Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

As soon as he noticed me, my younger brother Keizō waved his hand grandly in his usual fashion.
I pretended not to notice and kept looking toward platform 3.
Keizō approached and, true to form, tapped my shoulder.
A scent of perfume wafted from his body.

“You’re early,” Keizō said. “Is everything settled at the hospital?”

I nodded silently.

“This time of year’s the absolute worst—for me, one hour equals tens of thousands of yen,” Keizō said smoothly. “Just the round trip eats two days. Even if something happens, I can’t take more than a single day off—one day, got it? Absolutely no longer than that. Mother really had to go and do this at the worst possible time.”

I silently looked toward the stairway entrance.
Keizō wasn’t blaming Mother; he was merely reinforcing his own words about one hour being worth tens of thousands of yen.

“There’s no point standing around here,” Keizō said. “Let’s go inside and sit down.”

“Muro-machi hasn’t arrived yet.”

“It’s fine—the car and seat numbers are set. Even if they weren’t, would that battle-axe get flustered? If she can’t find us, she’ll just summon the stationmaster. Don’t you go startling the stationmaster now, eh?”

I told him, “Get on.” The departure time was approaching; passengers on the platform were filing into the train car, leaving only scattered well-wishers and latecomers around us.

“Hey, what do you think?” Keizō suddenly lowered his voice and said. “This makes the third ‘Critical’ telegram, right? You’ve examined her all three times—so what’s your take this time?”

I said calmly, “You meticulously grip your perfume spray, yet seem to forget to shave your beard.”

“You wouldn’t understand this pocket.” Keizō rubbed his mouth with his right hand. “This bit of stubble I’m growing out is the mark of a hotshot broker these days. Anyone clean-shaven nowadays is either a bartender, a trust bank branch manager, or a bellboy. Oh look—the battle-axe has arrived!”

Keizō ran toward the stairway entrance, raising and waving his right hand.
My elder sister Junko was carrying a suitcase so large you could call it a trunk, holding it with both hands.
I watched Keizō take it and stepped into the train compartment.
Whether due to the date being December 18th or the awkward hour around 8 AM, the Special No. 2 train car was only about two-thirds full, and around us there was just one young couple who seemed to be newlyweds sitting across the aisle.

Keizō entered with my sister.
My sister sat in the seat in front of me, while Keizō placed the suitcase on the overhead rack, opened the window one notch, and sat down beside me.

“I brought mourning clothes, so it got heavy,” my sister said as she took off her muffler and handed it to Keizō, addressing no one in particular. “Kei-chan, put this away too—I was stuck without a taxi! These days even people who shouldn’t need cars are riding them. You can’t find an empty cab even one in ten times. Every time I go out—oh, where did my cigarettes go? Kei-chan, check the bag for me.”

Having just placed the muffler on the shelf and sat down, Keizō stood up again without showing any displeasure. Though frivolous, this trait alone could be called his virtue—he never refused when asked for help. It was a disposition from childhood, this tendency to exert himself more for outsiders than family, that Father often said made him like Rip Van Winkle.

“I’ve got three kids to feed, you know.”
Keizō took out the cigarettes and lighter and handed them over, straightened the bag properly before sitting down, and said to Sister, “Tagging along with you always turns me into an errand boy. Being by your side makes me feel downright small—like some lowly apprentice.”

The departure bell began to ring, and footsteps racing across the platform along with shouts reached our ears through the station’s distinctive commotion—unlike any other starting terminal’s bustle.

“If you’re going to play father to three children, start behaving like one,” Sister said while lighting her cigarette. “Takako-chan came complaining the other day—you’ve taken up your old habits again the moment business picked up. That’s your fatal flaw.”

“You’re kidding! That’s nonsense! She’s always making wild assumptions like that. Last time too—there was absolutely nothing between me and that woman, but Takako just had to spin her own idiotic fantasy.”

“Why did you give two hundred thousand yen to some nobody of a woman?” Sister said. “Spare me your pathetic excuses. When it comes to women, you’re completely—”

As the train began to move, I turned my gaze out the window.
The scenery along this line during the first two hours proved excruciatingly tedious - paddies alternating with fields and groves across faintly undulating hills gave way to factories and jerry-built houses. Both old and new structures clustered tightly like discarded toys amidst vast agricultural expanses, their identical rows of laundry invariably featuring infants' undergarments and diapers as predominant items. Each exposure to this tableau made human ignorance and poverty manifest with such rawness that it evoked an indescribably leaden melancholy.

“Hey, Ken-san.”
My sister ended her conversation with Keizō and called out to me. “Ken-san,” she repeated, leaning closer while lowering her voice, “—what do you think about Mother? I have a feeling she won’t make it this time. What’s your opinion?”

I paused for a moment before answering. “Hard to say—Mother’s strong-willed, after all...”

“Strong core, sure,” Keizō said. “Even that drunken, selfish old man had to tip his hat to Mother’s inner strength. Come to think of it, Toshio’s got that same stubborn core—must be why he and Mother clicked so well.”

“Do you think they get along? Mother calls him sacrilege.”

I looked at my sister's face.

"I heard it when I went last year," my sister said. "From Mother's own mouth and the tape recorder—twice."

"So why does she keep clinging only to that guy?" Keizō said. "Never mind my place—whether it's Muro-machi or Ken-san's house, she could've lived like a proper retired lady there. No matter it being her birthplace, there's no need to struggle in some freezing backwater with Toshio-kun. In the end, Mother just spoiled him rotten."

Then he suddenly looked at Sister. “What was that about the tape recorder?”
“Haven’t I already told you? You’re so forgetful.”

“No, I didn’t hear it. I don’t recall hearing anything like that.”

“I wonder—it’s about Toshio recording Mother’s voice on tape,” Sister said while lighting another cigarette. “Didn’t I mention this to you, Keizō? That’s how it is.”

