Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Koyama Kiyoshi

Memories I was two years old by the traditional count when I went to Osaka with my parents. It was the beginning of the Taisho era. At that time, my father was a disciple of Settsu no Daijō and performed at the Bunraku Theater. Father lost his eyesight at two years old. It was said he had contracted meningitis. Father first went to Osaka around thirteen or fourteen years old, initially receiving instruction from Nozawa Yoshibei V before becoming a disciple under Settsu no Daijō, who was then called Kojidayu. My grandfather’s sister—who had returned to live dependently with our family—accompanied Father there. Father would occasionally return to Tokyo like a student coming home for vacation, only to head back to Osaka again. During that time, Father married, and my older brother and I were born. It was during Father’s final journey to Osaka that I—still unweaned—was taken along.

Where in Osaka my family lived, I do not know. In our Osaka home lived my parents, me, a woman who was my grandfather’s sister (in our household, partly to distinguish her from Grandmother, we called her Osaka Grandmother), and then my nursemaid Shizuya. Shizuya was also a Tokyoite and went to Osaka with us. In the Tokyo home lived Grandfather, Grandmother, and my older brother. My older brother was two years older than me. At that time, the Bunraku Theater stood near Goryo Shrine. Where we lived could not have been far from there. I remember we used to call it “Goryo-san.” We likely simply adopted what the locals were accustomed to calling it. I seem to have often gone to play in Goryo Shrine’s precincts, carried on Shizuya’s back. “Shi-iya, let’s go to Goryo-san! Shi-iya, let’s go to Goryo-san!” After returning to Tokyo, Mother and others would often tell me how I used to plead with Shizuya like that. I couldn’t pronounce “Shizuya” properly and always called her “Shiiya.” I called her “Shiiya.” I remember at a Goryo Shrine festival—peering over Shizuya’s shoulder at a night stall’s candy shop—how I begged for sweets only for Shizuya to scold, “That’s poison,” making the old candy seller’s face look demonic to me then, leaving my child-mind puzzled why anyone would sell such things. A memory remains of seeing the grand curtain hanging at the Bunraku Theater. It must have been from before performances began—a glimpse caught while riding Shizuya’s back in the earthen-floored area. There also seemed to be a vaudeville hall called Ayamekan near Goryo Shrine where Shizuya often took me. Once at its entrance with Shizuya, I saw a female performer arrive by rickshaw. We went inside and watched that same performer take the stage.

“That’s the lady from earlier,” Shizuya told me. I remembered too. I recall the female performer holding a flashlight in her palm and performing something like a dance. They said Shizuya was skilled at mimicking Aho Darani chants while striking a wooden fish drum. I seem to remember hearing those satirical chants while being carried on her back through the twilight streets. Among my toys was a single wooden fish drum, its surface darkened with age and just the right size, which stayed with me for years afterward. Settsu no Daijō doted on Father—they took me to his house too, where I sat on his lap and ate fish he’d deboned himself. The image of that white fish flesh on the lacquered tray remains etched in my childhood memories. Though I’m unsure how reliable this memory is, hearing about it later made me think it wasn’t something I’d imagined. I remember almost nothing about the house we lived in. Only that it had latticed windows facing the street. Once when I heard a milk seller passing outside, I badgered Mother to buy me some—even after she tried calming me down—only to spit out the mouthful she reluctantly gave me. “See?” Mother must have said. She’d probably tried giving me milk before without success. Not realizing this peddler sold what I hated most, I’d kept insisting. The experience scarred me deeply as a child—I avoided milk for years afterward. It seems I was raised entirely on breastmilk. Our family stayed close with Setaya Confectionery—even after returning to Tokyo, we often heard news about them. The shopkeeper apparently adored me.

In the year I turned five, Father retired from the Bunraku Theater, and our family returned to Tokyo. There was a girl around my age who was the daughter of a sushi shop owner and was friends with me, and it is said she cried when she heard I was returning to Tokyo. Even later, I would be told that story. I have no memory whatsoever of that girl.

It seems we departed Osaka by night train. We proceeded to the station along the nighttime road with a line of rickshaws. I must have been sitting in the rickshaw cradled in Mother’s lap, but the rear view of the rickshaw ahead remained etched in my eyes. I remember that before departure, the man who had come to see us off bought station bento on a sudden thought and passed it through the window. I have come to remember that that person was the owner of Setaya. From Tokyo Station, we returned home by car. That was the first time I remember riding in what was called an automobile. I remember going along the streetcar avenue. In the car was an elderly woman who had come to greet us, riding along. That was apparently Grandmother, but after coming to live with Grandmother, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this elderly woman was someone different from Grandmother. That day was a national holiday, and I remember the national flag being hung in front of the house entranceway. My house was located in an area commonly called Suidōjiri at the edge of Yoshiwara’s red-light district, but something like the sound of a drum came from the direction of the Inspection Center (Yoshiwara Hospital), and I—bothered by it—seem to have kept going in and out of my own home’s entranceway, which I had returned to after so long.

