Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Hisaka Yoko Wearing a pale gray woolen dress, I held a bouquet. Just moments ago, I had gone to visit an acquaintance’s house, where they let me pick as many sweet peas as I liked from their garden overflowing in full bloom, and now I was on my way back. The flowers emitted an overpowering, almost cloying fragrance—a scent that seemed to blend the individual aromas released by their deep purples, pale pinks, whites, and every other hue into something entirely new before casting it upon me. Could there have been some mysterious power in this scent?

Along the narrow path beside a mansion with towering trees, the May sun filtered through green leaves that alternately brightened and darkened its light. Could there be some magic cast upon this light?

Though I ought to have gone straight home, I slipped through the back of the mansion to the station and ended up buying a ticket to A Station, just a ten-minute train ride away.

Getting off at A Station by the riverbank seemed to be the first time in my memory. When I unconsciously handed over my ticket and exited through the south exit, the three o'clock light was shining on the white dusty road without casting shadows, so intensely that I felt exhausted. Clutching the bouquet, I wandered south down that road when immediately to my right appeared the narrow path I had imagined—rows of new Western-style houses and homes blending Japanese and Western styles stood quietly, with scarcely anyone passing by. After proceeding west along there for about five minutes and then turning right and continuing on, I soon came to a halt. This was a place I had arrived at without realizing it. The house before me was a pure Western-style building, with roses trailing along the windows of its recessed structure and a stone path extending from the low red brick gate to the entrance. On both sides clustered snapdragons, toppu grass, and sweet peas in profusion. I looked at the roses by the window once more. At that moment, a figure suddenly flickered at the window. Not directly. Through the frosted glass, I caught a fleeting glimpse of that white coat. It vanished instantly.

In an instant, I left. I ran wildly. I turned several corners and reached the riverside. And finally regaining my senses—(This is a problem. I must think this through)—I muttered. (Why had I gone there? Even if it were entirely under a spell—to that very house and no other—why then had I gone? And what was it that I had seen there? Why had I come running back in such a frantic rush? Look how violently my heart was pounding. Who on earth was that figure?)

I realized I needed to think carefully about the figure. And then I remembered the figure.

When I was sixteen and the figure was thirty. At the foot of the mountain I lived, and at its summit dwelled the figure.

Every morning, clutching my bag as I rushed out the gate, I wore a navy blue pleated skirt, my hair parted in two and braided at the back. The girls' school stood atop a mountain separated from the figure's mountain by a single valley, and to reach school I had to climb halfway up the figure's mountain and cross a bridge. Hooking the ring of vocabulary cards on my finger or memorizing grammar, I climbed up the narrow, shadowy path along the stream. Soon I found myself before a set of narrow, steep stone steps. To the right stood the towering stone wall of an estate, while the other side faced a river with its wooden handrail long decayed; those stone steps—less than a meter wide—required crawling to ascend whenever the wind blew. I always stopped at the bottom of those narrow stone steps. And then, if I waited—sometimes fifteen minutes, other times just five—the clattering sound of footsteps on the path above would reach my ears. And I, panting as though I had just arrived, tried to climb the stone steps one at a time. And then, I spotted the figure coming running down from just above. The distance between the figure and me gradually narrowed. I lay down, pressing my body against the stone wall as though forcing myself into it. Otherwise, we couldn’t pass each other.

“Thank you.”

The figure said that and hurried down without so much as a smile.

There were times when I would be allowed to go first. There were times when I would wait below. There were also times when he would wait above until I finished climbing up. At those times, I would fly up the steps and say "Thank you," my breath coming in gasps. Every morning without fail, the figure and I would meet on the stone steps. This might have been mere coincidence on his part. But for me, these meetings felt absolutely necessary. When our bodies brushed past each other midway up the steps, I would stare fixedly into his eyes. Yet the figure wouldn't so much as glance my way before continuing downward. How many times did we repeat this dance? From mid-April through June, each morning unfolded this way. There were crisp clear days when cottony clouds floated in warmth. There were rainy days when the river swelled. On those days we had no choice but to close our umbrellas. Sometimes droplets trailing from the tip of his half-closed black umbrella would trickle into the collar of my braids. What I felt wasn't coldness but something closer to rapture.

