Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

At the Ōkawa riverbank in Honjo Ishihara-cho, two men were deep in conversation.
Directly across was a ferry landing, and between it and the opposite shore’s Asakusa Miyoshi-cho, two ferry boats came and went. Because the stream of passengers boarding and disembarking never ceased, there was no particular sign of the two men squatting on the riverbank talking attracting people’s attention.
It was late November, the dusk of a warm day. The surface of the Ōkawa River still shone brightly, rippling with a cold, blade-like hue, but the rows of houses along Miyoshi-cho’s riverbank stood dark, lights beginning to flicker on here and there.

One of the men was small in stature and thin.
With a slender, gentle face that women would likely find appealing, his smooth cheeks and small, red lips stood out conspicuously.
The other man was tall, with a large-boned, thick-fleshed build, keen eyes that moved restlessly, and a habit of occasionally twisting his lips sharply to one side—traits that, while commonplace, gave him a gloomy and cruel appearance.
Both appeared to be around thirty-four or thirty-five; they wore dark tsumugi striped lined kimonos, with the thinner man having draped a Tōzan striped half-coat over his shoulders.

“Sumi’s a quick-handed bastard,” the thin man said. “Ain’t nobody who can match how fast he moves.”

“Sumi’s quick-handed alright,” the larger man said.
“Ain’t like he’s completely different,” he added in a brusque, irritated tone. “But when Sumi sings them ballads... Man changes right before your eyes. I like hearin’ him sing.”

The thin man laughed in his throat.
It was less a laugh that mocked people and more one of finding something unbearably amusing.

“His folk ballads are enough to make me cry.”

“Why are you laughing?” the larger man said. His lip twisted to one side, and a fire seemed to flicker in the depths of his eyes. “What’s so funny about Sumi’s ballads?”

“Calm down. People are around,” the thin man said. He did not even glance toward his companion, remaining squatting as he picked up five pebbles from the ground and began repeating a motion—clutching them in one hand, shaking them, scattering them across the ground with a patter, then gathering them up again to clutch, shake, and throw once more.

The larger man glared sidelong at it, then stood up and brushed the hem of his kimono with his hand.
The thin man jerked his face away.
It was a nervous gesture, as if brushing away specks of dust.

“Hey,” the thin man said. “It’s time. What’re you waiting for?”
“I have something I want to tell Sumi.”

The thin man remained squatting, twisting only his neck to look up at his companion. “We’ll be traveling together anyway. There’s plenty of time to say whatever you want to say.”

“If only we could travel together.”

“Calm down,” the thin man said. “What’re you so worked up about? The plan’s all set up. Everything’s moving smooth.”

“You never know till you chop it down.”

“What’s there not to know?”

The larger man fell silent for a moment, then said uneasily, “Even a tree that looks sturdy enough to be a main pillar—chop it open and you’ll find the heartwood’s rotted out. Happens more than you’d think.”

The thin man laughed in his throat again.
His slender face softened, revealing clean teeth between his small, red lips.

"Hey, cut it out," the larger man said without moving his lips. "I can't stand that laugh of yours. Just stop laughing like that."

The thin man fell silent. His face turned expressionless and suddenly took on a weary cast. Then he threw the pebbles he had been clutching toward the river and slowly stood up.

"I'll say it again," he said in a soft, rounded voice. "The shop's open now. Are we going or not?"

The larger man averted his eyes, waving a hand aimlessly as if troubled. "I wanna do it without women. Think we can manage without 'em. Ain't no case where bringin' a woman in ever worked out."

The thin man watched his companion with an amused look and gentle eyes.
His gaze brimmed with eager anticipation, as if waiting for his companion to drop some witty remark.

“Understood,” the larger man said, turning his face away. “I’ll go then—but what about Sumi? He’d better be alright.”

“I’ll see you later,” the thin man said.

The larger man glanced at his companion’s face and then started walking with his hands tucked into his sleeves.
When one entered the path along the moat connecting to the Ōkawa River, there were three alleys in the single-sided town.
Each alley was a dead end, but several eateries and taverns lined each one.
This area had many lower residences of daimyo and houses of minor hatamoto, and the comrades and servants working there seemed to be the main customers of such shops.
The man turned into the second alley and began counting the houses from this side, but he stopped in front of the fifth house and tilted his head in puzzlement.
It was a small eatery-style house with a nine-foot frontage, but no eaves lantern had been hung out, no curtain was displayed, and the lattice door remained closed.

“That’s strange.”

The man muttered those words. Then, beyond the closed shop, there was a tavern with a large lantern labeled “Genpei” where customers were coming and going. When he saw this, he muttered something under his breath and entered the establishment.

II

Otsune picked up a steaming cloth scrap from the brass hair basin placed on the long charcoal brazier, blew on it with puffed cheeks while giving it a quick wring, then pressed it against Oyō's loosened hair to smooth out the styling kinks. As she repeated this process, Otsune kept talking without pause.

