Five Faces of Japanese Feminism: Crimson and Other Works 0824866142, 978-0824866143

Table of contents :
Cover
......Page 1
Contents
......Page 6
Acknowledgments......Page 8
A Note on Names......Page 10
Introduction
......Page 14
“Café Kyoto” (1929)
......Page 40
“Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership” (1931)......Page 77
“The Scent of Incense” (1942)......Page 95
“White and Purple” (1950)......Page 111
Crimson (1936–1938)......Page 139

Citation preview

Five F­ aces of Japa­nese Feminism

Five F­ aces of Japa­nese Feminism CR I M S O N

A N D O TH E R WO R KS

SA T A IN E K O Translated with an Introduction by Samuel Perry

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2016 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca 21 ​20 ​19 ​18 ​17 ​16

6 ​5 ​4 ​3 ​2 ​1

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­P ublication Data Names: Sata, Ineko, 1904–1998, author. | Perry, Samuel, translator, writer of introduction. | Sata, Ineko, 1904–1998. Kurenai. En­g lish. Container of (expression): Title: Five ­faces of Japa­nese feminism : Crimson and other works / Sata Ineko ; translated with an introduction by Samuel Perry. Description: Honolulu : University of Hawai‘i Press, [2016] | Translation of a novel and four short stories by the Japa­nese writer. Identifiers: LCCN 2016002778 | ISBN 9780824866136 (cloth ; alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Sata, Ineko, 1904–1998—­Translations into En­g lish. | Japan—­Fiction. Classification: LCC PL838.A8 A2 2016 | DDC 895.63/44—­dc23 LC rec­ord available at http://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2016002778 The cover art, “­Woman in White Lace” (1954) by Domoto Insho, has been used with the permission of the Kyoto Prefectural Insho-­Domoto Museum of Fine Arts. University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-­f ree paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources. Designed by Mardee Melton

Contents

vii Acknowl­edgments ix A Note on Names 1 Introduction 27 “Café Kyoto” (1929) 64 “Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership” (1931) 82 “The Scent of Incense” (1942) 98 “White and Purple” (1950) 126 Crimson (1936–1938)

A c k n o w l­e d g m e n t s

I want to begin by acknowledging Norma Field for introducing me to Sata Ineko’s work in a gradu­ate seminar at the University of Chicago almost two de­cades ago. Thank you, Norma, for supporting my interest in literary translation ever since. I am deeply grateful to the University of Hawai‘i Press, and to my editors t­ here, Pamela Kelley and Debra Tang, as well as to production editor Deborah Grahame-­Smith and copyeditor ­Virginia Perrin, for their help in the production pro­cess. I thank Yuki Sakurai and my colleague, Kikuko Yamashita, for their philological expertise. My sincere thanks go to Sata Ineko’s heirs for allowing me to translate and publish her works for an En­glish-speaking audience, and to the Kyoto Prefectural Insho-­Domoto Museum of Fine Arts for their permission to use the painting on the cover. A generous grant from Brown University helped to cover the costs of securing t­ hese rights, while a Translation Fellowship offered by the National Endowment for the Arts helped to jumpstart the production of this book by funding my translation of Crimson. I want to thank Alexis Dudden for being the world’s best cook and travel companion and magnificent friend—­ and for helping me make it far enough in the acad­emy so that I might see this translation proj­ect through to the end. vii

viii  Acknowledgments

The word feminism appeared in the title of this book rather late in the publication pro­cess, but I dedicate this translation to my ­mother, Rhoda Perry, the first feminist in my life, as well as to my b­ rother Alexander Perry and his d­ aughter Paige Perry, whose feisty eight-­year-­old self suggests the coming of another one in the ­family.

A Note on Names

As is now common practice among scholars of Japa­nese lit­er­a­t ure, all East Asian names in this book—of both historical figures and fictional characters—­appear in traditional East Asian order with surname first. In the case of Sata Ineko, for example, Sata is the author’s surname and Ineko her given name. B ­ ecause Sata’s fiction describes a wide spectrum of gendered, class positions, it should be noted that the characters in her works are sometimes referred to by their last name, sometimes by their first, and at other times with the polite suffix “-­san,” the diminutive suffix “-­chan,” and/ or the feminine, honorific prefix “O-” attached, as in the case of O-­Yō-­san in “Café Kyoto.” Macrons are used to indicate extended vowels except in cases such as Tokyo, where common spelling conventions prevail, and in cases of onomatopoeia. The names of Koreans and Korean places in “White and Purple” are sometimes rendered with the Japa­nese pronunciation and sometimes with the Korean. This selective use of dif­fer­ent reading practices is meant to preserve some of the historical specificity of Japanese-­occupied ­Korea that a more consistent practice of Romanization might not easily accommodate, while at the same time keeping familiar ­those places that English-­speaking audiences can still recognize t­oday.