I was vacantly gazing out the window.
I had brought about three books with me, intending to read them if there was time.
For over ten years I had been bound to clinical specialization, while the research I initially aspired to lay covered in dust.
I don’t want to end my life like this—I’m only thirty-seven.

"--Thirty-seven. Oh," I muttered inwardly.
I'm almost forty. Soon... just three more years.

I felt a feverish smell in my mouth—a metallic tang like scorched iron mixed with something ionic. I thought about retrieving the books from my handbag on the overhead rack. Though I knew I should, spotting the emergency medical kit and medications inside made my spirits sink, sapping my will to even stand and reach for them.

“So Mother got angry and said, ‘Toshio, come here this instant,’” Sister continued telling Keizō. “Then that boy goes, ‘Wait a sec,’ brings a tape recorder from his room, and declares—‘All your scoldings are right here. No need to wear yourself out talking—just stay quiet.’ Then he played the recording.”

“Heh,” Keizō snickered.

“And what do you think happened? Mother’s scolding voice was completely recorded, wasn’t it? Just like this.”
My sister continued, her eyes lifting as if tracing memories, silently mouthing the words before speaking: “—It went like this: ‘Toshio, you’ve done it again! Didn’t I warn you enough? You should’ve quit while you could. It’ll never work out anyway. If you keep obsessing over such trifles, there’ll be no turning back...’ I remembered every word—yes, I heard that recording myself.”

“He’s quite the piece of work.”
Keizō burst out laughing, “Heh, that’s rich—must’ve knocked her socks off.”

“Mother called him sacrilege and scolded him, but there he was—sprawled on his back right beside her, humming some carefree tune about ‘once you’re dead, that’s all...’ like it meant nothing!”

“Once you know it, that’s all there is—that’s how the song goes,” Keizō said. “Tone-deaf as a post—can’t even manage the national anthem right.”

II

I kept my eyes closed for a long time.
Once you know something, that's all there is—once you die, that's all there is—...both phrases I'd often heard from Toshio's lips.
They seemed like fragments from some popular song, but the lyrics never went beyond those phrases, the melodies nonsensical and different each time.
I don't know when that song first became popular; though I seem to recall hearing it during my high school days back home, I can't be certain.
Yet I remember clearly when Toshio started singing it—the shock I felt then remains so profound that even now I find it impossible to forget.

“But then,” Keizō was saying to Sister, “why on earth does that Toshio guy have something like a tape recorder?”

“How should I put it? He called it a ‘lecture tour’ himself.”

“A lecture tour?”

“I didn’t listen properly,” Sister said, lighting another cigarette. “He’d photograph ironworks or coal mines to make slides, then have engineers or workers there—miners for coal pits—record their stories on tape. Once ready, he’d travel around showing these slides at schools while playing the recordings, then lecture about them. That’s what he called his plan.”

“What a scatterbrained bastard. You think you can make a living doing that kind of thing?”

“He doesn’t need to worry about putting food on the table—the money comes from Ikeda, after all.”

“I see,” Keizō said. “Right—that’s the problem. With that kind of money coming in, he can’t bring himself to work properly.”

“That’s not all—you know it’s innate in Toshio. Ever since he was little, he’s been restless, fickle, yet stubborn as a mule.”

Sister and Keizō kept criticizing Toshio.
Before long I must have dozed off; when lunchtime came, Keizō woke me and we went to the dining car.

The beer I’d drunk before eating must have taken effect—after returning to my seat for a while, I sank back into a shallow sleep.

“Leave him be,” Sister said to Keizō. “Ken-san is utterly exhausted.”

I kept my eyes closed and adjusted my head to a more comfortable position.
The doze remained shallow.
In that unstable consciousness between sleep and wakefulness, I thought about Toshio.
If something were to happen to Mother—and this time she likely wouldn't survive—I felt a strong fear that Toshio might do something when that came to pass.
This anxiety wasn't new—twelve years ago now, after I graduated from my hometown high school and in the spring following my Tokyo medical school graduation, when Toshio was in his second year of middle school, it had happened.

--Toshio read.

It wasn’t certain that Toshio had read it back then. When I returned from the school’s affiliated hospital, he came out of my room. Toshio smiled, showing his white teeth with prominent canines, and said while brandishing the scissors he held:

“I’m borrowing these.”

“I’ll give ’em back once I’m done.”

He looked at the scissors he was holding, said "Hmm," and left.
While entering the room and changing clothes, I intuited that Toshio had read the notebook.
I hurriedly opened the desk drawer, but the notebook was right where it should be beneath the diary, showing no signs of having been moved, opened, or read. Yet the conviction that Toshio had found it and read that particular entry seized me with unrelenting force.

It had been just like this with Nakagawa.

When the man named Nakagawa came down from the second floor, there was no sign of anything unusual anywhere.
I was still ten years old and had no particular interest in Nakagawa.
He was a relative on Mother's side from her hometown who had transferred his university registration to Tokyo and was staying with us until he found permanent lodgings.
He must have stayed at our house for about half a month, having almost no interaction with us siblings—no memory of ever sharing a meal together. We remembered only his surname, Nakagawa, and didn't even know his given name.

Our father, who was a lawyer, must have been at the peak of his career around that time; even when at his Tokyo office, he rarely saw us, perpetually away on long business trips. Whether Father had been home in Kōjimachi or away during Nakagawa's stay remains unclear—the Gobanchō house wasn't particularly spacious, with three rooms upstairs and five below, Nakagawa occupying a four-and-a-half-mat room at the southern end of the lower floor. He was the one who came down from the second floor one early morning. Already dressed in school uniform but hatless, empty-handed, he descended the stairs slowly.

My heart pounded for no reason at all.

I cannot put into words the feeling I had at that moment.
Of course, I hadn't even considered Mother sleeping upstairs, nor had there been anything unusual in Nakagawa's demeanor.
Nakagawa was perfectly calm; when he saw me in the hallway, he just said "Yo" as curtly as ever.
Moreover, my heart pounded—it was the first time I had experienced such a sensation, but as a ten-year-old child, I had no way to interpret it and soon forgot.