The sixteen-year-old girl thus fell in love with the silhouette. Or perhaps I couldn't call it love. Nor could I call it love. But it was not something faint and thin like a dream; rather, I was certain it burned with an intensity unlike anything I'd ever known. The silhouette was usually wearing a suit. Navy blue of utterly ordinary cut, paired with an equally dark tie that refused attention, he carried a black briefcase. Could he be a company employee? But none of that worldly vulgarity clung to him. Nor did he carry himself like some scholar. There were no chinks in his armor—that silhouette always moved with mechanical precision, cold and unyielding. How old was he? Unmarried? Youth still lingered about him yet paradoxically fused with that icy composure radiating quiet authority.

Two months passed without her knowing who he was. And then one day in June, I finally learned the true identity of that silhouette. This happened when I developed a lacquer allergy—my entire face swelled up grotesquely and a high fever struck without warning. I immediately called our usual hospital and asked mother to request that Dr.N, our family acquaintance, come over. But Dr.N couldn't make it due to some major surgery and said he'd send someone else instead. I kept replacing the water-soaked towel on my forehead every minute or so, desperately awaiting the doctor's arrival. Around four o'clock, the bell rang, footsteps climbed the stairs, and suddenly the sliding door opened. In that instant, I froze. There stood the figure from those stone steps. I nearly burst into tears. My face had swollen so hideously that even my eyelids refused to open properly. I felt every shred of fantasy I'd secretly nurtured about that silhouette and myself being ruthlessly destroyed.

The silhouette calmly sat down beside my futon. Despite meeting every morning, he took my pulse as though completely unaware of that fact and meticulously examined my face. I involuntarily turned to face the opposite direction and closed my eyes. Then—the towel that had been lying on my forehead was removed; instead I felt something cold yet somehow warm. And I immediately knew it was his hand. His hand held an odd strength, and as if being pulled by it, I found myself lying on my back again. I opened my eyes. He still didn’t open his mouth as he continued examining the hives on my face. Mother reported the condition. Finally, he opened his mouth. The first words I heard other than "Thank you."

“Is it just your face?” It was a low, clear voice. I nodded faintly. Because I didn’t want to speak in a hoarse voice. “It will heal soon. It’s lacquer. I’ll give an injection. The fever will go down by tonight. Then apply this ointment I’ve brought. It will heal in two or three days.” He finished delivering each declarative phrase with crisp enunciation, then immediately began preparing the injection. While watching my swollen face reflected in the silver case, I felt unbearably sad. (Please don’t let him recognize me as that girl from the mornings.) I offered my arm while praying. I opened my eyes wide and stared at the vein bulging up. He inserted the needle into my arm bound with black rubber tubing.

“It doesn’t hurt.” He said this. It was neither a question nor a suggestion, but a statement of conviction that it shouldn’t hurt. I suddenly wanted to retort, “It hurts!” I said. He again,

“It doesn’t hurt,” he said. This time, I silently nodded. I hardly listened to him explaining how to use the topical ointment to Mother and me. Because I was too sad to listen. He stood, and after Mother went downstairs to see him off, on the quiet floor, while pressing the injection mark, I tried to make myself cry. While thinking it was utterly schoolgirlish, I ended up truly crying. Mother immediately came back upstairs and told me that he was a surgeon working under Dr. N named Sasada, and since he lived nearby, Dr. N had asked him to come.

As he had stated, my fever subsided that night, and having fully recovered after two or three days, I left home with renewed vigor to meet him again on the stone steps.

That day, I waited about ten minutes. When I reached the bottom of the stone steps, the stone wall I leaned against was unpleasantly lukewarm from the already hot morning weather, making me feel queasy. Footsteps could be heard. I hesitated.

I wondered if he had realized it was me. I decided to wait below. And then we met abruptly. He had noticed after all.

“Oh, good morning.” “That should be enough now.” “Thank you very much.” Without stopping to talk further, he briskly went on his way. I went to school singing loudly. The next day and the day after that, I met him. He would only exchange a word or two. I knew his surname but not his given name. I muttered repeatedly when going to bed.

"Sasada, Sasada, Sasada."