ix

Five F­ aces of Japa­nese Feminism

Introduction

Ra r e ly d o e s a w r i t e r’s work detail her country’s changing fortunes with the integrity and nuance of Sata Ineko’s oeuvre. Born in Nagasaki in 1904, a year before Japan defeated Rus­sia in the twentieth c­ entury’s first major war, Sata followed a unique path for a writer in Japan. The illegitimate d­ aughter of two ­m iddle-­class teen­agers, she worked as a child laborer and ­later as a café waitress before launching herself onto an illustrious seventy-­year ­career as a writer and activist. Deeply committed to revolutionary politics in the early Shōwa Period (1926–1989), when she became the most highly published author in Japan, Sata was eventually convicted of antiwar activism in the mid-1930s and ­later succumbed to the pressures of a fascist state by producing war­time propaganda.1 ­After World War II, Sata spent more than half a c­ entury in atonement, during which time she played a leading role in the Demo­cratic Lit­ er­a­ture Movement and the ­Women’s Demo­cratic Club, winning along the way some of Japan’s most prestigious literary prizes, including the ­Women’s Lit­er­a­t ure Prize (1963), the Kawabata Yasunari Literary Award (1976), and the Asahi Prize (1983) for her contribution to modern Japa­nese lit­er­a­ture. When she died in 1998, at the age of ninety-­four, Sata left ­behind over a dozen novels and memoirs, and hundreds of shorter essays and stories.

1

2  Introduction

Known in par­t ic­u ­lar for her autobiographical fiction, and for her sensitivity to the intersections of gender and class, Sata had a penchant for setting works against the backdrop of major historical events: the ­Great Depression, the Japa­nese colonization of ­Korea, the devastation of fire-­bombed Tokyo, and the atomic ruins of Nagasaki. But she also gave unique attention to the experience of Japan’s minorities: in her youth she wrote about Japa­nese and Korean girls striking side by side (“Compulsory Return,” 1931); at the onset of the Korean War she wrote about the tenuous relationship between Korean and Japa­nese w ­ omen employed by the colonial government in Seoul (“White and Purple,” 1950); and in her prize-­w inning novel The Shade of Trees (1972) she recounted the moving story of Chinese and Japa­nese victims of the atomic bombing of Nagasaki.2 The broad historical scope of her  work notwithstanding, constant throughout Sata’s oeuvre was an attentiveness to the subtle power of narrative fiction to communicate ­human feelings, and a faith in that power as a force for social change. The works selected for inclusion in this collection span a period of some twenty-­t wo years, from the late 1920s to the early 1950s, a tumultuous time during which Japa­nese culture underwent several remarkable shifts and gave birth to literary forms and cultural practices that ­were ­shaped alternatively by revolutionary activism, imperialism, fascism, war, and foreign occupation. The se­lection includes two of Sata’s own favorite works, her first novel, as well as two relatively unknown stories, including a fascinating work of propaganda excluded from her eighteen-­volume Collected Works.3 Together ­these stories offer a fine portrait of the wide range of styles and social concerns that gave shape to Sata’s fiction during the period in which she established her ­career. They also contribute to a better understanding of gender and lit­er­a­ture in the first de­cades of the Shōwa Period.