On the long charcoal brazier was a well-polished copper pot containing two sake warming flasks.
The room was a six-mat tea room doubling as an accounting area, lined with a large rat-proof cupboard holding sake flasks, small dishes, and cups, alongside a tea cabinet and mirror stand.
Beside the long charcoal brazier stood two butterfly-legged trays draped with white cloths, with seven one-shō sake flasks arranged alongside warming flasks and small pouring vessels.
Oyō reached out to touch the sake warming flask inside the copper pot, then called toward the other side of the sliding paper door.

“The sake’s heated now，Omitsu-chan.”

On the other side of the sliding door was the shop；a high-pitched “Coming!” rang out，and Omitsu immediately entered.

“Still just two？” Oyō asked.

“No，Mr．Nabe has just arrived，” Omitsu replied．

“Mitts-chan，” Otsune said while using the styling comb，“how rude，calling him ‘Mr．Nabe’．”

“Rude？How？”
Omitsu retorted，“He touches people’s backsides every time he passes by！Even now—” Gesturing with her hands，she skillfully imitated the customer’s leer，“‘What a plump thing！’ Ugh，disgusting．”

“Don’t put on such airs,” Otsune said. “If it were Mr. Tadashi or Mr. Den, I’d be pushing them on you myself.”

“Oh, stop it!”
Omitsu stiffened. “I hate having my behind touched by anyone!”

Omitsu took the sake warming flask from the copper pot, retrieved two small plates of appetizers from the cloth-covered tray, placed them on a serving platter, and headed out to the shop area.
Oyō added two more sake warming flasks into the copper pot, and Otsune continued her story.

“Oh, so you’re from Mito,” Oyō said. “But you don’t have an accent at all.”

“I came to Edo as a housemaid when I was ten. At eighteen, I went back to Mito to marry—so I kept house for barely five years there. Having just one child made it bearable enough, but when your husband’s yakuza, a woman’s life turns bitter.”

“So your child must be about ten now, then.”

“No, I was twenty-one when I had the child, so they’re still seven.”

“I had my share of hardships with my husband,” Oyō said. “Truly, a woman’s whole life is decided by whether the man she ends up with is good or bad.”

“But Madam, isn’t your real life just beginning? You’re about to become the proprietress of Tsunomasa—a splendid three-generation legacy! No matter what hardships you’ve endured, they’ve surely been worth it.”
Otsune applied hair oil, switched combs to style her hair, and said, “I’ve known since the day I started working here—that Master Tsunomasa was sweet on you, Madam.”

“That’s your misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding? No—it was plain as day in Master Tsunomasa’s eyes!”

“That’s your misunderstanding. If he’d had such feelings, there’s no way I wouldn’t have noticed—and had that been true, I’d never have accepted his help.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“Because he had a proper wife—after they’d been married about half a year, she took to her bed and stayed bedridden for seven years until she passed this February. With someone like that there, how could I possibly impose on him with such feelings? He wasn’t heartless enough for that, and I could never bring myself to commit such a sin.”

“Seven years bedridden? My word! What did Master do all that time? If a man’s wife lies abed seven years, he couldn’t endure it, could he?”

“It depends on the man. He might’ve gone out drinking with companions now and then, but I never once heard tell of him keeping a mistress.”

“I simply can’t believe it,” Otsune said while adjusting the hair tie, shaking her head again. “If that were true, wouldn’t it be because Madam was here? Even if he had no ulterior motives, coming here to drink from your sake cup and chat must’ve been both a pleasure and a distraction for him—I’m sure of it.”

“That’s right—something like that might have happened.”
Oyō gazed fixedly at a point on the wall with unfocused eyes, then suddenly sighed. “Human feelings are such strange things,” she said. “I’ve known him for ages—since we were practically children. Yet if he’d harbored even a hint of improper feelings, I’d never have accepted his help. Yes… It was five summers ago. Because of my former husband, I found myself at a complete dead end—I thought I might as well die. Not that it was the first time I’d considered ending things—two or three times before—but that time… I’d grown utterly sick of living.”

“That’s when Master Tsunomasa—”

“No, it was me who approached him.”
Oyō spoke in a tone that laid bare her wounds. “I was the one who approached him,” she said. “Had there been even a shred of ulterior motive, it would’ve been wrong—but there was none. I’d relied on his kindness many times before, so I merely wanted to see him one last time before dying.”

Otsune gathered the hair roots and secured them with a cord as she asked, “How’s this?”
“Tighter,” Oyō said.

“When he brought up the matter this time, I didn’t hesitate at all—I agreed after just a day’s thought.”

“You might refuse, but Master wouldn’t have withdrawn.”

“That I can’t say.”

