にごりえ English

I

Hey, Kimura-san — Shin-san — come on in, won't you? I said come in, so why not come in? You're planning to walk right past us to Futaba-ya again, aren't you — well, I'll go chase you down and drag you back, you just wait. Honestly, if it's the bath you're after, you had better stop by on your way home — you lie through your teeth and there's no telling what you'll say next. So she stood at the shop entrance and in a tone like scolding harangued a familiar-looking man in slip-on geta, yet he felt no real anger, pleading back-later, back-later as he walked on past, and she watched his retreating figure with a small click of her tongue — there's no use in that, he has no intention of coming back — and she muttered to herself as she stepped back over the threshold into the shop: honestly, once a man takes a wife there's nothing to be done. Then a companion called out: Taka-chan, you do go on — there's no need to worry so; they say a burnt stake and what-not-else, maybe he'll come back around yet, no need to fret —

— cast a spell on him and wait, that ought to do it, she offered in a consoling tone. Unlike Riki-chan, I haven't the knack for it, so I can't afford to lose even one customer — for someone with my kind of luck, no spell or charm is going to do any good. Does that mean I'm stuck minding the gate again tonight? What a life — nothing amusing about it at all. With that flash of irritation she perched at the shop front and drummed the earthen floor idly with the back of her wooden geta — a woman who looked to be in her late twenties, perhaps a decade past twenty, her eyebrows drawn in the plucked fashion, her hairline freshly made up, her face plastered with white powder, her lips like those of a man-eating dog — with lips like that, one understood why rouge seemed garish. The one called Oriki was of medium build and slender, her washed hair set in a great oshimada coiffure with the freshness of new straw, and her face was naturally fair in a way that put to shame even the powder brushed lightly only at the nape — this natural whiteness she displayed with her collar deliberately loosened nearly to her bosom, smoking her long pipe with her knee propped up, with a brazenness no one dared to reproach —

— which was just as well. Her boldly patterned cotton yukata was casually belted with what looked like black satin — or some imitation thereof — and a scarlet flat sash showed at the back, marking her unmistakably as one of the sisters of this neighborhood. The one called Otaka, scratching beneath the knot of her Tenjin-style chignon with a silver hairpin, suddenly seemed to remember something and asked: Riki-chan, did you send that letter earlier? Oriki replied with an absent mmm, adding: he probably won't come anyway — that was just for politeness, she said, laughing; but Otaka pressed on: now really, when have you ever written two-arm's-length of paper sealed in a double-stamp envelope out of mere politeness? Besides, that man has been a regular since your Akasaka days — do you think a little trouble between you is enough to sever that tie? It all depends on how you handle it — wouldn't it be better to put in a little more effort and secure him? You're getting too comfortable —

— said Otaka. How very kind of you, replied Oriki, I am most grateful for your advice and shall take it under consideration — but honestly I can't stand the man, so please consider that connection done with, she said, as though it were someone else's affair entirely. Otaka laughed and shook her head: the nerve of you, to let your own willfulness carry the day like that — that's your privilege, I suppose. Someone like me just has to bear it. And she picked up a fan and fanned her feet, then laughed again at the absurd recollection of when she had been called a flower in her day, and she called out to the men passing in the street — come in, come in — and the shop front at dusk grew lively.

The shop had a two-ken frontage and a second floor; beneath its eaves hung a votive lantern and a mound of ritual salt to bring good business, and many labeled bottles — whether actually full or empty was unclear — were lined up on shelves above what passed for a counter. From the kitchen came the occasional noisy sound of fanning a charcoal brazier, and it was perfectly natural that the proprietress would make a hodgepodge stew or steamed egg custard with her own hands. The signboard hanging out front declared, with great ceremony, Fine Cuisine — yet had one actually gone there to order a delivery, one wonders what the response might have been; to say the stock was suddenly all sold out would be awkward, but it would be just as easy to say: guests of the male persuasion are most welcome to come to our establishment in person. The world understands what kind of shop it is, and no country bumpkin ever came in ordering morsels and grilled fish. Oriki was this house's one-woman attraction — youngest among them, and yet most gifted at drawing in customers, not through flattery or hollow sweetness but through a willfulness that was all her own. Some companions grumbled behind her back that she was showing off her looks with that smug little face of hers, but those who actually spent time with her found an unexpectedly gentle quality that made it hard to leave — and, ah, the heart being what it is, the brightness that flickered in her features was surely her true nature showing through. There was no one who came to the Shinkai district and did not know Oriki of the Kikui-ya; Oriki of the Kikui-ya, or the Kikui-ya of Oriki — a rare find in recent times, they said, and thanks to that girl the whole Shinkai had gained a new luster; her proprietor could put her on the household altar and it would not be enough, and she was the envy of every house along the row.

— the very pinnacle of self-willed behavior. One might have thought she was proud of her looks, and some companions did say behind her back that she was irritating — but anyone who spent time with her found an unexpectedly gentle side that made it hard to part from her even so, woman though she was. Ah, the heart being what it is — the brightness that gleamed somehow in her face must have been her true nature showing through. There was surely no one who entered the Shinkai district and did not know Oriki of the Kikui-ya. Oriki of the Kikui-ya, or the Kikui-ya of Oriki — a rare find in these recent times; thanks to that girl, the Shinkai had gained new radiance, and her proprietor could enshrine her on the household altar and it would not be sufficient, so that she was the envy of every house along the row.

Otaka waited until there were no passersby, then said: Riki-chan, knowing you, you probably don't let these things bother you — but I can't help feeling for you when I think of Gen-san's situation. It's true that in his current circumstances he's hardly a desirable customer anymore, but when two people have grown close, there's nothing to be done — age difference, children and all, right? Can one really part from someone just because he has a wife? Never mind that — call for him. As for mine, well, the man had a complete change of heart and now runs away at the mere sight of my face, so there's no help for it — I've given up on that one and am looking elsewhere. But your situation is different. It's within one's power to send the present wife packing with a letter of divorce — but you hold yourself too high to think of sharing a life with Gen-san. That is exactly why there's all the more reason —

— to call for him; what objection could there be? Write him a letter — the errand boy from Mikawa-ya will be coming by soon, so send the young fellow with the message. Why should someone like you have to be so reserved — you're no fine lady, after all. You're too quick to give up, that's your trouble. Try writing to him and see — poor Gen-san, really, she said, looking over at Oriki; but Oriki was busy cleaning her pipe, head bent down, and said nothing.

Presently she wiped the pipe bowl clean, drew one puff, tapped out the ash, drew another, and passed it to Otaka, saying: do be careful — if you talk like that out at the shop front where people can hear, it sounds bad. I don't want people getting the wrong idea that Oriki of the Kikui-ya keeps a laborer's assistant as her lover. That's ancient history now. I've entirely forgotten it — I think no more of Gen than of Nana, not a bit. Enough of that talk, she said, rising to her feet — and just then a group of young men in heko-obi sashes went by in the street; she called out: Ishikawa-san, Muraoka-san, have you forgotten Oriki's shop? — and they said: well, with a voice like that calling us in, we can hardly walk past, and came right inside. There was immediately the sound of feet pattering in the corridor. Sister, the flasks! they called. And what will you have with them? came the answer. The cheerful sound of a shamisen began, and the sound of dancing feet was heard from that moment on.

