Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

In a vacant lot of about 100 tsubo facing the canal in Honjo Kamezawa-cho appeared a nightly stall shop called “Shell Shop,” hung with an eaves lantern.
The Shell Shop prided itself on serving shellfish as drinking snacks and its generously topped rice bowls, its reputation reaching even neighborhoods quite far away.

The cart stall stood surrounded by reed screens, unpainted wooden dining tables and stools arranged inside.
Stools also lined the space before the cooking pot—when crowded, twelve or thirteen customers could squeeze in.
Across the canal stretched the shogunate’s rice storehouses, their earthen walls running endlessly along the waterway, while behind them loomed large wholesale shops—Sado-ya, Marugo, Kyōden among others.
Of course, only the backs of plank fences showed here; come nightfall, no light seeped through, leaving the surroundings hushed and dark.

Though it was already mid-March, on a certain night that was quite cold—

Perhaps because the weather had cleared since afternoon, once the bustling evening hours passed, the Shell Shop grew unusually quiet—by around nine o’clock, only four or five regular drinking customers remained.
Takezō the vegetable peddler and Yūkichi the boatman from Ōkawabata’s Tsuchiya—these two appeared to be old local friends, both around twenty-eight or twenty-nine.
Sitting across the table from them was the warehouse keeper of front-facing Sado-ya—a man of about fifty-six or fifty-seven whose real name was Rokubē, though everyone called him “Zubu Rokubē” because he was always drunk.

In addition to these, there were two others—one was an unfamiliar face who appeared to be a traveler, wearing arm guards, gaiters, and straw sandals, clad in a raincoat with a dust cloth draped over his head.
He was already in his late thirties—thirty-six or thirty-seven—and was seated at the front of the cooking pot, engaged in intermittent conversation with Yobei, the shop owner, while slowly drinking with grilled clams as a snack.

The other—this one had passed out drunk at the edge of the dining table. He must have passed out drunk—perched precariously on the edge of his stool, he lay sprawled face down across the dining table, his face buried in the crook of his sloppily bent arm without moving. He wore a grime-stained quilted cotton kimono with a frayed three-foot belt, his hair gray and his unkempt beard likewise gray—his entire being indescribably wretched and forlorn.

“Wait, Takatsugu—where are you going?”

Outside, a woman’s voice like that was heard.
It seemed to be coming from behind the reed screens.
“Where are you going…?” she called out, her voice trailing off into silence.

“Are you going on a journey now, sir?”
The owner, Yobei, asked as he brought out a warmed sake decanter.
“Or have you returned from your journey, sir?”

“I’ve come back,” the traveler said in slightly accented words.
“It seems I must set out again.”

“In this neighborhood?”

“No—”
The traveler hesitated.
“Further ahead, in Midorimachi 2-chōme, there was someone I knew. But when I went there, they had moved away—I don’t know where they went.”
“That area was burned down in the fire of the Year of the Dragon (Tenmei 4), you see.”

From the opposite dining table, Takezō spoke.

“Old man, sake! And one miso stew.”

“Give me the unfiltered sake,” Yūkichi said.
“And a refill on the soup.”

The traveler poured sake into his own cup, slowly took a sip, and carefully set it down.
The dust cloth draped deeply over his head obscured his facial features, but judging by his sun-tanned profile, the fingernails visible beyond his arm guards, and his neatly kept appearance, he gave the impression of a shop manager from a large merchant house.

“Where did you hide, Takatsugu? Where are you?”

In the vacant lot beyond, (again) a woman’s voice was heard.

“That’s Sachiko from Kyōden, isn’t it?”
The warehouse keeper Rokubē said.
“That voice—isn’t it Sachiko?”

“Did you hear something?”

“Sachiko’s at the lodging, right?” said Yūkichi.
“The other day, when I met Oume, she said she’s been staying at the lodging.”

Yobei placed the ordered items on a tray and headed toward the dining table.
The traveler in the raincoat at the front of the pot raised his head sharply and strained to listen to the sounds outside.
Yobei returned with the empty tray and poured himself a cup, downing it in one gulp.
Then he checked the fire under the pot, added charcoal, and began washing dishes.