“I knew—I saw it in Master’s manner,” Otsune said while tightening the hair cord. “From the very beginning, he was utterly devoted to you, Madam—though he never spoke it aloud, he didn’t try to conceal his feelings either. Yet there wasn’t a hint of presumption in him—no air of entitlement—so while some customers guessed how things stood, not a single one spoke ill of it.”

Omitsu slid open the shoji screen and entered.

“Mr. Yohee has arrived,” Omitsu said as she approached the long charcoal brazier. “And Mr. Ota and Mr. Nabe are pressing for Madam to come out soon.”

“Once everyone’s gathered,” Otsune said. “Since tonight’s a celebration, Madam will come out once all the guests are here.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Oyō interjected. “I’m undoing my hair right now, so once I’ve tied it up properly, I’ll come out. Please tell them that.”

Omitsu replaced the sake warming flask and left.

“Your former husband—the late one—was he close with Mr. Tsunomasa as well?”

“Not exactly close,” Oyō answered. “But yes—we did interact closely for about three years. I lived in the same neighborhood as Mr. Tsunomasa—my father ran a decoration shop. My former husband’s household was in the next town over. From age fourteen, I went into service at their home. The father took such a liking to me that in the end, I ended up being married into the family.”

“So your father ran a decoration shop—that explains it,” Otsune nodded while combing [her hair], “which means you were acquainted with Mr. Tsunomasa who deals in bags and hair accessories.”

“No, it’s not like that—I was doted on by his sister,” Oyō said. “This sister was three years older than me, and though we attended nagauta lessons under the same instructor, she treated me like a younger sister—she’d often invite me over to play, and sometimes I’d even stay for two or three days at a time.”

And Oyō, with a bashful look in her eyes, stifled a giggle.

“Oh, come on, Madam—laughing at memories like that?”

“That’s not it,” Oyō said, running her hand through her hair. “Whenever I stayed over, I always slept in her embrace—but looking back now, she was worldly-wise, you see. I knew nothing back then, so I just thought she was being affectionate.”

“But wasn’t that how it was?”

“I was indeed cherished—she must have felt affection too—but as we kept sleeping together… yes, she was worldly-wise.”

“What happened as it kept happening over and over?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly put such things into words!” Oyō deflected. “After that… I grew frightened—even when visiting, I stopped staying overnight—and the sister began to drift away from me. Then about three years later, she married at eighteen… but died soon after giving birth to her first child. They say she passed right after the delivery. She was such a beautiful person.”

Otsune set down the comb, leaned back slightly to survey her work, and asked, “How does this look?”
Oyō raised both hands and touched her head styled in a tucked-up hairstyle.
Sleeves rolled up, revealing both elbows and glimpses of upper arms—fine-textured, pale, and lustrous with a healthy sheen.

“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you,” Oyō said.
Otsune wiped the comb and her own hands, then said, “After imposing on your hospitality for over three years, this is the first night I’ve heard such stories from you.”

“But from what I’ve heard—weren’t you spared any real hardship? Born an only daughter to a decoration shop owner—pampered and raised with care—doted on by Tsunomasa’s household—and now set to become Tsunomasa’s bride—even what struggles you’ve known must be leagues beyond anything like my own.”

“Don’t you think everyone believes that?”

“That’s nonsense—truly incomparable to the hardships of someone like me.”

“People all think that way.”

Oyō took a narrow maki-e comb and inserted it into the roots of her tied-up hair as she said, “When people claim they’re happier than anyone else or that they’ve suffered the most in this world—others can’t possibly understand. No matter how much you try to put yourself in their place, you’ll never grasp the pain of their wounds. Even couples who spend their whole lives together never truly understand each other deep down. They just settle into that—and when I think that’s what being human means, it breaks my heart.”

“Knock on wood,” Otsune said as she tidied the hair-washing basin and comb box. “Telling such damp tales on an auspicious evening brings ill omen. Now, do get changed already.”

A loud voice could be heard from the shop.
"What's going on, Madam? This curtain's taking too long!"

III

About three blocks upstream from Ishihara Town, on the right-hand side, stood a temple called Hōgenji.
Colloquially known as the "Banba district," but the area was surrounded solely by samurai residences with no merchant houses in sight.
The temple precincts surrounded by an earthen wall were quite spacious. Though the main gate stood small, separate from the main hall was a building that combined a sutra hall and lecture hall, with rows of structures including the abbot's quarters, kitchen, bell tower, and servants' quarters.
Moreover, all these structures had fallen into complete ruin, devoid of any human presence, appearing exactly like an uninhabited abandoned temple. However, this was because, half a year prior, despite Hōgenji Temple being ordered to relocate, the parishioners had failed to secure the necessary funds for the move. Furthermore, since the relocation had been mandated, they could no longer conduct temple affairs there, resulting in its current state akin to a forsaken temple.