Even after we returned to Tokyo, Shizuya stayed at my house for a while. There was also a nursemaid named Nakaya for my older brother, but Nakaya seemed to leave her position earlier than Shizuya. My older brother and I attended the kindergarten that was in Negishi at that time. From my house, the back gate behind the Inspection Center was the closest way to exit beyond the licensed quarter, but since it was closed during the day, we would pass through the watchman’s hut in Kyōmachi First Block, cross the drawbridge over Ohaguro Ditch, and emerge into Ryūsenji-chō on our way to kindergarten. At that time, the Ohaguro Ditch surrounding the licensed quarter had not yet been filled in. When we exited onto the street where Mishima Shrine stood and passed through a narrow alley that may have been the side street of a bakery under the trade name Nagafuji, there we were already in Negishi—the kindergarten was near the yacchaba greengrocers' market on the way to Uguisudani. I went accompanied by Shizuya. I was a shy child, and at first I couldn’t bring myself to join the other children in activities like the game on the playground where we’d split into teams and throw red and white balls into nets attached to poles. I would just stand there awkwardly with my hands folded watching them play energetically by myself. Later Shizuya asked me why I hadn’t joined in. Gradually I became accustomed and walked in circles matching the teacher’s organ music while being alone in mimicking tiptoe walking in straw sandals. In front of watching chaperones. Later I was scolded by the teacher and shut inside the classroom cupboard as punishment. This incident continued being told to me by family members later as an anecdote. It seemed after returning home Shizuya had reported how—exasperated because I started singing inside—the teacher let me out. I remember being shut in that cupboard though whether I actually sang remains unclear. If Shizuya’s story held no embellishments then I must have felt anxious first when confined but eventually grown bored enough to sing unwittingly. One day our teacher asked how rain falls. I recall it being rainy indeed with precipitation visible through classroom windows. I answered that rain fell sideways making teacher and everyone laugh.

I couldn’t make sense of it. The rain visible through the window glass was falling at a slight angle—likely due to the wind. On a ceremonial day, my older brother went wearing Western clothes while I wore crimson women’s hakama. These were garments my aunt—Father’s sister who had married into another family—had worn in her childhood. As they were too long for me, I wore ones that had been generously taken up at the waist. Though reluctant, I was compelled by Grandmother. Even through a child’s perspective, they felt peculiar—could these truly be women’s clothing?— Though not explicitly mocked by others, I remained unsettled throughout that kindergarten day. Our kindergarten teacher was a woman. I remember calling her “Oko-ya Sensei.” She bore what appeared to be a small medicinal plaster-sized birthmark on her left upper jaw. Unaware of birthmarks then, I believed she wore an actual plaster and coined that nickname. The mark resembled Mankinkō plasters sold at herbal shops in those days. If memory serves, Inamoto Inn’s counter in Sumi-cho also sold these plasters—I recall being sent to purchase one once. The nickname “Oko-ya” likely carried traces of Osaka accent. Having just returned from Osaka then, I retained this accent for some time—much to my brother’s amusement. Long afterwards, Father and Mother still occasionally lapsed into Osaka dialect during conversations. I remember being held by Oko-ya Sensei and curiously tracing that birthmark with my finger. She seemed young then—fair-skinned and gentle. Along our kindergarten route was a stationery shop where I finally obtained coveted wax modeling clay; finding my fingers too weak to soften it, I recall dashing during recess to where Shizuya chatted with fellow attendants on a playground bench—she softened it for me there.

It seems Shizuya left her position at my house while I was attending kindergarten. By the end of my kindergarten years, I had come to be accompanied by an elderly nursemaid. There is one thing I remember from when Shizuya was at my house. At that time I never ventured beyond the licensed quarter alone, but one day I went out by myself through the dirt-floored entrance of a curtain shop called Kobayashi—located by Ohaguro Ditch at the edge of Kyōmachi Second Block, which we normally used when going to Asakusa—emerged beyond the quarter, went as far as Komatsu Bridge to buy a wooden sword, and was vigorously swinging it around before the communal toilet at Suidōjiri’s entrance when Shizuya happened by and caught me, blindfolding me from behind. Shizuya stayed at my house from around fifteen or sixteen until she was about twenty. She was healthy, plump-cheeked with a ruddy complexion and narrow eyes.

Shizuya’s house was located beyond the Yoshiwara Embankment; though not related by blood to our family, they shared our surname. Her younger brother was the same age as my older brother and attended Matsuchiyama Elementary School across the embankment. Both Nakaya and Shizuya continued visiting occasionally even after leaving our household. The elderly nursemaid who came after Shizuya did not seem to stay with us for long. On our way to kindergarten, as the elderly nursemaid led me, I pointed at a cloud in the sky and explained that if it went to Western countries, those lands would turn to daytime while Japan became night. The elderly nursemaid wore a serious expression as though hearing an important truth. She appeared convinced that kindergarten taught children such matters. When the Rice Riots occurred, Yoshiwara too suffered collateral effects. The next morning while I still slept, the elderly nursemaid came to my bedside and told me about the previous night’s commotion, saying she had planned to take me away if danger arose. I always went to bed early at night and had known nothing of it. When I went to see the aftermath, a brick had been jammed between the iron bars of armored shutters at a shop in Kyomachi First Block. Some entrance lanterns lay smashed. Mounted police officers and soldiers with bayonets stood at the back gate. As a child, I enjoyed placing tuna sashimi over rice and pouring hot water over it to eat. Someone must have served it to me that way once, for I took great liking to it. When hot water was poured, the red lean meat turned whitish like fatty flesh. I likely heard the term from someone—calling it shigure—and whenever sashimi accompanied meals, I always ate it this way. I remember having the elderly nursemaid serve me shigure rice in the six-tatami storehouse room during Yoshiwara’s festival evening.

On the day of my elementary school entrance ceremony, my grandmother took me there. On our way back, we stopped at a sweet red bean soup shop beneath Yoshiwara Embankment. Sitting on a tatami-matted bench while eating shiruko, Grandmother mentioned they'd done the same when my brother started school. I attended school wearing an andon hakama, carrying my brother's old satchel over my shoulder and clutching a red zōri bag in hand. What bothered me more than the hand-me-down satchel was that zōri bag's crimson color. During my first class day, walking alone through Nakamachi toward school, I met two or three upperclassmen I knew with a new student among them. One examined the class name on my hakama cord's hand towel and declared I belonged to the afternoon group. Back then, morning attendees were called the morning group and afternoon ones the day group. Their words left me confused. I lacked the courage to ignore them and proceed to school. Dejected, I turned homeward and reported their claim to my family. They asked what the teacher had said. The teacher had specified morning group. Reassured of this truth, I returned to school filled with lonely anguish. Indeed, I belonged to the morning group. Still I arrived punctually. The upperclassmen had spoken from mischief. My brother likely went ahead without me. Thereafter too, we seldom walked to school together. As a child I wore a waistcloth. In those days both genders still kept this custom.