“That guy’s got a way with words,” Takezō continued.
“What’s this ‘dignified way to die’ nonsense? Ain’t no such thing.”
“Dying’s just dying.”
“Whether you die like a man or snivel like a coward, it ain’t gonna make a lick of difference to anyone’s loss or gain.”

“That guy’s always like that.”

“Dying like a man is something show-offs do. Putting on airs even when you’re dying—ain’t no point in that, I tell ya,” Takezō said. “If ya put it that way, that’s logic for ya. The mood’s gone cold—let’s just drop it.”

“That guy’s always like that,” Yūkichi said, taking a sip from his cup of unfiltered sake. “What he says ain’t lies—but they’re just too damn venomous. Even when he goes to the pleasure quarters, he’s still like that—no wonder even the courtesans can’t stand him.”

The traveler looked at Yobei.

“Just now, over there—” the traveler asked in a tone tinged with Kansai accent. “The person over there seemed to say something about Sachiko.”

“Hmm?” Yobei raised his face. “...Why?”

“No—just now, the person over there—”

The traveler started to say that but suddenly fell silent.

Into this reed-screen enclosure, a woman staggered in alone.

“Where is Takatsugu?” the woman said.
“My Takatsugu has come—hasn’t he?
“Where are you?”

Everyone there raised their faces.
However, the traveler averted his eyes and, propping his cheek with his hand, hid his face as if to conceal it.

The woman wore a striped komon-patterned lined kimono with a Hakata obi and men's setta sandals on her bare feet.
She appeared to be between twenty-five or six and thirty-one or two, looking both aged and youthful at once.
She had an oval, softly rounded face with refined features that made her quite beautiful.
One could say she was strikingly beautiful.
However, that beauty was somehow inhuman, giving an impression akin to a Noh mask or Buddhist statue.
She frowned, looked confused, and showed a coquettish smile, but even so, her otherworldly aura did not fade.

“Hey, don’t hide him—please tell me,” the woman said. “I need to show him the baby boy. He still doesn’t know the baby boy was born. Hey, where is Takatsugu?”

“C’mere,” Takezō said. “Takatsugu’s right here! You can see that, can’t you? C’mon over and take a look.”

“Don’t go teasin’ her cruel-like.”

Yobei stepped out, scolded Takezō, and calmed the woman.

“Go on home now.”
“They’re all worried about you back at the house.”
Having said this, he tried to guide her outside.
The woman shook off Yobei’s hand.

“Waste of breath talkin’ to her like that,” Rokubē said.
“When the madness takes hold, best leave well enough alone.”
“Oume’ll come fetch her soon enough—no sense fussin’ over it.”

“Get too friendly and she’ll cling to you like ivy.”
Yūkichi laughed as he spoke.

“It’s okay, Uncle.”
The woman smiled at Yobei.
“I won’t do anything.”
“I just want to show this baby boy to him.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Please—just for a moment—let me see him.”

The woman formed both hands into a circle at her chest—as if cradling an infant—and gently swayed them as she headed toward the meal counter.

“Can’t be helped,”
Yobei said as he returned to the pot.
“You lot can’t go cruelly teasin’ her like that—
mockin’ such a sick soul’s a sin, I tell ya!”

II

“Is she a young lady from the neighborhood?” the traveler asked in a hushed voice.
He did not look toward the woman.

“She’s the daughter of Kyōden, a hemp wholesaler on this street,” Yobei said.
“She’s usually gentle, but around her monthly troubles she becomes… odd.”
“There are… circumstances behind it.”

The woman sat on the stool and pleaded with the three men there to look at her baby.
Rokubē the warehouse keeper peered in and praised the child as cute and sturdy-looking.
Takezō and Yūkichi also praised him.
The woman’s eyes sparkled with pride, but when Yūkichi said “Let me hold him for a bit” and reached out his hands, she declared this child was shy with strangers and couldn’t be held—then, as if the child had started crying, she rose from the stool and began swaying her body from side to side to soothe him.

“There, there—don’t cry,” Sachiko said.
“I’ll let you meet Daddy soon..."
“When you cry..."

“Shut up! Don’t make the kid cry!”