II

On a certain rainy afternoon, a thirty-year-old man in a top hat passed by out front. If she didn't catch him now, no customer's foot would stop in this downpour — so Oriki dashed out, caught his sleeve, and wouldn't let go: I simply won't let you go, she wheedled. Her looks being her one advantage, she drew in this unusually distinguished-looking customer and brought him upstairs to the six-mat room, where without shamisen accompaniment they fell into quiet conversation. He asked her age, asked her name, then asked next about her background. Was she from a samurai family? That I cannot say. A commoner, then? Well, how should I answer that. A nobleman, then? he laughed as he asked. Oh, do please think so — and here she was, a noblewoman's daughter, pouring his sake with her own hands; please accept this royal service, she said, filling his cup to overflowing — but surely that's no way to pour, he said; is that the Ogasawara school, or what style is that? This is the Oriki school, she replied — the one-house tradition of the Kikui-ya —

— the style that includes spilling sake on the tatami, and the style of fanning with the lid of a large lacquer dish; and the final rule is that she pours for no one she dislikes — this she said without the least trace of embarrassment, and the customer found her all the more amusing and pressed her: tell me your history — there must be a remarkable story in there somewhere; no ordinary girl brought up in the normal way, I'm sure of it — what do you say? She answered: look, sir, I haven't yet sprouted horns between my hair parting — I haven't been at this long enough for that, and she burst out laughing. But he would not let her off so easily: you can't slip away that easily — tell me the truth; if you can't say your origins, then tell me your aims, he pressed. How difficult you make things, she said — if I told you, you'd be astonished; I am none other than Otomo no Kuronushi himself, who aspired to rule all under heaven, and she laughed still more. This is hopeless, he said — don't just joke around; tell me something real —

— let me hear a little truth; even someone who passes her days surrounded by lies must have a little sincerity mixed in somewhere. Have you ever had a husband? Or was it something to do with your parents? He pressed her in earnest, and Oriki grew sad. Even someone like me is a human being, she said quietly, and some things do weigh on my heart. My parents died while I was young, and now I have only my own two hands and feet. It's not that there are no men willing to take me as a wife — but so far I have not taken a husband. What can a woman raised as low as I was expect but to end her days doing this sort of thing, she said, in words thrown out as if casually, yet overflowing with deep feeling — and though her manner was coquettish and her bearing frivolous, there was in that moment a hint of something forlorn. Nothing prevents a woman raised humbly from taking a husband, he replied — especially someone as beautiful as you; it seems you might even marry into great fortune overnight. Or perhaps —

— or perhaps the pampering of a fine lady doesn't suit you, and you prefer the rougher style with a narrow sash? he teased. That's probably about right for someone like me, she replied. The sort I have in mind doesn't want me, and the ones who want me I cannot bring myself to like. You may think me flighty, but I'm just getting through one day at a time. Oh no, I won't let you say that — surely there's no shortage of men, he said; wasn't it just now that someone out at the shop front sent a message saying such-and-such a person sends his regards? There must be something interesting in that — what do you say? Oh sir, you pry into everything, she said. I have acquaintances by the dozen; the exchange of letters is like trading scrap paper. If you ask me to write, I'll give you a vow or a pledged letter as you please. As for promises of marriage — when it comes to breaking them, it's the man's inconstancy at fault rather than my own. If he has a master, he is afraid of his master —

— and if he has parents, he does as his parents say. If he turns away without looking back, there's no need for me to chase after him and clutch at his sleeve — and then it simply ends. There are men enough, but there is no one on whom I can rely for life, she said, with a look of forlorn longing. Now let's stop this sort of talk and have some cheerful merriment — I simply detest anything gloomy; I want to make noise and more noise and revel the night away, she said, clapping her hands to call for her companion. When the older, heavily made-up woman came in, the customer turned to her abruptly: what is this charming girl's name? Oh, replied Oriki, I haven't yet learned your name either. You're lying — if you lie, come Bon festival you won't be able to go pay your respects at the King of Hell's shrine, he laughed. But really, sir, haven't we only just met today? I was just about to —

— come and ask properly, she said. What do you mean by that? he replied; you've just announced my name in front of everyone — you fool, Oriki is going to be angry, he laughed uproariously. Amid the lively back-and-forth of idle talk, Otaka said: shall I try to guess what trade you are in, sir? Please do, he said, stretching out his palm. No need for that — I'll read it from your face, she answered, and with an expression of studied gravity she stared at him. Come, come — don't just stare at me like that; if you start taking me apart piece by piece I'll be in trouble. As it happens, I am a government official, he announced. No you're not — do government officials go out carousing on any day but Sunday? I wonder what he does for a living, Riki-chan? He's not a monster, that much is certain, he said with a sniff, and then: a prize to whoever guesses correctly — and he pulled out his wallet from inside his kimono. Oriki laughed: Taka-chan, you mustn't be rude to him —

— this gentleman is a great nobleman of the highest rank, out incognito for his pleasure. Whatever would he do with commerce? You're quite mistaken, he said, but even as he said so she took the wallet that had been placed on the cushion and held it up, saying: I shall leave this in the care of your companion Takao here — please use it to give something to everyone. Without waiting for a reply she carried it briskly away, while the customer leaned against the pillar watching, not raising the least objection — a generous man who left everything to her discretion.

Otaka was astonished: really, Riki-chan, that's a bit much. But Oriki was cheerful: it's fine, isn't it — this is for you, and this is for the older sister, and use the big one to pay the bill downstairs, and whatever's left you may give to everyone, he says. Go thank him properly and take it, she said, scattering the money about — and since this was Otaka's specialty, she held back only so far as to press him: are you sure about this, sir? and then, with a most gracious thank you, she swept it all up and left. Watching her retreating figure, the customer laughed: she's quite old for nineteen. What a mean thing to say, replied Oriki, and she rose and opened the shoji and leaned against the railing, pressing her fingers to her forehead as if she had a headache. You — don't you want the money? he asked. There is something else I wanted, she said — this will do more than anything, and she drew out his calling card from her sash and pretended to receive it with both hands —

— when did you take that? he exclaimed. In exchange, let me have your photograph, she coaxed. Come this next Saturday and we'll have it taken together, she said, and did not particularly try to detain the departing customer, but went around behind him to help him on with his haori, saying: I'm sorry for all my rudeness today — please do come again. Come now, spare me those fine words — I've had my fill of empty oaths, he laughed as he briskly rose and headed down the stairs; Oriki chased after him, his hat in hand, calling out from behind: whether true or false, please endure for ninety-nine nights — Oriki of the Kikui-ya is not a woman cast from a mold; things may yet change in their shape. At the sound of the master departing, her companions and the proprietress of the counter all came running: thank you so very much for your generosity — and in one voice offered their thanks. A rickshaw that had been sent for arrived, and from here he rode away. The whole house came out to see him off —

— with the warmest sendoff, vowing to await his next visit. It was well understood that this was all thanks to the gratuity he had left behind — and afterward, everyone heaped praise upon Oriki the great goddess, with many a heartfelt thank-you.