Introduction  3

A N A GE

OF

­W O M EN ’ S L I T ­E R ­A ­T UR E

This period of Japa­nese cultural history in fact coincides with a high point of “­women’s lit­er­a­t ure” (  joryū bungaku)—­a category of authorship somewhat unique to twentieth-­century Japan, and rife with antimonies. Although rejected as an organ­izing princi­ple by literary critics ­today, “­women’s lit­er­a­t ure” was marketed as a literary style by publishers, a style often characterized by “sentimental lyricism and impressionistic, non-­intellectual, detailed observations of daily life.” 4 As much as t­ hese expectations worked to stigmatize w ­ omen’s writing as second rate, this genre still became extremely popu­lar among readers. As Victoria Vernon has written, some of Sata’s contemporaries, such as Hayashi Fumiko and Enchi Fumiko, tried “explic­itly [to] create ‘feminine’ responses to the controlling social definitions of the ­women’s spheres,” often to enormous financial success.5 ­Others, such as Miyamoto Yuriko and Okamoto Kanoko, largely rejected this style, and w ­ ere sometimes accused of writing “muscular” or “masculine” prose ­because of it. Still other works by w ­ omen, such as Uno Chiyo’s 1935 Confessions of Love, which celebrated the de­cadent 1920s through the voice of a male narrator, w ­ ere im­mensely popu­lar in part ­because of the gendered dissonance between author and narrator.6 Never one to embrace a self-­consciously “feminine” style of writing herself, Sata was still supremely aware of the contradictory pressures of gender on her own thinking, and on the work of ­women writers in general, a topic that she treats at length in her novella Crimson. When writer Kobayashi Takiji bemoaned the quality of w ­ omen’s revolutionary writing in 1930, Sata responded by attacking the very category of “­women’s lit­er­a­t ure,” stating, “It’s a ­m istake to lump all ­women writers together and all men writers together and then compare them, claiming that w ­ omen 7 are weak and qualitatively inferior.” One of the contradictions many w ­ omen writers faced, as Rebecca Copeland points out, is that for most of Japan’s early modern period, “respectable” w ­ omen simply did not voice their

4  Introduction

opinions publicly. “They could be s­ilent and join the voiceless circle of respectability, or they could write and by d­ oing so write themselves outside of this circle.”8 At the same time, Japa­nese ­women like Sata in the early Shōwa Period not only had a new marketplace that wanted to hear from them but also ancient pre­de­ces­sors to turn to—­the eminent author of The Tale of Genji, Murasaki Shikibu, for instance—­for the kind of aesthetic orientation that was hardly marginalized for being feminine or weak, but celebrated as central to both national identity and Japa­nese literary history.9 The works of Heian Period (794–1185) ­women writers, in par­tic­u ­lar, ­were rediscovered in the context of Japan’s broader turn to the past in the 1930s, to the extent that their styles w ­ ere in fact a­dopted by men and w ­ omen alike—or in Tomiko Yoda’s cogent formulation, recognized as feminine but then appropriated as masculine, nationalized forms.10 Sata’s own stories are not marked by any essential literary difference from the work of her male contemporaries, but they do contribute to what Vernon has referred to as a “feminine consciousness” insofar as it arose from an “exploration of the experiencing subject’s perceptual stance rather than from the distance inherent in consideration of the w ­ oman as an aesthetic object.”11 While sharing with other ­women writers this interest in foregrounding ­women’s perspectives, Sata’s earliest works can be distinguished from ­those of her contemporaries Hayashi Fumiko and Uno Chiyo mainly in terms of the po­liti­cal goals Sata saw lit­er­a­t ure fulfilling, and the institutions with which they ­were primarily affiliated. G ENDE R

AN D

R EVO L U TI O NARY C ULTU RE

“Café Kyoto” (1929) and “Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership” (1931), for example, coincided precisely with that moment early in her ­career when Sata’s literary talent was fostered within the influential proletarian cultural movement, which for over a de­cade sought to align the institution of bourgeois lit­er­a­ ture with the po­liti­cal goals of a diverse working class.12 This same

Introduction  5

period saw the appearance of experimental works of modernism such as Yokomitsu Riichi’s 1931 Shanghai, as well as new forms of mass culture celebrated for their “erotic, grotesque nonsense.”13 This ideologically complex field of print culture formed the backdrop to Sata’s early portraits of working w ­ omen, which si­mul­ta­ neously drew on and broke away from a dominant sex-­gender system that was shaping how ­women ­were represented in lit­er­a­ ture and popu­lar culture. If modernist works such as Shanghai and the erotic tropes of popu­lar culture ­were steeped with misogyny, however, proletarian culture, too, often eroticized the female body and risked emphasizing class oppression at the expense of identifying the specificity of ­women’s suffering ­u nder patriarchy.14 ­Women proletarian writers like Sata helped to change this. Emboldened by revolutionary politics and the techniques of literary modernism, Sata inserted into a very complex field of repre­sen­ta­ tions portraits of working ­women that stood starkly at odds with the widespread distortions of the heterosexual male gaze.15 What most sets her story “Café Kyoto” apart from other literary gems written by w ­ omen at the time, however, is Sata’s unique emphasis on an entire group of workers, w ­ omen who work in the entertainment business as café waitresses. As Sata’s reader is asked to keep track of a wide range of dif­fer­ent characters and personalities working in the café, what emerges in “Café Kyoto” is neither a psychological portrait of any single individual nor a salacious assertion of female desire, but rather something akin to that experimental “collective subject” for which Kobayashi Takiji’s proletarian masterpiece, The Crab Cannery Ship, was particularly famous.16 Café waitresses—­seen as stylishly modern but also morally suspect—­offered infinite fodder for 1920s tabloids, which carried countless stories of tragic w ­ omen, who had been sold into ser­v ice by their parents, cheated by gangsters, or forced into prostitution. Historian Fujime Yuki writes that the job of a café waitress was rarely regarded as a proper profession by even progressive ­women, but instead seen as a breeding ground for social evils, as the uppermost echelon of Japan’s sex industry. So while café waitresses