The day had already grown completely dark.
The temple gate's doors were closed, but their hinges and nails had loosened; they were merely pressed shut from both sides, leaving enough of a gap for a single person to slip through without difficulty.—Now a tall man shifted the doors aside and slipped smoothly into the temple grounds.
It was that larger man—the one who had entered the Genpei tavern.
He pressed the doors shut as they had been, then began walking toward the kitchen quarters with cautious steps.
Then, at the bell tower where the bell had been lowered, a voice said, "There," and a small, black figure could be seen rising to its feet.
It was that slender-faced companion man who had been at the Ishihara riverbank.

“You’re late,” the thin, small man said. “I’ve waited till I’m bone-tired. How’d it go?”

“No use—the shop’s shut.”

“Shut, you say?”

The larger man approached and sat down on the stone wall.
The bell tower had earth mounded up about two shaku high and was enclosed by stone walls.
When he sat down there, the thin man did the same.

“I hear that shop’s closing for good tonight,” the larger man said. “So they’re shutting it down and gathering only their closest regular customers to serve celebratory sake.”

“So you didn’t get in?”

“I drank at a shop right across the way—Genpei—and heard them talking. They’re business rivals, I suppose, but they praised the madam something fierce—seems she’s quite the capable woman. They were lauding her as if she were their own.”

The thin man laughed deep in his throat.
But before his companion could notice, he cut off the laughter and asked matter-of-factly, "Even if they praised her like their own—what exactly did they find so praiseworthy?"

The larger man stayed silent briefly.

“That shop was started five years ago, I hear—apparently under the care of Tsunomasa of Horidome, the owner of a pouch shop.”
“I know that already.”

“She’s got fine looks and a gentle disposition—her shop’s thriving with plenty of regulars—but not a single scandal in five years. Tsunomasa comes by about once every five days, but he just drinks at the shop and leaves—never goes to the back rooms or meets her in secret. That’s how it’s been, but—” He broke off and looked at his companion. “Hey, let’s drop this. I ain’t keen on messin’ with women.”

“You forgot, didn’t you,” interrupted the thin man in a low voice. “Sumi’s prepared two travel permits—mine’s for a wife in tow. To slip out of Edo, we need a woman. A couple’ll pass checkpoints without suspicion—that’s why we set this up. Ain’t that right?”

“That may be true, but there are other women out there.”

“You just don’t get it,” the thin man said lightly. “There’s no shortage of women out there, but she’s the only one who’ll be any real use. If we hit trouble at a checkpoint—and I mean real trouble—she’ll pull through. Even once we reach Osaka, she’ll do for getting us through a tight spot.”

The larger man fell silent again.

"Tell me the rest," the thin man urged. "After she stayed clean for five years—what happened then?"

"She’s getting married the day after tomorrow."

The thin man fell silent, then slowly turned around. "The day after tomorrow—what are you going to do?"

"She’s getting married," the larger man said. "Tsunomasa had a wife, but after seven years of illness, she died this February. They say she’s stepping into that role now."

The thin man remained still, then stood up without a sound. He crossed his arms, then stroked his chin with his right hand while pacing a few steps back and forth. This was partly due to his straw sandals, but he made no footsteps, and his breathing was inaudible. With one arm crossed and the other stroking his chin, he gazed at the ground, occasionally shaking his head as he paced back and forth for a short while. Then he suddenly stopped and began to laugh. At first, a low sound like a wood pigeon’s coo leaked from deep in his throat, which turned into a muffled chuckle, then erupted into open laughter as he threw his head back.

“Stop it,” the larger man said. “That laugh of yours is unbearable. Hey, cut it out.”

The thin man stopped laughing. “Calm down,” he said soothingly. “That’s a good story—her becoming Tsunomasa’s second wife. No, I ain’t laughin’ at you. Just thought of somethin’—if we nab her, it’s like a duck ready for the pot. Yoshinoji, we’re gonna have one smooth journey.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

“Yasujirō Tsunomasa’s been sweet on her since way back—he’d do anything for her. Even before they shipped me off to Ishikawajima’s workhouse, back when I was still living with that woman, Tsunomasa couldn’t help bending over backwards for her sake—she had him wrapped around her finger.”

“Did you know about the master of Tsunomasa Shop?”

“Right,” said the thin man, ignoring his companion’s question as he nodded to himself. “This is a twofold windfall—ain’t it? Yasujirō’s a cautious, patient man who plays everything safe. The only reason he’d take her as his second wife is ’cause he thinks I’m dead and buried. If he had even a speck of doubt I might still be breathing, he’d never lay a hand on Oyō. Yeah—our bungled plan actually worked.”

“Did you really think it hadn’t worked?”
“It’s been three years already,” said the man called Yoshinoji. “We knew damn well back then that those two corpses found in Shinagawa were recognized as you and me.”

“You don’t think things through,” the thin man said. “Go on in. Once the celebration’s over, bring the woman out.”

“What about Tsunomasa?”