Nakagawa moved to a boarding house and began working at Father’s office after finishing school.
It was during this period that Toshio was born.
My sister Junko was two years older than me, Keizō just one year apart, but Toshio alone stood distant in age—eleven years my junior.

I heard that Nakagawa, who had entered Father’s office, quit before even half a year had passed and went to Manchuria.
It seemed he had messed up something at the office; I didn’t know the details, but I remember Father saying that if a man his age was already doing such things, one could see the rest of his life laid bare.
Years passed, and war came.

Father died in Showa 18，but he had left provisions behind，so we had no financial worries。Keizō was drafted into the army，but I avoided military service due to my frail constitution，and even during the student mobilization，thanks to the goodwill of my department chair，I managed to remain at the university as a special research student。

Sister married into the Yata family at eighteen。Yata had been running a fairly large jewelry business in Nihonbashi-dori Sanchōme but closed his shop in the autumn of Showa 18 and evacuated to Shiogama，Miyagi Prefecture。It seems he had taken a considerable amount of goods with him when evacuating。In Showa 24，he built a house with a shop in what is now Muromachi area，worked in the securities business for about two years，then returned to his original trade。By then，he had made such a splendid recovery that he owned villas in Karuizawa and Atami。

Nakagawa appeared in February of the year of defeat.
In a steel helmet and soiled national uniform, with a knapsack slung over his shoulder, his beard-covered face bluish-black and swollen—even when he introduced himself as Nakagawa, it wasn’t immediately clear who he was.
He spent about two hours talking with Mother in her room, and when evening came, he had her wrap some rice balls for him before departing.
They must have met at the gate; Toshio came home just as they were passing each other.
He was a second-year middle school student commuting to a woodworking factory in Shiba-Hamamatsuchō under labor mobilization; as soon as he took off his shoes and stepped up, he asked me, “Who was that person?”

“He’s a relative of Mother’s.”

“Huh. What a skeevy relative.”

Toshio tilted his head after saying that.

“Do you know about me?”

“You probably don’t know—he was at our house for a short time, but that was before you were born,” I answered.

“But he said I’d gotten so big and kept staring at my face real hard.”

There was nothing strange about it.
If they were relatives, they would have exchanged letters—knowing about Toshio's birth was only natural.
As I thought this, vague memories from the past began surfacing.
The time I saw Nakagawa descending from the second floor and felt my heart leap—this wasn't so much a recollection as something dormant in my memory's depths naturally reviving itself.
I had completely forgotten that incident.
Until this moment, I had never once recalled it.

Was it because I had studied medicine and done internships, giving me a different way of observing people than most? Or was it due to my innate disposition? I calmly considered the matter and recorded it in my notebook.
The period when Nakagawa had been lodging with us aligned precisely with Toshio’s birth without needing calculation.
Junko, Keizō, and I shared similar facial features and builds, but Toshio alone was small-framed with a round face and entirely different eyes and nose.

Toshio resembles my father.

I had heard Mother say that several times.
During my high school days in my hometown, I visited Mother’s family home and met that grandfather; when it was mentioned, I thought there were indeed resemblances in their facial features.

There was no evidence connecting Nakagawa and Mother.
The time Nakagawa came down from the second floor might have been nothing more than that incident alone, and Toshio’s birth coinciding almost exactly with those dates might have been mere happenstance.
There was not a single piece of evidence to prove it was not the case, yet it was precisely in this "complete absence of anything suspicious" that I harbored profound doubts.

III

After eating dinner in the dining car at Keizō’s urging, I drank whiskey straight.
My sister drank about half a highball until her cheeks flushed red and returned early to our compartment, but we stayed behind for nearly two hours.
Keizō talked animatedly, laughing with theatrical gestures.
I alternated small sips of whiskey with water, listening in near silence as he spoke.

“You sure you want it neat?” Keizō abruptly cut in. “A layman shouldn’t lecture a doctor, but wouldn’t watering it down be better?”

I shook my head vaguely.

When we returned to the car room, Sister was asleep with a half-read magazine covering her face.
Whether Keizō had worn himself out from talking or perhaps because he was drunk, he soon crossed his arms and closed his eyes.
When I got that level of drunk, my mind instead became clear and I couldn’t fall asleep.
Outside the window was already night; the passing lights were sparse, and from the rear seats came occasional bursts of loud laughter that seemed to accentuate the car room's quietness, now markedly empty of passengers.

I knew nothing about Nakagawa.
My dead father naturally never spoke of him, and even my mother never mentioned a word about him.
What he did in Manchuria, when he returned to the mainland, whether he died or survived after visiting the Gobanchō house in that year of defeat—all of it remains completely unknown even now.

I should just ask Mother directly.

I had thought that many times before.
But between my own lingering attachment to these feelings and the fear that I might hurt Mother’s heart, I ultimately never mustered the courage to ask.

――This might all be my delusion.

This too was something I had turned over in my mind many times before. Then memories of Toshio's suspicious behavior would surface. From the very moment he came to borrow the scissors, his demeanor had shifted noticeably. "Once you know, that's all there is," he began singing those words right afterward. "If I die, that's all there is," he chanted.

That intuition that he had read the notebook—that I hadn’t been mistaken—and the sharp guilt that made me bow my head, as though I’d touched something forbidden or desecrated something sacred—I still cannot forget this.

“Don’t sing such unpleasant songs about dying.”

There had been a time when Mother reproached him like that.
Then Toshio replied, “Then maybe I should join the Yokaren.”
If the war had continued, he might have actually ended up doing just that.
Mother must have feared that; soon after the night bombings began, she evacuated to her hometown with Toshio.

