Pathway to Japanese Literature

As usual, with just a handkerchief, she dove into the morning bath.
A woman they’d encountered once or twice in this bathhouse—someone who seemed like a local deity—was already there, washing her slightly plump, pure white body with soap.
Since the other woman was being standoffish, Fusae kept her distance too.
The Men’s Bath was eerily quiet.
Fusae lay stretched out on her back in the bath alone, gazing up at the high ceiling.
The water’s temperature was neither hot nor lukewarm. As Fusae wondered dazedly if this was heated by electricity and grew satisfied with the pleasantly comfortable temperature, the unpleasant man she’d parted with that morning began to fade hazily from her mind.

The glass door clattered open, and just as she thought she heard two or three boisterous women’s voices near the counter, a tall woman with a dark-skinned body swiftly pushed through the frosted glass door with her foot and entered.

“It’s open!”

Following behind, about two more—perhaps continuing their conversation—

“I don’t wanna get killed or nothin’, but… dunno… kinda curious, don’t you think?”

“But I’d hate gettin’ stripped naked and strangled!”

“But y’know, ain’t they sayin’ that’s just fine? That man’s killed four people already—they say that’s something else…”

While chattering, both of them grabbed their small buckets in a firm grip and noisily splashed water.

“They say he abducted the Sumitomo young lady—what a wild story!… Riding trains together, staying at inns—how could a twelve- or thirteen-year-old brazenly follow him like that? Couldn’t she’ve yelled for help on the train or at the inn?”

“It must’ve been really thrilling.”
“That man must be damn good at his tricks.”
“Like she’d been hypnotized or something.”

“Twelve or thirteen—ain’t that too young?”

“What?”

“What d’you mean…?”

The three of them burst out laughing.

Fusae also laughed and turned toward the group.

“Oh, you were already here?”

Just like Fusae, the three who had entered after her belonged to the handkerchief brigade.
None carried proper towels.
In the bathhouse’s harsh light, their permanents looked absurdly cheap.
Crimson lips, eyebrow pencil smeared like melting wax into elongated streaks—every face wore the same factory-stamped makeup.

From the frosted glass partition door, the clerk peered in and called toward the washing area:

“Ms. Kami of Kotobuki-ya, the masseur has arrived.”

The clerk called out toward the sink area.
The bright morning sun abruptly dimmed, and steam began rising steadily around them, transforming the light into a gloom reminiscent of rainy nights.

"Oh, does this bathhouse have a masseur?"

"He must be here..."

Then the tall one—

"Auntie, is there a masseur here?"

—called out to the earlier patron, the woman who had replied, "I'll be right up."

"Yes, if you ask, he'll come."

“So where do they give the massages?”

“There’s a room upstairs where they’ll give you a massage.”

“Oh, how nice—maybe I’ll get one too… Auntie, how much does the masseur charge?”

“Fifteen yen’s the set rate.”

“Oh… That’s pretty steep, isn’t it?”

Soon, Ms. Kami took a bath and briskly went upstairs. As she dried her plump body—smooth as a freshly peeled egg—with a brand-new towel and leisurely ascended the stairs, Fusae snorted with laughter. Then, the other three also giggled among themselves.

“She’s the spitting image of Kintarō-san.”

“She had pure white soap.—And that ring’s a diamond, right?”

“I didn’t see it.”

This handkerchief group curiously never washed their faces. Like mischievous children, they played at splashing water onto each other’s shoulders and backs, standing on the sink’s stones to practice dog-and-cat calisthenics, or kicking their legs high before the mirror. There was neither soap nor a comb. With only a single flimsy handkerchief as their sole reliance, they splashed about noisily in the bathwater.

They became absorbed for a while in companions' gossip, tales of old memories, talk of men, and stories of hometown foods, then clattered up the stairs still dripping wet. They would just give handkerchiefs a quick one-handed squeeze, briefly rub the greasy fabric against bodies as if that counted as drying off—and yet there were those who deliberately wore soiled chemises inside out against bare underarms. When Fusae put on the pink lace-trimmed pantaloons, the three of them gathered around.

