining two, this body will be ready to die at any time.

"No," Oshino thought. "No—that's not it. I must turn myself in, receive judgment, and fully confess everything. Until then, I must stay alive." Sakichi who entered was frightened. At least to Oshino, she could sense he was frightened and desperately trying to hide it. "This might be awkward to ask," Sakichi said immediately upon sitting down, "but could you send Masa-chan on an errand?"

“That child is fine—you know that, don’t you?” Oshino replied. “Besides, that child wouldn’t eavesdrop or anything.” “Then I’ll say it.” Sakichi moved closer on his knees and whispered, “Do you know an investigator called Aoki from Hatchōbori?”

Oshino nodded. "That man seems to have caught on." "Caught on? To what?" "They apparently exhumed the grave and examined the bones." "What do you mean by that?" Masa brought tea and sweets before withdrawing. Sakichi sipped the tea but scalded his tongue in his haste, his face contorting. "They've grown suspicious about the New Year's fire." Sakichi moistened his lips before continuing: "The master was a dying invalid, and the mistress's drunken collapse was witnessed by Masa from the dormitory. But you weren't like that. Even if you'd been drinking with the mistress, you shouldn't have been too intoxicated to move when the fire broke out. They theorize you might have been killed first, then set ablaze to cover it up."

Oshino held her breath. "So they went to Asakusa’s Jonenji Temple with some Dutch-style doctor in tow, dug up the grave, and examined the bones—that’s what they’re saying."

“Wait.” Oshino interrupted him, closed her eyes, and thought for a moment before finally saying, “All right. You know about the Kanda River boat market, don’t you?” “The boat inn, right? Yes, I know it.” “Please go there now and wait.” “What will you do?” “I’ll come right after you,” Oshino said. “Once we’re there, we’ll go over the details. There are matters we must discuss.”

“But wouldn’t that harm your health?” “It’s just a cold that’s gotten slightly worse.” Oshino took out a paper case from under the pillow, wrapped something inside it, and handed it to Sakichi. “There’s a boatman named Yata at that house—have him prepare a pleasure boat. And don’t forget to order sake and appetizers.”

Sakichi acknowledged this and stood up.

Five

"I must hurry," Oshino muttered to herself. "If I don’t—" What could examining the bones reveal? Oshino had no idea. But she felt something decisive would be exposed. Aoki apparently believed Oshino had been killed by someone; if they had traced it that far, the facts would likely come to light before long. But would they? Since everything had burned down to bones, there shouldn’t be anything left that could serve as evidence. There should definitely be nothing left. But officials had their own eyes; no matter how cleverly a crime was plotted, wasn’t it said that if investigated thoroughly, it would inevitably be discovered?

"He’s actually watching me right now," Oshino muttered. "If he finds anything suspicious, he’ll investigate Musashiya."

The shop was safe. The adopted head of the household, Ishirō, naturally knew nothing, and even the clerk Kasuke was unaware. Only Tokujirou knew she was alive. At the thought that Tokujirou might be investigated—Oshino shuddered. Were he interrogated, he likely wouldn’t have the resolve to insist until the end that he knew nothing. Even if he did possess such resolve, she couldn’t subject him to such torment. It was time to bring matters to a close—Oshino steeled herself.

Oshino took out her writing box and sat down at the desk. The money still remaining was a little over 250 ryo. Oshino divided it into two, wrapped both portions in paper, wrote "For Masa" on one package, placed it along with the other package into the desk drawer, and put the remaining money into her paper case. Then she stood up and looked around.

——There was nothing to tidy up. Since her body could give out at any moment, she had always disposed of anything needing disposal. There was nothing that would be embarrassing if seen by others. To be certain, Oshino looked around the room once more thoroughly before calling Masa. "I'm going out." When Masa came, she said, "I need to change—help me." "You're going out?" Masa stiffened her expression. "Please don't even joke about such things—not in this cold, and in your condition."

“Fine, then I won’t ask. Just leave.” “I will withdraw, but I cannot let you go out.” Masa declared resolutely, “The doctor has told you too—from what I see, your condition isn’t fit for going out. Even if I must use force, I won’t allow it.” “Then that’s perfect.”

Oshino went to the desk, opened the drawer, took out the money bundle from earlier, pushed it in front of Masa, and said.

“I’ll give you this, so please leave.” Masa turned pale.

“What is this?” “This includes your wages with a small token of gratitude,” Oshino said coldly. “You’ve been opposing me for ages—looking down on me for being young, aren’t you? I’d meant to dismiss you eventually, but now’s the perfect time to settle matters. Take this, pack your belongings, and leave.”

Tears overflowed from Masa’s eyes as she stared unwaveringly at Oshino, streaming down her cheeks and falling drop by drop onto her knees. “Are you truly saying this?” Masa asked in a choked voice. “Such a thing—where have I gone wrong? When have I ever defied you?” “Right now, you are.” Oshino stammered, averting her eyes as she said, “Right now—aren’t you defying what I’m saying?”

“Is this what you call defiance?”

“I’m begging you—don’t make that sound.” Oshino said as harshly as possible, “I hate women’s sniveling voices. Just take this and go over there.” Masa wiped her eyes with her hand. “Please forgive me. I will prepare your change of clothes.” “That’s enough. Don’t bother.” “I’m a fool, too dim to notice anything,” Masa said, standing up while pressing her face into her apron. “I only tried to stop you because I thought it’d harm your condition. I know full well you’re not truly angry now—you’re putting on this act for my sake. After nearly a year by your side, even a fool like me would realize that much. But why? Why must you do things this way?”

“It’s none of your business.” “No, I do know.” Masa sat down trembling and whispered in a hushed voice, “I don’t understand any of the reasons, but I knew everything that happened from autumn through winter at every place I accompanied you to.”

Oshino fell silent. Since falling ill, her face—which had always carried a faint flush in its cheeks—had turned a pale, dry gray, losing all expression and stiffening. "Even if I say this, I'm not blaming you or thinking badly of you." Masa continued in a steady voice, tears spilling down her cheeks, "I believe I understand your true nature—I've heard you crying alone at night, groaning in pain, tormented in your sleep. I don't know why—what compels you to do this—but that you must do it... I've never once doubted that."

“Please stop, just stop.”

“Yes, I’ll stop, I’ll stop—but please allow me to ask just one thing.” “No, don’t—I can’t tell you that.” “Must you really?” Even more tears overflowed from Masa’s eyes. “Don’t you trust me at all?”

“No, that’s not it.” Oshino looked at Masa with eyes that seemed drained of strength. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have kept you here until today. I thought you’d be all right, which is why I brought you along everywhere. But—I can’t tell you the reason.” “Why?”

Six

Oshino steadied her breathing, remained silent for a time, then spoke while keeping her eyes lowered. "Because it would make you guilty." "—What do you mean?" Masa pressed again. "As you say," Oshino continued quietly in a subdued voice, "I do this because I must—I've wagered my very life on it from the beginning. But... in society's eyes, what I've done constitutes terrible crimes. They may call me inhuman—a poison woman, a demon."