III

The customer was a man named Yuki Tomonosuke, who called himself a pleasure-seeker, though his better nature showed through on occasion; he had no occupation and no wife or children, being at precisely the right age for pleasuring himself — and so from this beginning he came two or three times a week, and Oriki somehow found herself drawn to him as well, to the point that if he did not appear for three days she would send him a letter; this was noticed by her companions, who teased her with a mixture of envy: Riki-chan, things must be going well for you — his looks are fine, his generosity is fine — that man will surely rise in the world one of these days, and when he does, you'll be called his honored wife; you ought to start now by not sticking your legs out or drinking from the soup bowl like that — it makes a bad impression, said one. I wonder what Gen-san would say if he heard — he might go mad, teased another. And oh, when he comes riding in a carriage, the road will have to be repaved —

— the shop front with its rattling drainboards is really too shabby, quite beneath his dignity to pull right up to; and you all ought to behave a bit more properly so you can go wait on him, she said bluntly. How hateful the way you talk — you'll need to soften that a little or you'll never sound like a proper wife. When Yuki-san comes, I plan to tell him everything and let him scold you — let's see him have a go at you, she said, and indeed the moment Tomonosuke's face appeared she launched into it: these people simply won't do as I say, they're such impossible children — please, sir, scold them yourself — and in the first place, drinking from the soup bowl must be bad for one's health, she tattled; Yuki assumed a serious expression and delivered his solemn decree: Oriki, you must cut back on the drinking. Oh, said Oriki, do you think someone like you is none at all? The only thing that lets me keep up this trade against my will is this strength — if the drink leaves me, the parlor will become —

— like a funeral hall. Please try to understand that much, she said. Quite right, quite right, said Yuki, and said no more.

One night by moonlight, a group from some factory or other was gathered below in the main parlor, banging on bowls and carrying on with boisterous songs, and most of the girls had gone to join them, so that upstairs in the small private room it was just the two of them, Yuki and Oriki. Tomonosuke lay on his side and began to talk in a cheerful way, but Oriki gave listless half-answers, her mind clearly elsewhere. Has something happened? Another headache coming on? he asked. No, no headache — nothing like that, but this chronic ailment of mine has flared up again, she said. Your chronic ailment — is it irritability? No. A blood condition? No. Then what is it? he pressed. I can't say. But it's not anyone else — it's me, isn't it; you ought to be able to say anything to me. Come now, what sort of ailment is it? She answered: it isn't an ailment. It's just that I get into this sort of state and think these sorts of things —

— what a difficult person you are; it seems you have all manner of secrets. Your father? he asked. I cannot say. Your mother? Same. Your history up to now? I cannot say that to you either. Well, even a lie would do; even a made-up story — most women in your situation have to say something about some such hardship, and more than once or twice. Even if you don't say it out loud, you clearly have something on your mind, and any blind masseur groping in the dark could tell; I know without asking — and that is exactly why I'm asking; either way it amounts to the same thing, so I'd like to hear what this chronic ailment is first. Oh please, do stop — even if you hear it, it will be nothing worth hearing, said Oriki, and refused to engage further.

Just then a woman who had brought up cups and plates from below whispered something to Oriki and said, all things considered, won't you come downstairs? No, I don't want to go — please make my apologies; say that tonight's customers are very drunk and there'd be no point in coming, and ask them to excuse me. What a difficult person you are, said the woman, knitting her brows. But are you really all right with that? Yes, perfectly fine, said Oriki, toying with a plectrum in her lap; the other woman went away looking puzzled, and the customer pretended not to have heard, and laughed: don't hold back on my account — go if you like; no need for ceremony on my behalf; you'd be cruel to send back someone who came to see you — go on and meet him; if you like, have him come up here too; I'll move to a corner and won't get in the way of your conversation. Joking aside, said Oriki, there's no point in hiding it from you, Yuki-san —

— so I'll tell you: there's a man in this neighborhood who had something of a position once, a futon dealer named Genshichi; he was a long-standing regular of mine, but now he's utterly ruined, living in a tiny place behind the greengrocer's, coiled up like a snail in a shell. He has a wife and children, and he is at an age when he should not be coming to see someone like me — yet perhaps there is some bond between us, for even now he shows up from time to time on one pretext or another; I imagine that's who is downstairs just now. It's not that I want to throw him out at this point — but meeting him leads to all manner of tiresome complications, and it's better to send him home without having seen each other, neither drawing near nor making things unpleasant. He will resent me for it, I know — but let him think me a devil or a serpent if he likes, she said, picking up the plectrum and leaning forward slightly to look out at the street below: can you see him from here? she teased. Ah, it seems he has gone already, she said, and sat gazing blankly; and then: this chronic ailment — is that it?

— he pressed her directly. Well, that's about the size of it, she said with a thin, desolate laugh: the doctor or the Kusatsu hot springs, perhaps. I'd like to see the man himself — if he were an actor, who would he play? Oh, you'd be astonished — he's dark-complexioned and tall, a stand-in for Fudo the Immovable Deity himself. Does he have spirit, then? she was asked. A man who squanders his livelihood at a place like this — his only saving grace is his good nature, and there's not a single interesting or amusing thing about him, she said. Then why did you get attached to him? asked the customer, sitting up with interest. It's probably just that I'm impulsive by nature, she said. Even you, lately, there's not a night I don't dream of you — I see you in my dreams with a wife, and I see you stopping your visits, and I've had still more painful dreams than those, waking to find my pillow-cloth soaked through —

— Taka-chan, for instance, the moment she lies down at night and takes her pillow, her snoring starts up loud and clear, and she seems perfectly at ease — how I envy her. No matter how tired I am, the moment I get into bed my eyes are wide open and I think of all sorts of things. You're kind enough to guess that I have things on my mind, and for that I'm grateful — but I dare say you cannot possibly imagine what I actually think about. There's no use brooding, so in company I'm all brightness and gaiety; even my customers say things like: Oriki of the Kikui-ya has no worries, she doesn't know the meaning of suffering. Is this what they call fate? I think there can be no one as wretched as I am, she said, quietly weeping. What a rare thing — to be told such a melancholy story. I want to comfort you, but knowing nothing of the beginning or the end, I don't know where to start. Since you dream of me —

— so earnestly, one would think you'd at least say something like: make me your wife — yet not a word to that effect; I wonder what that means. Old-fashioned as it sounds — even the brushing of sleeves is fate. If this sort of life is not to your liking, then come right out and say so; I myself had assumed someone like you was content, drifting along in this manner — but it seems there's some reasoning behind it, something that cannot be helped. I'd like to hear it, if it's not too much trouble. I've been wanting to tell you, she said, it's just that tonight won't do. Why not? Why not? Because it won't, that's why — because I feel that way; when I've made up my mind not to speak I simply cannot bring myself to, no matter what, she said; and she rose and went out to the veranda, where the moonlight of the cloudless sky shone cool and clear; below in the street the sound of wooden geta — clack, clack — rang out, and the figures of people passing back and forth were distinct —

— visible in the clear light. She called: Yuki-san — and when he came over to her she took his hand and said: sit here. Do you see that child buying fruit at the produce stand over there — that sweet little one, about four years old? That is the child of the man I just mentioned. Even in that young heart he seems to think quite badly of me, and calls me oni — demon. Now do I look like such a villain? she said, and tilted her face up to the sky and let out a slow breath; that she was straining to hold something back showed itself in the pitch of her voice.