6  Introduction

had become new icons of Japa­nese modernity, society at the same time scorned them just like their traditional counter­parts, the geisha.17 Working essentially in low-­wage ser­v ice jobs, most waitresses ­were obliged to rely on tips for much of their income, which government reports say encouraged them to “use what­ever tactics, consciously or not, w ­ ere at their disposal,” including “outright deception” and “sexual enticement,”18 leading even literary luminaries such as Tanizaki Jun’ichirō to look down on the profession.19 By 1930 more than sixty thousand café waitresses worked in Japan, already outnumbering geisha; their numbers would nearly double in the following six years.20 American sociologist Viviana Zelizer writes in her book Economic Lives about a specific contradiction in the modern period, whereby society insists on separating love from financial exchange, despite the fact that “[w]e all use economic activity to create, maintain and renegotiate impor­tant ties—­especially intimate ties—to other p­ eople.”21 This sort of double standard was at play, too, in the discourse on café waitresses in Japan. While many male proletarian writers tended to inject radical consciousness into characters such as prostitutes as a way of purifying their professions, in “Café Kyoto” Sata instead explores the conditions of the café as a workplace and the multiple motivations café waitresses had for pursuing dif­fer­ent kinds of relationships—­w ith other ­women and, romantically, with male customers. As in many of Sata’s stories, ­there is also an ele­ment of the autobiographical in “Café Kyoto.” A ­ fter her first divorce, at the age of twenty-­one, Sata herself worked as a waitress in a Tokyo café, where she eventually met her husband, Kubokawa Tsurujirō, and the famous proletarian poet and critic Nakano Shigeharu, who helped launch her c­ areer as a writer.22 Nobel Prize laureate Kawabata Yasunari perhaps also deserves partial credit for “Café Kyoto,” given that Natsue, the waitress who ends the story with a drunken embrace, was modeled, as Sata tells it, ­after Kawabata’s long-­time mistress.23 If café waitresses ­were not well known for po­liti­cal activism, female textile workers, the subject of the second story in this

Introduction  7

collection, w ­ ere the very first group of workers to hold a strike in modern Japan, and they continued to be regarded in popu­lar culture as a radicalized segment of the population.24 In “Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership,” published in 1931 in the mainstream journal Kaizō (Reconstruction), Sata turns from the ser­v ice industry to the site of industrial production in order to explore the difficulties facing ­women working in large corporations, as well as the challenge of negotiating the competing pressures of u ­ nion leadership and communist activism. Following in the footsteps of writers like Tokunaga Sunao and Nakamoto Takako, who wrote compellingly about politicized ­women workers, Sata offers in “Tears” an extraordinary account of a young ­woman, appointed deputy chair of w ­ omen in the com­pany u ­ nion, who also maintains clandestine connections with the underground Communist Party.25 Unlike the case of the United States, the Japa­ nese Communist Party was at the time an illegal organ­ization in the eyes of the Japa­nese state, which brutally hunted down its members with the help of the Special Higher Police, a unit designed precisely for “domestic po­liti­cal repression.”26 Some ­women writers, like Nakamoto Takako, who harbored underground communist activists, ­were subject to torture at the hands of the Special Higher Police, while Sata herself would eventually spend over a month in custody and ­later be convicted of crimes against the state for helping to edit a communist-­affiliated w ­ omen’s magazine.27 Soon ­after she wrote “Tears,” her husband, Kubokawa Tsurujirō, was sent to prison for close to two years for his own activism. Written at the height of her involvement in underground communism, “Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership” was the first in a series of loosely connected stories that document the lives of ­women involved in the famous textile strikes of 1930.28 At this stage in her ­career, Sata was swayed by exhortations on the part of critics that writers collect material directly from the experience of the proletarian vanguard—­a nd from reading groups and reporters in their midst—as a way of foregrounding t­hose sensibilities that anticipated, and perhaps even fostered, the radical