Masa's lips parted, revealing small, white, perfectly aligned teeth. "I plan to turn myself in soon," Oshino continued. "If I do, you'll be questioned too. That's why I want you to leave me now. Even if you stayed here, knowing nothing would keep you innocent. This is why I can't tell you anything."

“Is there no other way—” Masa said in a trembling voice, “Can’t you find some way to manage this?” Oshino shook her head quietly. “Even if you were me,” she said softly, “I think you couldn’t help but do this too—I only pray such things never happen again in this world.” A sob welled up in Masa’s throat. “Take this,” Oshino pushed the money bundle toward her. “Go home, marry a good man, and be happy for my sake as well. Now let’s get changed.”

When she had finished changing clothes, Masa went to summon the palanquin. “May I accompany you?” Oshino silently shook her head, put on her hood, and left the room.

The evening of the nineteenth day of the twelfth month was unseasonably warm. In the windless sky hung a massive cloud dyed orange, and under its glow, the town burned distressingly bright with sunset hues. But by the time the palanquin reached Funai, full darkness had fallen, and every house along the street was alight with lamps. The boat house stood along the Sakumachō riverbank—not particularly large, but containing a six-tatami and eight-tatami room downstairs, with two small private rooms upstairs. Sakichi waited in one of them.

He appeared to have drunk heavily with Yata, a middle-aged boatman—though only one sake warmer sat on the tray, his neck had flushed crimson, and his speech carried an unusual cadence. “Welcome back. It has been some time,” Yata said. Yata straightened his posture and bowed deeply. “Oh yes, I remembered clearly—that was the harvest moon night, was it not? You were so generous to me then. Yes, I’ve been awaiting your return ever since.”

Oshino looked at Sakichi.

“The preparations are ready,” Sakichi said. “It’s been so cold that I had a little drink, but shall we go right away?”

“Let’s do that,” Oshino said. Yata briskly stood up. “Then I’ll bring in the heated kotatsu,” he said, and went downstairs. Sakichi took the cup from the tray. “It’ll be cold out on the river. How about a drink to ward off the chill?” “I want to hear the rest of what you were saying earlier.” “By boat, by boat!” Sakichi waved his hand, poured himself sake, and drank. “But that’s why I arranged the boat, right?”

Oshino looked at Sakichi’s state and said, “I was going to have you go to Maruume, but there’s no use if you’re this drunk.” “I ain’t drunk—not a bit! But let’s hash out that matter proper tonight,” Sakichi said. “Maruume ain’t going anywhere.”

Oshino nodded while looking at Sakichi’s face.

Even after boarding the boat, Sakichi did not let go of his cup. Inside the houseboat enclosed by shoji screens sat a portable kotatsu covered with a gaudy quilt, a small brazier holding a sake warmer, and an array of drinking snacks laid out. Sakichi heated the sake himself, poured his own drinks, picked at the appetizers while fidgeting restlessly—all the while maintaining an incessant stream of chatter. “We’ve arrived.” Yata’s voice rang out as the boat scraped against the earthen embankment and halted. It clearly wasn’t a bridge mooring—though she’d instructed them to dock at Hashiba when boarding earlier—so when she slid open the shoji screens, she found they’d anchored beneath the riverside levee.

“It’s Mukōjima,” Sakichi said. “The area below Chōmeiji Temple. I thought this side would be better.” Then he stood up, opened the shoji screen at the stern, and whispered something to Yata. It had all been prearranged.

Before I came, they had arranged this while drinking, Oshino thought. At the stern, Yata said, "Well then, call me when you're done talking," and climbed the earthen embankment with sandals in hand. The shore of Mukōjima had shallows where reeds grew thickly, making it impossible to dock boats directly, but in one spot below Chōmeiji Temple, the water ran deep enough to reach the bank, allowing immediate access to the earthen embankment. After confirming the terrain, Oshino closed the shoji screen.

Sakichi staggered as he returned. "There's a Nara Tea shop beyond the earthen embankment," he said while sliding into the kotatsu. "Told them to go have a drink there - sent them away till we finish talking." "You're quick-witted," Oshino smiled faintly. "This sake's not overheated at all." "That matter - that matter!" Sakichi pulled the flask from the warming pot. "With all those things coming together - time to act now, eh?"

“I’ll hear the story.” “Now don’t go rushin’ me.” He drank a cup himself, shook another flask, transferred the sake to a decanter, poured it into the warming pot, and said: “Always figured examinin’ bones wouldn’t turn up nothin’—just amateur guesswork. Rice cakes need rice cake makers, eh? Magistrates got eyes sharp as mine here.” “Did they find something?” “The master and mistress.” Sakichi hiccuped. “Nothin’ odd ’bout their bones. But when they checked what was s’posed to be the young lady’s remains, that Dutch-style doctor shook his head, they say.”

Oshino held her breath. “This ain’t a woman’s bones,” Sakichi said, downing two cups. “It’s a young person’s bones alright, but the pelvic bone’s male. Even if it were a girl of sixteen or seventeen, the pelvic bone’d be different by then—this part here.”

Sakichi knocked his own waist with one hand.

Seven Oshino tightly closed her eyes. "They say this part can't be faked, see," Sakichi continued. "Women's pelvic bones splay open like this here—makes their hips and thighs wider. They're sayin' these are definitely a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old lad's bones." "Oshino-san, it's done for," he pressed on. "—Kikutarou's folks filed a missin' person report. Once they match that up, they'll sniff out his affair with the mistress too. Then Tokiwa, Chōdayū, Kaya Seiichi—they'll all get dragged out linked together like sweet potato vines. Don'tcha think?"

“I think so,” Oshino said, “and your name will come up too.”

“Gah! Was gonna say—you were the one who noticed it first! Trace things that far an’ my name’s bound to surface, eh?” Sakichi pulled the flask from the sake warmer, poured himself three cups and knocked them back. “Oshino-san—got paid to help you out, sure. But never laid a finger on anything myself. Just did what you told me—small favors here ’n there. They check into it? Clear as daylight. Hell, claim I don’t know you? Story’ll hold.”

“Do you really think so?” “Do you really think so? —You know damn well you did it all yourself.” "That’s not what I meant," Oshino said calmly. "You claimed you were just bought with money to help me—that you never personally intervened even once." “Are you sayin’ it ain’t like that?” "Do you really think so?" Oshino looked at him with sunken eyes. “You didn’t just help me—you helped Mother too. And not just Mother—widows, mistresses, unfaithful girls—you’ve arranged for dozens of entertainers and actors over the years. But that’s not all, Sakichi-san.”

“Hold on.” He shook his head and tapped the transom with one hand. “The conversation’s gotten all tangled up weirdly—what the hell does that mean?” “Because of you, dozens of women—their relatives and families—have fallen into ruin or been torn apart. Can you even imagine how much misfortune they’ve suffered, how many tears they’ve shed? My own mother is proof enough of that, don’t you think, Sakichi-san?”