IV

At the edge of the same Shinkai district, between a greengrocer's and a hairdresser, lay a narrow alley so cramped that on rainy days one could not even put up an umbrella; the footing was treacherous with scattered loose drainboards like pitfalls here and there, and on both sides stood a tenement building divided along the ridge. At the end of the alley beside the rubbish heap was a unit nine feet by twelve, the step-up at the entrance rotting away, and the rain shutters always loosely set and insecure; yet the place had the small fortune of opening onto the back, where beyond about three feet of veranda stretched an overgrown vacant lot, and at one edge of this a rough bamboo fence entwined with green shiso, Ezo chrysanthemums, and the runners of kidney beans — this was the home of Genshichi, Oriki's former paramour. His wife was named Ohатsu, who was probably twenty-eight or twenty-nine, but poverty had worn her down so that she looked seven years older than she was; her teeth were only partially blackened and her eyebrows grown in at random without care; her washed-out Narumi cotton yukata, front and back panels swapped to hide the fading, was patched at the knee —

— with small neat stitches that tried not to show. She wore a narrow sash tied snugly and took in work weaving the surfaces of lacquered clogs, laboring through the hot season as the most profitable time, sweating heavily and working without pause, her bundles of sorted rattan hanging from the ceiling to save even a moment's trouble, finding joy in the rising count — and there was something heartbreaking in the sight of her, eyes never straying.

The sun had already set — why hasn't Takichi come home yet, and where on earth is Genshichi wandering about now? she said, putting away her work and lighting a smoke, blinking her care-worn eyes; then she poked at the coals under the earthen teapot, took up a mosquito-smudge pot and brought fire from the brazier, and carried it out to the three-foot veranda, scattering gathered cedar leaves over it and blowing on it until the smoke rose and curled up into the eaves — and the buzz of fleeing mosquitoes was fierce. Then Takichi came clomping over the drainboards: Mama, I'm back — I brought Papa home too, he called from the gate; how terribly late you are — did you go all the way up the temple hill? I was so worried, she said: come in quickly. Takichi went first, and Genshichi dragged himself in after him, listless and heavy. Oh — you're home. It must have been dreadfully hot today. I thought you'd be back early, so I heated the bath water —

— why not rinse off the sweat? she said. Takichi too, into the bath, she added; and the boy said yes and began unwinding his sash. Wait, wait — let me check the temperature first, she said, placing a basin by the drain and ladling hot water from the pot, stirring it and dipping in a hand towel; now then, please take this child in with you. What are you slumped there for? Has the heat got to you? If not, then get in and freshen up, and come have supper — Takichi is waiting, she said. Oh — yes, right, he seemed to remember, and untied his sash and went down to the drain; and as he did, memories of his former self crept over him unbidden — to think that he was now taking a bath in a nine-by-twelve kitchen; in his wildest dreams he had never imagined it, let alone doing the pushing behind a laborer's cart as his parents had never brought him into the world to do — ah, to have been led astray by such a foolish dream, he thought, and the feeling sank into him bone-deep, so that even the water lost its appeal; and then —

— he just sat there without bathing; Tou-chan, scrub my back, Takichi called out to him without a care, and his wife urged him: the mosquitoes are biting, do come up quickly. He replied vaguely, had Takichi washed and doused himself as well, and came back upstairs; she brought out a fresh-washed, airy yukata: please change into this, she said. He tied on his sash and moved to where the breeze came through; his wife brought out a battered old tray — its Noshiro lacquer flaking, its legs wobbly — with the cold tofu he liked, floated in a small bowl with the sharp fragrance of green shiso leaves; and Takichi, who had already climbed down from the kitchen with the rice container, was struggling to carry it out, chanting to himself as he did —

— [Note: "yoicchoi yoicchoi" in the base text appears as "yoicchoi yotchi yoi"]

— and carried it out. Come sit by me, old man, he said, stroking the boy's head as he took up his chopsticks; but something weighed on his mind and his tongue could taste nothing — his throat felt swollen, as though stuffed shut. I'll stop now, he said, setting down his bowl; but surely that can't be right — a man who does heavy labor cannot say he can't manage three bowls of rice, she said: do you feel unwell? Or are you simply exhausted? No, nothing is wrong with me particularly — I just can't bring myself to eat, he said; and his wife looked at him with sad eyes: you've gone and gotten that mood again, haven't you? Of course the delicacies at the Kikui-ya must have tasted good — but remembering them now, in your present circumstances, what good does it do? Things there are a matter of buying and selling — if you had money, she'd be as fond of you as she used to be. You can see it from the street: her painted face, her fine clothes, luring in all manner of men without distinction — that is the trade of those women. To think: she ignores me because I've fallen on hard times — if you can make yourself see it that way, it's nothing at all. If you go on resenting her, that is your own weakness, she said. And then: do you know the young man from the liquor store in the back street? He fell head over heels for Okaku of the Futaba-ya, spent every penny he had on her account, and to cover his debts he ended up at a gambling table run by some gang, which was his undoing; bit by bit he got pulled into worse and worse things until finally he broke into a storehouse, they say; the man is now in prison eating prison gruel — but his Okaku is perfectly cheerful, making her way merrily through the world, no one reproaching her, and doing splendid business. When I think of that, it's one merit of the trade: the one who was deceived is at fault for being deceived; there's no use brooding —

— on it. Better to collect yourself and put your energy into your work, and try to save even a little capital. If you go under, I and this child will have nowhere to turn — we'd be left destitute in the streets. Act like a man, make a clean break and resign yourself; and once you have some money, you can build a retreat and set up Oriki — or Komurasaki or Agamaki for that matter — in whatever style you please. Now put those thoughts aside and please eat your supper in good humor — even the child has gotten gloomy and subdued. And indeed the boy sat there with his bowl and chopsticks set aside, looking back and forth between the faces of his father and mother with a vague sense that something was wrong. To think that even with such a dear child, he could not free himself from that old tanuki woman — what karma was this, he thought, and felt as though his chest were being stirred up; yet he could not but scold himself as a fool for his own weakness. He thought: no, even I am not such a blockhead as to go on like this forever — don't even say the name Oriki to me; when I hear it, all my past failures come back to me and I can't lift my head even higher. In this condition, what is there to brood over now? That I can't eat may simply be a matter of my body's condition — no need to make such a fuss; give the boy his full share, he said, and rolled over on his side and fanned himself about the chest; and the smoke of the mosquito incense, even without choking him, burned in his thoughts — and the heat of his body showed how far he was from peace.

— things, it's no use. Better to pull yourself together and apply yourself to your trade, and try to save even a little capital. If you give up, I and this child are helpless — we'll have no choice but to wander the streets. Act like a man; when you make up your mind to let go, then let go — and once you have money, you can forget Oriki and set up Komurasaki or Agamaki in a villa somewhere if you like. Now please stop brooding and eat your supper cheerfully — even the child has grown gloomy and sunken. She looked over and there was the boy, bowl and chopsticks set aside, looking back and forth between his parents' faces, sensing something wrong without knowing what. To have such a sweet child, and still not be able to forget that cunning creature — what karma is this? he thought, his chest churning with the thought; yet he scolded himself as a fool for his own weakness, and he thought: no, even I am not such a blockhead forever. Don't say the name Oriki to me — when I hear it I think of all my past failures and cannot hold my head up. In this condition, what is there to think of now? Not being able to eat is probably just a matter of my body — no need for such concern; make sure the boy gets his full share, he said, then rolled over on his side and fanned himself about the chest; even the mosquito smoke, without choking him, burned inside his mind — his body hot with the heat of his thoughts.