Even so, once children started attending school, they had already stopped wearing waistcloths. My older brother had also switched from a waistcloth to fundoshi. I too disliked the waistcloth, but being told, “You’re still too small,” I was still made to wear it. All my play friends were also wearing fundoshi. When urinating outdoors, I was unbearably ashamed to be the only one still wearing a waistcloth. When we had physical examinations at school and they weighed us, I would take off my waistcloth and become completely naked. I preferred being completely naked over climbing onto the scale in a waistcloth before my classmates. One day while playing with friends by Yoshiwara Park’s pond in front of the fire brigade chief’s house, I accidentally dropped an iron weight—the kind used for construction work lying there—onto my right foot. My instep swelled until the spaces between my toes disappeared. Though not seriously injured, I couldn’t walk without dragging my foot. It would have been fine to stay home until healed, but my family didn’t let me rest. Around then I went to school carried on the back of Haru-san—a live-in apprentice over twenty studying under Father. During gymnastics when the teacher saw me limping with my bandaged foot, they pulled me from the line to rest. I leaned against the command platform in the schoolyard and stood watching classmates march vigorously. Being the sole straggler filled me with unbearable awkwardness. Some students jeered as they passed me. Later I sometimes used even minor injuries as excuses to skip exercises.

The maid who came after the elderly nursemaid was named Etsu. Etsuya had come to my family’s house through a connection from my aunt’s marital home. She was about sixteen or seventeen years old.

I remember Mother saying in dismay how Etsuya's hair had become infested with lice. A large full-length mirror stood in the entranceway of our house. In front of it, Etsuya taught me to fold newspaper and stuff it inside my obi as padding. She did the same herself. I would insert newspaper to widen my obi, put hakama trousers over it, tie the cord until my stomach bulged out, and go to school like that. I had Etsuya read books to me. She always read them without showing any displeasure. These included Western adventure stories like "The Midnight Man" and "The Tiger Mask," along with tales like Mito Kōmon’s Wanderings. Etsuya sometimes mispronounced Western names. Still, I remained nearly completely satisfied with her readings. At home we kept kajika frogs. They must have been caught in Yugawara or somewhere. When summer came, we'd release them into a wire mesh enclosure on the veranda. Inside that cage, the kajika frogs sang with adorable voices that contradicted their appearance. At first I thought their calls came from insects chirping. Even when family members said the frogs were singing, I imagined some garden insect called a kajika making that sound - never connecting it to those small ugly creatures in the wire mesh. I'd poke their bellies through the mesh to make them drop into water below or sprinkle them with my watering can. We fed them flies and oil beetles. I remember being sent to collect oil beetles from some catering service in Ayanamachi - probably ones breeding in their kitchen. During winter we'd put them in a large jar covered with sponge under its lid, kept in a bathroom corner.

In the jar, the kajika frogs must have hibernated. When summer came and we tried to take them out, all of them had disappeared without a trace. There were signs that someone had moved the jar lid - apparently they'd escaped through the gap. The culprit became immediately clear. It was Etsuya. When she bathed, she'd secretly taken out the sponge and failed to properly reseal the lid afterward. Being at that age, she'd probably wanted to scrub her face with it. One day on my way home from school, I dropped my pencil case from my bag. I only noticed after returning home. "Go look for it on the road where you dropped it," Grandmother said. "And check if someone turned it in at the police box," she added. I had Etsuya accompany me. We found nothing along the street. Too embarrassed to ask the officer myself, I made Etsuya go alone. Before the police box beneath the embankment's Looking-Back Willow, I taught her what to say: "Our young master dropped his pencil case..." and so on. Etsuya nodded solemnly. The pencil case hadn't been turned in.

In my home, it was customary for children to go to bed early. After eating dinner, my older brother and I would be bathed and then put to bed.

Just as our play outside with friends was finally reaching its peak, we would often get dragged back home. When I returned reluctantly with Etsuya who had come to fetch me, friends who had circled ahead suddenly emerged from hiding and menaced us.

I think it was when I was in second grade. One day after school, I was left alone in the classroom and reprimanded by the teacher. That day Osaka Grandmother had come to school and told him how I was being willful and disobeying family members while obsessively playing with kai-goma spinning tops and menko cards every day. "The teacher believed you were a quiet, good boy," said my teacher. Hearing this made me burn with shame. After all, I too considered kai-goma and menko games unworthy of proper children. Yet I couldn't fathom my behavior being so terrible that they'd specially visit school to report it. The ways of adults defied understanding. While receiving this lecture, we were interrupted by the janitor coming to clean. The teacher glanced at him and remarked offhandedly, "This boy's grandmother came by earlier." Mortification overwhelmed me at having Osaka Grandmother mistaken for my true grandmother. In my childish arrogance I'd always scorned her - that shabby woman lacking any dignity. Though I felt no affection for Grandmother either, she at least carried herself in ways that flattered my vanity.

Osaka Grandmother lived in a four-and-a-half-tatami-mat room beside the entranceway at home. The space felt dimmer than even the maids' quarters. I remember a small weathered vanity there—likely Osaka Grandmother's possession. She must have been seventy or so by then. She carried an air of mild senility. Apparently she could play shamisen somewhat, occasionally instructing Father's female disciples. Once during a meal, I noticed Osaka Grandmother letting snot drip into her donburi bowl. When I mentioned it, she stubbornly denied doing so. Mother appeared to reprimand me afterward. After Osaka Grandmother left her seat, Grandfather ordered the bowl's contents discarded.