“Oh, how lovely! Where’d you get those?”

They stared with rapt curiosity.

Though the four lived in separate dwellings, their paths had first crossed near Tsukiji Accounting School. Without any formal arrangement, they’d somehow met two or three more times until their turf felt established. Each would find whatever company suited the moment, then roam those streets through the night.

A case of birds of a feather flocking together, perhaps?

This Kimpunyu Bathhouse proved supremely convenient for the women, its water electrically heated from half past four in the morning.
They would cleanse bodies steeped in night's filth through ritual purification in seventy-sen baths before each returning to their own suburban homes.
Whenever leaving home, they'd resolve to bring hand towels and soap—yet invariably these women would forget them when setting out.
And come morning, they'd find themselves rushing into Kimpunyu Bathhouse clutching nothing but a single small handkerchief.

The four of them would walk through the crisp morning streets to Ginza 4-chome, then scatter—some boarding city trams, others taking the subway or buses—while Fusae rode a tram with the tall woman to Shinjuku, passed under the terminal overpass, and transferred to a Nakano-bound bus.

Today as well, Fusae stood at the bus stop where faint sunlight flickered and dimmed, waiting motionless for about ten minutes. When she came this far, Fusae invariably became engulfed in a loneliness as though sinking into the earth. While there was a sense of security in being able to pass the entire day peacefully, that very stability began to feel unsettling to Fusae. The Kōshū-bound steam train passed over the viaduct with an earth-shaking rumble. A Jeep drove past. A truck loaded with a mountain of wooden crates lurched past. The obscured sun suddenly grew dim, as if a curtain had closed. The sky hung heavy and clammy, threatening rain.

Just as she had waited until exhausted, the bus finally arrived.

The bus was unexpectedly empty.
Abruptly, the darkened anxious thoughts ceased.
As she gazed absently at the scorched landscape, the area had—before she knew it—fully taken on the hues of autumn. The once vigorously thriving cornfields and sweet potato patches had been plowed under, and here and there, fresh daikon leaves began to emerge vividly from the black soil.

After getting off at Nakano Station, buying one Nijisseiki pear at a fruit shop, Fusae returned to her apartment.
Last night, she was sure she’d locked the door when leaving, yet it stood slightly ajar.
Feeling something amiss, Fusae cautiously peered inside to find a pair of new, plain wooden clogs neatly arranged in the narrow entryway.
She pushed the door open forcefully and stepped inside,

“Oh, are you back?”

when, unexpectedly, Mother showed her face.

“What the—showing up suddenly again…”

With an angry expression, Fusae hurriedly wiped her crimson lips with the damp underarm handkerchief,

“Ugh, showing up without warning…”

The bedding that had been left unfolded was now neatly folded, the area tidied up.

“I meant to send a telegram first, but something urgent came up… Oh, just forgive me this once, won’t you?”

Mother stood fidgeting nervously.
Fusae—as if she’d finally found a target for all her recent pent-up irritation—huffed indignantly and hurled her shopping bag onto the tatami.
She flipped the electric stove’s switch, but no red glow came from the nichrome wire—another power outage.
Then fresh anger surged through her, and she slammed the wide-open glass door shut with a sharp crack.

“Sokichi’s come down with whooping cough…”

“Oh? You’re having him see a doctor?”

“We’ve had him seen by doctors, but whatever they do, it’s going to take time… see?”

Fusae peeled a pear, placed it on old newspaper, and quartered it.
Without particularly telling Mother to eat, she began munching away on the entire piece.
Mother was taking out cabbage, bags of flour, and bags of rice from a large furoshiki bundle and arranging them on the tatami.