A voice shouted from the edge of the meal counter.
It was the old man who had been sleeping while passed out drunk.
The old man—who had been slumped over the meal counter with his arm as a pillow like a dead man—shouted.—Separate from the lanterns outside hung a shop lantern bearing kana that read “Kaiya” beside the stall cart, illuminating the enclosure. The large butterfly perched on this lantern fluttered up as if startled by his voice, flew madly about within the enclosure, then returned to settle again on its original lantern.

“Take the brat outside!” the old man shouted again.
“I can’t stand this racket! Shut up!”

“Look here, baby boy—you’ll make that man angry.” The woman fretted.
“Why are you crying so much? I told you not to cry. Hey, what’s wrong?” The woman peered into her arms.
“What’s wrong, baby boy?”
“Do you want some milk?”
“You’re hungry.”
“That’s right—you were hungry.”
“There, there—poor thing. That’s how it was.”

“Shut up!” the old man shouted.
“Take that brat somewhere else! Don’t make him cry!”

Rokubē started laughing, and Takezō and Yūkichi also laughed.

The woman sat on the stool, firmly pulled open her collar, and exposed her left breast.
The three men stopped laughing and casually gazed at it, as if dazzled.
In the faint lantern light, the smooth whiteness of her chest and the taut fullness of her breasts—their pale pink areolae—appeared with such alluring vividness it stole one’s breath.

“Here’s your milk.
“Baby boy, don’t bite.”
The woman supported the right breast with her hand as if it were heavy and arched her chest to make it easier for him to drink.
“Oh my, you wanted to drink so badly? I’m a bad mama, aren’t I?”
“It’s fine—drink as much as you want.”
“There, there. There, there.”

The traveler was watching it out of the corner of his eye.
Then he asked Yobei in a whisper.

“She has a child?”

“Ain’t no such thing—she’s still a virgin,” Yobei said.
“I ain’t privy to the details myself—just heard it secondhand—but ’bout fifteen years back, at Kyōden’s shop, there was this clerk who was s’posed to marry Sachiko—that’s the young lady’s name, y’see.”
“And just when they were ’bout to hold the wedding, he ran off with the shop’s money—a thousand ryō, maybe two thousand ryō, they say—”

“That’s wrong, Mr. Yobei.”
Rokubē said.
While saying this, he picked up his warmed sake flask and cup, came over, sat down beside the traveler, and said to Yobei, “That’s your mishearin’.”
“That clerk—name was Takatsugu—he didn’t run off ’fore the wedding. ’Twas when the master died.”

“You know a lot, Mr. Rokubē.”

“Ain’t like I’m some expert.”
“I only started workin’ for Sado-ya around then myself, so I ain’t privy to all the old details—but I still remember how things went down during that whole mess.”
“That was right after Kyōden’s master died.”

At the meal counter, the woman began to sing a lullaby quietly.
The traveler brought the cup to his lips, and without drinking (holding it before his mouth), he suddenly closed his eyes.

“Wasn’t that man raised from boyhood?” Yobei said.

“Raised from boyhood, sure, but...”
Rokubē poured himself a drink, shook the empty warmed sake flask at Yobei, and continued, “Another bottle.”
“From what I’ve heard, he was some distant relative of the master’s—taken in after being orphaned.”
“At the time, he was about ten years old—maybe not even that yet, they say.”

“Should I tell the truth?”

A voice suddenly barked out.
It came from that old man slumped drunk at the edge of the meal counter.
He shouted again without even lifting his head from where it lay.

“I’ll tell the truth!” the old man rasped hoarsely.
“Can I say it?”

Rokubē’s story faltered mid-sentence.
In the sudden hush, the woman’s lullaby drifted through the air like smoke.

“So that’s how it was,” Rokubē pressed on.
“The master and mistress—whatever face they showed—must’ve held him apart from other servants in their hearts.”
“They say he himself had an uncommon gentle nature—mild-mannered through and through.”

“Please have one of these.”
The traveler offered sake to Rokubē.
“Let me give you this to tide you over until the sake is warmed.”

“Is that so? Well, thank you kindly.”
Rokubē adroitly accepted it.
“Then I’ll drink without restraint—”

“Well then,” Yobei said.
“So the Master meant from the start to put that man together with Sachiko, huh?”