“That’s what they call resentment—when you get all hung up on that kinda stuff,” Sakichi retorted. “You step outside human decency for your kicks, you get what’s comin’ to ya. If you wanna blame someone, blame every last one of ’em. Look—I didn’t come here to talk about this crap. Oshino-chan, there’s somethin’ important I gotta say—so listen up.” “What I’m saying hurts, doesn’t it?” “If you think I’d be hurt by that kinda talk—think I’m some small-minded fool—this ain’t no joke. Just listen to what I gotta say.” Swaying the cup in his hand over the kotatsu, Sakichi said, “Look, Oshino-chan—I’m thinkin’ of sharin’ life and death with you.”

Oshino smiled. "Living and dying, you say?" "I’ve been sweet on you from the start," said Sakichi, setting down his cup. "For your sake, I don’t need no wife—whether breathin’ or cold dead, I aim to stick with you." "You’ve got quite the silver tongue." "You can’t hole up in Edo no more—the flames are lickin’ at your heels. Got no choice but to sell off that land," Sakichi leaned in close, his whisper urgent. "But you’re just eighteen summers, never wandered past your own doorstep. Can’t go it alone—need someone tough to help you claw through. Here’s what I’m puttin’ on the table—"

“The rest goes without saying.” Oshino picked up the sake warmer. “Here, let me pour you a drink—the matter I wanted to discuss… it’s precisely that.” “No—that ain’t it. My proposal’s about you an’ me becomin’ husband an’ wife.” Sakichi drank the sake but spilled most of it. “You’ve got plenty of money, I hear, but if you’re skippin’ outta Edo, you’ll need travel permits—and a married couple’s safer than a woman alone. Plus, I’ve been crazy about you from the start.”

“I told you there was no need to ask.” Oshino poured him another drink. “That wasn’t what I intended to discuss from my side.”

“Heh, heh.” Sakichi laughed with vulgar cunning. “That trick won’t work on me. You think I’m some fool who’d fall for a sweet trap like candy boiled in sugar? Not this guy.” “What trick are you talking about?” “Those flashy tricks taught hand-in-hand by Sawataya—some greenhorn might get dazzled by ’em, but they’re just right for this Sakichi,” he said, standing up and staggering around the kotatsu toward Oshino. “If what you just said was sincere, you wouldn’t be squirming like this.”

“You’re not one to back down, are you.” Sakichi grappled Oshino. He held her from behind, breathing roughly as he pressed his cheek to hers. “Not yet,” Oshino whispered sweetly. “Would you put out the light?” “What’s there to be embarrassed about?” “The shadows show on the shoji screen.” She pressed her back against him coquettishly. “What if someone sees us from the embankment? Put out the light.” Sakichi released his grip. Seeing Oshino begin to untie her obi, he blew out the lantern.

At that moment, two men walking along the embankment called out, “Hey there!” Probably drunk, they supported each other while shouting loudly, “We’re done for!” They must have seen the houseboat’s light go out; tangled together, they swam unsteadily, one of the men shouting, “Don’t show off, damn it!” while the other yelled, “I’ll chuck a rock at you, bastard!” “Lemme go,” he slurred, “I’ll find a rock and chuck it at ya!”

“Alright!” “I’ll help ya out too! If it’s for the good o’ society, I ain’t scared to die—swear on my life! Anything for makin’ the world better, I’ll do it!” “That’s a fine thing to say, you.” The first man leaned on his companion’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit of a man! Let’s take that spirit and storm over to Zenkō’s place, shall we?” “I’ve been waitin’ for this,” his companion slurred. “Let’s go wake that bastard up and make him buy us drinks.”

And still shouting incomprehensible things, they disappeared into the twilight. Before long, the houseboat’s shoji screens slid open, and Oshino leaned halfway out to meticulously wash her hands in the river water. After closing the shoji screens, she emerged near the stern a short while later. By then, she had donned a hood and pulled hemp-soled sandals from a cloth bundle held in one hand. With unsteady movements, she leapt ashore.

“Father,” Oshino whispered, gazing up at the sky, “just one remains. Grant me your strength until then.” She climbed the embankment and slowly made her way toward Terajima. The houseboat lay dark and silent against the shore, utterly still.

Part Six

1

Oshino was leaning by the window, watching the fire across the river.

The house was located at the bridgehead of Higashi-Ryōgoku, on the riverbank of Aioi-chō, with its rear facing the Sumida River. It was the house designated by Genjiro of "Maruume," and outwardly served as a practice hall for dance and nagauta. There were two signboards hung out front; a beautiful proprietress in her mid-thirties and a flirtatious woman of about twenty-two or three could be seen inside, along with two maids and what seemed to be a few servants working behind the scenes. The proprietress was Otaki, and the younger one was called Okinu; they were said to be mistresses of a hatamoto named Fujino something-or-other with an income of about 3,000 koku. The man wasn’t merely keeping the two women; under the guise of a practice hall, he secretly rented out spaces for clandestine trysts and arranged courtesans for samurai and wealthy townsmen. Of course, they didn’t accept clients without referrals, and since the fees were high, it brought in considerable income; however, Fujino something-or-other came twice a month, skillfully managed the two women, and took away all the profits cleanly.

The man was more cunning than any unlicensed brothel keeper. When that story was told, Genjiro had said this while contorting his face in contempt. Fujino was not only a hatamoto but also seemed to have connections with town officials; even street constables did not approach his house. Having heard this, Oshino had chosen there. According to Sakichi’s report, Aoki Chinosuke’s pursuit proved unexpectedly tenacious—his hands and eyes followed her footsteps with eerie precision, step by step. When Oshino heard they had dug up the grave and examined the bones, she felt such visceral terror that it was as if Aoki Chinosuke had reached out from behind and placed his hand on her shoulder.

Just one more left. This final target was precisely the one she couldn't let slip away. Until she eliminated this person, she absolutely must not be caught. These were the reasons Oshino had come for the first time to the house designated by the other party.

“It’s really burning, isn’t it,” came women’s voices conversing downstairs. “That must be Lord Ogasawara’s estate, right?” “That’s Lord Ōta Settsu’s,” another woman said. “Can’t you see the fire watchtower on the right? Lord Ogasawara’s is further to the right.” “They say it’s a fire on the opposite bank, but since it’s someone’s house burning, it’s prettier and more interesting than fireworks.”

“Who dares say such things?” came the proprietress’s voice. “Do you think it’s proper to take pleasure in others’ misfortune? I won’t tolerate this foolish talk.”

Oshino was watching the fire. About seven or eight blocks downstream from Ryōgoku Hirokōji—as the people downstairs had said—it appeared not to be a townhouse but a samurai residence; because the building stood tall, the flames looked high and large. Across the rippling water came the distinct clang of the suriban fire bell, the shouts of firefighters and fleeing residents, and even the voices of those rushing to see the blaze—all carried clearly over the river waves.

“It was midnight on the sixth day of New Year’s, wasn’t it?” Oshino murmured. “Behind the dormitory in Kameido—from where the hedge was—I watched the flames rise.”

About a year had passed since then, and so many things had happened, Oshino thought.