Fusae’s head throbbed at its core from lack of sleep.
She took out a box of Peace from the closet and put a stick between her lips.
She took a crumpled match from beside the charcoal brazier, wasted several sticks before finally lighting her cigarette, exhaled with a satisfied puff, then stretched out her legs and leaned against the wall.

While utterly appalled by her daughter’s disheveled, ill-mannered appearance—their first meeting in half a year—Mother stared in silence for some time.

“What time did you get here?”

When her daughter spoke kindly to her, Mother suddenly brightened with a look of happiness,

“I got here ’round six, but I was searchin’ all over the place, so only just arrived a bit ago…”

“The train was crowded, I suppose?”

“Well now, see—packed tight as a stewpot it was—I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“Even so, I finally managed to at least sit down…”

“How’s Ken doing?”

“He managed to quit school too, and now he’s workin’ at the sawmill thanks to Mr. Shō…”

“Is Natsu well?”

“Yeah, her body’s still weak as ever—it’s a real problem, ain’t it.”
“If only Brother hadn’t died in the war, Natsu wouldn’t have lost her spirit so bad neither, but what can you do—she’s still young, so I’m thinkin’ it’d be better to send her back to the village.”
“Not havin’ children would’ve been the happiest thing, ain’t it…”
“So I talked with Ken too, and we thought maybe if we have Natsu come back, close up the house, and Ken and me come to your place to work together just us family—but lately mail ain’t gettin’ us nowhere, so I came sudden-like to talk it out with you.”
“When I think on it—right now, that’s the best way, see? ’Stead of you workin’ some salary job, cookin’ meals alone before goin’ to some office—if I do the cookin’, Ken can go out workin’ proper. Makin’ ends meet bit by bit like that’s gotta be the best way, ain’t it…”

“But I’m tellin’ ya—even if we move to Tokyo, first off, gettin’ registered ain’t possible.”
“And even if Ken comes—where in Tokyo would they hire some country bumpkin like him who never even went to school, I ask you?”
“Tokyo’s big alright, but it’s crawlin’ with people—even if you scraped together two or three hundred yen a month, you couldn’t possibly make ends meet.”
“In Tokyo, just one person’s keep costs near a thousand yen a month—how’s a family of four supposed to eat through that?”

Mother was at a complete loss.
Even a four-and-a-half-mat room with torn flooring could house a family of four—and besides, it seemed wasteful for Fusae to live there alone—so Mother had been running mental calculations since earlier, already carrying herself like a Tokyo resident as she scrubbed clean the postage-stamp-sized kitchen, its surfaces caked in grime.
What could she possibly be eating to survive—there was nothing resembling food in the closets or on the shelves.

“The countryside’s been hard too—I couldn’t endure no more and came here, see?”
“Not only that—you haven’t sent any money since April, see? And I feel awful ’round Natsu too—she ain’t said nothin’, but she’s been frettin’ over you, wonderin’ if you’re sick or somethin’. Sokichi’s clingin’ to her like a shadow, trailin’ after her like his grandma… pitiful thing…”

If she could just find a client, she could make around a hundred yen a night—but half the month was rainy days or nights without any clients.
Just managing to eat and survive was all Fusae could do at this point.

“Can’t you just try to endure a little longer…? I’m really struggling right now too.”

Fusae listlessly lay down on the tatami.
Her daughter’s face—with eyebrows painted in ink and dark circles reaching to the edges of her eyes—simply wouldn’t look like that of a decent woman to Mother.
It was clear that her daughter’s workplace didn’t have a particularly wholesome atmosphere.

Fusae, feeling hungry, went to ask the caretaker’s wife to buy her some grilled eel for about fifty yen and a koppe loaf of bread.

After a while, when the caretaker’s wife brought the eel wrapped in bamboo sheaths, she spread it out on the tatami along with its wrapping without bothering to transfer it to a plate.

“Come and eat, Ma.”

“What a rare treat.”
“Tokyo’s the kinda place that sells everything, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, this costs about fifteen yen a skewer.”