When summer came, both my sister and I suffered from beriberi that occurred every year. Due to Mother’s opinion and my agreement, we arranged for Dr. Sasada to give me daily injections. He kindly agreed immediately, and by around five o'clock, he would appear at my house. And my love for him grew even deeper, while my older sister also began trying to win his favor.

His name was Akeo. And it became clear that he was unmarried. We also learned that the house on the hill belonged to distant relatives, and that he stayed there as a dependent since he had no family of his own. When the front doorbell rang, my older sister and I would come running out. I would pour whiskey into a glass and take it to the parlor. He had quite a fondness for both alcohol and tobacco. Yet he was a man of such strong will that had he resolved to quit, he could have done so at any time. He would drink it down in one gulp and remain composed. After giving me the injection, he would talk with me briefly. Though we spoke, it only amounted to him occasionally responding to my questions; he never initiated conversation himself.

“Were you a soldier?” “I was in Hainan Island for three years and was demobilized this April.” “When I returned, both my parents were dead, the house had been burned down, and I was all alone.” “My school was in Kyoto. Those days were fun.” His immaculately white open-collar shirt appeared changed nearly every day—its collar never creased—and combined with sharply pressed trousers, it all betrayed a meticulous nature. He himself had said so and paid meticulous attention to disinfecting needles and handling instruments.

One day, when peaches were served, he peeled the skin with smooth, continuous strokes, finishing cleanly without a single break. At that moment, as I gazed at those hands, I felt a pang of sentimentality. “How skillful you are.” Older Sister laughed about it later, but for me, it was no laughing matter. About three months passed in a flash with days like those. We would chat about trivial things, and I was happy. My sister was too. Moreover, everyone in the household grew fond of him. And so Mother naturally chose him as Older Sister’s spouse. When I overheard my parents discussing this matter, I wasn’t surprised—but resolved to break off this engagement without fail. I was so deeply in love that simple joys of closeness held no meaning. Let my sister take him? Me lose? Yet I wasn’t of marriageable age anyway. After all, he’d marry someone other than me. If so, better some stranger than Older Sister—I even thought that. Having eavesdropped from the next room on my parents conferring with Older Sister at the center, I left home earlier than usual that morning when Father meant to directly ask his intentions.

At the base of the stone steps, as usual, I waited for footsteps. After last night’s 210th Day storm, today was crisply clear, but tea-brown muddy water roared through the river. I strained my ears, fearing that sound might drown out his footsteps. I waited a full twenty minutes. I heard footsteps. When our eyes met, for some reason the things I had meant to say until now failed to surface, and I simply uttered, “Good morning.” And when I climbed four or five steps and stood on a stone one step below him, I involuntarily grabbed his arm. (It was an unexpected act.) Then hurriedly,

“Hey please, I’m begging you—don’t agree to what they’ll ask at home today! Please!” No sooner had I spoken than I pushed him against the wall, scrambled up the steps with practiced ease, and fled without a backward glance. That evening, my older sister and I stood side by side in the entranceway to greet him. When our gazes brushed fleetingly against each other, I silently renewed my plea. After he left with his usual composure, we bombarded Father with questions—what exactly had been said, what reply had been given.

“It seems Dr. Sasada has decided to settle down.” “He’s going to become an adopted son.” “He’ll be leaving here at the end of this month and going to H Hospital in O City.” “Well, they say she’s a doctor’s daughter after all.” “Well, it can’t be helped.” “For Dr. Sasada as well, becoming an adopted son is probably the most advisable.” “After all, he can’t manage alone now.”

One night, I heard my older sister sobbing. The triumphant feeling I had was only momentary; I was completely consumed by the impending farewell.

When I met him the next morning, I couldn't say anything. It wasn't "Thank you," nor could I say "No"; I simply greeted him with my head bowed. For a while, he kept his hand on my shoulder and left without a word. Was this affection toward me? Don't be absurd. That couldn't be it. Was it pity for me...? Suddenly, tears began pattering down. That evening, even when I called out "Dr.Sasada!" to my sister who remained shut in her room, she wouldn't come out. I poured three glasses of whisky. By the parlor window where bush clover swayed, he and I sat for nearly an hour without speaking. When he left, I alone went out to see him off,

“Please don’t come anymore.” Poor older sister. “But in the mornings…”

My sympathy for my sister might have been a lie. Because it meant I could meet him alone. The days until our parting kept dwindling away. I met him every morning. On that final day, September 30th, he stood before me in the same navy suit he'd worn when we first met, and said his farewells.