“Hard to say,” Rokubē said. “It might’ve been like that, but back then, there was a boy in Sachiko’s household, I hear. He was the same age as Takatsugu—this one died at fifteen, they say—but even after that, there wasn’t any change in how they treated Takatsugu. The talk of making them husband and wife—they say the master gathered relatives and announced it just before he died.”

“And yet he himself ran off, huh?”

“The shop had fallen on hard times, see,” said Rokubē. “Kyōden was Edo’s top hemp wholesaler in its day, but the master was too soft-hearted.”
“Got themselves tangled in bad promissory notes, they say—left ’em scrambling to make ends meet back then.”

“And that bastard still ran off?”

“Right before settlement day, the master scraped together every coin he could.”
“Must’ve been desperate juggling.”
“Cursed him proper—stroke felled him, dead by next mornin’.”
“Then that Takatsugu rat snatched the whole pile and vanished.”

“What a damn bastard.”

Yobei placed the warmed sake flask in front of Rokubē and quickly downed a cup (of his own sake).

“What a rotten bastard.”
“A bastard who’d kick a hanged man’s legs.”

“The stolen money—over eight hundred ryō—forgetting the debt of being raised from childhood, abandoning Sachiko who’s wasting away pining for him…” Rokubē heaved a deep sigh.
“A damn rotten bastard.”
“This world’s full of damn rotten bastards.”

The woman was singing a lullaby in a low voice.

III

“Good evening—”

With this, the middle-aged woman appeared.
She was a plump, reddish-haired woman of about forty.

“Ah, Oume,” Yobei said.

“If you’re looking for Sachiko, she’s right there.”

“I’m terribly sorry.
“I’ve been looking for her since earlier, though.”
The woman entered as she said this.
“Because I heard a lullaby here.”

“Wasn’t she at the dorm?”

“Tomorrow is the master’s death anniversary, you see—that’s why she came back.”
The woman named Oume went over to Sachiko and greeted Takezō and Yūkichi.
“I’m terribly sorry for always causing you trouble.”
“Come now, Sachiko—let’s go home.”
“Mr. Takatsugu has come to the shop.”
“Mr. Takatsugu has come and is waiting, so let’s go home.”

“Don’t speak so loudly.”
Sachiko said.
“He just fell asleep now—see? He’s sleeping so soundly.”

“Yes, he’s sleeping so soundly.”
“So let’s go home quickly and put him to bed.”
“If we stay in a place like this, the baby will catch a cold.”

The woman named Oume adjusted Sachiko’s kimono to cover her chest, neatly fastened her collar, and helped her rise.
Sachiko remained pliant under these ministrations.
Oume bowed vaguely toward the gathering, murmured apologies, and guided Sachiko out with an arm around her shoulders—the lullaby Sachiko hummed receding mournfully, pleadingly into the distance until silence reclaimed the night.
They kept still until the last echo died, straining their ears against the emptiness.

“So, what happened then?” the traveler asked Rokubē.
“Did the shop called Kyōden go under?”

“Pardon me, but have one,” Rokubē said, pushing his sake flask toward the traveler.
“Ain’t no payback—just neighborly feelin’. Kyōden nearly went belly-up,” he continued.
“But that calamity was too damn heavy.”
“Couldn’t let even strangers drown.”
“Creditors took pity, kinfolk couldn’t turn away.”
“All hands pitched in to prop ’er up—adopted the mistress’s nephew as master now, kept the shop tradin’.”

“Can I tell you the truth?”

Once again, the drunken old man shouted.

“Shall I tell you, hey?” the old man shouted in a hoarse voice.
“Should I tell you the real truth? You sure you wanna hear it?”

Startled by the voice, the butterfly that had been perched on the lantern suddenly fluttered up, flew around in circles within the enclosure, and came to rest atop the reed screen.

“And this adopted son…” the traveler asked Rokubē.
“So in other words, he ended up with Sachiko.”

“They held a wedding ceremony, but Sachiko rejected him again and again until the end,” Rokubē said.
“She wouldn’t let him near her at all, so in the end, that adopted son took a bride from elsewhere.—They said she was a bride with a dowry, but whatever the case, after that, business strangely prospered, and now they’re more successful than the previous master ever was.”