In the span of a single year, she had experienced what would amount to five—even ten—years for ordinary people. They were unpleasant experiences. She felt like washing her ears, scrubbing her eyes, scouring her hands—cleansing every inch of her body. Perhaps because the five men she had chosen were particularly vile, repulsive, and unforgivable individuals—though Sakichi had told her of over eight lovers her mother took, these five alone proved impossible to pardon. Having now met each one personally, having witnessed their true natures and the circumstances surrounding them firsthand, she could only think with revulsion: how utterly defiled and mud-caked so many lives in this world truly were.

“What people they were, what lives they led!” Oshino furrowed her brow. “I wonder—did they never feel ashamed or regretful, living like that?”

The individuals were separate matters—they themselves were already dead. But had they lived, Oshino thought, they would have continued their wicked deeds and despicable lives all the same.

Kishizawa Chōdayū. Tokiwa and his wife; Okane of the Kaiseki restaurant he had managed. Kaya Seiichi and the women surrounding him. When there exists one wicked person, that "evil" spreads successively, poisoning people. Once tainted by evil, one cannot easily free oneself from its poison.

—Otsuru, who had been a maid at Maruume, and her two young children. Otsuru would probably return to her hometown. But could she truly endure the weight of her own mistakes, the bitterness of having been deceived by Maruume, and the responsibility toward her two children? The people who suffered under Toshimaya's exploitative daily loans. Those people must have escaped Toshimaya’s grasp, but they would soon borrow money from another daily loan lender. And because of the exorbitant interest on those meager loans, they would undoubtedly suffer the same hardships again.

“I too grew up happily until I was twelve or thirteen,” Oshino murmured. “The shop was thriving, and of course Father—along with everyone else—treasured and doted on me, so I grew up without hardship or want. But that was only because I knew nothing. While I dressed prettily and went cheerfully to plays and variety halls with Mother, enjoying spring and autumn excursions, Father was alone, tormented by agonies he could confide to no one. Though he had wealth, a flourishing business, and was envied as the master of Musashiya—in truth, he was poorer than any pauper and more wretched than the most unfortunate soul.”

"Is this what the world is really like?" Oshino wondered. Even those who seemed happy and contented—who appeared perfectly satisfied—were actually wretched and poor when seen from behind, overwhelmed by sorrows too deep for tears. The world might truly be like that. If so, then people like Mother were even more unforgivable. People who hid their anguish—who stifled their desperate inner cries for salvation—while earnestly making their way through life. To wallow in one’s own desires and pleasures atop the sweat and tears of such people was a far more unforgivable crime than murder.

Oshino groaned, "Ah..."

II

When the maid came to replace the tea, Oshino was leaning on the windowsill with her face buried in her arms, feigning sleep.

“Oh my, what’s the matter?” called out the maid while seated. “If you leave the shoji open and doze off like this, you’ll catch a cold.”

“I was watching the fire,” Oshino said, raising her face. “Then I suddenly started feeling unwell.” “It’s truly dreadful, you know.” “But it must’ve been put out by now,” said the maid while replenishing the tea, “since it was a samurai residence—though I shouldn’t say such things—if a townhouse were to burn at this year’s end, now that would be truly wretched.”

“That’s right.” “If it’s a samurai,” Oshino murmured absently, “they have their domain, so—”

“Is your companion delayed?” said the maid after offering more tea—she had not been listening at all. Oshino answered in the same absentminded tone, suggesting the road might have been blocked by the fire.

“That might be the case.” After checking the kotatsu’s fire, the maid rose to her feet while glancing at Oshino’s profile. “Shall we begin preparing?” Oshino answered that they should do so.

The fire had gone out. The sparks did not spread—it seemed contained to just that samurai residence. Only faintly glowing red embers from the burned building remained, tinged with residual smoke; neither clamorous noises nor voices reached here anymore. Then suddenly feeling cold seep into her bones, Oshino closed the shoji and returned to the kotatsu. The maid arrived with sake preparations. On the tray sat a brazier with warming pot, flask and square cask of sake—only cups accompanied them. While she was transporting these items, Genjiro came. Making hurried excuses as he wiped sweat from his brow, he opened an antique calico handbag and placed a paulownia wood box before Oshino.

“I was waiting for this to be finished,” he said, sitting by the brazier rather than entering the kotatsu. “See if it pleases you—open it and look.”

“Later—” Oshino turned and said to the maid, “please bring the tray.” “Are you angry?” asked Genjiro. “I’ve thought about so many things until I’m utterly exhausted.” “About us?”

“Various things,” said Oshino, casting a frightening sidelong glance at him. “For example—how you return to your home in Yorozu-cho and happily talk and laugh with your wife and children.” “Wait a minute.” Genjiro raised a hand. “This is no joke—bringing that up now of all times?” “This isn’t the first time. Ever since I began meeting you, after we part, that matter has always lodged in my chest—I can’t begin to express how much I’ve suffered lying alone.”

“But you should’ve known that from the beginning.” “Of course I knew—that’s why I’ve never said such things before. I’m not blaming you even now. The fault lies with me. It’s just...lately I feel so terribly lonely, and I can’t help pitying myself.” “The maid’s coming,” he whispered.

The maid entered and placed a flat tray on the kotatsu quilt. Two servings of soups, bowls, and plated dishes had been arranged, and Genjiro said, "That’s enough for now." After the maid left, he busily transferred sake from the square cask into a flask, poured it into the tokkuri, and stood it in the warming pot—all while frantically trying to lift Oshino's spirits. "I’m the one who wants to complain about Oyone-san," he said, stirring the charcoal fire beneath the sake warmer as he changed his tone. "Even after meeting this long, she always skillfully evades me—leaving me hanging every time. That incident with Iga Masashige was no different, wasn’t it?"

"It wasn't my fault." "I had no idea I'd been stranded! I kept waiting and drinking in good spirits—then got so embarrassed before the maid I broke out in a sweat." "That wasn't my doing," Oshino said. "When I went outside, there stood this woman called Otsuru-san in the corner of the wide dirt-floored entrance with two small children—cradling a five-year-old in one arm while swaying the child on her back with her shoulder as she stood there looking utterly helpless. Once I saw that, I couldn't possibly leave things as they were."

“So you ‘couldn’t leave it as it was’?” Oshino nodded. “I heard Otsuru-san’s story.” “That’s absurd.” “Foolish? It was good medicine for me,” said Oshino. “Hearing her story made me first consider my own future. It’s wrong for women like Otsuru-san—who knew you had a wife and children—to think they’ll find happiness through such relationships. Men may make any promise with their mouths, but those promises must never be trusted. If a man with a wife and children keeps his promise of a future to another woman, he’d make his original family miserable. To seek happiness by making others suffer isn’t just wrong—I think it could be called inhuman.”

“Wait, wait a moment,” said Genjiro as he took out the sake flask, “let’s not have such tedious talk—like lecturing on the Classic of Filial Piety at a temple school. Or perhaps—are you planning to dodge me with that scheme tonight?”