“Oh, that’s an awfully steep price… Shocking, ain’t it.”
“Too good for the likes of us to eat, ain’t it.”

After removing the skewer, tearing it into small pieces, and stuffing them into her cheeks, the freshly grilled eel turned out to be unexpectedly delicious.

“Don’tcha even cook your own meals?”

“I’m too busy to cook, so I get by with meal tickets.”
“Lately, the cafeterias are nothin’ but potatoes… I’m gettin’ sick of it.”

“Tokyo is such a heartless place… ain’t it.”
“How your body even holds up here, I’ll never know.”

Unexpectedly, the electricity came on as if on cue.
Fusae placed the dented kettle on the electric stove and flipped the switch.
Mother stared at the groaning stove with dismay.
The convenience of Tokyo felt increasingly hollow.

“You still ain’t settled with the midwife, have ya? What’s become of that?”
“Got a right nasty letter—shamed me to my bones.”

“That man was supposed to pay it.”

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that, but she came here real furious.”

Fusae seethed with irritation whenever she thought about Sokichi’s father.
From a rural village in Nagano, fifteen or sixteen village girls formed a group and were dispatched to a factory in Kamata, where—amid their dormitory life—Fusae grew close to Onda from the sales department.
Onda was already over forty and had a wife and children in rural Saitama, but for Fusae—who had fallen into a sort of nervous exhaustion from the daily air raid panics—there had been no time to spare for thoughts about Onda’s family.
As long as each day she somehow scraped through remained her only world, she’d had no choice but to devise this convenient method—clinging to a man she could lean on in that narrow existence—for in those days, she’d been in such a state of restless anxiety that she couldn’t sit still or stand still.
Her attention to morality had greatly diminished, and Fusae desperately threw herself into Onda.

By the time the war ended, she was already seven months pregnant.
When Onda took her to Hongo Maternity Hospital, Fusae had been so indifferent that she was told it was already too late to wear a belly band.
Through Onda’s financial support, she somehow gave birth to a boy at that maternity hospital by the end of November.
Through the maternity hospital’s arrangements, she had sent the child out to foster care, but when Onda’s financial support ceased and the baby was returned to the hospital about three months later, Fusae summoned her mother there and had her take the infant back to the countryside.

Though she had grieved over her daughter’s missteps, upon seeing her grandchild’s face, Mother still happily took him back.
For about two months she’d sent money for the child, but after that heard nothing in return. Sinking deeper into an incomprehensible existence while drowning in days of procrastination and dissolution, Fusae had finally become incapable of escaping that wanton life.

Of the fourteen or fifteen girls who had come to Tokyo, each forging their own life stories before returning home, only Fusae and one other girl named Saku had stumbled and remained behind in the city.
Now, even that girl named Saku—where in this vast Tokyo she might be living with her child—Fusae had lost all trace of her.

“Eating eel that costs fifteen yen a skewer—this ain’t no way for folks like us to live. In this big ol’ Tokyo, there oughta be some decent way to get by… I ain’t meanin’ to sound harsh, but your way of livin’ here ain’t right at all, is it?”

Mother was worried and couldn’t even finish a single skewer of eel.

To Mother, Tokyo was an enigmatic metropolis.
Her daughter’s appearance struck her as grotesquely absurd, reminiscent of a circus bicyclist she’d once glimpsed at their village festival years past.
The soiled white jacket, the gaudy floral-patterned skirt that glared under the light, hair showing no trace of combing, pallid complexion, and that peculiar ring with its large black stone deliberately adorning her right index finger—none of this bore any resemblance to the daughter she remembered.