“That’s for after we’ve brought the woman here,” said the thin man with amusement. “For Oyō’s sake, that fool’d do anything. We’ll have ourselves an easy journey.”

The man called Yoshinoji stood up. “I ain’t keen on this. You’re too sharp by half—not cut out to be anyone’s partner. Even Sumi’d shake his head if he knew why.”

The thin man snickered.
The man called Yoshinoji suddenly turned around as if startled and stared fixedly at his companion’s face there in the darkness.

“Hey, what happened to Sumi?” he asked in a low voice. “Did you meet him?”

The thin man jerked his chin. “Nihee’s running a gambling den in the priests’ quarters over there. Sumi came like we agreed.”

“So you still haven’t met him?”

“Don’t worry about Sumi.”

“Did you meet him or not?”

“Keep your voice down.” The thin man pressed a hand to his pocket. “Two travel permits—one for my wife and me, another for you. Got ’em right here, so quit your worrying.”

“Sumi go back to the gambling den?”

The thin man started walking in silence.
The larger man followed him to the other side of the bell tower, where the thin man stopped and jerked his chin toward what lay sprawled there.

“This guy’s a ruthlessly efficient bastard,” said the thin man.

The man called Yoshiji recoiled.
What lay sprawled there was human, he realized as the metallic tang of blood hit him.
The person lay face down and seemed to have completely stopped breathing.

“What a terrible thing,” he muttered under his breath. “What a terrible thing—”

“He got greedy—tried to extort ten ryō and even reached into my pocket,” the thin man said softly. “This one’s a quick-handed bastard. If I hadn’t done him in, he’d have done me in instead.”

The man called Yoshinoji muttered under his breath, "What a terrible thing—"

IV

Yasujirō Tsunomasa was uncharacteristically drunk.

All the guests invited for the celebration had left, and Otsune and Omitsu were gone as well.
Because they were closing the shop, Otsune was returning to Mito while Omitsu had found employment in Asakusa.
Thus Otsune went to stay at a distant relative’s house in Narihira, and Omitsu moved to her new position at a shop in Asakusa.
Yasujirō slowly surveyed the shop interior through drunken eyes.
The space had been tidied.
Since Otsune and Omitsu had quickly cleared away after the guests’ revelries, only their two meal trays remained in the four-tatami room.

“Otsune says she’ll work as a hairdresser when she returns to Mito,” Oyō had been saying. “I’ve had her do my hair for about a year now. She says she’s liked working with hair since she was little, and since she’s skilled, she’ll surely manage.”

“I might be drunk, but I’d like to drink a bit more.”

“You won’t make yourself ill from it, will you?”

“I’m fine—this is the first time I’ve ever been drunk on such wonderful feelings,” said Yasujirō Tsunomasa. “Once I enter the Horidome shop the day after tomorrow, I won’t be able to do this anymore. With it being the last of first times, tonight I want to drink all I can.”

“As long as you don’t get sick from drinking—it’s just that you don’t usually drink much.”

“Tonight’s different,” Yasujirō said. “Just follow me.”

Oyō stood up, went to the tearoom, soon returned, and while sitting down pressed her cheek. “I think I’m a bit drunk too.”

“It’s a lovely color—the area around your eyes is tinged with such a lovely hue. Pretty.”
He gazed at Oyō’s face. “Oyō,” he said in an emotional voice, “we took quite a detour, didn’t we?”

Oyō quietly lowered her eyes.

"You first came to the Horidome house when you were nine or ten, I suppose. My older sister cherished you like a younger sibling—though we lived in the same neighborhood, she’d often have you stay over, change your kimono, redo your hair, put makeup on you, doting on you like some doll."

"I still remember it clearly," he said, taking a sip of sake before continuing. "You’d sit there primly, having your hair styled in that tobacco-tray chignon and lip rouge applied, putting on such a dignified air. My sister would monopolize you completely—she never let me get close. I couldn’t approach you then, but how often I wished you were truly my little sister. It wasn’t until much later that I began wanting you as my bride—at first, I just kept thinking how wonderful it would be if you were my sister."

“Is that so?” Oyō said while pouring him a drink. “I’m so scatterbrained I don’t remember well, but you always used to look at me with such a cross expression.”

“Ah,” he sighed, pouring Oyō a drink in return. “Drink up tonight—get properly drunk. It’s an old line, but if you do, I’ll take care of you. Yes—with these very hands.” His fingers tightened around the sake flask. “We took such a roundabout path, but we’ve finally reached this point—where I can tend to you myself. Sixteen… no, a full fifteen years or more.”

Oyō stood up and went to fetch the sake warming flask, then returned with it.
Yasujirō appeared not to notice even that; he sipped his sake and continued talking.

“I wanted to take Oyō as my bride—if my memory holds true, I was seventeen then, when they were repairing the stone wall at Hamachō’s riverbank. I kept gazing absently at it while wondering whether to say so to Mother—never could bring myself to say it, though. You were still thirteen or fourteen back then.”