“Thank you for your care. “Please give my regards to Hiroko-san.”

I extended my hand. I wanted our handshake to last forever.

“I can’t say anything… I just can’t…” I let small tears fall upon those clasped hands. And I squeezed even tighter. It was a sweet little romance.

A year passed. They were endearingly sentimental days. I heard about him from out of nowhere. that the adoptive family was extremely wealthy and his wife was said to be a peerless beauty. that a child had been born.

A year passed. I could no longer be satisfied with mere sentimentality. As my body matured, the love for him within me swelled. With each passing day, far from diminishing, it transformed into a fierce desire that tormented me. To purge this anguish, I took employment. This was neither an attempt to seriously engage with society nor to provide material support for my family. I wanted to touch anyone indiscriminately. I wanted to disappear into crowds. When alone, I felt unbearable loneliness; I believed crowds must contain something that would sever the space between him and me. Yet this produced the opposite effect. Far from creating separation, I found myself drawn closer to him than ever before.

For I often traveled to Osaka on company business. The destination was a building located a fifteen-minute walk across the river from H Hospital where he worked. And so every time I had a business trip there, I would get off one stop early and pass by that hospital. I hoped for nothing but a chance encounter with him. But as this repeated itself time and again, I began deliberately trying to meet him.

One rainy day, on a quiet spring afternoon, I finally resolved myself.

The black raincoat was crumpled. The square briefcase tucked under my arm, the umbrella in my hand—both black—my hair tied back in a drab bundle, lipstick applied not to enhance beauty but half-worn and unsightly. My exhausted figure—yes, I was tired of my daily life. I had lost all sense of beauty, forgotten any longing for distant things, become utterly a vulgar working woman. Covered in dust, reeking of mud—nothing but money, numbers, fawning over superiors. But within all that, the one thing that remained—sad yet pure—was my feelings for him, I suppose.

The noon siren sounded. She stepped deeper into the entrance where crowds of people were coming and going. Immediately, the pungent smell of disinfectant assailed her nose. The stifling heat of people suffering from illness. Oppressive air. “Where is O Surgery?” “Down that way to the right.”

The nurse left briskly. In front of O Surgery, people crowded the area; both chairs inside the room and those outside were fully occupied. A child's crying. The clatter of instruments indifferent to propriety, the hurried scuffing of indoor shoes—through it all flitted white nurses' skirts and doctors' surgical gowns. I squeezed between patients and sat down. The old man next to me had small bumps covering his entire skin. They were suppurating, swollen and unsightly. And he would occasionally scratch at them.

The young woman ahead - was she perhaps around my age? The right foot was wrapped in spotless white bandages from heel to toe, a crutch resting beside it. Those eyes - beautiful yet clouded with an indefinable uncleanliness - belonged to someone flipping through a grimy magazine page by page with a saliva-dampened finger, utterly absorbed. The wall clock above her head ticked off seconds with dull thuds, and I realized ten minutes had passed since earlier. The contents of my briefcase rose in my mind: I needed to make copies and get them stamped today for submission to another company tomorrow. I stood up. Steeling myself, I approached one of the doctors emerging from the room.

“Dr. Toda… isn’t he here?” “Dr. Toda is—(turning around sharply) on a business trip, right? Tokyo, probably. Probably that conference thing.” Watching their back as they shouted at the top of their lungs, I felt relieved. Why? Before I could retort, the next moment—

“No—actually, he returned this morning.” “He should be in the waiting room.” “Having lunch.”

The nurse's voice. My chest trembled.

“This way.” “I’ll go now.” “I’ll call him.”

They climbed concrete stairs with peeling tin sheets that clattered noisily underfoot.

“I have business with Toda-kun.” “Right.” “I’m starving.” “It’s tiring, isn’t it?” “Doctors have it tough too.”

Silently, I followed behind this person who chattered on to herself as we climbed. In my mind, it was completely filled with the conversation looming before me. (What business brings you here?) (I'm busy.) (Oh, welcome.) (You came all this way)—No, that’s not it. No. (Who are you?) This is it—this must be it. “Toda-kun, you have a visitor.” When we reached the front of the room, that person called out loudly and went inside. I pressed my body tightly against the wall and looked down. I was making a fist, but it kept trembling uncontrollably.