The approximately five years following the war’s end—a life of poverty, anxiety, and turmoil—were no exception for our family either.
Keizō was demobilized, Sister’s family returned, I was recommended by a professor at my alma mater and began working at my current hospital while also getting married.—Toshio remained in our hometown with Mother, entered the same high school as I did, and upon graduating, enrolled in a newly established university in the city where the prefectural office was located.

"What an idiot—if he wanted to go to school, he should’ve just come to Tokyo."

Keizō had said that, but he truly had no interest in such matters.
He himself had been drafted through student conscription, so after demobilization he was supposed to resume his education.
Though property taxes and other burdens had left us nearly destitute, we could still manage to send our younger brothers to school.
This was because Father had lent a substantial sum during his lifetime to a friend from our hometown.
The man—Ikeda Heijirō, now a prefectural assembly member—had seen his business succeed spectacularly since immediately after the war’s end, rising to rank among the top five in his field within the prefecture. Through this connection, repayments from Ikeda continued being sent (to Mother) even now, yet Keizō showed no inclination to return to school, instead throwing himself into brokerage work and making a great show of being busy.

When Keizō became a broker with Junko’s husband’s assistance, Toshio’s life back home began unraveling.
Junko and Keizō claimed he “was going off the rails.”
Toshio himself might have been earnest.
I couldn’t discern either way—after dropping out of university in his first year, he dabbled in black-market deals, then opened a diner in the prefectural capital, became an assistant elementary school teacher, then returned home to start a bicycle rental shop, switching jobs five or six times over four years.
What’s more, there was no coherence to any of it—just an air of recklessness, haphazardness, and congenital restlessness.

“There’s no snow,” said Keizō, whom I had thought was asleep, as he peered out the window. “This area’s usually pure white by now.”

I remained silent.

“Are you asleep?”

“Nah.”

“If there’s no snow, will we go straight home?”

“Hmm,” I answered, “First, let’s call Kinai and then decide.”

Keizō looked at his wristwatch. “A little over two hours left.”

“What carefree people,” Sister said from under the magazine covering her face. “Isn’t Mother in critical condition? Whether there’s snow or not—we’ll obviously have to go immediately when we arrive.”

“Three *ri* through snowy night roads?” Keizō said. “I barely slept last night.”

“I’ll go even if I have to do it alone.”

Keizō looked at my face and lightly shrugged his shoulders.
As always, seeing those gestures annoyed me; though he himself seemed unaware, his habit of immediately clapping people’s shoulders, demanding handshakes, and making exaggerated gestures was working against him.

—A minus, huh?

After a while, I muttered those words in my heart.
Isn't my life the same? The current me wasn't the self I'd hoped to become—these days spent examining and treating patients, this life where even nights offered little free time, were a minus for who I was meant to be.
Strange—though Keizō talked big, his work kept stumbling repeatedly.
Yata of Muromachi seemed to have been avoiding him since last year or so, and the man himself appeared to be growing weary of brokerage work.
It might not have been true, but judging from his recent movements, I felt it was only a matter of time now.

――And now, Toshio came to mind.

When I had thought that far—as if he had actually heard it with his own ears—Keizō, who had been talking with Sister, turned toward me.

“Right—I think we’d better discuss this now,” he said, leaning forward and spreading his hands to both sides. “If something happens to Mother, what on earth are we going to do about Toshio?”

“Of course Tokyo,” Sister said. “If we leave him alone, there’s no telling what he’ll start doing. That one needs someone strict by his side.”

“Mother was too soft.”

“Mothers may seem lenient, but they can be fearsome creatures,” Sister paused for a moment. “In more ways than one,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Toshio may be a hopeless case, but the reason he hasn’t made any terrible mistakes is because Mother was always by his side.”

“Then he might want to be alone this time, I tell ya.”

"I won't have you saying such things!"

"What's your opinion, Ken-san?"

I remained silent, still looking out the window.
And after about ten seconds passed, I said.

“The snow’s piled up.”

Past eight o’clock, we arrived at the terminal station of that line, transferred there, and after being jostled for about an hour on a local train, got off at our hometown’s station.
The snow had piled up considerably, but the night sky was clear, and stars sparkled with a brilliance that stung the eyes.
—There was a bus depot in front of the station.
The depot also operated a taxi service, and Sister—who came every year—seemed familiar with it, leading us there.

I called Dr. Kinai in the town where Mother was staying. When I had come last year, I attended one of her medical examinations for the first time; he was her regular physician, a man around sixty with an extremely gentle demeanor—the sort once commonly referred to as a "country gentleman."

The call was brief.

"How is she?"
Sister looked at me with clinging eyes. "How is she, Ken-san?"

"He said five ten."

"Today's... today's five o'clock?"

I nodded. “Let’s get lodging.”

"I'm going," Sister snapped. "I'll hold the wake."

I grasped Sister's arm.

"Let Toshio handle it," I said. "Since it's their last night alone together, let's leave tonight to him."

"But Mother—"
Sister took out a handkerchief and pressed it to her nose. "Then Mother would be lonely, wouldn't she?"

"I asked Dr.Kinai to notify us."
As I released her arm, I said, "We've come this far—it makes no difference now. Let's find lodging and do it tomorrow."

“Matsumura’s good,” Keizō said. “I’ll go tell them first.”

Keizō hurried off through the snow at a trot, carrying his own handbag and Sister’s large suitcase in both hands.
Sister had started crying.

IV

Toshio was shockingly altered.
His body and face had wasted away, his parched skin clinging directly to the bones as if pasted on.
He looked like a patient with a severely advanced wasting disease, with only his eyes shining brightly.

Starting with Sister, they looked at Mother’s lifeless face and moistened her dead lips with water.
Mother’s corpse remained as she had died; no subsequent procedures seemed to have been performed.
A white bleached cotton cloth had been placed over the face, but no preparations had been made at the bedside for offering an oil lamp or incense.