“If you were seventeen, that was the year your sister got married, wasn’t it?” Oyō said. “Then I would’ve been fifteen.”

“I should’ve said it then. If you were fifteen, bringing up such a topic wouldn’t have been strange at all.”

“But I was an only child.”

Yasujirō fell silent.

“And my father had such a temperament,” Oyō said. “Just hearing ‘Tsunomasa’ would have made him refuse outright—he’d have said we weren’t suited.”

“I see… So you were an only daughter.”
He stared at the cup—sipped from it—then said: “Then either way you still had to take a husband?”

Oyō poured Yasujirō a drink; Yasujirō poured Oyō a drink.
She took a tentative sip and immediately set down her cup.

“But if that’s how it was,” he said while still looking down, “if you had to take a son-in-law, there should have been a better way to choose one. It’s not like you were tricked by some matchmaker—he was an artisan trained from apprenticeship in your own household, living under the same roof and observed constantly. Surely you could have discerned what sort of man he was, whether he had any prospects or not.”

“Father fell head over heels for him.”

“But still,” he retorted.

“If Mother had been alive, there might have been a different opinion,” Oyō said while pouring sake. “And besides, that man only became like that after Father died—until then, he worked quite earnestly.”

“Barely two years at most,” he retorted harshly. “Even if you say he worked earnestly, it was barely two years! He showed his true colors immediately after your father died—immediately! Didn’t even wait a hundred days! And by the first anniversary, you’d already closed the shop and moved to a back-alley tenement!”

“I’ve known everything,” he continued. “Even after taking a wife, your face wouldn’t leave my head. I’ll say it now—every time I heard rumors, my guts would churn. That bastard—that man’s a villain through and through.”

Oyō took the cup and drank.
Yasujirō poured her a drink, and Oyō drank that as well.

“That’s right—exactly as you say.”

Oyō said that, stood up and left, then returned holding two sake warming flasks.
Then, she quietly poured Yasujirō a drink and drank her own herself.

“He wasn’t just a villain—he was inhuman,” Oyō continued. “Right after Father died, his debauchery began. He never touched a drop of alcohol, but gambling and women—he ruined our shop, stripped me bare for more gambling and women—I kept telling myself I must have been at fault too—that surely there was something wrong with me. People say all men stray once in their lives, so I endured it through tears.”

“Go on, say it all,” he said, pouring Oyō a drink. “Let every last word come out—then you’ll feel unburdened.”

“I’ve never said this before, but once he even tried to sell my body to someone.”

“Sell your body to someone?”

“He used me as collateral for gambling debts,” Oyō said, taking a neat sip. “I thought I’d die and took out a kitchen knife. Even before that, and after too, I often thought about dying, but that time I was truly determined to go through with it. As soon as I heard, I went to the kitchen and grabbed the knife.”

“What a bastard,” he groaned. “What an awful bastard.”

“That man is inhuman through and through.”
Oyō took a sip and said, “Compared to that, you’re a Buddha—yes, truly worthy of being called a Buddha. You cared for your sick wife for seven years without once being unfaithful, managed your shop splendidly, and showed selfless consideration even to someone like me—but that inhuman man, that inhuman man used me as collateral to demand money from you. I heard later—how you lent it without so much as a frown. He told me so himself, utterly shameless.”

“Money,” he shook his head, “compared to your suffering, a bit of money like that means nothing at all.”

“After that man was sent to Ishikawajima Workhouse, you let me have this shop, took care of me for five whole years, and now want to make this old woman I’ve become your wife—if this were just a story, no one would believe it. Even now, half of me still thinks this must be a dream.”

Oyō poured herself a drink.
Seeing how she did it, Yasujirō slightly furrowed his brows.

"If you keep drinking like that, you'll get drunk."

"You look just like a Buddha," Oyō continued undeterred. "You'd surely pamper your wife—dress her in whatever she fancies, feed her whatever she craves, take her to theater outings and sightseeing trips, never letting her want for anything while showering her with affection. You need some meek woman who'd consider that bliss as your bride. Not me."

“Wait,” he said, stopping Oyō as she tried to pour her own drink. “That’s too reckless—you’re already drunk. Why not slow down a bit?”

“Forgive me. Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry—I was the one who offered it. Just that you should drink more slowly.”

“You won’t hold it against me, will you?” Oyō said gently. “Please give up on me. I’m not the sort of woman who can become your wife.”

“You’re drunk. Let’s drop this talk.”

“Yes, I’ll stop. But please let me say this much,” Oyō continued. “You probably don’t understand, but women aren’t satisfied just being coddled like silk-wrapped treasures. Because of that inhuman man, I suffered excruciating pain to the point of death and was made to cry until no tears remained. But through that, I gradually came to understand what it truly means to be driven to weep from the depths of one’s soul.”