— and she berated herself — no, even I am not such an endless fool as that; don't even speak the name Oriki to me; when I hear it I think back on all my past failings and feel even more unable to hold my head up. Now that things have come to this, what is there to brood on? Not being able to eat may simply be a matter of my body — there's no need for such great concern; make sure the boy gets his full share, he said; and then he simply rolled over on his side and fanned himself about the chest. Even the smoke of the mosquito incense, without choking him, seemed to smolder in his thoughts — and the heat of his body showed plainly how far his mind was from any rest.

V

Who gave her the name White Demon? — the atmosphere of the Limitless Hell, constructed somehow from within, was nowhere to be seen on the surface; yet the plunge into the pool of blood, and the needle mountain of debts to which she herded men up — these, it was said, were all in her bag of tricks. Even the voice calling come on in that rang out so sweetly became as terrifying as a pheasant being swallowed by a snake. And yet these women too nestled in the womb for ten months, the same as anyone, and clung to their mothers' breasts in the same sweet helpless way, reaching for paper money and sweets with both hands and crying: give me a rice cake! — so it was that among a hundred customers, even one like her might let fall a genuine tear for one, and say: listen to me — about Tatsu-san from the dyer's — yesterday at the Kawata-ya store, that foolish Oroku was being flirtatious and making a scene, and they were out in the street wrestling and hitting each other where everyone could see — can a man with such a frivolous disposition ever amount to anything? And how old do you think he is — thirty the year before last —

— I tell him every time we meet: at your age you ought to be thinking about setting up a household; but each time he just says yes, yes and brushes it off, and pays no attention at all. Father is getting on in years, and Mother, being a woman with poor eyes, I don't want to worry her — I wish he'd settle down soon. And here I am thinking I'd like to wash his work jacket, mend the fraying in his work trousers — and yet with a heart as flighty as his, when will he ever take me home? When I think about it, I grow utterly weary of this serving life and lose all zest for calling in customers. How dreary I feel, she said, and other women who ordinarily deceive their customers spoke of their own grief and resentment, nursing their headaches and brooding the long day through. And then: oh, today is the sixteenth day of the Bon festival — and there go children in their fine clothes heading out to the King of Hell's shrine, their pockets full of spending money, looking so happy; they must surely have two parents together, parents who are capable and reliable. My son Yotaro, given today off from his employer, wherever he goes and whatever he does, must surely be envying others their good fortune — his father a drunkard, not yet settled in a fixed lodging, his mother in this disgraceful state with her rouge and powder, and even if he knew where I lived, he surely wouldn't come to see me. Last year at the cherry viewing on the Mukoujima embankment, I had done my hair in a wife's style, a round bun, and was out walking with my companions, and at a tea house on the bank I ran into that boy; I called out to him, but he was astonished at how young I looked, and said with surprise: is that you, Mother? — and all the more so when he sees me from time to time with my great oshimada coiffure, with a fashionable flower ornament, bantering with customers — in his young heart —

— it must surely grieve him. When we met last year, he told me he was then in service at a candle maker's in Komagata: no matter what hardships come my way, I intend to bear them through to the end and become a full-fledged man, and when I do I will make things easier for both Father and you — please until then keep to some honest work and make your own way in the world; above all, please do not marry any man. His advice grieved me — for a woman, making matchboxes on her own is barely enough to live on, and yet doing the kind of menial work in someone else's kitchen that her weak body could hardly bear, so she sends her days through in this demi-monde not from any light-hearted desire but of sheer necessity. A worthless mother, the boy is surely holding me in contempt — on ordinary days I think nothing of my hairstyle, but today of all days, standing before the mirror at dusk, perhaps there are those who weep —

— with tears welling at dusk before the mirror. Oriki of the Kikui-ya is surely not born a reincarnation of a demon; there is some reason she has fallen into this current and sends her days in hollow jokes, her affection thin as Yoshino tissue paper, her true feeling flickering only like the brief flash of a firefly. The tears of others she endures for a century, and even if someone were to die for her sake she might say: how very unfortunate, and look away — and so it must seem to the outside world. Yet there are times when grief and terror pile up in her chest, and since she cannot weep in front of others, she throws herself down on the floor of the upstairs room and weeps in muffled, hidden sobs — this she will not let even her closest companions know, such is the firmness of her nature, and people say she is strong-willed and resilient. Yet that she is like a spider's thread, which breaks the moment it is touched, is something no one knew. On the night of the sixteenth of July, every shop was full of customers, the sound of dodoitsu ballads and short songs was cheerful, and in the lower parlor of the Kikui-ya —

— five or six shop clerks had gathered, and one or two were intoning the off-key strains of the Ki-no-kuni ballad in a comically resonant voice, affecting great dignity with songs about misty robes and Emonzaka. Riki-chan, what's come over you — give us a taste of what you can do, they pressed her. She replied, not naming any name: there's someone in this very gathering to whom I dedicate this — and to the chorus of delight she began to sing: my love is like a crossing on a narrow bridge over a slender valley stream — to cross is frightening, yet not to cross — and then as if something had come into her mind she said: ah, excuse me for just a moment, please forgive me — and set down her shamisen and rose; as everyone cried out where are you going, where are you going, don't try to escape! she said: Tei-chan, Taka-san, look after things for a moment, I'll be right back — and went quickly out into the corridor; without looking back she went straight to the entrance, stepped into her geta, and disappeared into the darkness of the alley across the way.

Oriki ran out of the house at full speed. If only she could go on running, she thought — she would run to the ends of the earth, all the way to China and India. Oh, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. How could she find a place where she could hear no voices, where nothing would make a sound — where she could go utterly blank, without thoughts, without even her own self? Useless, meaningless, tedious — in the midst of this sad and lonely and helpless life, how much longer must she be kept here? Is this her whole life? Is this life — this? Oh, I hate it, I hate it, she thought, and stumbled in a daze against a tree by the roadside, leaning against it for a while; and then from somewhere her own singing came back to her — to cross is frightening, yet not to cross — and she thought: there is no help for it; I too must cross the narrow bridge. Your own father stumbled and fell in, they say — and your grandfather the same: surely someone who came into this world carrying the resentments of generations must do everything that must be done, or she will not be able to die even in death —

Oriki ran out of the house at full speed. If only she could go on running, she thought, she would run to the ends of the earth, to the very edge of China and India. Oh, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it — is there no place where human voices cannot reach, where no sound can be heard, where she could become blank and still, without thoughts, without even her own mind? Useless, meaningless, tedious — in this sad, lonely, hopeless state, how much longer must she be confined here? Is this her whole life? Is her whole life this? Oh, I hate it, I hate it, she thought; and in a daze she stumbled against a tree by the roadside and stood there for a moment, and then she heard as if from somewhere her own singing drift back to her: to cross is frightening, yet not to cross — and she thought: there is no help for it; I too must cross the narrow bridge. Your father stepped wrong and fell in, they say — your grandfather was the same — and surely she who came into this world carrying generations of grievance must see through everything there is to see, or she would not be able to die even when she died —