At the entrance to our house hung not only Father’s nameplate but also Grandfather’s. Grandfather’s surname differed from our family’s. Grandfather and we shared no blood relation. After the man who had fathered my father with Grandmother was divorced, Grandfather came into our lives. Grandfather maintained separate household registration from us, with different ancestral gravesites. The aunt who married into another family was born to Grandfather and Grandmother, having used Grandfather’s surname while living with us. Since her marital home was in Ushigome-Haramachi, we called her Haramachi Aunt. Given Father and Aunt’s close age, Grandfather likely joined our household when Father was very young. Grandfather died during my fourth-grade year. After his death, a man called Grandfather from Karafuto visited, summoning even us children to meet him. Yet toward this blood relative, I continued feeling only detachment. Nothing particularly remarkable marked that encounter—merely an enduring sense of condescension within me. Mother’s vitriolic words about Grandmother and that man had planted contempt in my childish heart. Though Grandmother apparently treated him harshly, after Grandfather’s death they welcomed him back into our home. From this Karafuto grandfather came periodic parcels of seafood. Our family once operated a brothel in Kyomachi 2-chome, where Grandfather briefly served on the Three Licensed Quarters Regulatory Board before quitting after the Great Yoshiwara Fire the year I was born. Grandfather proved quite quarrelsome. Particular about stew seasoning, he would personally lift pot lids in the kitchen—a sight I occasionally witnessed. A small peach tattoo adorned his left upper arm. An antique enthusiast, he amassed considerable collections later destroyed in the earthquake. Though these were mere childhood impressions, even now I recall his taste wasn’t entirely without merit.

Seemingly dexterous by nature, he would carve ships from wood scraps for my older brother and me, paste persimmon-tanned paper onto bamboo crafts, and make model airplanes among other things. Behind our house stood a row house that our family owned, where lived a family headed by Grandfather’s younger brother. Whether Osaka Grandmother or that younger brother of his, Grandfather must have summoned them both. The younger brother practiced metal engraving, but according to Mother’s accounts, he remained rather unfortunate despite his skilled craftsmanship. The household consisted of three—the landlady running the brothel, a daughter around my age named Namie—while elsewhere served an eldest son named Taro who stood slightly apart from others. The landlady’s face remains clearest in my memory. She embodied the type commonly seen among brothel keepers. The younger brother was a slim, dark-complexioned man with an air of gloom. Had his countenance borne brighter qualities, his masculine presence would surely have appeared more striking. He came daily to Father’s place to perform gidayū. Nami-chan resembled her mother in features—a quiet girl with timid bearing. I recall Mother remarking with something of a sneer that “Namie” sounded like a name plucked from fiction. I would often visit from the rear veranda side to where Nami-chan sat doing needlework. One day when retrieving a forgotten picture book, I found Taro-san—who rarely visited—holding and examining it. Nami-chan, acting bashful about Taro-san before me as if sparing my feelings, said, “Please let him borrow it.”

Nami-chan came to bathe at our house. While bathing together with her, I deliberately said things to embarrass Nami-chan, which made her uncomfortable. Though I soon grew bored and stopped, I once took calligraphy lessons from Nami-chan's father. One evening when Grandfather, Osaka Grandmother, and Nami-chan's father—the three siblings—had gathered in our family room, Grandfather and Nami-chan's father suddenly stood up and came to blows. Grandfather had overheard Nami-chan's father speaking ill of Osaka Grandmother and struck him down. The landlady came and took Nami-chan's father home. Afterward, we found the landlady's comb lying where it had fallen. I was ordered to return it. When I went around from the veranda side and announced through the shoji screen that I'd brought the comb, the landlady called from inside, "Thank you for your trouble." Relieved, I left the comb at the edge of the veranda and went back.

About My Younger Brother and Mother

During the Great Kanto Earthquake, my family lost our youngest brother. My younger brother was eight by the traditional count and, being early-born, was in second grade at school. Just before the earthquake began shaking, my younger brother had accompanied the daughter who came to Father’s place for gidayū practice on her way back and gone out to shop at a stationery store near the school. On his way home after parting from the daughter and heading back alone, my younger brother encountered the earthquake. We did not see our younger brother’s remains.

My younger brother was named Tatsu. He was born in the Year of the Dragon. We were three siblings: my older brother was Shin, I was Kiyoshi, and all our names had been given by our grandfather. My younger brother was born around the time of the March festival. I remember that the Hina dolls were displayed. I was informed and went to see the baby lying in the futon. In the same room, I spread out a futon next to Mother and slept. I remember Mother looking at my younger brother’s sleeping face and saying, “What a sweet face he has.” We would often tease our younger brother by saying he was drinking the leftover milk after we’d finished.

My older brother and I were two years apart, and I was five years older than my younger brother. My older brother and I played together, but we hardly ever played with our younger brother. If just a little more time had passed, he could have joined our group. When my younger brother was still unsteady on his feet, he bumped into the corner of a hibachi and injured one of his eyelids—a scar that never faded, remaining even years later. He had a slender face with a gentle expression. There was a nanny for my younger brother. She was from Sakura in Shimousa Province, and my younger brother had been taken by this nanny to visit her countryside home on occasion. The nanny often took my younger brother to funerals here and there. It seemed that receiving packets of sweets was the purpose. It seemed that the nanny doted on my younger brother, and my younger brother also seemed to adore the nanny. Before long, the nanny also took her leave and left. After my younger brother’s death, this somehow seemed to me like something that bore witness to his short life.