8  Introduction

egalitarianism of a f­uture socialist state. But the effort to inject this kind of radical content into “lit­er­a­ture”—­a solidly bourgeois form—­was only as revolutionary as it was profoundly bedev­i ling; Sata herself anguished “over how hard it is to express t­ hese ­things as I develop a plot line” and how “plagued [she felt] by a petit bourgeois consciousness” when she tried to write “truthfully” about the proletariat.29 Indeed, proletarian stories that focused on workers mobilizing for a strike ­were often accused of being “ste­reo­ typical” or “formulaic” in their plot structure—­often by other proletarian writers themselves. Hirabayashi Taiko, for instance, as early as 1930 had insisted that the po­liti­cal effectivity of proletarian lit­er­a­t ure would be endangered w ­ ere it to become stymied by “ste­reo­t ypical” plots that simply responded to “beautiful Marxist propositions” and did not more properly “permeate the hearts of its readers.”30 To remedy this, she argued, proletarian writers would do well to heed the advice of revolutionary writers Georgi Plekhanov (1857–1918) and Maxim Gorky (1868–1936) by becoming “the best social psychologists” pos­si­ble, and thus freeing themselves from the privileging of politics. Responding to Hirabayashi, Sata insisted that it was the duty of writers to connect the concrete stories of individual p­ eople to the social structures that helped to shape them; in other words, writers should not simply “caress the surfaces of events that happen to individuals and to individual families, as though they happened in complete isolation from each other,” but rather to “enter into their very essence and extract the social relations that illuminate their inevitability.”31 Ridicu­lous twists of plot, according to Sata, effectively served to “cover up” ­those social structures that ­were essence determining. Writers like Hirabayashi underestimated how power­ful stories could be for a working-­class readership when they stripped away the “superficial” and focused on exposing “essences.” If this debate between fellow proletarian ­women writers offers some context for the nature of Sata’s writing in the early 1930s, it was the Tōyō Muslin strike of 1930 to which “Tears” most directly refers, a strike that involved more than two thou-

Introduction  9

sand ­women at a factory in the Kameido neighborhood of Tokyo, following the sudden dismissal of several hundred w ­ omen workers. Reports in daily newspapers about the “Chaos of the Tōyō Strikes” give us a sense of the violent strug­g les that ­were taking place during the two-­month confrontation: “Factory Girls Surround Security Forces, Stomp on Their Caps before Scattering.” So reads the headline of one article printed in the leading Asahi Daily, which goes on to explain what triggered this display of collective action: the com­pany had hired two hundred local gangsters, ostensibly to protect their offices, but also, more likely, to bully ­unionized workers. It was in response to the hiring of ­these private thugs that two thousand ­women “in white headbands and red sashes marched through the factory arm-­in-­arm, piercing the air with their screams, while several hundred men joined their cause with clubs and metal rods.”32 More than a hundred policemen ­were ­later mobilized to control the crowds. The police subsequently banned the singing of ­labor songs in factory dormitories and created a barrier of patrolmen around the com­pany grounds to gain control of the situation.33 In contrast to “Café Kyoto,” Sata is less concerned in “Tears” with the conditions of ­women’s l­abor as she is with the dynamics of the strike and the difficulties of mobilizing workers. The portrait of her heroine, Furuda Naka, proud of her leadership position within the com­pany u ­ nion, sympathetic to the insightful criticisms offered by radical activists, but not beyond producing tears as a way of swaying her fellow female workers, has few parallels in Japa­nese lit­er­a­ture. Sata’s incorporation of vari­ous songs and pieces of propaganda into her narrative, however, was not untypical of revolutionary fiction at the time. Contrary to the other stories in this collection, “Tears” also bears witness to the kind of censorship to which many overtly po­liti­cal or erotic stories ­were subjected. My translation restores words that ­were originally censored but l­ater reinserted into Sata’s Collected Works by the author herself (indicated by a cross-­out). Other­w ise, it follows the original 1931 version, which was published alongside stories by

10  Introduction

modernists Kawabata Yasunari, Yokomitsu Riichi, and Kataoka Teppei. If Sata’s story ­today seems less “literary” than the ­others in this collection, its appearance next to ­others by ­these literary luminaries suggests the way in which the injection of radical content into bourgeois lit­er­a­ture was embraced as a kind of modernist innovation at the time. A T URN I NWAR D