――The house consisted only of a wide earthen floor with a kitchen area, an eight-mat room containing a hearth, and a four-and-a-half-mat space beyond Mother’s six-mat room; there was no running water, and cooking was done using an old-fashioned hearth.

“Why?” came Sister’s shrill voice. “What’s the reason for this?”

I still sat at Mother’s bedside.
Sister and Keizō had gone ahead to the hearth room, but they seemed to have immediately started in on Toshio.
Sister pressed on in her usual manner with questions—whether they’d performed the ritual cleansing, notified the temple, why no incense or oil lamp had been lit, how they’d receive condolence visitors—and Toshio rejected every one of them.

“This is what Mother and I discussed,” Toshio said. “That we wouldn’t do any of that Buddha-reeking stuff.”
“If you’ve got proof Mother consented to that, then show me.”

“If you ask Mr. Ishioka at Hōkōji Temple, you’ll understand—he knows about that matter too.”

“Can you really ask an outsider about such things?”

“He’s not some outsider—he’s the priest of our family temple,” Toshio said. “Brother from Gobanchō should know—they were classmates in high school, he says. Someone Mother always got along with—that priests chanting sutras won’t help anyone attain Buddhahood, that we all go to the same place when we die, that temple fees should be spent on good food while you’re alive instead—Mother laughed and said he was right.”

“What an awful thing to say! Do you really think such monkish riddles will hold up in society?” Sister’s voice rose sharply. “After making Mother suffer so much in life, you won’t even hold a wake or offer one stick of incense now she’s dead? How can you abandon basic human decency like this?”

“Say whatever you want—I never expected praise from you anyway, Sis.”

I stood up and went out to the hearth room. Keizō was poking the hearth fire with long metal tongs, and Sister, her hand clutching a trembling handkerchief, turned toward me. Toshio sat cross-legged next to Keizō, arms crossed, watching the hearth fire.

“Ken-san, listen,” Sister said.

After sitting down, I realized this spot was called the wakiza—the seat reserved for the household head.

“Toshio,” I called out in as casual a tone as possible, “isn’t this where you’re supposed to sit?”

Toshio shook his head while keeping his eyes fixed on the fire.

“That’s Father’s seat,” he said. “Mother set out his shadow meal there every night.”

“Now that’s quaintly old-fashioned,” Keizō said.

“Ken-san,” Sister said.

“I heard,” I answered and looked at Toshio. “Toshio—did you really discuss this with Mom?”

Toshio nodded.
After nodding, he kept watching the fire and bit his lower lip.
Then his cheeks—covered in grown-out stubble—hollowed out as if gouged, and his unkempt hair hung down over his forehead.

“Sister, let’s let Toshio do as he wants.”
I looked at Sister and said, “He lived with her for over ten years—there must be things we who were in Tokyo can’t understand. If Mother said this was fine, shouldn’t we trust him?”

“Even you’re saying such things, Ken-san?”
Sister pressed her nose with a crumpled handkerchief. “That’s going too far—then Mother’s soul will never rest, will it?”

I looked at Keizō.
At times like these, Keizō’s perceptive sensitivity was remarkable.
The moment our eyes met, he told Sister exactly what I had wanted to say.
“If that still doesn’t satisfy Sister, we could divide the remains and take them to Tokyo to hold the kind of mourning rites she wants.”
“Given that even rural customs are changing nowadays,” Keizō persuaded Sister with skillful gestures and well-timed words, “and if even the temple priest holds that view, I think we should let Toshio have his way here.”

“Then what about the funeral?” Sister conceded. “Surely you don’t expect us to carry her to the crematorium ourselves? I even brought mourning clothes for this.”

“There’s no need for that,” Keizō began, then fell silent upon seeing my face.

“Toshio,” I called out. “How about going out for a walk?”

Toshio slowly looked at me. “What are you worried about? If it’s about me, there’s no need to worry.”

“I’m asking if you’ll come out for a walk.”

“Please stay seated.”
Toshio said with a peculiar smile, “Let me say this again—I’ll take care of Mother’s affairs. I sent the telegram because Dr. Kinai said you’d make it in time, but if I’d known you wouldn’t, I wouldn’t have bothered informing you at all.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sister asked in a shocked voice. “You’re not saying you’d have kept us from even seeing her face in death, are you?”

“Oh, come on, Sis,” Keizō waved his hand dismissively. “Just let him say his piece.”

“Thanks, Keizō, but I’ve got nothing more to say,” Toshio said. “You’re all busy, and we can’t properly host you in this mess. Rude as it is, I’d like you to leave.”

“Wait a minute,” Keizō interrupted. “Enough with the shocks—no matter how you spin it, that’s too rough. Sure, you lived alone with her for over a decade, but Mother isn’t just yours. She’s our real mother too.”

“So I did inform you properly, didn’t I?”

“Then let me ask—what’s the logic in saying you wouldn’t have informed us if you’d known we couldn’t make it?”

“There’s no logic or reason—I said it because that’s what I thought.”

“Now, now—calm down.” Keizō gestured placatingly. “Just settle down and talk properly, will you?” He licked his lips. “You’re right—we’re all busy folks. Especially in this year-end season—not to brag, but an hour of my time’s worth tens of thousands of yen. But our one and only mother has passed away. Having come all this way from Tokyo, do you really think we can go back without holding a wake or seeing her off with a funeral?”

“That’s not all,” Sister cut in. “I intend to take you with me when I go back.”

Toshio was blankly staring ahead.
His gaunt, lifeless face showed no expression, and there was no reaction in his eyes either.

“Toshio,” Sister said, “are you even listening to me?”

“That’s pointless,” Toshio answered in a drained voice. “With Mother gone—the one who truly mattered—nothing we try will make any difference now. My own story’s reached its end too. I’ll manage my own affairs myself.”

“So you’re saying you won’t come to Tokyo?”

Toshio looked at Sister with vacant eyes. “—To Tokyo? Me?”
He shook his head heavily, his face crumpling like a child about to cry. “You don’t understand... You’ll never understand.”