When I took a bath with my younger brother, I would dangle a hand towel over the edge of the tub and pull it through between my legs, declaring “I’m a rickshaw man,” at which my brother would burst into uproarious laughter. I repeated that gesture many times. My younger brother found it amusing each time.

My younger brother also began attending school. In the neighborhood, there was a classmate of my brother's. That boy was spiteful; while keeping the textbook in his own bag, he would tell my brother there were no classes that day and force him to take the textbook home. My younger brother always seemed to comply meekly with that boy. I was shy myself, but my brother was even more timid than I. Compared to him, I still had somewhat stronger willpower.

On the day of the earthquake, the moment I startled and rushed outside, my eyes caught the ghastly form of Asakusa Park’s Twelve-Story Tower—its upper floors from the eighth story up snapped off and vanished. My house stood at the edge of Yoshiwara’s red-light district, and from the open square before our home, Asakusa Park’s Twelve-Story Tower had always been clearly visible.

That day, my family was all scattered. Hanaya the maid and I fled to Ueno Hill, Mother and my older brother fled to Mukojima, and Grandmother and Father remained by the pond in Yoshiwara and survived. I was the first to swiftly urge Hanaya to flee, abandoning my parents and siblings. Hanaya was a Tenrikyo believer with deep reverence for deities and buddhas; leaving her own clothing behind, she bundled the items from the household altar and Buddhist altar into a large wrapping cloth and fled with it on her back.

Ueno Hill was crowded with evacuees. We spent that night camping out there. Hanaya chatted with neighbors while occasionally glancing back at me, remarking things like, “This child’s father is blind, you see.” My father was blind. The next day, we went to the house of Hanaya’s relative in the Tabata area. A young man who seemed to have gone to survey the earthquake’s aftermath returned, and after briefly sniffing the bamboo leaf-wrapped rice ball he carried, declared “It’s safe,” then had me eat it. Wondering what had become of my family, when even I made a forlorn face, Hanaya comforted me by saying that even if my father and mother had died, she would see to it that I could go to school. When told such things, I only grew more anxious, and my face turned tearful. That night, we stayed at that house.

In the middle of the night, a major earthquake struck. Everyone rushed outside to spread straw mats on the vacant lot in front of the house and huddle there until morning.

The next day, the uncle from that house went to investigate Yoshiwara’s burned ruins and confirmed our family’s safety. Hanaya and I were led by the uncle to the scorched remains. At the ruins stood Grandmother and Mother beneath a flimsy makeshift hut erected for appearances. The family had taken refuge at a relative’s house in Mukojima. Everything lay reduced to ashes—only the umbrella stand on the entranceway’s tamped-earth floor remained intact. The square’s pond floated with bloated corpses. I nearly vomited.

We ended up staying at our relatives’ house in Mukojima for the time being. Because Father was blind, all immediate tasks had to be handled by Mother. Mother went out nearly every day. I accompanied Mother. Stopping by the shops that had sprung up in the burned ruins to serve rice curry and dumpling soup was something I looked forward to. Mother visited buildings housing the injured and lost children and searched for my younger brother. However, it ended in futility. As for my younger brother, even if he had been alive, he was not of an age where he couldn’t tell people his own father’s and mother’s names.

“He had wanted a coat, but I should have bought it for him.” Mother vented such pointless complaints. About a year later, I saw a boy in a movie who closely resembled my younger brother. When I returned home and told Mother about it, she was in the kitchen attending to chores but let out a loud cry as though she could no longer contain herself.

By the time I became aware of my surroundings, I had already come to feel that my grandparents, my older brother... existed separately from Mother and myself. Father was blind. And there was no blood relation between Grandfather and us brothers.

My feelings clung most tightly to Mother. Mother reprimanded me harshly. I was often struck by Mother. I was beaten. My older brother was not reprimanded so severely. I would sometimes cry and complain to Mother about how she scolded only me and never my older brother. A sense of dissatisfaction at being the sole target of reprimands certainly existed within me. Yet I myself felt that putting this feeling into words was sentimental. That Mother maintained strictness toward me—I had instinctively sensed this fact, after all.

After that, there are things that remain in memory and sometimes brush through my mind... Either I had been scolded for something again or my wish had been denied, and I was sulking. Mother was in the kitchen doing some task. I was in the tearoom. There was no one else. As I continued sulking with unsettled feelings, Mother kept attending to her tasks without acknowledging me. Finally, I spoke these words to Mother: “You’re exactly like a stepmother.” I had let it slip. Even I recoiled. Hearing those words, Mother immediately rushed over, raised her hand, and continued to hit me. I continued to say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” out of fear and remorse.

In one of the row houses that our family owned lived a friend my age and his grandmother. The grandmother often scolded that one grandchild. My friend was a crybaby whose weeping could often be heard. I would sometimes remark things like, “She’s just like a step-grandmother.” Because this notion occupied my thoughts—pushed by sentimental feelings—I ended up saying such words to Mother. Mother’s heart belonged to me. I was Mother’s child. My grandparents did not love me. Grandmother especially made blatant distinctions between how she treated my older brother and me.

In our family, there was someone we called Aunt Haramachi. She was Father’s younger sister who had married into another household. Mother rarely spoke of this Aunt Haramachi—a woman who was both her sister-in-law and her husband’s own sibling. As a child, I often heard Mother’s criticisms. “She doesn’t wash the laundry and just lets dirty clothes pile up in the closet,” or “She was obsessed with Sadanji,” and such things.

As a child, I sensed there were hostile feelings between Grandmother and this Aunt against Mother. And I too was caught up in that whirlpool. I was at Mother’s side. As a child, I didn’t understand anything, yet I felt that I was on Mother’s side. And my childhood feelings were most attached to Mother.