W I TH THE

N OV EL L A C RI MSO N

­ fter her arrest in 1935 for her earlier role in the production of A antiwar propaganda, Sata Ineko turned inward—as did many revolutionary writers threatened with the possibility of lengthy prison sentences—to tell the story of her private life ­after the crushing defeat of the proletarian movement.34 For Sata this turn began with a personal scandal. On September 1, 1935, the Tokyo nichinichi newspaper announced news of Sata’s imminent divorce, with pictures of the smiling ­couple and a catty caption noting their shared “ joy upon separation.” “The love of an ideal ­couple,” ran the headline, “­a fter a de­cade torn apart.” If divorce was far from unheard of in the Japan of the mid-1930s, and hardly the source of shame and ostracism it had been some twenty years earlier, news that a well-­k nown communist ­couple, whose relationship was to have been founded on princi­ples of equality and justice, had deci­ ded to separate amounted to a scandal that was sourly disappointing to some and sweetly affirming to ­others. The ­couple’s planned separation was subsequently discussed by a variety of professional opinion makers. Widespread reports in the popu­lar press about the c­ ouple’s divorce led an editor at the highbrow journal Fujin kōron (­Women’s review)—­the premier journal for highly educated w ­ omen in ­Japan—to invite both Sata and her husband to publish individual accounts of their failed marriage. Having begun to air out the dirty laundry of her love life, the thirty-­t wo-­year-­old Sata subsequently dove into the details of her rocky romance with an engrossing serialized novella.35 Given literary conventions of the time, readers

Introduction  11

of Crimson ­were led to think that the fictionalized story was a sincere, if not entirely accurate, reflection of the author’s personal experiences. As Sata would write one year ­later, “I prefer writing novels that make the reader want to know more about the author.”36 Her first novel certainly lived up to ­these expectations. Through a bricolage of dialogue, narration, internal monologue, and epistolary quotation, Crimson paints a vivid portrait of a professional ­woman much like Sata herself, a leftist writer struggling to negotiate her f­ amily obligations and her personal desires—as a m ­ other, wife, and her ­family’s main breadwinner. The novella was published in book form with the addition of a final chapter in 1938. Critics in the postwar period have looked favorably on Crimson, which has been reprinted and anthologized over two dozen times.37 When the novella was first reissued in 1953, critic Yamamoto Kenkichi compared Sata’s fictional marriage to the unending “Cold War.” Drawing on a phrase that V ­ irginia Woolf had made famous, he lamented how the average Japa­nese w ­ oman 38 had still been deprived of “a room of her own.” Many critics have read Sata’s novella as a power­ful feminist text, one that freshly exposes the dynamics of patriarchy even in left-­w ing families.39 ­Others have emphasized how it marked a significant turning point in both Sata’s c­ areer and revolutionary fiction in general, when literary class-­consciousness in Japan significantly expanded its social purview into a careful discussion of domesticity.40 With its look into the dynamics of ­family life from a ­woman’s perspective, Crimson certainly shares with its readers a rich analy­sis of how historically contingent notions of femininity and romantic love work to subordinate Japa­nese w ­ omen to male authority and to restrain them from achieving their full potential.41 As early as 1938, critic Nakano Shigeharu had celebrated Crimson’s path-­breaking theme of w ­ omen’s liberation, writing that “the strug­g les that consume the male and female characters [in Crimson] are ­those of the new, coming generation.” 42 But in this, Sata had in fact followed in the footsteps of a fifty-­year-­old tradition of writing by ­women in Japan, who had already asserted the importance of their personal

12  Introduction

freedom from within what they saw as an oppressive institution of marriage. This tradition included, among ­others, Shimizu Shikin’s “Broken Ring” (Koware yubiwa, 1891), Ito Noe’s “Delusion” (1914), and Miyamoto Yuriko’s Nobuko (1924–1926).43 Drawing on a new modernist idiom, Sata effectively breathed new life into a similar message. With Crimson, Sata turned away from the dominant mode of social realism to a uniquely Japa­nese form called the “I-­novel.” 44 Often associated with the confession of male desire, the I-­novel is usually narrated in the third-­person and has a par­t ic­u ­lar relationship to the experience of time. Defined by literary critics in the 1920s as a uniquely Japa­nese genre, but often referred to t­oday as a “historical reading practice,” the typical I-­novel usually abandons a teleological plot and traditional structure to focus, instead, on shorter, often fragmentary, episodes of an author’s life, and on the qualitative experience of the events being narrated.45 In contrast to a bildungsroman, which narrates a gradual transformation of its main character over time, the I-­novel carries a “temporal focus,” according to Barbara Mito Reed, that “is oriented whenever pos­si­ble to the experiencing moment itself.” 46 This narrative structure helps Sata suggest in Crimson how a ­woman’s identity is not fixed, but fluid, how it overlaps with the vari­ous modes of femininity that are consciously or unconsciously imposed upon her—as a ­mother, grand­daughter, wife, writer, friend, and consumer. In one scene, Akiko, the main character, self-­consciously performs the role of a perfect ­house­wife, single-­m indedly devoting herself to her intellectual husband; she not only cooks for him, but also acts as a personal secretary and attends to all his needs in order to gauge his reaction. One might even say that Sata’s novel embodies h ­ ere, and elsewhere, an understanding of the performativity of gender, for by asking Akiko to juggle vari­ous “old-­fashioned” and “modern” expectations of womanhood at the same time, it offers a portrait of female selfhood that is mutable, ever-­evolving, and subject to self-­fashioning as much as it is to the pressures of social expectations. Drawing on the particularities of the I-­novel, Sata manages to expand class