“They say great misfortune turns to good,” Yobei said.
“The previous master was a good man, and the adopted son they took in was a sharp one—surviving such a disaster must’ve been thanks to good luck after all.”

“And the bad luck—Sachiko ended up shouldering it all,” Rokubē said.
“It’s like Sachiko ended up shouldering all the disaster all by herself.”

“Old man,” Takezō called from across the room.
“Give me one cup of Shirobai too—then I’ll take the splash.”

“Are you still drinking?” Yobei said.

“Over here too—one cup,” Yūkichi said.
“I ain’t eatin’ rice—maybe I’ll take some simmered dish.”

The traveler shook the sake flask.
There was no more alcohol left.
Yobei seemed to have anticipated this.
He took out a flask from the copper pot, tested its temperature, and said, "It's gotten a bit too hot," as he set it before the traveler.
The traveler took it and, while passing it to Rokubē, inquired:

"Did that girl end up like that by her own doing?"

"It was after they took in the adopted son," Rokubē replied, accepting the sake.
"She must've been head over heels for Takatsugu."
"At first folks thought it was just an act to ditch the new husband."
"That she loved him enough to lose her mind—even her own mother hadn't known, see?"
He took a sip from his cup and shook his head.
"Downright pitiful, it is."

“That bastard’s the one I can’t stand.”
Yobei said this and, holding a tray loaded with the ordered items, continued while heading toward the dining table.

“Where’s he skulking now? A bastard who’d do such cursed things can’t live proper nohow—ill-gotten gains don’t stick. Once he’s spent it all, he’ll turn thief or swindler, eat prison gruel two or three times over, and who knows? Might’ve already got what’s comin’ to him.”

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you the truth!”
The drunken old man shouted the same words again and unsteadily raised his face this time.

“Can I say it? Should I tell the truth?” the old man shouted.
“Hey, old man—should I tell you the real truth?”

“I know, enough already.”
“You’d better get goin’ already, or they’ll come fetch you.”
Yobei returned to the pot with the empty tray as he said this.
The old man unsteadily raised his upper body, waved one hand limply, and let out a miserable, tearful cry.

IV

“What kind of person is he?” asked the traveler.

“He used to work at Kyōden,” Rokubē answered.
“I hear he’d been a loader there since way back, but they kicked him out for his bad drinking habits. Now he’s being looked after by his daughter’s marital family.”

“That’s…” the traveler said.
“That’s Mr. Gensan the loader.”

“Do you know him?”

“No.”
The traveler flinched, then took his cup with a bitter smile.
“No—nothing of the sort.”
“It’s just that the people over there were mentioning someone called Mr. Gensan.”

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you the truth!” shouted the old man from across the room.
“Takatsugu never stole anything!
“None of you know a thing!”
“Takatsugu never stole any money!”
“At that time, there wasn’t any money to steal in the shop!”

“That’s his catchphrase,” Yobei said.
“When he gets drunk, he always says that.”

The traveler looked toward the old man.

"There wasn't any money!" the old man continued.
"The master messed with speculation."
"In their usual desperate fix—stripped clean even with creditors at the door—the money box didn't have ten ryo in solid coin."
"This is the truth."
"Back then, that money box didn't hold ten ryo!"
"The one who knows—the one who knows it all—is me! The master came to me—'This is how it stands; I want to sell off the stock—what d'you think?' He only told me."
"'Sell the warehouse goods to scrape through—if not, we'll have to shutter the shop,' he laid it bare."
"Too ashamed to tell anyone—Genta, the shop ain't got ten ryo now... This is the truth... You lot don't know, but that's how it really was."

The old man began to cry.

The butterfly that had been perched on the reed screen fluttered up, circled over the old man’s head, and came this way. It lingered near the traveler’s shoulder for a moment before flying to perch on the lantern. With an unsteady hand, the old man wiped around his mouth—wet with tears and drool—and sobbed without restraint.