Oyō drank neatly again, immediately poured herself another drink, then said: “He was a villain, yes—but whatever he did, he did with complete sincerity. Though he rarely ever did anything to make me happy, when he did, he’d forget all appearances and social pretenses, exerting every means possible to please me. Of course when making me suffer, he showed neither restraint nor consideration—not a shred of thought for how others might view him, doing exactly as he pleased. Yes—he was an inhuman villain through and through. In exchange, I became mud-covered too—mud-covered and scarred all over, until finally washing up as a corpse in Shinagawa’s sea.”

“It was three summers ago, wasn’t it?” Oyō continued. “Two corpses in work uniforms washed ashore at Shinagawa—identified as escapees from Ishikawajima Prison. Rotten through, but one was that man. You came to tell me, didn’t you? Back then you said, ‘Now your suffering’s ended—think of happiness from here on.’ I must have looked relieved—yes, laughed and said ‘Thanks to you.’ But after you left... I cried all night long. ‘Poor soul,’ I kept sobbing. ‘Poor, pitiful soul.’”

Yasujirō, seeming to have heard something, stood up, peered into the tea room, closed the shoji screen, returned, and took the sake warming flask from Oyō’s hand.

“Enough already. We’ve talked enough.”

“Fine, I’ll stop—I’ll stop talking,” Oyō said, fixing her gaze. “In return, you must leave too. I’m not the kind of woman who can occupy the position as Tsunomasa’s wife.”

“Let’s leave that talk for later. I’ll prepare the bedding—you should sleep.”

“Go home,” Oyō cried in a suppressed voice. “Someone like you—with wealth, called ‘Master’ by everyone, without a single flaw to be found—could never understand the feelings of those who’ve become mud-covered and scarred all over. This very body of mine still bears the mud and scars from that inhuman man. To become Tsunomasa’s bride? Absurd. I refuse.”

“I understand. We’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ll lay out the bedding now, so lie down.”

Oyō shook her head violently. “Please go home. Please leave before I start speaking ill.”

“But you’re so drunk already.”

“Please go home,” Oyō whispered in a tone that seemed to beg for pity. “I’m begging you—leave now and never come back.”

Yasujirō stared fixedly at Oyō, then quietly stood up.
Then Oyō, as if to forestall him, waved her hand and said, “Please don’t say anything.”

“Please don’t say anything—just go home as you are. Please.”

Yasujirō turned his pale face away, went to the tea room to fetch a scarf, wrapped it around his neck, and silently stepped down into the earthen-floored area.
Oyō didn’t so much as glance his way as she took the sake warming flask and poured herself a cup.

“Goodbye, take care.”

V

Yasujirō came out to Ōkawabata.
The time seemed past ten; this riverside lay in utter darkness, the Asakusa shore opposite showed only sparse lights, and from afar came the faint sound of night watchmen's clappers.

“The ferry’s already stopped running,” he muttered while trembling. “Even if I try to hire a palanquin, I’ll have to go all the way to Ryōgoku.”

There was no wind, but the temperature was low; perhaps there were clouds, for only a few stars were visible.
He started walking toward Ryōgokubashi Bridge, and when he reached the ferry landing, a voice called out from behind, “Hey, Master.”
Yasujirō looked back while walking.
Then, right there, he noticed a tall man wearing a cheek-covering cloth.

“Me?” he asked.

“You’re the master of Tsunomasa, aren’t you?” the man countered.

Yasujirō stopped, and the man also stopped.
Yasujirō calmly looked at the man, and the man slightly lowered his head.

“I won’t do anything suspicious—I’ve got business with you, Master,” the man said. “We’ll talk while I escort you, so please keep walking.”

“Who might you be?”

“Please keep walking,” the man said. “You’ll understand once we start talking.”

Yasujirō started walking, and the man fell into step beside him on his left.

“She’s a good woman, that Oyō-san,” the man said. “Apologies to you, Master—I overheard everything just now. Yes, I listened without permission. Heard all your words, Master, and everything Madam said too.”

“Why would you do something so intrusive?”

“I’ll explain that later,” the man cut in, “but first let me ask—you haven’t given up on her, have you, Master?”

Yasujirō started to say something but, as if reconsidering, closed his mouth.

"That person was deep in her cups," the man said, looking at Yasujirō. "She said things that sounded spiteful, but that wasn't her true heart—you must've understood that too, Master. You haven't changed your mind about making her your wife, have you? You'll still make her Tsunomasa's bride proper like you decided, won't you?"

"If you heard everything, you should understand," he replied. "This depends more on Oyō's heart than mine. She was indeed drunk, but Oyō isn't a woman who speaks insincerely no matter how intoxicated she becomes. I've known her since old times—she'd never be one to say things she doesn't mean, even when drunk."

"Then Master," the man said, "do you mean to cast that person aside?"

Yasujirō walked about ten steps in silence.