There was a time when Mother, we brothers, and the nursemaid looking after our youngest brother went clamming at Anamori. Mother, my younger brother, and the nursemaid remained at the rest area while only my older brother and I ventured into the sea. I wandered out quite far along that gently sloping shore where the water stayed shallow. Far in the distance lay an anchored steamship that to my eyes seemed as grand as a warship. I stood transfixed, gazing at it. Before long, I realized I had become separated from my older brother. Feeling uneasy, I turned back to see the rest area now far behind. With all the reed-screened huts lined up identically along the shore, I couldn’t tell which one held Mother and the others. I rushed back. When I finally found a hut and stepped inside, Mother and the rest were nowhere in sight. Looking closer, their belongings lay abandoned there. Yet my chest tightened with dread. Had they left me behind here? Would they never return? I wailed loudly as I dashed about the hut. Eventually, Mother and the others returned from their stroll, and my older brother came back with his haul again—but...

After being displaced by the earthquake and taking refuge at a relative’s house in Mukojima, Mother went out nearly every day, often returning late at night. Each time this happened, I grew anxious about Mother and couldn’t bear to wait quietly at home. I would go to the steamship dock on the Sumida River, sit on a bench there, and wait for Mother’s return. After several ships had come and gone, I would finally catch sight of Mother’s face, feel relieved, and walk home with her. On my way to meet Mother, I would pass along the Sumida Embankment, where from the lit shoji screens of two-story houses below, I sometimes heard the rowdy voices of drunken men. At such moments, I would be gripped by the irrational fear that Mother was being mistreated inside those very houses.

Mother died in the year I turned twenty. Mother was also born in the year of the boar, as was I, and since there was exactly a difference of two full cycles between us, she passed away at forty-four. Around that time, a letter of condolence arrived from my mother’s eldest brother in Taiwan—written by his wife—and I read how it said of Mother: “She left this world without ever seeing the sun of happiness rise.”

On the day of Mother’s memorial service, a certain distant relative by marriage delivered a eulogy, and they mentioned that Mother had only recently met her biological mother for the first time, stating that even from this single fact alone, one could perceive how her life had been unfortunate and fraught with hardship from birth.

Mother was the child of a concubine. I saw a photograph of my biological grandmother—she appeared about Mother’s age when she passed away and bore a striking resemblance to her. It seems Mother was given away young; there was also a photo of her at three or four years old being led by the hand of her adoptive father. My older brother remarked how much she resembled her own younger sister in that picture, and I agreed. Mother came of age under someone in Shimo-Takai District of Shinano Province. I also saw a photo of Mother’s foster parent. She stood with her grandson and Mother’s nephew by marriage—a slender, refined elderly woman. This nephew later visited Tokyo after Mother’s death and shared childhood memories of being shown posters depicting her as “Tokyo Aunt,” an elegant figure from his rural upbringing. Hearing this, I too recognized that nostalgia. Mother had been a beauty who carried traditional styles like the round chignon with striking grace.

Mother’s biological mother, the man who temporarily took Mother in as his adopted daughter, and the Shinano grandmother. The impressions of the people in the photographs all evoked nostalgia in my heart.

Now I had reached exactly the same age as Mother. Mother had died around this very time, in the height of summer. I do not remember the exact date. I have hardly ever visited graves. Recently I took a wife. My wife says she wants to visit the grave once, but I keep putting it off. Since the grass must be overgrown, we'll probably end up buying a sickle at a hardware store around there.

House.

When I was in elementary school, our homeroom teacher once had us students write down the number of rooms and tatami mats in each of our houses. It must have been meant to serve as some sort of reference material. As everyone was writing, one student raised their hand and said with a flushed face, “Teacher, our second floor has ten tatami mats.” That child was the tofu shop owner’s son.

My house was located on the outskirts of the Yoshiwara pleasure quarters. At the back of the house was a wooden fence surrounding the property, and at the spot facing the kitchen entrance, a lattice door was installed. A bell was attached to the lattice door, and it made a sound each time it was opened or closed. Beside the lattice door, a place for doing laundry was set up. The image of Mother doing laundry with diligent movements still floats before my eyes. Mother often talked with people passing by while doing laundry. A boy named Mochi-chan, who lived in the tenement of our family-owned house, peeked his face over the wooden fence from outside and said to Mother, “Auntie, doesn’t my nose look like a folding stool?” “What a witty child. “You’ll probably become a rakugo storyteller one of these days,” Mother was saying.

Outside the wooden fence, tofu sellers and natto sellers passed by carrying their loads. Again, the errand runner came, opening the lattice door. The tofu seller was an uncle with a face like Ebisu-sama, always wearing an ingratiating smile. "The call of 'Tofu!' was indeed a pleasant voice, and he himself seemed to be enjoying it." This tofu shop was located behind O-Tori-sama in a place then commonly called "Mikiya Tenement." Mikiya Tenement was not as notorious as Shiba no Shinami or Shitaya no Mannencho, but it was a poor tenement well-known throughout the neighborhood. When Mother asked, "Where is the tofu shop?" they hesitated. When she asked, "Near Mikiya Tenement?" they replied, "Right. At that Mikiya Tenement," they said. On rainy days, he would come wearing a sedge hat. It suited him perfectly, as if he were Yohē from Chūshingura. The natto seller was a fiftyish woman who wore a hand towel on her head and had her body secured with arm covers and gaiters. Her gold teeth were visible, and she always kept a ground cherry in her mouth. Her calls carried years of experience, possessing a depth that novices couldn’t imitate. This woman had an unrequited crush on Sawamura Denjirō (now known as Totsuko), who was performing at the Miyato-za theater behind Kannon-sama at the time. Leaving her load outside the lattice door, she would sit down at the kitchen entrance and engage Mother in talk about Denjirō’s performances as Kanpei or Ranchō.