“No.” Oshino shook her head. “I will neither run nor hide tonight—I’ve come prepared.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, taking the sake cup and offering it to Oshino. “Let’s have one drink at least.” Oshino placed the poured cup on the tray and poured sake for Genjiro. “I told Otsuru-san to return to her hometown.” Holding the cup she had once set down and gazing at it, Oshino continued, “I gave her something to take with her—not much, but enough so you needn’t worry anymore. By today, she may have returned to her hometown somewhere in Hitachi.”

“By ‘something to take with her,’ do you mean you gave her money?”

"That’s none of your concern," Oshino said, neatly draining her cup of sake.

III

"You needn’t worry about Otsuru-san anymore," Oshino continued. "She’ll struggle raising two children from now on—if it becomes unbearable, she might take them and commit a parent-child suicide. But I’m certain she’ll never trouble you."

“Let’s drop that subject.” “Sir, allow me.” Oshino offered her cup, and Genjiro poured. “I’ll drink tonight,” Oshino said. “This topic stings you, doesn’t it? Beyond Otsuru-san, you’ve had countless others—enjoying them fully before discarding them like unwanted kittens without even a farewell.” “When you phrase it like Oyone-san does,” Genjiro drank by himself and poured for Oshino, adopting an ingratiating tone, “it makes men sound solely at fault. Women aren’t children—they should possess enough discernment to foresee consequences.”

“That’s exactly right.” “Whether a man has a wife and children matters little—these affairs blossom from fleeting impulses. They’re not matters one calculates like balancing an abacus, weighing consequences or separating right from wrong beforehand. Men are human, women are human—doing foolish things, losing control unexpectedly, weeping and suffering for it—isn’t that what makes us truly human? It’s not just men who take pleasure in affairs. Women relish them many times more—that’s precisely why they cast aside all caution and yield themselves to men.”

“You’re absolutely right—exactly right,” Oshino said, sipping her sake, “though I’ve yet to experience it myself, it does seem men and women both enjoy themselves equally up to a point. But what comes after? Let’s take Otsuru-san’s case for clarity—when two people impulsively become entangled, even if we assume she enjoyed it ten times more than you did, you’re still the one who seduced her. Even if your own pleasure amounted to a fraction of hers, you still took your enjoyment where you could—isn’t that so? Yet afterward, only the woman suffers—you feel not the slightest pain. While Otsuru-san may endure lifelong torment, you happily live with your wife and children while carrying on secret dalliances with the likes of me. Perhaps men and women were simply made this way—I’m sure that’s true. But does it never trouble you? Do you ever think—even occasionally—‘Ah, that was wrong’?”

“You’re in quite a mood tonight.” With a bitter smile, Genjiro poured sake for Oshino and said, “Did something unpleasant happen?” “What I meant to say is that after tonight, we part ways.” Genjiro looked at her dubiously. “Oyone-san, you’re drunk.” “The real drinking begins now,” said Oshino, removing the lid from the soup bowl. “Go on and pour.” “That’s what I like to hear.” After pouring, he looked at Oshino again. “But—you can’t seriously mean to end things after this?”

“I’m serious,” said Oshino. “I mean it truly. After much reflection, I’ve determined this is where we must part ways.” “That’s too cruel! Even if you call it time to part, we’ve not even shared a bed once!” “That’s precisely why I told you I came tonight resolved for this.” “So you’re saying this marks our beginning at last? After waiting half a year in desperate anticipation—just when I believed my hopes had finally been realized—you’d end it here? That’s beyond cruel—it’s utterly heartless.”

Oshino laughed, “Your turn has come.” “What’s this about it being ‘my turn’?” “Up until now, it’s been the women who suffered—whether a few or dozens, I wouldn’t know,” Oshino said with a laugh. “But now it’s your turn to suffer—you understand that, don’t you?” “You’re unfazed by this, aren’t you?” A confident smile spread across Genjiro’s face. “You’re saying that no matter what happens tonight, you’ll calmly part ways tomorrow and remain unaffected?”

“Don’t make that face.” Oshino said in a fragile voice, “Since I’ve made this resolution myself, please don’t undermine it—when you look like that, I feel all strength draining from my body. You truly are a terrifying person.”

“Scary? Don’t be ridiculous—I’m a lenient man.” “Come now, Oyone,” he declared like a conqueror, “if we’re parting after tonight, we can’t waste time with sake—let’s rest over there.” “The maids will come.” “They won’t come.” He stood up and reached out his hand. “I know this house well—no one will come unless called, so come on.” “Let me stand up.”

“You’re drunk now.”

Genjiro moved around the kotatsu and lifted Oshino up from behind. The girl's body—drunk-limp and softly listless—appeared to ignite Genjiro's desire and drive his blood into frenzy. He cradled Oshino with one arm while sliding open the fusuma door with the other. The adjoining room contained laid-out bedding, complete with a silk-covered maruandon lantern and bedside tray.

“There’s a bundle over there,” Oshino whispered, “please bring it here.”

Genjiro brought the furoshiki bundle.

“Turn the screen around,” Oshino said. “Don’t look until I’ve changed.”

"I'll light the lantern," Genjiro said. When he transferred the flame to the round paper lantern and closed the sliding door, Oshino handed his sleepwear over from behind the screen. Of course, it belonged to this house. With distracted movements, he quickly changed into it and called out, "Are you ready?"

“Fine,” Oshino answered. As Genjiro turned the screen aside, Oshino—now in her underkimono—sat atop the bedding and was about to fasten her obi. “Wait,” he called out, “before you fasten that, let me see it for a moment.” “Why?” “Just let me see—only for a moment.” Oshino, staring at Genjiro’s face—who had moved to sit before her—with a sharp gaze, quietly opened the collar of her underkimono to both sides.

IV

Her thin-skinned flesh was white as if transparent. It was said that those afflicted with this disease developed particularly beautiful skin, but Oshino's flesh had grown even whiter than before. Her breasts—so small they might fit in one's palm—were literally translucent, the pale birch hue around her nipples standing out with an alluring delicacy. “Ah, how beautiful.” Genjiro groaned, his eyes glittering, “I’ve never seen such beautiful breasts before.” “Don’t stare so intently.”

“A little more,” he panted, “just like that a little more—ah, you’re like some kind of flower.” “More beautiful than Osono-san.” “But Osono-san…”

“It’s Ms. Osono from Musashiya, the drug wholesaler in Hongokucho,” Oshino said. “You remember her, don’t you?” “Musashiya’s… Osono.” “Remember.” “There’s no way you should know such old things,” Genjiro said. “You heard it from someone, didn’t you?” “You did remember after all.” “That’s ancient history,” he said, reaching out his hand. “I’d completely forgotten about it. Now enough of this—take it off.” “Not yet. I have one more question.” Oshino pushed his hand away. “You say you fathered a daughter with her—is that true?”

“Who on earth told you that?” “I need to know if it’s true—that you’re really the father of Osono’s daughter. Is that the truth?”