“Right after that talk, the master collapsed.”
“What were we s’posed to do?”
“He died two days later—fifteen years ago now. Tomorrow’s his death anniversary,” the old man choked out between sobs.
“The settlement was comin’ due—master was dead—no money left… I knew it all an’ was sweatin’ bullets.”
“Then Takatsugu vanished.”
“The very night the master passed.”
“The man they’d raised from a pup—set to marry Sachiko an’ take over Kyōden—poof! Gone like smoke ’fore the weddin’ could start.”

“He stole eight hundred and some-odd ryo,” said Rokubē.
“He was after the money.”

“When I heard that [Takatsugu] had stolen eight hundred and some-odd ryo and fled, I completely understood the reason,” the old man said.
“Takatsugu didn’t want to bring shame upon the master in death.”
“If he made it seem like he stole and ran away, the master could avoid shame.”
“The master’s misconduct could stay hidden—that’s what he thought when he did it.”

“Alright, alright,” said Rokubē.
“I get what you’re sayin’ just fine, Gensan.”

“You all don’t understand,” said the old man. “There’s no reason you lot could understand. Even his foster parent and the mistress herself don’t get it. The master’s a Buddha now—he must know. I know too. The master who became a Buddha and me—we understand. But the rest of you? You don’t understand a damn thing. Couldn’t understand a damn thing even if you tried!”

The traveler leaned his elbows on the table, cradled his cheeks in his hands, and closed his eyes as he listened to the old man’s words.

“Humans are pitiful, foolish, incomprehensible creatures.”
The old man began to cry with these words.
“Humans are all deaf, blind, scatterbrained things.”
“Serves you right!”
Then he shouted, wringing tears from his voice.
“You lot’ll never grasp the real truth.”
“None of you—not a soul—could ever understand.”
“What Takatsugu did—how he felt vanishin’ from Kyōden—no one’ll ever know.”
“Ain’t no way you could.”
“Serves you right!”

The old man’s unrestrained weeping rippled through the enclosure like waves for a time.
The traveler lifted his head and said, “The bill,” then took out his wallet from his breast pocket.

Takezō and Yūkichi were chatting and laughing about something.
Rokubē looked at the traveler with a reluctant gaze and said, “Are you leaving already?”

“The inn I’ve taken is quite far.”
The traveler said this, settled his bill, and stood up.
He retrieved a pair of luggage—old-style travel packs—that had been hidden from view behind his frame until then and went to the old man’s side at the edge of the meal tray.
The old man was slumped over the meal tray again.
He remained slumped over, letting out muffled sobs as he wept without restraint.

“Old man,” said the traveler.
“I’m glad you told me that story.”
“It was a good story.”
“I’ll thank you.”

The old man did nothing but cry.

“But don’t speak of that story anymore,” said the traveler.
“If that tale were true, Takatsugu would’ve borne his master’s shame.”
“He wrapped himself in theft’s disgrace to carry that burden—if so, shouldn’t we keep silent? Isn’t that right, old man?”

“What’d you know about it?”
The old man spoke without lifting his face.
“I’m choking on frustration.”
“Those bastards out there still slander Takatsugu, blind to the truth.”
“Don’t know shit yet flap their tongues—I can’t stomach it anymore!”

“That’s fine—I think that’s fine,” said the traveler.
“Takatsugu must’ve known all that from the start.”
“He wouldn’t have given a damn thought to people someday learning the truth or wanting praise for it.”
“Don’t you agree, old man?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s best to keep quiet,” said the traveler. “If word reached him that you know the truth, Takatsugu would be glad.”
“If he heard even one person knows, he’d surely consider it his deepest wish fulfilled.”
“That’s enough—that’s more than enough, old man.”
“Don’t speak of this again.”

“Hey—who the hell’re you?” The old man lifted his face.
“Who the hell are you?”

The old man looked at the other man.
He stared up intently with eyes wet with tears and clouded by grease.
The traveler also returned his gaze.
He then nodded gently.

“—I’m just a traveler.”
And he left quietly.

The butterfly that had been perched on the lantern took flight, fluttered about, and as if chasing something, flew out through the entrance and away.

“Old man,” said Rokubē.
“Sorry ’bout this, but another bottle.”

The old man across the way stared vacantly into space, as if drained of all spirit.