As a child, I preferred miso beans over natto. Generally speaking, my tastes leaned toward milder things; I favored cucumbers over eggplants and udon noodles over buckwheat noodles. I also liked pumpkin and sweet potatoes. These were all the preferences of someone who couldn’t drink. My older brother was again my opposite in this. While he grew into quite the drinker as we aged, I remain to this day an unsophisticated teetotaler. When returning from school, I would sometimes find a fishmonger who had set up a wooden board outside the lattice door and was wielding his kitchen knife. Still wearing my hakama with satchel slung over me, I would linger there watching him split fish bellies and prepare sashimi—a habit that frequently drew scoldings from Grandmother.

The fishmongers who came to this area were from beyond the embankment, and the greengrocers were from Senzoku-cho. When the greengrocer arrived, he would take out thin wooden slips from his apron and read aloud the names of the goods listed on them. “Yes, today we’ve got eggplants, cucumbers, white melons, carrots, taro…” Then Mother said, “Cucumbers, white melons, taro... Let’s see—I’ll take one shō of them.” When the greengrocer took the order, after some time he brought the goods. On the kitchen pillar hung account books for the charcoal seller, sake seller, greengrocer, and other vendors. The greengrocer took out his writing kit, wrote down the day’s order items in the account book, and left.

In the kitchen stood a large icebox like those used in restaurants or fish shops. When summer came, the ice seller from Gojūken-dōri would deliver ice daily. I would carefully open the icebox door as though it were a safe’s, attempting to steal peaches inside, only to be caught and scolded repeatedly. Under the faucet in the sink sat a bucket filled to the brim with water. During summer months, they would chill barley tea in a one-shō bottle inside this bucket. I loved that barley tea. Though our household wasn’t particularly large, we used a four-to barrel for our nukamiso pickling bed. I often lingered near Mother as she stirred the fermenting rice bran, fascinated when she pulled out eggplants, cucumbers, and daikon radishes coated in yellowed bran. Though I never witnessed it myself, Mother once told me how a rat had suddenly crawled up her kimono hem while she stirred the nukamiso, startling her terribly. Hearing this story gave me an odd, ticklish feeling.

Next to the kitchen was the bath chamber. Exactly where the icebox stood, there was no wainscoting, so its back portion protruded slightly into the bath chamber, serving as makeshift paneling. Meltwater from the icebox drained into the bath’s earthen floor. A gap between the icebox top and ceiling rail held an electric lampshade whose light illuminated both kitchen and bath. One summer day while my older brother and I bathed together, Omura’s son—the soba shop boy from Naka no Machi watching through the glass door—let slip envious words. When Mother countered that he too had siblings, he retorted, “But we’ve got different moms.” Afterward, Mother would mimic his plaintive tone to show sympathy. Our playgroup habitually called him “Doting Parents’ Pet” or “Soba Shop Wind Chime” when teasing him. The bath window faced the maids’ room. Once while bathing, my brother leaned out that window waving a paper scrap and jeered, “Tch—‘To Cousin Hitoshi,’ huh?” I flushed crimson. Having just started elementary school, I’d learned letter-writing that day. I’d composed a note on hanshi paper for my cousin Hitoshi—two years my junior—folding it neatly with “To Cousin Hitoshi” inscribed outside. I believed simply dropping it in the postbox would deliver it to him. After placing it on my desk, I went to bathe. My brother exited first, found the letter, and ridiculed me. Though childish, I’d sensed the letter’s formality—his seeing through it made my face burn as if aflame with shame.

The maids’ room was three tatami mats in size, and it was the only room in the house where no direct outside light entered. There had been a young man around twenty named Haru-san, the son of a sake shop owner in Yamanote, who came as a live-in apprentice for Father’s Gidayu narrative chanting. Once when Haru-san emerged from the bath with his face flushed crimson red, there was something odd about it. When we asked what happened, he said his face stung—he’d actually smeared Grandfather’s medicinal soap all over it, which made everyone burst into laughter. Grandfather used that medicinal soap when bathing alone, but Haru-san had apparently mistaken it for some luxury cosmetic soap and secretly slathered it thick across his pimply face that day. The medicinal soap seemed utterly ineffective against acne, serving only to irritate it needlessly. I remember seeing Shizuya—my nursemaid—being scolded by Mother in the maids’ room. I never learned why she was being reprimanded, but Shizuya kept sullenly silent. Since she stubbornly refused to apologize, Mother’s lecturing seemed to drag on endlessly. Mother often called Shizuya “a rubber balloon that swells when touched.” This meant she’d puff up resentfully the moment she was chastised. To me, Mother’s turn of phrase struck me as remarkably clever. She herself delivered it with evident pride in her own wit.

After Shizuya had taken her leave, Etsuya, Makiya, Hanaya, and two old women came. They were all replaced after a year or so. Once, out of childlike curiosity, I peeked into the cupboard in the maids' room. I don't remember whose time it was, but I recall that in the corner there was a magazine called Omoshiro Club that had been published around then, and it caught my eye.