“I already said it’s ancient history!” “It’s not a lie, then,” Oshino said in a hushed voice, pressing the point, “that the girl is your daughter—it’s true, isn’t it?” “It’s true,” he nodded. “I might as well admit it honestly now—Ms. Osono and the daughter are both dead.” “I heard they burned to death in the Kameido dormitory.” “You know even that?” “There are things even you don’t know.” Oshino smiled coldly. “Three bones were found in the dormitory’s burned ruins—one belonging to father Kihee, another to wife Osono, and a small one from daughter Oshino. That’s how it was reported, wasn’t it?”

Genjiro stared fixedly at Oshino.

“But recently,” Oshino continued slowly, “an investigator named Aoki Chinosuke from the town magistrate’s office apparently looked into it. Since there were suspicious circumstances, they exhumed the three sets of remains from the grave for examination and had a Dutch-style doctor conduct an appraisal—apparently, while the husband and wife were correctly identified, the daughter’s remains were different. They say you can distinguish male and female by the hip bones—those bones didn’t belong to the daughter but were unmistakably those of a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old male.”

“That...” Genjiro swallowed hard. “What on earth does that mean?” “In other words, that means the daughter is alive.” “Nonsense, absolute nonsense,” he said, shaking his head. “But Musashiya already properly held funerals for three people, didn’t they?” Oshino laughed as if coaxing a child. “And first of all—” he pressed urgently, “if those bones are male, what happened to the daughter? If she didn’t burn to death, she should be alive—and if she’s alive, shouldn’t she have come forward by now?”

"It's time for me to announce myself," Oshino said, "since what must be done will soon be completed." "You—Oyone-san."

“You’ve heard about it too, haven’t you? Since November, four men have been killed at restaurants, inns, and houseboats across the city—murdered by an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old woman who stabs them with a flat silver hairpin beneath the left breast and leaves a single red camellia petal by their pillows. That’s how it went, wasn’t it?”

Genjiro gulped again. “The four who were killed all had ties to Musashiya’s Osono,” Oshino said, staring into his eyes. “Osono was a shameless adulteress who never ceased her affairs with men. Her husband—a gentle man and an adopted heir—never asserted his authority even after marriage. Though he knew his only daughter was another man’s child, he cherished her more than his own flesh and blood, laboring tirelessly for the shop until he fell ill, coughing blood and collapsing. Years of emotional and physical strain had quietly given him tuberculosis.”

“No, just a moment longer.” Oshino cut off Genjiro as he tried to speak and continued, “Please listen a little longer—the daughter called Oshino thought to call her mother to nurse him. The doctor said it was critical, and he kept coughing up blood repeatedly—she wanted them to experience even once in their lives the affection of a married couple. But at that time, the woman called Osono had gone on a trip with a child actor and returned only after her husband had already passed away. During his final moments, only the daughter called Oshino was present, but before dying, her husband told her—‘I wanted to see Osono one last time. Just one look—there was one thing I wanted to say. Just one thing I needed to tell her…’”

Oshino lowered her head, but before Genjiro could interject, she raised her face and quietly continued, “The daughter didn’t understand.” “At that time, the daughter merely thought her mother wanted to voice resentment over being treated coldly all those years. But while searching for her mother, she discovered her wanton ways with men, and when confronting her mother who had returned from an excursion, she was told she herself was a child of adultery.” “At that time, the woman called Osono was with a child actor named Nakamura Kikutarō. Though her husband’s corpse lay in the neighboring room, she shamelessly drank sake with that Kikutarō—merrily drunk, slandering the dead man without remorse. Then she revealed: ‘Your real father isn’t this man. It’s Maruume Genjiro, master of the paper merchant house in Nihonbashi Yorozuchō.’”

“How does Oyone-san know such detailed things?” Genjiro coughed and pressed. “Did you hear it from Oshino?” “That daughter loved her dead father,” Oshino replied calmly. “—Loved him more than any girl in this world ever could. She’d always resented her mother’s cruelty. When she learned she was a child of adultery, she finally understood what her father had wanted to say on his deathbed. That’s when she decided she could never forgive her mother—or the men who’d tormented him alongside her.”

“I see,” Genjiro said. “You heard it from Oshino after all—isn’t that right, Oyone-san?” Oshino silently stared into his eyes.

Five

"So it's true that Oshino is alive." Genjiro asked with a suddenly chilled expression, "You know Oshino—you must have heard this story from her. Where is Oshino now?" "Aren't you more concerned about the four who were killed?" "What do you mean?" "I told you all four had connections to Ms. Osono, didn't I? The method was identical each time—a mountain camellia petal left by the pillow—" Oshino said suggestively. "Mountain camellias were that man called father's favorite flower. For someone who had no pleasures or diversions, they were his sole delight. Those petals were placed as memorial offerings to honor him."

“So you’re saying the one who killed the four—” he began, then shook his head vehemently. “No—that’s absurd! There’s no way—” “That’s right—Oshino killed all four of them.” Having said this, Oshino felt through the left sleeve of her long underrobe, produced a flat silver hairpin and a neatly folded paper package, opened the wrapping, and showed him a single red camellia petal inside.

Genjiro arched backward, supporting his upper body with both hands. His face stiffened to an ashen pallor, his wide-open eyes seeming ready to burst from their sockets.

Oshino once again opened the collar of her long underrobe to both sides and showed her bare chest to him. “Go ahead,” Oshino said. “Touch me. I’m Oshino—your daughter. You’ll hold me and sleep with me, won’t you?” Genjiro’s mouth fell open. He seemed to try to say something, but his tongue stiffened, rendering him speechless, and his entire body began to tremble finely. Oshino stared fixedly at his state, then hid her chest, pulled the kimono that lay beside the bedding close, and stood up while draping it over her shoulders. Genjiro shifted his body and tried to rise to change clothes as well, but Oshino glanced sideways at him and said, “You mustn’t.”

“You’re staying here tonight.”

Genjiro lowered his half-risen knee and sat with his back against the folding screen, seemingly at a loss. Oshino swiftly finished changing clothes, positioned the bedding between them, and sat facing Genjiro. “I meant to kill you too.”

“Why?” he stammered, his words tangling like knotted thread, “Why did you have to kill four people?” “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you,” Oshino whispered in a voice piercing like a blade through the heart, “—anyone who could understand would be too ashamed to keep living. You—you seduced your own flesh-and-blood daughter, sweet-talked her with lies, and tried to share her bed tonight.”

"That’s—" he stammered violently, "I didn’t know it was so." “I thought I’d make you into a beast,” Oshino continued relentlessly. “I was going to turn you into a beast and then kill you. But I’ve reconsidered—I’ll let you live. It’d be a waste to kill you now. —I’ll turn myself in and confess everything—how I set fire to the dormitory and burned my mother and Kikutarō to death.”

Genjiro exclaimed, “What? Osono and that actor—” “I burned them to death while they were passed out drunk.” “You’re trying to threaten me, aren’t you?” “The trial will reveal everything—after all, it was your own flesh-and-blood daughter who doused the house in oil and set it ablaze,” Oshino said with a soft smile. “Having burned my real mother to death and killed four men in succession, when I confess this publicly, the whole world will know. And they’ll know that my father is Maruume Genjiro, master of the paper merchant house.”