She had changed completely.
A daughter who had just turned twenty had been smoking cigarettes since earlier.
In Mother’s biased eyes, her daughter—once what could be called passably average among others—now lay in disarray, her restless eyes gleaming with an uncanny light that stirred more than enough unease in Mother.
After devouring even her mother’s portion of eel in one swift motion, she didn’t bother to clean up the remnants. When the water began boiling vigorously, she gave the cup holding her toothbrush a cursory rinse, dumped it into the ashtray, then poured hot water into the cup. Pursing her lips to blow on it, she drank—her daughter’s room didn’t have so much as a pinch of tea leaves.

“Ma, how many nights you planning to stay?”

“How many nights? I came to talk things over with you—soon as we settle things, I’ll head back tomorrow… But tonight I’m plumb worn out, so you gotta let me stay.”

Mother was terrible hungry.
She wanted to cook rice but there seemed no pot.

“Don’tcha even got any pots ’n pans for cookin’?”

“There’s nothin’ here at all.”
“Hold on, I’ll go borrow one for ya.”

Looking thoroughly listless, Fusae went to the manager’s place again and brought back a small aluminum pot.
Mother poured a small amount of rice into it and, having been instructed by Fusae, went out to the washing area to rinse it.
Fusae dragged out the filthy, matted upper futon from the closet and lay directly on the tatami.
Everything was a nuisance.
If she could disappear into the void and scatter like mist, then so be it.
The baby—having been given birth to and left behind—surprisingly held no lingering attachment for her.
Despite this, while vaguely feeling guilty toward Mother, her sleep-deprived mind and body had grown strangely irritable—and with brutal honesty, that irritation now laid bare, she found herself utterly unable to respond to Mother’s unease.
Rather, on the contrary, she even came to hate the kind and weak.—At whatever godlike being had created this animalistic heart, Fusae would always naturally stick out her tongue and laugh.
For a long time now, Fusae had forgotten what it meant to shed human tears.
No matter which woman she looked at, and no matter which man she looked at, she had concluded that none possessed anything resembling a human personality.
There was nothing but the fleeting desires demanded by the flesh.—Only once had Fusae encountered a strange man who’d given her money.
Other than that, she had shared pleasure with every man and managed to obtain some amount of money.

That strange man had appeared on a certain drizzly night around June.
As was her habit, she stood by the usual building with a cigarette clenched between her lips.
When a targeted man passed by, she planned to borrow a light.
Soon, the man she’d targeted passed by.
She borrowed a light for her cigarette.
While borrowing the flame, Fusae gazed into its glow and murmured—

“Want to have some fun?”

she ventured.

The man, looking startled, snuffed out the lighter’s flame and stood silent for a while—but what had he been thinking—

“Are you in need of money?”

he asked.

Every man, when Fusae asked if he wanted to have fun, would immediately reply that he’d be glad to—but that man alone never said such things.
He pulled out a single hundred-yen bill from his inner pocket and handed it to Fusae’s damp hand,

“You should go home tonight…”

With that, he briskly walked away.

Fusae’s heart pounded faintly in her chest.
As told, that night she returned straight to her apartment and slept soundly in her own bed for the first time in ages.
Fusae had made it a rule never to bring men into her apartment room.
Because she wanted to preserve her apartment life as a semblance of respectability—to keep at least that one space intact.
Even now, she sometimes recalls that mysterious man from the rainy night.
Though she often stood in the same spot hoping to meet him again, since that night she never once had another chance to encounter him.

Women like Fusae were not granted even a shred of sympathy from society.
Fusae found this unsympathetic world rather a relief; she even felt a certain exhilaration in turning her back on society.
When one had seen through to the very underbelly of society’s underbelly, the foolishness of people preaching specimen-like piety became comical.
Ephemeral trinkets alone sprawled across the city like painted murals.
at the speed of human hands…
Fusae was made to realize, through her very being, the very depths of human ugliness.
And more than that hollowness after doing something good, it was the numbing degradation of wallowing in vice that suited a woman like Fusae.
Emotions like love had long since fallen away, and the youth of twenty that might have evoked the pathos of existence had faded to the marrow of their bones.