— burdened with the resentments of how many generations, I surely must do what must be done, or I will not be able to die even in death. Wretched as it is, there is no one who will take pity on me; if I say I am sad, I am told in one breath to stop complaining about my trade. Oh, let it all go to ruin — whatever becomes of me, whatever it may be, I cannot see the way ahead no matter how I think about it — so I'll just go on as Oriki of the Kikui-ya, not knowing my way. I will think nothing of human feeling or duty — what good would thinking of them do? In this state, in this condition, with this karma — whatever I do, I could never be ordinary, and since I certainly can never be ordinary, it is a mistake to think in ordinary terms and suffer for it. Ah, how gloomy — what am I doing standing here, what on earth made me come out to a place like this? How foolish —

— how mad — even I cannot understand myself. All right, let me go back now, she thought, and stepped out of the dark alley into the lively little lane lined with evening market stalls, wandering slowly to distract herself; but the faces of passersby all seemed small and far away, and even the faces of people brushing past her seemed to be somewhere at a great distance, and the very ground she walked on felt as if it had risen ten feet beneath her feet; she heard the hubbub of voices, but they came to her like an echo dropped to the bottom of a well, and the human voices were human voices while her own thoughts were her thoughts, entirely separate, nothing anywhere capable of distracting her mind; even when she passed in front of a large gathering watching a couple quarreling at a shop front, she alone was as if walking through a winter wasteland on a broad plain, nothing lodging in her mind, no sight touching her awareness — and she herself found it strange, thinking: I must be badly dazed, losing all human feeling like this; am I going mad?

— and she stopped short at that thought, when someone struck her on the shoulder and said: Oriki, where are you going?

VI

She had utterly forgotten what she had said about being sure to wait on the sixteenth — come without fail — and had not even thought of Yuki Tomonosuke until this very moment; to run into him suddenly like this was a surprise, and the unusual flustered look on her face amused him, and he laughed his frank laugh. She felt a little ashamed: I was walking along lost in thought and it startled me out of my wits — how good of you to come tonight, she said. After all that, you weren't waiting for me — that's heartless of you, he reproached her. Say whatever you like — I'll give you my excuses later, she said, taking his hand and pulling him along; he warned her that the bystanders were getting noisy. Let them say whatever they please — this is our side of things, she said, and led him through the crowd.

The main parlor below was still loud with the customers' revelry, and they were in a bad mood over Oriki's disappearance mid-evening; just as they were making a great fuss about it, the voice at the entrance saying: oh, you're back — made the angry voices rise even louder: what right has she to leave customers sitting and slip out like that; now that she's back she'd better come here, we won't be satisfied until we see her face, they blustered; but Oriki let it wash over her and led Yuki up to the upstairs room, where she sent word down: I have a headache tonight and can't attend to the sake — sitting among so many people I might go out of my senses from the smell of the wine and not know what I'm doing; please let me rest a little and thereafter I cannot say — for tonight I ask your forbearance. Is that all right? Won't they be angry? Won't things get awkward? Yuki cautioned; Oh, what could a bunch of shop clerks possibly do, she replied — if they want to be angry let them be angry, she told the maid to bring sake, and waiting impatiently for it to come —

— before it arrived she said: Yuki-san, tonight something unpleasant has happened and I'm not quite myself, so please keep that in mind and stay with me through it; I'm going to drink with real intention — please don't try to stop me; if I get drunk, please look after me, she said. I've never seen you drunk, he replied; drink enough to clear your head, that's fine — but won't your headache start again? What is it that put you in such a state? Is it something you can't tell me? Not at all — I want you to hear it; I'll warn you that I'll say it when I'm drunk, so don't be alarmed, she said with a faint smile, and pulling the large teacup toward her, drank two or three cups without pausing for breath.

Yuki's bearing, which on ordinary evenings she had not particularly noticed, seemed tonight somehow not quite ordinary; the breadth of his shoulders, the impressive height of him, and above all the composed, weighty way in which he spoke — the piercing quality of his gaze, as though it could shoot through a person, which one might call an air of authority — delighted her; his thick hair cut short, with the clear line of his nape — all of this she found herself contemplating anew, as though seeing it for the first time. What are you staring at? he asked. I'm looking at your face, she said, and received a fierce glare: oh, what a frightening man, she laughed. Jokes aside — something is not right tonight; I don't know whether it will make you angry to hear it, but has something happened? she was asked. Nothing fell from the sky out of nowhere, and as for quarrels with people — even if there had been one, that sort of thing happens all the time and would not bother me; why would I be brooding over it? As for the moods that come over me — they are not caused by others, but always come from the shallowness of my own heart. I am in this wretched state —

— I am of this low station, while you are a fine and distinguished person; whether you would hear what I think in the reverse of how it is meant, I don't know — but even if I am made a laughingstock, I want to be laughed at by you; tonight I will say everything, from beginning to end. But where to begin — my chest is so stirred up I can't get my tongue to work, she said, and once again drank deeply from the large teacup.

First of all, please understand how dissolute my life has been — since I'm not a sheltered maiden, you may have guessed some of it already; but however prettily I might put it, if there were a woman in this neighborhood who had not been stained by the filth here, the place would be lucky to have visitors at all, let alone do any business. You are different — but please think of most of the men who come to see me for what they are. Even so, at times I think what ordinary people think and feel ashamed, and feel pain, and think of the wretchedness of things — and sometimes I think: even in nine feet by twelve I'd like to commit myself to a proper husband and settle my life; yet I cannot do that. And yet I can't be cold to the men who come, and I have to say: I think you're dear, I'm fond of you, you caught my eye — saying this nonsense, flattering them; and among the many there are those who take it seriously and say they'd like a worthless creature like me for a wife. Would I be happy if they had me? Would I be glad to go with them? I cannot say. From the very beginning I have liked you, liked you very much — if a day passes without seeing you I long for you — but if you were to say you'd make me your wife, what would I answer? To be had is unpleasant; to admire from afar is sweet — to put it briefly, I am a coquette. Ah, who made me such a coquette? — inherited through three generations, a failure from birth; even my father's life was a sad one, she said, and nearly broke into tears; and when asked about her father —: my father was a craftsman, and my grandfather was a man who could read square characters. In the end I am a madwoman like them, who produced useless scrap paper no one needed, until the authorities put a stop to the printing — and being unable to get permission, he starved himself to death, they say. From the age of sixteen he had had an ambition, and though born in humble circumstances, through single-minded dedication he strived for over sixty years without ever achieving what he set out to do, and in the end was laughed at by the world, and now there is no one who knows his name — Father used to lament this constantly when I was a child, and I grew up hearing it. My father, at the age of three, fell from the veranda and one leg became lame, so that he shrank from mixing in the world and took up sedentary work making decorative metalwork — but he was proud and had no warmth toward people, so there was no one who patronized him; ah, I remember it — I was seven years old, it was winter —