“You intend to threaten me,” he said. “You’ll suffer,” Oshino said in a soothing tone. “The agony of death is momentary—it ends almost disappointingly quick. But I won’t let you have that. As long as you live, you’ll suffer. If a child kills their parent, they face crucifixion or burning at the stake. You’ll have to live knowing you committed adultery—that the daughter born from that adultery was crucified or burned alive—and that everyone knows it. You’ll writhe in that torment until you die.”

“That’s a lie! How could you possibly do that?!” “You’ll see for yourself,” said Oshino, standing up with the cloth-wrapped bundle in hand. “—The trial won’t take long. Within ten days, it should become the talk of all Edo.”

"I won't let that happen!" Genjiro also stood up, his nightclothes hanging open at the front to reveal thick-haired shins. “—If you’re truly Oshino, I won’t let you die like this! My sins may stay sins, but I can’t have you dying! At least sit down again and let’s talk this through!” “What could there be to discuss?” “Living,” he said with eyes burning with desperation, “You’re young—beautiful. If you just don’t confess, everything can stay buried. I’ll do anything to make amends—please, listen to me.”

“That will be the beginning of your suffering.” Oshino laughed softly, “Even without punishment, I won’t live much longer. This body has the same illness as Father—I’ve already coughed up blood twice.” “I... I’ll stop you by force!”

“Go ahead and try. One shout will bring the maid. Since I’ll be turning myself in regardless, have the town officials summoned—I’ll let them bind me with rope right before your eyes.”

Genjiro let both hands hang limply.

“Aren’t you going to stop me by force?” Oshino said, then pointed at the hairpin by the pillow of the bedding and the petal resting on the paper. “—This is my memento to you. Do not forget to take it home.”

And then she quietly went out to the adjacent room. “Oshino, you mustn’t do that,” Genjiro called out in a hoarse voice. “You mustn’t do this, Oshino.” But his voice was so low and rasping that Oshino likely did not hear it. Genjiro stared with eyes of pure terror at the silver hairpin and the blood-red mountain camellia petal.

Six

The afternoon of December 27th.

Aoki Chinosuke was organizing the accumulated documents at his Hatchōbori office.

The rain that had been falling since morning seemed like it might turn to snow, but there was no sign of that happening despite the severe cold; instead, the sound of raindrops striking the stones beneath the eaves could be heard murmuring in a low, slow, and dishearteningly gloomy tone. As his hands grew numb with cold, he set down the brush and was warming his fingers over the brazier when his colleague Okada Sakutarō called out and entered.

“You’re working hard—it’s already dark out, isn’t it?”

“I want to take time off during New Year’s,” Chinosuke answered. “—Have you finished already?” “Yeah, I just can’t settle down.” Okada narrowed his eyes. “It’s a shameful thing to say, but when it gets to this hour, I just can’t help it—no matter how I try to calm myself, I get all restless and can’t focus on a thing.” “It’s not my fault—please don’t interfere. Today’s the 27th of the Twelfth Month.” “You could at least hear me out—I actually have something to discuss.”

Chinosuke raised his hand to stop him. “Ah-ah—that’s no good. Don’t talk to me about that woman. I’ve got nothing to say except ‘break it off.’” “You’re not much of a friend.” “Ah, where this matter’s concerned, I don’t have a shred of friendship to offer.” Chinosuke took up his brush and faced his desk. “If you’ve got nothing else, you can go.” “Aoki misunderstands that woman,” said Okada as he stood up. “If you’d just meet her once and talk properly, you’d see she’s got real merit as my wife.”

"That's a line I've heard countless times before," said Chinosuke while sorting through documents. "Every woman you fall for has 'outstanding worth as a wife'—until fifty days pass and they all turn into homely hags dragging you around. Hell, even a child wouldn't keep falling into the same trap." "If I tell you this Omatu is different—" "That’s another clichéd line." Keeping his back turned, Chinosuke waved the hand holding his brush. "Now get out. I have to finish this."

Okada Sakutarō sighed and left while shaking his head, but he immediately reopened the closed shoji door and returned. “I forgot,” he said, holding out a thick, bulging letter. “This got mixed into my document box,” Okada said. “It’s addressed to a woman named Oshino—isn’t this a summons?” “Oshino.” Chinosuke took it and looked at the signature. “I don’t recognize this name... What could it be?” “Isn’t this the same line my Omatu uses?” said Okada, stepping backward. “Don’t make that face—it’s just a joke!”

And this time he hurried out. Chinosuke gazed at the signature "Oshino" for some time before finally cutting open the seal and unfolding the thick, swollen letter. Atop a scroll nearly an inch thick lay a single sheet of paper folded lengthwise—this he read first. I am Oshino, daughter of Musashiya Pharmaceuticals in Nihonbashi Honmokuchō Sanchōme. So began the letter: Though I wish to surrender myself for murder, having deceived you before at Kanebon and knowing you investigate me, I implore you personally to bind me with rope. I shall remain motionless here until your arrival, but beg you read the enclosed account beforehand. The matter involves tangled circumstances I might fail to express adequately through speech alone—thus I have recorded all events in sequence. Awkward though my phrasing may be and crude my penmanship, I entreat you to peruse these pages in full—such was the essence conveyed.

“Near Honjo Makurabashi, next to Lord Matsudaira Echizen’s residence—Murata’s... A teahouse, I suppose.” After reading the address, Chinosuke bit his lower lip and muttered, “So it was Oshino—that girl.” He tidied his desk and began reading the letter. The confession contained there was extraordinary—hardly something he believed an eighteen-year-old girl could have done—yet simultaneously felt impossible without that very purity peculiar to “eighteen.”

She had passionately conveyed her deep affection for her father, meticulously detailing how particularly moved she had been by the reminiscent story he had told about the mountain camellia. The prose contained not a shred of embellishment, seeming to transcribe facts as they were; though filled with clumsy phrasing, it appeared to express unfeigned emotion.

I could not forgive my mother. Regarding Mother's infidelity and misconduct, I had expressed my anger without concealment. (The reader has already read these details.) When I was told I was an illegitimate child—moreover, hearing Mother herself state this so calmly—I came to feel like killing her. The bond between mother and child had vanished within me—as a human being, I could not forgive her. I felt she had defiled womanhood itself.

For people to live, there are codes that must be mutually upheld. If those codes are not upheld, society cannot function, and what makes humans human would surely be lost. Particularly, the relationship between men and women has mutual sincerity and trust as its foundation. As I have yet to know romantic affairs, I cannot comprehend how greatly they lead people astray and make them commit errors; however, I have heard that adultery is not uncommon in society.

However, my mother’s case was different. Had it merely been that Mother was obsessed with men and bore an illegitimate child, I likely wouldn’t have felt compelled to kill her. To Mother, it wasn’t a “mistake” nor did she consider it immoral. From how Father had known about it, I believe she never even tried to conceal that I was an illegitimate child. “Before dying—just one word.” “There’s one thing I must say,” Father had said. For nearly twenty years, he had suppressed his feelings—he must have wanted to hurl them at Mother just once. Yet even had he done so, Mother would surely have remained unmoved.