How deeply alluring the nighttime city must have been to Fusae.
There were times she slept beneath a trance-like sparkling starry sky.
And times she’d frolic with strangers beneath dark riverside bridges, never knowing their faces……
Two people who had become beasts abandoned by God engaged in mundane, routine acts……
That was all there was to it.

Fusae found that only the complex, tender nightscapes of those moments lingered in her heart.
The body odors of men and their intense breathing could only be felt as something akin to flipping the switch on a factory machine.
With a low hum, the machine began to drone.
That was all.
When the switch stopped, she would obtain a certain sum of money…….
And then, the man would tell her they’d meet again.
It must be a sign he was satisfied with a woman like her, Fusae thought.
And walking away from the man, Fusae felt a loneliness in how—as she stood and walked—the eternal darkness of that sky she had gazed upon while lying prostrate on the ground, and the starlight, grew narrow and shallow.
In what might be called ancient times, humans must have had days when they had no beds except outdoors—and for a woman sleeping in the wild, how gently nature would smile upon her from behind a man’s body—yet Fusae could not forget the beauty of the sky she gazed upon while lying prostrate.

Fusae did not doubt that she was alive in reality.
Merely being alive—any thought was futile.
Like an animal, she would act honestly as her heart moved, carry it out, and die…….
But truly, she had never once thought of dying.
She simply lived and marched onward.
The act of living and marching onward was an unconscious faith.
She never reflected on her actions or indulged in even a hint of regret.

“Is there something wrong with your body?”

Mother, who had returned from washing rice, saw her daughter sprawled on the tatami with a futon draped over her and looked uneasy.

“Fusa, are you feeling unwell?”

She asked again.

From somewhere unseen, the radio carried the ethereal singing of Shinnai and the tones of a shamisen.
The coldness of the tatami also felt vaguely autumnal.

Mother put down the pot and came to Fusae’s side.

“I’m just sleepy…”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you somewhere?”

As if slightly relieved, Mother began switching the kettle and pot on the electric stove.

“I didn’t wanna say this… but you’ve gone and changed completely… turned into some strange, pitiful creature.”

Mother sniffled and silently spilled tears.
Fusae was dozing.
Her post-bath languid body felt heavy, as if thickly waterlogged.
Though she wanted to offer a word of comfort, before she knew it, Fusae had fallen into a deep sleep.

When she awoke from satiated sleep, it was likely around three in the mid-afternoon. When Fusae opened her eyes wide, there was an old trunk with its handle missing draped in furoshiki cloth, a washed ashtray filled with sliced homemade miso pickles, and a pot of pure white rice that stirred the appetite.

It appeared she had failed to turn off the stove, for the kettle was hissing and sputtering violently, sending up plumes of white steam.

The room held no one.
She called “Mom” in a small voice, but there was no answer.

Lying prone, Fusae smoked a cigarette.
Her head felt light.
She stretched out her hand, took out a compact from her shopping bag, and looked at her face.
Despite her dissipated life, her skin was smoothly pallid as if polished, her face bearing a bright expression that seemed ready for makeup at a moment’s notice.
The area above her small nose glistened with ointment.
When she brought the mirror close to her eyes, her amber-brown pupils gleamed like a cat’s.
Her uneven, thick eyelashes were wet.

Under the left side of her nose was a small, raised mole.
Mother quietened her footsteps and entered the room.

“You awake now?”

“Slept real deep… Where’d you disappear to?”

“I washed your dirty clothes.”
“You’re just too damn sloppy…”

“Even though the weather’s turnin’ nasty, you’re such a busybody.”

“I just can’t help worryin’, I reckon…”

“It’s fine.—Oh—somethin’s burnin’.”

When Fusae hurried to the electric stove, she found the wooden stand perfectly charred.
Fusae turned off the switch.