— and yet she said it clearly. To be a wife is unpleasant, yet to admire from afar is sweet — to say it in one breath, I am a flirt. Ah, who made me such a flirt? — a failure passed down through three generations; even my father's life was a sad one, she said, near tears; and when asked about her father: my father was a craftsman, my grandfather was a man who could read characters in their square form. In the end someone like me is a madwoman, producing useless waste paper, until the authorities banned the printing; being unable to get permission, he fasted and died, they say. From the age of sixteen he had an aspiration, and though born in low circumstances, through single-minded effort he strove past sixty without ever accomplishing anything, and in the end became a laughingstock to the world — now no one even knows his name; Father used to lament this all the time when I was small, and I heard it from childhood. My father, at age three, fell from the veranda and one leg became impaired, so he disliked mixing with people and took up indoor work making ornamental metalwork — but proud as he was and short on human warmth, no one patronized him. Ah, I remember — it was the winter when I was seven years old —

— my permission was never granted, they say, so he starved himself to death. From the age of sixteen he had an aspiration, and though born in humble circumstances, through single-minded devotion he strove past sixty without ever achieving what he had set out to do, and in the end became the world's laughingstock, and now there is no one left who knows his name — Father used to lament this constantly from the time I was a child, and I heard it all. My own father fell from the veranda at age three and one leg became crippled, so that he shrank from appearing in public and took up indoor work making ornamental metalwork — but proud as he was, with little warmth for people, there was no one who became a patron; ah, I remember — it was the winter of the year I turned seven. In the dead of winter, just the three of us in summer cotton, and Father, undeterred by the cold, leaned against a pillar absorbed in working out some design, while Mother, at a single cracked stove with a broken pot, told me to go buy something; I took up the strainer and clutched a bit of change in my fist, and ran happily as far as the rice shop's gate — but on the way back, the cold seeped into me and my hands and feet went numb, and I slipped on the ice on the drainboard five or six houses away —

— and with my feet giving way and then skidding out from under me, I dropped what I was carrying; through a gap in a loose drainboard it rattled and tumbled in, falling into the muddy ditch water below. I peered in again and again, but how was I to fish it out? I was seven years old then, yet I knew the state of things at home, and I knew my parents' hearts — and I could not go back home with an empty strainer and say: I dropped the rice on the way. I stood there for a while and cried, but no one asked what was wrong, and less still was there anyone who would offer to buy more for me. If there had been a river or a pond nearby at that moment, I would surely have thrown myself in — the story —

— is not one hundredth of the whole truth. I believe I went out of my mind at that time. My mother, worried by my long absence, came searching for me, and I used that as my chance to return home — but Mother said nothing, and Father was silent; not a single person scolded me, and the house was still, with occasional sighs escaping, and it was more painful to me than being cut to pieces — and I held my breath until Father finally spoke his single sentence: let us fast today. That is what it was like.

She broke off there, and with tears overflowing and impossible to hold back, she pressed a crimson handkerchief to her face and bit down on its corner, and did not speak for a good quarter of an hour. In the room there was no sound at all; only the high, droning hum of mosquitoes drawn in by the smell of sake.

When she raised her face, the traces of tears were visible on her cheeks, but she even managed a lonely smile, and said: you see what I am — the daughter of a pauper, with madness inherited from my parents, breaking out from time to time. I've said such incomprehensible things tonight and must have been quite a bother — I'll say no more now. If I've offended you, please forgive me. Shall I call someone and liven things up? No, no need for that, he said — did that father of yours die young? Well, first my mother took ill with pulmonary tuberculosis and passed away, and before the first anniversary of her death had come, he followed after her. Were he still living he'd be not yet fifty — I won't praise him just because he was my father, but as a craftsman he was truly a master, one could honestly call him that. Yet even a master — someone born into a household like ours can never amount to anything, as I know from my own life —

— as I can see from my own life, she said, with a pensive air. Do you desire to rise above your station? Tomonosuke asked her suddenly; she seemed startled for a moment, but then said: someone in my position — when we reach for something, it's the strainer that falls; there's no dreaming of marrying into great fortune. You're not being honest, he said — I've known from the beginning, so hiding it now is rather pointless; why not just come right out with it? When she heard that sort of goading, she replied: please don't talk that way — what use is it when I'm already in this state, and she fell silent, downcast.

The night had grown quite late. The customers downstairs had left at some point, and she could hear someone saying they were putting up the shutters. Tomonosuke, startled, began to prepare to leave; but Oriki was determined to make him stay. She had secretly hidden his geta away, so that even a non-ghost could not slip out through the cracks in the shutters with his feet thus captured — and so it was decided that he would spend the night. The sound of the rain shutters being closed rang out busily for a time, and afterward even the faint light seeping through vanished, and all that could be heard was the loud sound of the nighttime patrol officer's boots passing beneath the eaves.

VII

Forget it, put it behind you, he told himself — and his mind was made up; and yet last year at Bon they had made matching yukata together and the two of them had gone to worship at the Kuramae shrine, and such memories rose in his chest unbidden, so that as the Bon festival came around he could not even rouse himself to go to work, and his wife's words urging him — come now, that won't do — grated on his ears. Oh, stop talking — be quiet, he said and lay down; but she pressed on: if I'm quiet we can't get through the day. If your body is ill then take medicine, or see a doctor — but your ailment is not that kind; if you'd only steady your mind, what is there wrong with you anywhere? Please come back to your senses and put in some effort, she said. The same words over and over — his ears had grown calluses from it and it was no medicine for his spirit. Buy me some sake — I'll have a drink and try to clear my head, he said —

— if we had enough money to buy sake, I wouldn't be begging you against your will to go out to work — my piecework from morning to night brings in fifteen sen at most; in a household where three people can barely have even thin rice gruel, you ask me to buy sake — you have truly become reckless. It's Bon festival, and yesterday I couldn't even make the child a single white dumpling to eat; there's no altar decoration for the ancestral spirits, and I've been apologizing to our ancestors with just one votive light — who do you think has been doing all that? Because you made a fool of yourself and got entangled with that Oriki woman — that's how all this started. I know I shouldn't say it, but you are faithless to your parents and faithless to your child; please think a little about that child's future and become a proper human being. Drinking sake to clear your head lasts only a little while — unless you truly reform yourself, I feel so uneasy, she said, —

— lamenting bitterly; there was no reply, only the occasional deep sigh, lying on his back without moving — how miserable that heart of his must be, unable to forget Oriki even now. To have lived together for ten years, to have had a child together, to have caused his wife every suffering imaginable, to have dressed the child in rags, to have come to live in a place no better than a doghouse — two mats, one room — scorned and set apart by all the world, so that even when spring and autumn equinoctials came and the neighbors went about distributing botamochi rice cakes and dumplings, they said: we'd better not send any to Genshichi's house — the return gift would be too much to ask of them — whether kindness or not, out of ten houses in the row that one was the excluded one. Since the husband was often out, he perhaps felt it less — but to a woman's heart it was unbearably painful and sad, and she naturally shrank into herself, and in the morning and evening even exchanging greetings with neighbors felt like gauging the expression on their faces — all this wretchedness she felt, yet he thought nothing of it, and only thought of his lover —

— only thought of her, and nothing else; was the bottom of that cold woman's heart so endlessly dear to him? By day he spoke of her in his sleep and muttered her name aloud — how pitiable. To have utterly forgotten wife and child, to give his very life to Oriki alone — how deplorable, how galling, how cruel a person, she thought; yet the words would not come, and she held the dew of resentment in her eyes.