“Cut the act,” Keizō cut in. “You sound like some third-rate actor. What exactly do you think we don’t know?”

“Haven’t I said it enough times?”
Toshio’s voice trembled now. “I want to bury her alone—I promised. No ritual washing, she said. Didn’t want anyone seeing her body—not even me. Let me keep vigil by myself too. Just burn her as she lies, turn her to bones, scatter them in some field or mountain—she made me swear it over and over.”

Tears spilled from Toshio’s eyes, but he made no move to wipe them, letting them fall as he cut off his words.
Sister looked at me with exasperated eyes.

Keeping my emotions from showing on my face was all I could manage, desperately suppressing them.

“I don’t understand this at all,” Sister said. “Have you ever heard such a thing? Ken-san, what do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“I don’t know,” Toshio said, looking at me. His eyes, messy with tears, took on a strange light as if he might bite— “Does even the Brother from Gobanchō not understand?”

I nodded.
Toshio laughed.
It was an empty laugh - like pebbles rolling in a tin can.

"Then there's no way Sister or Keizō would get it," Toshio said, wiping around his eyes with his knuckles as he stood up. "I'm going out for a minute."

“What’re you gonna do?” Keizō asked.

“Ordering food,” Toshio answered. “Can’t let you leave without at least choking down lunch.”

V

“Let’s go together,” I said to Sister as I stood up. “I’ll walk outside for a bit.”

Toshio silently stepped down into the earthen-floored entryway.
When I put on my shoes and went out, Toshio was already turning onto the main street.
I caught up to him with unsteady steps across the slippery packed snow—this town was small like a narrow sash, houses lining both sides of a single road.
Behind us stretched fields and grasslands on either side, while far to the east rose the prefecture's famous mountain massif towering above lower ridges—though now faded from prominence, this place had once housed the county office, its center still retaining buildings that whispered of former bustle, with movie theaters, bars and restaurants clustered together even today.

I followed in silence and watched Toshio enter a restaurant called 『Gangiya』.
And I waited for him to come out, then said casually.

“Why don’t we head toward Teramachi?”

“Do you want to go there?”
Toshio looked at me with eyes as if seeing from a distance. “Or do you have something to talk about?”

“I have something to talk about.”

“I’m so tired of this,” Toshio said and immediately smiled. “Pardon me—that was meant for myself.”

I turned toward Teramachi without a word.
As the name suggested, temples lined the street there, and there was also the grave of someone who had been the lord of this land hundreds of years ago.
One side appeared to be former samurai residences, with white, dry earthen walls continuing along it, while the temple side had old zelkova trees forming a row.
Though still cloudy, likely because the sun had climbed higher, the snow on the road began melting, forcing us to pick our way through muddy patches.

“That’s Hōkōji Temple.”
Toshio raised his hand and said, “Shall we stop by?”
I did not answer.

“You know Ishioka Kizen, right?” Toshio continued. “He was your high school classmate. Interesting guy—these days he’s less of a temple head priest and more devoted to running what’s practically a kindergarten or daycare center.”

Toshio gave a reminiscent chuckle there and shook his unsteady head—supported by his slender neck—from side to side.

“That was rough,” he said as if to himself. “—When Sister told me not to spout Ikkyū-san-like nonsense. So typical of her. I broke a sweat trying not to laugh.”

“Toshio,” I called out.

“What about Hōkōji Temple?” Toshio said. “Mr. Ishioka wanted to meet you.”

I walked on without a word.

“Even with that ‘body where one hour equals tens of thousands of yen,’ you’re quite the saint, Keizō,” Toshio said. “I really like you. And Sister from Muromachi too—she shows both the good and bad sides of a woman without hiding her obsession with appearances and social standing. Nice. I really like her as well.”

I stopped and looked at Toshio.

“What are you trying to say?” I asked in a low voice.

“Nothing,” Toshio said, turning his face away. “I have absolutely nothing I want to say.”

“Do you really have nothing?”

“There isn’t.”

“You said earlier, ‘Even Gobanchō doesn’t understand?’” I started walking. “You mean that I should know the reason Mom made you promise to do this when she died—isn’t that right?”

Toshio did not answer.

“If you won’t say it, I will.” I lowered my voice even further. “You read my notebook once.”
“You don’t know.”

“You read that notebook.”

“Mom was the one who read it.”

I involuntarily stopped, and Toshio also stopped.
There at the edge of Teramachi, snow-covered fields spread out ahead, while to the distant left, that isolated mountain stood out prominently, appearing tall.
I took a deep breath, exhaled quietly, and looked at Toshio.

“It was Mom who read it,” Toshio said while still looking toward the mountains. “Why did you have to write such things, Brother? For what purpose?”

I had no way to answer.

“For what purpose, Brother?” Toshio said in a hushed voice that was almost a whisper. “Out of amusement? Curiosity? Or did you want to condemn Mom’s guilt?”

I prodded the snow with my shoe tip.

"I don't know," I answered. "I don't even understand what feelings led me to write it. If you'd encountered something like that yourself, I think even you might have written it."

"About my biological mother?"

"I wasn't condemning anyone—you'd know that if you'd actually read it properly. I just wrote down my raw impressions. I probably never even considered she might be my biological mother. To be honest... I might have seen it as potential research material."

“What exactly is this ‘research’?”

“It’s skin,” I said. “What we receive through skin—more than sight or hearing or taste—might dominate human perception. Circumstances forced me into clinical practice, but I’d intended to devote my life to this subject. That notebook was written during that time.”

Toshio turned aside and spat.

"You're a terrible person," he said. "You're insufferable. Sister's like a collection of every woman's weakness, and Keizō's a tasteless philistine—but even they're better than you. As human beings, they're far superior. Do you get that?"