That night, Fusae went out with dewy-fresh skin and artfully applied makeup.
Right under Mother’s dismayed gaze—with almost spiteful calm—she drew ink into her eyebrows, slathered rouge on her lips, and left.
Tomorrow, no matter what, she’d have to scrape together some money and send her mother back to the countryside.

She rode the train for what felt like ages, got off at Tsukiji Terminal, and made her habitual way toward the fish market building.
One of the women from that morning’s bathhouse encounter was already there.—The night’s client led Fusae to a small fire-scarred hotel in Omori.
This was one of those cheap rooms custom-built for women of the night.
The power outage meant candlelight had been brought into the cramped space.
An iron bed that might’ve once belonged in a hospital stood against one wall; on a side table with peeling paint sat a single crimson artificial flower—unidentifiable as any specific bloom—stuck in a glass bottle.

Whenever a train passed on the Tokaido Line, this hotel along the tracks trembled as if buoyant. Fusae, in her accustomed manner, became clad in nothing but a chemise and looked up at the man with an impassive gaze like that of a patient about to undergo surgery. An insect-like, vacuum-like rhythm began. And then, the large shadow of the kneeling woman—free from any torment—was projected vividly onto the ceiling. Fusae extended her right hand toward the shadow-play wall visible beyond the man’s back and tried to form a fox silhouette. The large fox silhouette projected on the wall and ceiling trembled. She found it unbearably amusing. In the dark stage-like space filled with shadows as if in a theater, Fusae—with a feeling akin to gazing upon an eternal starry sky—sent up full-throated applause within her heart. A briny, damp wind shook the glass door. In the thicket, katydids called for mates with all their might.

When the candlelight died, the room sank into a silence like being trapped in a deep forest—a ringing stillness.
From all directions came the scent of primeval forest.
In the thick darkness, a man’s heavy breathing sounded.
A satiated sleeping breath.
This forest-like black curtain of darkness was, for Fusae, also her greatest place of rest.
So fervently did she wish—*would that the night would last forever*—that Fusae loved the night.
Above the glass door without curtains, a dark sky could be seen.
In the darkness lingered the tenacious drone of mosquitoes, the shrill sharp whistles of trains, ephemeral butterfly-like dreams seen in a pleasant half-asleep state, and the pitiful red glow of a cigarette smoked late into the night.
Fusae remained at the apartment, irritating her nerves—she hadn’t given a single thought to her pitiful mother.
In such darkness, her spirit too glowed blue and fragmented, splintering apart to scatter into the air.
She had no inclination to investigate what sort of man it was she slept with.
The sole vestige marking him as a traveler was his Osaka dialect; every man’s behavior was much the same.
In the darkness, Fusae’s half-asleep dreams fermented.
In those shallow dreams, she saw obscene nightmares more intense than anything reality could conjure.
In an ecstatic realm like quivering wings, this poor angel fluttered and fluttered away, exposed to the wind...

At the end of such half-sleep, dimly, the loathsome dawn arrived once more.
The traveling man proved unexpectedly generous, bestowing a considerable sum of money upon Fusae.
In the dim dawn, the man she saw was old.—After hurriedly preparing, the two parted at the hotel’s front without exchanging glances, heading east and north respectively.

Fusae’s feet naturally carried her down to Shimbashi, where she took the morning tram to Tsukiji and flew into Kimpunyu Bathhouse with nothing but a handkerchief.
With the ease of a bird returning to its roost…
And once more, she encountered women of the same status as herself.
There were women who had gotten out of the bath and sat down completely naked, eating apples.
Even though she said a pair cost 2,000 yen, there was also a woman who opened a shoe package and showed off wearing them while completely naked.
That woman was a familiar face she’d once ridden with in a police truck and gone to Asakusa’s Y Hospital.

When Fusae returned to the Nakano apartment, it was probably around nine o'clock.
Mother sat despondent as if crushed, properly seated in the tidied room waiting for her daughter.
To Fusae with her lips stained red, Mother no longer said anything bitter.