As neither spoke, even the narrow interior of the small house felt somehow desolate; in the fading light the back room was even dimmer, and Ohатsu lit the lamp and set the mosquito smudge and looked out sadly through the door — when there was Taikichiro trotting home, brisk and cheerful, clutching a large bag in both arms: Mama, Mama, I got this! he said with a big smile as he dashed in. She looked — it was castella cake from the Hinode-ya in the Shinkai. Oh my, what fine sweets — who gave them to you? Did you say thank you properly? she asked. Yes, I bowed very nicely and took it — it was the demon-sister of the Kikui-ya who gave it to me, he said. The wife's face changed color. The nerve of her — does she think that after pushing us into a pit this deep, there's still more tormenting left to do? She's using the child as a messenger to move his heart — what did she say to him? she demanded. He replied that he had been playing in the busy street when some uncle he didn't know came with her and said come with me and I'll buy you some sweets, and he said he didn't want to, but they carried him off and bought it for him. Can I eat it? he asked, uncertain of his mother's mood, peering into her face and hesitating —

— what a child who doesn't understand anything, she exclaimed — isn't that woman a demon? Isn't she the demon who made your father into a lazy good-for-nothing? Your loss of clothes, your loss of a home — all of that is the work of that demon. You ask if you can eat sweets that demon gave you? Dirty, disgusting sweets — I'm furious just having them in the house; throw them away, throw them away — can't you bear to throw them away? You silly fool, she raged, grabbing the bag and flinging it into the vacant lot behind the house —

— the paper burst and the cakes tumbled out, clearing the rough bamboo fence and falling into the ditch. Genshichi heaved himself up and called out: Ohатsu! — in a loud voice. She paid him no attention, still turned to the side: don't take advantage of my silence — what is all this foul language? A person she knows can give a child some sweets without it being anything remarkable, and what's wrong with accepting them? Calling her a fool is just using the child as a cover to rub salt in my wounds; to slander a father to his child is a wife's peculiarity — who taught you that? If Oriki is a demon, then you are a she-devil; a working woman's deceptions are well known, but does a wife's sullenness entitle her to say what she likes? A man pushing a cart or working as a laborer is still a husband with a husband's authority; a wife I don't like I won't keep in my house — get out, wherever you like —

— get out, get out, you joyless woman, he railed at her; and she said: that's unreasonable of you — you're jumping to conclusions; why would I be taking it out on you? What I said about the child being too young to understand, and about Oriki's behavior being hateful — I said it because I was at my wit's end, not to pick a fight — but to take that and say get out is too cruel. It's because I care about this household that I say things you don't want to hear. If I were to leave, I wouldn't be enduring this poverty, she wept; and he replied: if you're tired of this poverty then go wherever you please; I won't be a beggar without you, and there's nothing stopping Takichi from growing up; morning to night it's all inventory and jealousy over Oriki — I'm sick and tired of hearing it. If you won't leave, either way this nine-by-twelve is the same wretched place; I'll take the boy and go. That way you can rant and rave to your heart's content. So —

— will you go, or shall I leave? he said fiercely; and she, in tears: are you truly going to divorce me? Of course I am, he replied — and this was not the Genshichi of ordinary times.

Ohатsu was mortified, grief-stricken, miserable — so overcome that she couldn't speak; she swallowed the tears welling up in her throat and said: this was my fault — please forgive me. Oriki acted in goodwill and out of kindness, and I threw it away — that was very wrong of me. If calling Oriki a demon makes me a she-devil, then so be it — I will say no more, I will say no more — I will never again say a word about Oriki, never whisper a word about her behind her back — so please, just forgive me the divorce. I need not even say it — I have no parents, no siblings; the landlord's uncle stood as my go-between and my family home; if I am divorced, there is no place for me to go. Please forgive me and let me stay — even if you hate me, forgive me for this child's sake — I beg you, she said, bowing her hands to the floor and weeping; but he replied: even so, I cannot keep you —

— and after that he said nothing further and turned to face the wall, as if his wife's words no longer reached his ears. Has he really become this wretched a person? she thought with amazement. To have one's soul stolen by a woman — to sink this low — the wife's grief was beyond words; and in the end she thought: even if I beg forgiveness now it will do no good; this is a man who may one day let his dear child starve to death. She resolved herself, and said: Takichi — Takichi, come here beside me; which do you prefer — to be with Father or with Mother? Tell me. And Takichi, with the perfect honesty of a child, said: I don't like Father — he never buys me anything. Then will you go wherever Mother goes, anywhere at all? Yes, wherever, he said without a second thought; and she said to her husband: do you hear that? Takichi says he will come with me. He's a boy, and you would want him — but this child I cannot leave in your hands —

— I am taking him with me wherever I go; do you understand? I am taking him, she said; and he replied: do as you please; I don't need the child, I don't need anything — take him wherever, leave the house and its furnishings — do whatever you like, he said, still lying there without turning over. What do you mean, you don't need the house and furnishings — there's nothing to speak of — do as you please; from now on, free to do all the carousing and pleasure you want as a single man. I will never return this child no matter how much you want him back — never, do you hear me, never, she pressed, and rummaged in the closet and pulled out a small furoshiki bundle, saying: I am taking these — the child's sleeping kimono, his wrapper and sash. This is not said in drink, so there may be no second thoughts — but think it over carefully. Even in the deepest poverty, raising a child together is called a rich man's life, they say —

— if we part, the child has but one parent — in every way, is that not pitiable? Think of the child. A man whose heart has rotted away would not even understand how dear a child is. I take my leave of you now, she said, and taking the bundle walked out to the front; but he did not call her back.

VIII

Some days after the memorial festival for the spirits of the dead had passed — when the light of the Bon lanterns was still faintly melancholy — two coffins were carried out from the Shinkai district. One was borne in a palanquin and the other was carried on shoulders. The palanquin departed quietly from the retired residence adjacent to the Kikui-ya. Those who saw it in the street whispered, and one could hear them say: what a pity — that girl had such bad luck, getting involved with such a useless man; and another said: no, I hear it was by mutual agreement. There is a reliable witness who says the two were seen standing talking together at dusk that day on the temple hill. Since she was also in an excited state, as was the man, perhaps duty compelled him to do it; yet others said: what would that woman know of duty? She ran into the man on her way back from the bath, and naturally she could not shake him off and run, so she walked with him and talked — but she was cut from behind, a grazing cut on the cheek, a wound on the back of the neck —

— and a stabbing wound at the throat, among others; but it was clearly done when she was trying to flee. The man, on the other hand, made a splendid end of it with seppuku. Who would have thought it of a man who seemed like nothing much even back in his futon-dealer days — that was the death that became him, they said; he looked rather impressive at the end. Whatever the case, the Kikui-ya must have suffered a great loss — that girl had a fine patron lined up, and it's a pity to have lost him, said some, treating others' grief as a joke. Opinions varied and nothing was settled; yet the resentment — or whether it was a soul, or some such thing — was said to have been seen by someone, a streak of light trailing from the small rise called the temple hill, drifting by from time to time.