(I wanted to see you. I wanted to see you.) I screamed inside myself. After a moment came the scuff of slippers. I couldn't lift my face. Motionless with bowed head, I waited for words. Yes—I realized I was clinging to a sliver of hope inside. To what end? The slipper sounds halted abruptly before me. A white hem entered my vision. Slowly, I raised my gaze from the toes upward. Then, before my eyes could reach the face—

“I’m Dr. Toda.” I jolted. That voice was different. Completely different. I looked at the other person’s face. It was round and plump, with narrow eyes—a countenance completely opposite to his. It was not him. I felt a suffocating sensation, a burning flush of shame.

“Ah, I’m Dr. Toda.”

I heard those words again. I resolutely opened my mouth. “Um... Dr. Toda—is there another one here? It wasn’t you. Akeo Toda…” “There isn’t… Ah, Akeo Toda. Yes, he left last year. He probably opened a private practice. I don’t know where exactly—” “Well…” “No.”

The leather slippers left.

I stood frozen in bewilderment, recalling the events of these past two months. How many times had I made detours to pass by this hospital during business trips and walked back and forth along this riverbank without having the courage to go meet him? He had been gone all along. Almost despair. The word "despair" spun through my mind, growing larger and larger. I don’t know how I managed to reach the station and board the train, but at any rate I must not have used an umbrella—my hair was wet and my shoulders cold.

In the swaying train car, I absently gazed out the window.

Life after that. I was reckless, lawless, and careless. My older sister would soon marry. I remained a salaried worker—a disheveled working woman. My salary disappeared into amusements as soon as I received it. I sold books too. In the hollowed-out bookshelf lay five or six borrowed volumes I couldn't bring myself to sell, toppled like dominoes under dust. The pen nib sat caked with dried ink residue. Each day I returned only after night had fallen. Through summer evenings and autumn twilights, I'd wind my arms around unloved companions to visit bars, force drunkenness upon myself, press my cheek to mournful melodies while dancing with anyone, try losing myself in gambling. But I couldn't banish him from my mind. If I heard one of his favorite songs while passing by, or caught that hospital chloroform scent during rare illnesses, unbearable agitation would seize me—afterwards I'd carouse more recklessly than ever. No—what truly churned my heart was seeing beautiful women. When encountering someone splendidly dressed in Western clothes on the street, I'd wonder if she might be his wife. Then feel hatred toward that passing stranger—something akin to jealousy. Even the sight of a small child being held became unbearable; wherever I was, my hands would fly up to cover my face.

Just how long was I going to keep living like this? What nonsense. He is married. And he has moved away from me. He exists within my mind, but would I ever exist within his for even a single day? And days and months finally succeeded in tearing me away from him. It wasn’t that I fell in love anew; I simply continued to deny all notions of romance or love. The world runs on calculation. Live by calculation. It was during such times that I readily accepted a marriage proposal that arose by chance. He was wealthy. He had an impressive appearance and was said to be going to America in the future. I harbored no expectations from my partner—no pursuit of sensory connection, no insistence on love’s necessity, no demand for mutual understanding. Occasionally, when friends would express such hopes to me, I would brush it aside with a laugh and even take pride in my own way of thinking. Even if I left my job and entered bridal training, that was never going to satisfy me. But for me there was no joy in planning the future; I simply spent my days chopping greens and holding a broom. I don’t think my current life is good or bad. I don't think about anything. I have neither laughter nor tears. Days without music or color continued.

Then one day, I heard such a thing from my married older sister.

“Akeo-san has opened a practice in A City, you know.” “My dressmaking friend Ms.Y—when I met her, Akeo-san’s name came up out of the blue.” “Right in that person’s neighborhood, I heard.” “And he often goes to visit, I heard.” “He even gave her typhus injections, she said.”

The matter of Akeo-san still lingering in the corners of my older sister's heart—she who was five months pregnant…… I suddenly remembered everything that had happened until now. My older sister knew nothing about what I'd done last spring—about my visit to him at H Hospital. The impulse to see him again seized me. She had neatly stacked and organized all the people she'd ever loved in her heart's corners, remaining perfectly composed. I couldn't endure it. Into that emptiness came fresh news about him.