When she saw Father’s corpse, Mother did not show even a hint of sorrow. "This is your fault," she said as she fled, then drank sake and frolicked with the child actor Kikutarou in the very same house where her husband’s body lay. Can this be forgiven? What my mother has done is not merely misconduct or indecency. It defiles society’s codes and the trust between people, drags them through the mud, and then mocks them.

And that mother’s blood flows within this very body of mine.

I decided to die. Knowing I was an illegitimate child yet loved so deeply by my father, this would be my atonement to him. Of course my mother had to die too, and I resolved that the men who had tormented Father alongside her would atone for their sins—this was what I determined. From Kameido Lodge to Sakichi of the houseboat—you must have already investigated all these matters by now. With the eight hundred ryō Father left me, I rented a house and hired a young maid to live with while investigating the men connected to Mother. Sakichi was the one who knew their whereabouts—there were over eight men in total—but from among them, I selected only five whom I absolutely needed to make atone.

"In this world, there are crimes that cannot be punished by established laws. I believe you must have read what I once wrote about such matters. When I wrote that, I truly believed it—that killing my birth mother, killing my birth father, and murdering five strangers was a crime that could not be punished under established laws, yet was unforgivable as a human act. I think I had to believe this to carry it out."

The confessional text broke off there, and the remainder continued in fresh black ink, hastily written, as follows.

"I did not kill my biological father. It was not that I could not kill him—it was that I chose not to. I made it clear to him: that I was his true daughter; that I had killed six people including my mother; that I would soon surrender myself; and that when I did, I intended to fully explain my reasons—that I was an illegitimate child, and that my real father was Genjiro, master of the Maruume shop in Nihonbashi Yorozuchō."

It was because I thought that through this, that person would suffer his entire life and bear a burden he could never lay down until death.

I am writing this now in the detached room at Murata, but unlike the strained resolve I felt when I first set fire to the lodge, I am tormented by shame and the realization that I had overstepped my bounds. Crimes that cannot be punished by established laws. When I wrote those words before, I believed them without doubt—but to think I could replace established laws by "punishing them myself," to presume to judge their crimes...that was my error. It was when I resolved to let live the father I hated most that I understood—killing is neither punishment nor forced atonement. I came to realize that if one's sin cannot be punished by established laws, then that person must atone for it themselves.

However, my mother alone had to die.

I, through whom my mother’s blood flows, must also die. This resolve had been with me from the beginning—crucifixion or burning at the stake would suffice—and now I wished only to swiftly receive judgment, be executed, and go where my father awaited in the next world; that alone remained my desire.

The letter had ended there.

Chinosuke rolled up the letter, put it into the desk drawer, and prepared to go out.

Epilogue Turning right just before Makurabashi Bridge, about a block past the Matsudaira Echizen residence on the right-hand side stood a restaurant-teahouse called Murata, its name displayed on an eave lantern. When he had the palanquin brought all the way inside the gate, a maid—likely having noticed their arrival—emerged holding a rain umbrella to greet them. Chinosuke kept the palanquin waiting, "Is there a female guest named Oshino in the detached room?" he inquired, stating his name and official position. Hearing "town magistrate's assistant," the maid appeared momentarily startled but—evidently having been forewarned of Aoki's visit—responded, "We have been expecting you," before rising to guide him.

The detached room was separate from the main building and its wing, but since a roof had been built over the stepping stones, there was no need for an umbrella; the stepping stones led directly to the veranda of the detached room. At the veranda, the maid announced, "Your companion has arrived," and Chinosuke gestured to her with a hand signal that meant "That's enough."

“Shall I prepare anything?” asked the maid. “I’ll ask you later,” answered Chinosuke.

After waiting for the maid to leave, Chinosuke took his sword in his right hand, stepped up onto the veranda, and announced his name. However, there was no response; the parlor remained silent, devoid of any human presence. —Had she escaped? Cursing under his breath, he roughly slid open the shoji. The rainy twilight left the room steeped in darkness, the cloying scent of incense hanging thick enough to choke him. “Oshino,” he called out between coughs. “Oshino—are you here?”

Chinosuke slid the shoji wide open.

On the small desk, an incense burner emitted smoke, and beside the brazier lay the girl facedown. Chinosuke stood rigid, staring down from above, but his long experience let him know at a glance that it was already a corpse. "You were late," he muttered. "Couldn't you wait?" Realizing some part of him had still hoped to save Oshino, he crouched down and gently turned the body onto its back. The girl's hands gripped the hilt of the dagger plunged into her chest, her legs tightly bound with bandages over her kimono at the knees. Chinosuke laid her properly supine to ease her posture, then stepped out to the garden stones and clapped his hands.

He had the maid light the lantern and ordered her to send a messenger to Hatchōbori. Since she had not been allowed into the parlor, the maid had likely noticed nothing. Chinosuke did not want anyone to see Oshino's corpse, but bound by duty, he could not avoid summoning the constables.

When he looked around the parlor by the lantern's light, there was a letter beside the incense burner on the small desk. He moved the small desk next to the brazier and opened the letter addressed to "Aoki-sama" to read it.

――I deeply apologize for breaking our promise.

The letter was hastily written; it began with an apology, stating she had intended to turn herself in but became terrified when considering official punishment. When faced with the moment, she feared she might act cowardly—thus apologizing while choosing suicide, requesting her corpse be disposed of per official law. Furthermore, at Dōkanyama Hill's base lies Uemori Gardeners, whose retirement cottage houses a servant named Masa—a mere hired hand unaware of anything—and thus should be left undisturbed regardless of her presence. Inside that room's desk rests a money packet containing remnants of her father's legacy, by no means tainted funds. If permissible, she humbly asked it supplement rice alms for the destitute.

I have caused you considerable trouble. Though I ought to have met you once to offer my apologies properly, I beg your forgiveness for ending my life in this manner. There remains one final request. Though I know not what disposition my corpse may receive, I implore you to conduct an autopsy before its disposal. This is because I wish you to know my body remains undefiled - that I have remained a daughter in truth.

The letter was thus concluded.

Chinosuke left the letter open on the small desk and looked toward Oshino. The sound of rain striking the eaves still showed no sign of ceasing; perhaps the wind had risen, for he could hear bamboo leaves rustling wildly off to the side. Oshino's face held perfect peace. In her wax-pale cheeks, in her smooth untroubled brows, in her bloodless lips - not a shadow of pain lingered. Her countenance maintained such settled tranquility, she might have been merely sleeping and smiling. "Oshino... I can't judge this," he whispered to her lifeless face. "I don't know whether what you did was right or wrong. But that you wanted to do it - that you couldn't refrain from doing it - that much is truth. And if truth compelled you... then you've no cause to regret acting on it."

He closed his eyes and continued, “I will take responsibility for Maruume Genjiro. I’ll make him fully taste the weight of his crimes—you must already be by your father’s side now. Rest there at ease without tormenting your heart or fearing others’ eyes. No one will trouble you anymore.” Chinosuke took a folded hand towel from his kimono sleeve, edged closer to Oshino, and covered her face with it. The incense burner’s smoke had already ceased.