"I didn't know," Toshio pressed on immediately, "why Mom refused to go back to Tokyo—even though Sister and you nagged her relentlessly, even though I urged her too. Why do you think that was, huh?"
Toshio narrowed his eyes and stared at me. "-When the new school system started and I entered high school—I hate admitting this—I got my heart broken. I wanted to die. Tried to kill myself. That's when Mom told me about... that thing. -And afterwards, you know what she said? Listen—she said having been with him made her life worth living. You hear? That because of what happened with him, being born into this world had meaning."

“Though the wording’s different, Mom said this—” Toshio started to say, then shook his head. “No—never mind. You wouldn’t understand, Brother—you who only see people as lab animals. To put it bluntly: Mom didn’t want you all looking at her face.”

“I’ve never viewed humans as lab animals.”

“Let me make this clear.”
Toshio said as he started walking, “I am my dead father’s child. That much, I want you to remember for Mother’s honor.”

I lowered my head and walked after Toshio.

I’ve never viewed Mother as an experimental animal.

That notebook was written entirely objectively.
The intuition that there was something between the man named Nakagawa and Mother.
The fact that this was connected to Toshio’s birth.
This is a fact, not a fantasy.
It may sound repetitive, but I harbored not the slightest intent to condemn Mother.
Rather—I bit my lip.

Was it because it was amusing? Out of curiosity?

Toshio’s words had pierced deep into my ears like a judge’s voice.
I suddenly felt my legs grow heavy and, forgetting to pick my way along the slushy path, stepped into the mire several times.

I was overwhelmed. I had never imagined Mother had read that notebook. Toshio had read it, and I had thought his personality had become unstable because of that. I was utterly defeated. Mom, I called out repeatedly in my heart. At that time I had felt as if I'd desecrated something sacred—now that feeling enveloped me with tangible weight, squeezing my entire body.

I had never thought of Mother as an experimental animal—not even a speck of such a notion had existed.

Until we returned home, I kept insisting—as if seeking salvation—that I had never thought of Mother as an experimental animal.

The ordered food arrived, and Sister prepared the sake.
Toshio became cheerful and, as if something pleasant had happened, began talking and laughing animatedly.
On the tray were sweet simmered dishes and grilled items, along with cod dishes unique to this region and season.
There were dishes of minced fish paste and miso soup with cod liver added—my absolute favorites—but I had no room in my heart to savor them with enjoyment.

“Earlier, Sister remarked that I’ve been nothing but trouble for Mom all along.”
Toshio said with a bright smile, “—You’re absolutely right. I’m a worthless good-for-nothing. Seems I was made from the dregs left after Sister and Ken-san and Kei-san took all the good parts. Scraped together from the leftovers to barely make a person. Everything I touch turns to disaster—clumsy fool who’s caused Mom nothing but trouble. Won’t make excuses. I’m truly beyond hope.”

Sister looked at my face.

“Oh?” Keizō flicked his hand and said, “Seems he’s planning to deliver a grand speech. Shall we all listen respectfully?”

Six

“It’s not some grand speech I’m delivering—I mean to humbly submit this.”

“Go on then,” Keizō said. “Mom’s listening too—we’ll hear you out proper.”

“No need to get so defensive about it. Sure, I made Mom’s life hard, but I didn’t milk any sweet rewards from it. You lot might not get it, but Mom understood me right enough.”

“Here—drink up,” Keizō said as he poured him a cup. “We’ll endure your lecture, but make it quick before the cod sashimi loses its bite.”

“Thanks,” said Toshio, raising his cup to his forehead and smiling with bared teeth. “Truth is, there’s not much to say—Mom died, and I’ve reached the final volume. Right before she drew her last breath—‘What’ll become of you when I’m gone?’ Mom said that and shed tears. Completely true. With Mom gone, what’s left for me? I’m the final volume.”

“Cut the crap,” Keizō said.

“Stop it,” Sister said. “Toshio—spouting such reckless talk, what do you intend to do now?”

“That’s why Mother said she’d worried about that too—pardon my bluntness.”

Toshio stood up, went to the six-tatami room where the mother’s remains lay and then to his four-and-a-half-tatami room, but immediately returned carrying a small unglazed jar.
It was a jar that looked like it could hold about a quarter of a liter, with a thin rope wrapped around its mouth.

“Mother’s homemade plum wine.”
Toshio brought a glass from the china cabinet, removed the wooden stopper from the jar, and poured the liquor. “Not like the stuff people normally make. Pure plum wine—seven years aged. Rude as it is, I won’t give any to you all. Mother made this specially for me.”

The pale amber-colored, syrupy liquor—Toshio tilted his head back and poured it down his throat.

“Where was I… Oh right.”
Toshio took his second drink and said, “We were at the part about what I plan to do now, weren’t we? Yes, you all don’t seem to have been listening properly, but I did say it’s the final volume.”

“Stop spouting nonsense,” Sister glared at Toshio while lighting a cigarette. “You’ve leaned on Mother all this time, and now you presume to cling to us? At a time like this, you should at least try to be serious.”

“I am being serious.”
Toshio drank more plum wine. “Never been this serious in my whole life. I’m hopeless, see? Even while Mom was alive, I was a worthless good-for-nothing. Everything I touched turned to disaster—Mom cleaning up after me each time. ‘This time’ll be different,’ I’d think, and then bam—it all goes up in smoke again.”

He drank two cups in quick succession, dropped his head unsteadily, then let out a stifled laugh from his throat.

“Muro-machi’s a major asset holder, Gobanchō’s head of internal medicine at a big hospital, Kei-san here claims one hour equals hundreds of thousands of yen—or was it tens of thousands? My apologies—and among all that, what does it matter what becomes of me, the leftover dregs? Sister, you might see me as some freeloader, but I’ve done everything within my power. Mom knew that. She’s listening right next door, isn’t she? I gave it my all—everything I touched turned to ruin, but I tried earnestly. Laughably earnest, looking back.”