I had cast aside both my engagement and present circumstances, driven solely by carnal longing to see him. Yet I did briefly consider what consequences meeting him might yield. When I went to H Hospital before, I had cast aside all social propriety. This stemmed less from love's intensity than from lacking any restraint. Now I had matured beyond those days. I had learned to calculate everything. Through deliberation, I steeled myself for domestic confinement and avoided opportunities. Yet today—today of all days—I wandered aimlessly, utterly aimlessly, all the way to A City.

Several cigarettes were crushed out on the bridge railing and drifted into the river. I took out a mirror and applied lipstick. The May sun glared in the mirror again, recklessly fueling my desire. Five o'clock came. I stood up and walked along the earlier path, now with clear resolve.

(I'll meet him. I'll meet him. I'll meet him and talk. Why shouldn't I just brush against that person's words? I'll greet an acquaintance I haven't seen in ages. That's all there is to it. No—that's not it. If mere conversation suffices, anyone would do—what am I truly craving in my heart?)

My pace slowed. But I did not turn back. (I am longing. For that person's embrace.)

I turned the corner along the white-walled fence. A Jeep came speeding toward me. In that instant, I broke into a trot toward being run over. But at the last moment, I stopped. The black man's bulging eyes gleamed as they turned toward me with a smile. Uttering unintelligible words, the Jeep roared off energetically. (I should have been run over. Then I would have been carried into that hospital whether I wanted it or not. After all, the hospital where his name was clearly written on a white board now stood right before me. And there I would be tended by his hands. When I came to my senses and slightly opened my eyes, his pupils would be peering into mine. My arm would be clasped in his grip. Even if it were merely to take my pulse. But would he realize I was that girl from the stone steps?)

When I had fantasized that far, I snapped back to reality. Within my field of vision came a clear figure - a single young child in a red dress running out from the hospital. Then a voice sounded from inside. It was his voice. I stiffened my legs and stood at the road's right edge. I could meet him now. The light tapping of footsteps reached my ears - precisely matching those I had awaited every morning. A navy suit emerged through the red brick gate, its color achingly familiar. He led a small child by his side; she hung from his arm chattering away in a red dress identical to the earlier girl's. I remained rigidly still as the first child kept trotting ahead while he followed behind at her pace, adjusting his stride to match hers. The instant he did so, our gazes locked together like magnets drawn tight. I would never let go now - that invisible thread between us kept shortening its distance with each step closer until finally there it was: that countenance fully visible before me at last - yes - seeing it now with my own eyes.

"It's him, it's him," I screamed in my heart. I tried to smile, but my cheeks stiffened; I tried to speak, but my throat constricted painfully. He stood up. The child from before ran past my side. I kept staring into those eyes as if to devour them. But at that moment, he averted his gaze. He hadn't clearly registered my presence. I felt it keenly. As if confirming this truth at once, he began walking. He walked calmly past me. I turned on my heel. A few flower stems fell at my feet.

“Uncle”

At the upper corner, the child waved their hand. Is she his niece? He scooped up the small child and began walking briskly away. That child was his own. I blankly watched his retreating figure. And then, as he turned the corner, he glanced briefly in my direction. It was but an instant, and then his figure vanished from sight. I followed. At each subsequent corner, he glanced lightly in my direction. At the same distance, I received his gaze moment by moment.

When I arrived at the station, the train had just left with a loud noise. My shadow standing desolately at the railroad crossing was trampled by the train's roar and its massive body. (My entrails were torn apart, thick blood plopping down.) At that moment, I clearly felt the finality between him and me.

Not a single person remained on the platform. He and the children had boarded the train and were gone. While following the departing train with my eyes, I clearly felt the distance between us growing. It was only natural. Was there even a single trace left in my features that might recall the past? I had completely changed. And he too. He had acquired a beautiful wife, built wealth, and indeed become a good father.

“Farewell, Akeo-san.”

The limp and wilted bundle of sweet peas still emitted their uncanny fragrance. The May sun still poured its lingering light upon the earth. But those things brought me nothing at all. (September 9, Showa 24 [1949], written for VIKING No. 11, October 1949)