Introduction  13

analy­sis into a poignant, feminist analy­sis of gender relations, reclaiming the private as a space of the social and the po­liti­cal. It is historically significant for its distinctive politics as well as its modernist sensibilities. The year 1938, in which Sata completed the final chapter of the novella, was also the year a subtle shift began to appear in her writing about Japan’s empire. In the September issue of Fujin kōron, Sata encouraged ­women to take more interest in their ­careers and to “expand their horizons [like] so many of the young men who have crossed over to the continent.” 47 Sata’s continued interest in promoting ­women’s professional ambitions was now remarkably at odds with the trenchant criticisms of Japa­nese imperialism that had only a few years earlier landed her in prison. In other words, just as Sata was sharpening her class-­consciousness with regard to w ­ omen’s oppression in her fiction, the fascist moment she had come to inhabit in Japan, now that the Japa­nese military had taken dramatic steps to violently expand its territory throughout East Asia, slowly began to chip away at her international vision of workers’ solidarity. It arguably held in check, if not utterly distorted, her feminism. W AR P RO PAGAN DA

AN D

P O STCO LO N I AL A TON EMEN T

A month a­ fter Sata’s article appeared in Fujin kōron, the popu­lar ­women’s journal Shufu no tomo would publish a conversation held among “honorable m ­ others who had each sacrificed two beloved ­children to the Land of the Emperor.” The narrative of self-­sacrifice for the sake of the nation had become increasingly popu­lar in fiction, reportage, and radio broadcasts ­after the Manchurian Incident of 1931, and often took the shape of what in Japa­nese is called a bidan—­a heroic, or more literally, beautiful, tale.48 Within four years of finishing Crimson, just a­ fter Japan’s 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor, Sata published several “beautiful tales” of her own, making her protagonists not soldiers on the battlefield, but wives and ­mothers left back on the home front.49 Her story “The Scent of

14  Introduction

Incense” (Kō ni niou, 1942) is but one example of such works, often called “home front” (  jūgo) lit­er­a­t ure, for the way in which they helped marshal support for the ongoing war through a glorification of personal self-­sacrifice and ­women’s support of—­even submission to—­the men in their families. Many argue t­hese are some of the key characteristics of fascism as well. ­ irginia Woolf had In Three Guineas (1938), for example, V argued that fascism in E ­ ng­land was premised on a division of the sexes, which kept ­women’s work relegated to the ­house­hold and effectively excluded w ­ omen from positions of power. Woolf summarizes her point with the ­imagined protest of an angry man: “Homes are the real places of the ­women who are now compelling men to be idle.”50 The Japa­nese state, too, had much ideological work to perform u ­ nder its own conditions of “all-­out war,” but it found itself walking a fine line between the mobilization of ­women’s productive l­abor, which could evoke a similar form of male anxiety, and a continued emphasis on ­women’s primary role as caregivers in the home. An April 1941 article in Fujin kōron acknowledges, for instance, that “Japa­nese w ­ omen are t­ oday known throughout the world for being unparalleled with re­spect to their docility, their domesticity and their subservience.” But “in the wake of the China Incident, the state of affairs throughout the world has changed,” and it was a m ­ istake to assume that t­hese ostensible “virtues” ­were still sufficient now that Japan was competing with the West. In order to prevent Japan from falling to the same fate as Occupied France, the writer argues, “­women must si­mul­ta­neously embrace both the mindset of an ancient samurai wife, and knowledge of the most modern kind, in par­tic­u ­lar, sci­ omen did not beentific cultivation.”51 This was not to say that w long in the home. On the contrary, quoting lines from the Confucian classics, the author repeats, “One must first establish the home in order to govern a country,” and it was now the “responsibility of ­women to manage [house­holds] efficiently at a time of material shortages.” This was, in effect, a war­time repackaging of an earlier discourse on the “good wife wise ­mother.” As another