“Seems this is turning into an excuse,” Keizō said. “Why don’t we wrap it up here?”

“OK, I’ve got nothing more to say. I lived with Mom. I’ve managed this long because she was here. Now that Mom’s gone—damn, same thing over and over. I could repeat it a hundred times, but you all must find this laughable.”
Toshio stood up with the jar and glass, staggering slightly as he said to Sister, “—Sister, shall I tell you something good? Hey, Mom had a lover.”

“Don’t say such foolish things.”

“Mom had a lover,” he said. “When I heard that, I was so happy. You all probably wouldn’t understand, but I felt like throwing my arms around her.”

“Toshio,” Sister said sharply, “how could you say such a defiling thing when Mother is still right there?”

“It’s defiling—for you, Sister.”
Toshio bared his teeth in another smile, bowed to Sister, and said, “I thought it was beautiful. I truly wanted to throw my arms around Mom and make her happy—but that’s enough now. Pardon me while I go lie down; seems I’ve gotten rather drunk.”

And then Toshio headed off to his own room.

“He’s really cracked.”
Keizō poured me a drink and said, “What do you think he meant by saying Mother had a lover?”

“That’s absurd.”
Sister said with a look of indignation, “That boy’s always been like that since he was little. He only said it because he thought we’d be shocked—pure nonsense. How vile.”

“He’s cracked,” Keizō said after pouring himself a drink. “That guy’s just lost without Mother around.”

Keizō started to say "Um," but fell silent.
From the four-and-a-half-tatami room across the way, Mother’s voice came.
At first, we didn’t realize what it was, but when we recognized it as Mother’s voice, we held our breath.
I looked at Keizō.
Then Sister sank her shoulders and said.

“That’s the tape recorder.”

“Tape,” Keizō said, looking at Sister.
“Just listen,” Sister said.

Mother’s voice came through quite clearly.

"I told you that wouldn’t do, didn’t I? Why must you never learn? Thinking you can mock me just because I’m your mother—there’s a limit to that. Can’t you see how worried Mom is? You impious child."

Having heard up to that point, Sister stood up.

"What is wrong with him?" Sister said. "With Mother still right there, it’s as if he’s mocking her."

“Just leave him be,” Keizō said. “Toshio’s got his own way of doing what he wants. Let him be.”

But Sister didn’t even listen, heading toward Toshio’s room.
Keizō shrugged his shoulders with affected nonchalance, poured me a drink, then served himself.

“But Toshio—what on earth—”

When Keizō started to say that, Sister came running back.

“Ken-san, come here please,” Sister said in a trembling voice, pointing toward the back of the house. “Toshio’s acting strange—go check on him quickly.”

In my head, the words "the end of the entire volume" resounded loudly and heavily, like a tolling bell.

First Keizō stood up, and I rose too.

Toshio had placed the tape recorder beside his pillow and lay sprawled out under a padded sleeved cover.
His face—gaunt to the bone—lay upturned with mouth agape, unnatural snores escaping as he slept.
The pupils of his half-open eyes were dilated, spittle dampening the corners of his mouth.
While checking his pupils and pulse, I concluded it must be hypnotics.

“Keizō,” I said while spreading open Toshio’s collar, “go call Dr. Kinai and bring him here. If you tell him it’s for gastric lavage, he’ll understand. I have the medication we’ll need. Hurry—go get him now.”

Keizō dashed out, and Sister trembled violently.

“What’s going to happen? Will he be okay?” Sister said in a flustered panic. “Why would he do something so foolish? Did he really mean to die? Ken-san, will he be all right?”

“Please bring water. A teapot would be best—bring it filled to the brim.”

Sister left, stumbling as she went out.

The tape recorder was idling.
Mother’s scolding had already ended, leaving only the hollow whirring sound audible as I lifted Toshio’s upper body.
Had he mixed the drug into the plum wine, or taken it beforehand? Either way, this guy had meant to die, I thought.
He’d said he tried to die when heartbroken.
Had that impulse lingered until now, or was it losing Mother and despairing over his future?
I figured it was likely the accumulation of all these things that drove him to attempt suicide.

“But it was a failure, Toshio,” I muttered while still holding his upper body. “You failed again this time—you won’t die.”

Sister brought the water.
I had Sister open Toshio’s mouth and forced water from the teapot down his throat.
Toshio groaned, shook his head, and thrashed about.
Because he choked violently, I waited to give him water.
At that moment, from the idly spinning tape recorder, Mother’s voice began to be heard.

“Don’t hold this against me, Toshio.”

Mother’s gentle voice said.

“I recorded this while you were away, thinking someday you’d listen. Mom was always just scolding you—even called you ‘impious.’ But those words weren’t true. I loved you. Out of all four siblings, you were the dearest. I can’t let Sister and brothers hear this, but I truly loved you.”

Sister suddenly covered her eyes with a handkerchief and began to sob in stifled gasps.
Mother’s voice continued.

Nothing ever worked out for you—each time I scolded you for it—but truly Mom was bowing her head in apology deep inside. It’s my fault for bringing you into this world like that, not yours. The wrong lies with me—the mother who bore you this way.

Here there was a brief moment of empty spinning, then it continued again.

"You are a good child—truly dear, a good child. To put it simply, Mom wants to live until you die. Be strong, Toshio. The world has those who become rich and those who become famous, but humans aren’t just that, right? You have your own life—something no one else can imitate. Even if you keep failing, isn’t the act of living itself something admirable? Live as yourself. Do not mind what others say—your life belongs only to you. ...I’ll say it again—I’m sorry for scolding you as ‘impious.’"

At that point, the tape recorder’s voice cut off.
Sister continued sobbing with her face buried in a handkerchief, and I looked at Toshio’s face that I was holding.

You didn’t hear this, did you.

I called out to him in my heart.

I’ll let you hear it when you come to—you lucky bastard.

Keizō returned with Dr.Kinai.