The maids' room was separated by a shoji screen and adjacent to the tearoom. In the tearoom, a long hibachi was placed near that shoji screen. In the drawer of the long hibachi, there were sometimes small coins. One time, when I stealthily opened the drawer during a moment of no one being around and was trying to steal the money inside, suddenly the shoji screen behind me slid open, and there stood Mother. Mother seemed to have been watching my movements from behind the shoji screen. I was of course severely punished by Mother. In the tearoom, beneath where the pillar-mounted clock hung, there was a cupboard containing sweets. I would often thrust my head into that cupboard and rummage for sweets. There were many of the sort like filled rice wafers and sweet bean pancakes. The family members ate their meals there. Grandfather alone, after falling ill, took to lying on a permanent futon in the neighboring eight-tatami room and ate his meals there by himself. Occasionally, my older brother kept him company during these meals. My older brother was Grandfather and Grandmother’s favorite, while Mother’s heart was with me. Once, Grandfather severely scolded my older brother. I was nearby and said, “I’m sorry.” Then Grandfather turned to my older brother and said, “Look, Kiyoshi is apologizing in your place.” Grandfather must have despised my precociousness in his heart. My older brother was even more unreasonable and selfish than I was, but at his core he had an honest nature. In the staggered shelves of this room was displayed a wooden carving of an oni reciting Buddhist invocations. There were times when my older brother would place this statue by the pillow where I slept, and I would wake up and cry in fear.

The tearoom and this sitting room faced the garden across a corridor.

In the center of the garden was a small pond where koi and goldfish were kept. The opposite side of the pond was slightly elevated with piled earth, where several small cast-metal crabs and turtles crawled. A ceramic badger statue also stood there. One time, while trying to pour pond water on that badger statue, I accidentally fell into the pond. “That’s the badger’s curse coming back at you!” everyone laughed. After stripping off my drenched clothes, Mother beat my naked body with a terrifying glare. When I was young, there was a song adults often recited to me: “On a drizzly evening when rain falls soft, The badger takes a sake flask to buy aloft.” This was likely a Kamigata song. Since Father had trained in Gidayu in Osaka for years, our household must have known this tune. They also taught me another verse: “Mukojima blossoms in their prime, Skewered dumplings line up in time, Sleeve-wrapped eggs—oh sister mine, ‘Drink up now,’ says evening’s chime.” And yet another: “Nono-san, how old are you?” “Thirteen years, and seven too.” “Still so young—what shall we do?”

In the garden, weasels, Japanese rat snakes, and toads would appear. Grandmother grabbed the Japanese rat snake through a rag and slammed it onto the paving stones. When mousetraps were set out, the weasels would often get caught in them. We would drown the weasels caught in the mousetraps in the water jar placed in the corner of the garden. Toads had endearing qualities compared to weasels and Japanese rat snakes. They would sometimes crouch quietly atop the garden clogs on the shoe-removal stone.

The room at the end of the hallway was a four-and-a-half-mat room; there was a projecting lattice window facing the outer garden, but it remained dimly lit, second only to the maids' quarters in its gloominess. In this room lived Grandfather's elder sister. Father had first gone to Osaka for his artistic training around age thirteen or fourteen, with this woman accompanying him. In our household, we called her Osaka Grandmother to distinguish her from our actual grandmother. This room contained a sunken hearth where they would install a kotatsu during winter. On snowy days, my older brother and I would huddle at the kotatsu for warmth while eating snow we'd scooped into bowls and sprinkled with sugar.

Next to it was the three-tatami entranceway room. There stood a large full-length mirror. I would often go stand before this mirror, but even through a child’s eyes, I felt insecure. At that time, my family members constantly told me: “You idiot. You idiot.” A household shrine also stood there, and whenever Father went out, someone would take the flint from its altar and click-clack it behind his back. Next came the six-tatami room before the storehouse—effectively Mother’s and my room. At night, my parents and I slept there aligned like the character for “river.” My skin had been delicate since birth, swelling terribly whenever mosquitoes or fleas bit me. When I cried “Itchy! Itchy!”, Mother would scratch me even at midnight. Catching fleas between her fingers, she’d snap them dead against her box-shaped pillow. Mother’s dressing table stood here. An old-fashioned compact piece. The woman who came to style Mother’s hair was called O-sada-san—already well along in years. On those days, two assistants would arrive first before the master stylist came at the appointed hour. Whenever Mother had her hair done, I watched from beside her if home. One assistant was my schoolfriend’s elder sister. O-sada-san adored Sawamura Denjirō and Ii Yōhō. She chattered endlessly about them while working. “If only Ii stood a few sun taller,” she’d lament.

O-sada-san kept talking while her hands never stopped working. Mother nearly always wore her hair in the marumage style. The storehouse door had wire netting with a functioning lock. Inside stood chests of drawers, long storage trunks, and wicker baskets. There were also calligraphic works, paintings, and antiques Grandfather had collected. Beside the entrance sat a staircase leading upstairs. The second floor served as Father’s practice room. From this staircase, Osaka Grandmother fell twice, each time left barely breathing. She recovered after the first fall but remained bedridden after the second. I would often perch halfway up those stairs listening to practice sessions above. Without noticing when, I’d memorized key passages from “The Sake Shop” and “Horikawa.” Upstairs held a four-and-a-half-mat tatami room where Father’s master Settsu no Daijō’s portrait hung in the tokonoma. It showed him wearing a sokutai court robe and eboshi cap received from Prince Komatsu. During New Year’s, rice cake offerings from Father’s disciples adorned this alcove. Though blind, Father kept numerous practice texts he couldn’t read himself. He always sequestered himself alone in that room. From its window you could see Asakusa Park’s Twelve-Story Tower and Ueno’s hills. A towering ginkgo grew by the window—stretching out your hand touched its leaves and boughs. There was also a wisteria whose branches spread beyond the hedge into a sizable arbor. When flowering season came, it cascaded splendid clusters.

During the Great Kanto Earthquake, this house burned down. When I went to the burned ruins, only the umbrella stand that had been in the entranceway’s tamped earth and the cast-iron crab and turtle by the pond’s edge remained exactly as they were. I took that crab and turtle to the relatives’ house in Mukojima where we had evacuated, and placed them by the edge of the pond there.