“Are you going to abandon her like this?” the man pressed. “Do you intend to cast that person aside right here, Master?”

Yasujirō stopped and turned toward the man. “You heard Oyō say this, didn’t you?—those with assets, addressed as ‘Master,’ flawless in every way—they can’t understand the feelings of people covered in mud and scars.”

The man pursed his lips and groaned.
It was barely a sound—a groan that seemed wrung from him as though pressed through a vise.

“To speak honestly—here in my chest,” Yasujirō continued, “it felt as if gouged by a blade. Oyō is right—I have no right to condemn Rikizō. When Rikizō did evil and Oyō suffered, I merely watched from the sidelines—like someone warming hands in sleeves while watching a fire on the opposite bank. Tonight… I finally understood what manner of man I truly am.”

“Then all the more reason you oughta make her happy—ain’t that what’s right?”

Yasujirō turned around again.
He turned around and asked in a tone suggesting he’d only just noticed the man, “Just who are you? Do you have some connection to Oyō?”

“If there’s any connection,” the man said through clenched teeth, “if there’s any connection at all, it’s more with you than with her.”

Yasujirō stared intently at the man.
“Rikizō is alive,” the man said in a hushed voice. “He ain’t dead—he’s alive and waiting right now at Hōgenji Temple across the way.”

Yasujirō said nothing.

“Let me lay it all out—I’m Yoshiji, the one who broke jail with that bastard,” the man continued. “Sumi, this partner of mine, plotted with me to slip outta Ishikawajima. We drowned two tattooed men, waited for ’em to rot, then tossed ’em into the sea. When they washed up on Shinagawa’s shore, folks took ’em for us two. Three years since then—that bastard and I’ve done every rotten thing there is. Got too hot for us in Edo, so we figured we’d skip town to Kansai.”

“That man—Rikizō,” Yasujirō asked in a hoarse voice, “you’re saying he’s truly alive?”

“This Yoshiji here’s that bastard’s partner,” the man said. “Two men alone’d draw the authorities’ eyes too much. But if we bring Oyō-san along and that bastard poses as her husband, we could fool the checkpoint officials. That’s why I took on the job of fetchin’ her out.”

Yasujirō swallowed his saliva.
And he tried to say something, but Yoshiji continued, saying that the name Tsunomasa had come up.
"When I heard she'd entered Tsunomasa, greed took hold—planned not just to take her away but use her as leverage to squeeze money from Tsunomasa. That’s why I sneaked into their kitchen," the man said.

“I sneaked into the kitchen to wait for your return, Master,” Yoshiji continued, “but after listenin’ to you two talk—after hearin’ what *she* said—somethin’ in me shifted. That… that *scoundrel*—callin’ him a ‘pitiful soul,’ defendin’ that inhuman bastard with pretty words like yours, Master—sayin’ he’s just some poor soul covered in mud and scars… Master, I ain’t no saint either—got crimes weighin’ on me—but I can’t let someone like Oyō-san get hurt more’n this. I’m beggin’ you, Master—let her stay as Tsunomasa’s bride. I’ll handle Rikizō. I’ll take care of that bastard. Just… please look after Oyō-san.”

The man called Yoshiji bowed his head two or three times, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he did so.

“Understood—I’ll take responsibility for Oyō,” Yasujirō said. “Given what happened tonight, we can’t move forward right away. Let her keep running that shop a while longer—once her mind settles, I’ll bring her into Tsunomasa.”

“You’re certain about this, yeah?”

“I must’ve told you about sixteen years ago too.”

“Yeah… yeah, I heard,” Yoshiji nodded, the back of his hand brushing his eyes again. “Hearin’ that made me think—I wanna be born human one more time.”

Yoshiji wiped his eyes with the back of his hand again and said, “Then I’ll take my leave here.”
Yasujirō stopped him.
Yasujirō tried to stop him—saying he wanted to hear more details and asking if Yoshiji would come to his shop—but Yoshiji shook his head.

“There’s nothin’ more to say—and that bastard Rikizō’s waitin’,” Yoshiji said. “Won’t tell you this, Master, but he killed a comrade tonight—one who helped us break jail, a man I owed a debt to. With that and everythin’ else… I’ve decided to finish him. Just… please—I know I’m bein’ insistent—make Oyō-san happy.”

Yasujirō nodded. “You needn’t worry about Oyō, but even if you don’t lay hands on that man—is there truly no other way?”

“Ain’t,” Yoshiji cut in with a hand wave. “Hand him to the law and that bastard’s name surfaces. Then Oyō-san’s life gets dragged back into the muck.”

Yasujirō fell silent.

"I'll make sure there ain't no slip-ups," Yoshiji said with a smile. "After I finish that bastard off, I'll turn myself in. You'll hear 'bout it someday—how homeless vagrants quarreled, one killed another, an' how I was the one who did it. This here's goodbye. Please... live proper-like."