Introduction  15

journalist in Fujin kōron put it, with a chillingly fascist twist, “I believe the time has now come for ­women to understand the honor they all share in bearing responsibility for this crucial aspect of constructing our High National Defense State.”52 Few of Sata’s works from this period are compiled in her Collected Works, but they are impor­tant for anyone wishing to understand how feminism has not always been aligned with progressive politics, and how easily it can seem to dovetail with the sort of cultural imperialism—­and overt militarism—­that still made Sata herself feel ill at ease.53 Her works from this period are not unique among Japa­nese w ­ omen writers. It was incumbent upon all writers who wished to publish during the war to join the Japa­ nese Lit­er­a­ture Patriotic Association, and their participation in such institutions, however begrudged, led to serious ideological compromises in their works. “The Scent of Incense,” published in 1942, offers a composite portrait of what Sata herself writes was her “ideal” w ­ oman: the redeemed Michiko; her sharp, straightforward ­sister Masako; and the meticulous, devout Hiroko, who still prepares flowers and meal trays for her husband fighting in Southeast Asia.54 In the afterword to the 1942 collection of stories in which “The Scent of Incense” appears, Sata acknowledges that she has perhaps offered a portrait of only the “beautiful side” of her ideal w ­ oman, but she is still at pains to explain how all ­women at a time of war must join the ranks of soldiers, students, and workers to “fulfill their days as intensely and as richly as pos­si­ble, and especially with love in their hearts.”55 Sata’s meticulous use of detail, plot, and characterization in “The Scent of Incense” certainly works t­ oward a cele­bration of ­those very qualities of womanhood that the state hoped would be embodied by all married ­women in war­time Japan. The quin­tes­sen­tial feminist strug­g le described in Crimson, which set its married protagonists at odds with each other over the gendered division of h ­ ouse­hold ­labor, is replaced ­here with an alarmingly fixed—­a nd uncontested—­ hierarchy of gendered relations, one that emphasizes a w ­ oman’s devotion to her husband but still leaves room for the assertion that

16  Introduction

­ omen, no less intelligent than men, must also work outside the w home to contribute to the war­time effort. If Sata’s works are no outright exhortations of vio­lence against the p­ eople Japan was fighting in World War II, the aesthetic gaze they cast on w ­ omen who unflinchingly support their men helps to effectively foreclose, rather than highlight, the social contradictions surely felt by men and w ­ omen alike. ­A fter Japan’s eventual defeat in 1945, Sata soon joined the New Japan Lit­er­a­ture Society (Shin Nihon bungaku kai) and helped to launch the ­Women’s Demo­cratic Club (Fujin minshū kurabu), of whose newspaper she became an editor. She also participated in the broader demo­cratic movement that emphasized the promotion of peace and antiwar activism. ­Little that Sata wrote in the subsequent five years was not, as Sata’s biographer Hasegawa Kei asserts, in some way connected to her now firmly held ­a ntiwar convictions.56 In the stories “A W ­ oman Writer” (1947) and “Deception” (1948) Sata explores her own war responsibility as an intellectual, reflecting on her participation in del­e­ga­tions of writers and celebrities sent to entertain Japa­nese troops in China and Southeast Asia. Her own postwar stance, not dissimilar to that of proletarian writer Miyamoto Yuriko, offers a stark contrast with that of popu­lar ­women writers such as Uno Chiyo and Hayashi Fumiko, who ­later bemoaned the censorship and lack of opportunities for w ­ omen writers during the war, but never actually apologized for her own ardent participation in war­time activities.57 Two years ­later, in 1950, Sata extends her contrition into an examination of colonial subjugation with a story called “White and Purple,” also included in the pres­ent collection. “White and Purple” was written in the summer of 1950, close to five years into Japan’s occupation by the Allied Powers (1945–1952). War had just broken out on the Korean peninsula, bringing with it a deep unease for many p­ eople in Japan who feared the onset of World War III, but also carry­ing an odd sense of optimism for o ­ thers, who foresaw how Japan would soon be

Introduction  17

rocketed into economic prosperity with the prospect of billions of American dollars injected into its devastated economy. Japan was now to become the United States’ new strategic partner in the Cold War—­its “Bulwark in the Far East”—­and the staging ground from which the United States would fight the Korean War. “White and Purple” was published in the journal Ningen in September of 1950, by which time the communist North had overtaken most of southern ­Korea, and General MacArthur was at the point of making his decisive landing at Inch’ŏn. In an afterword to her Collected Works, Sata notes that she could hear U.S. warplanes flying overhead from her home near Tachikawa Air Base in Tokyo as she composed the story. For almost forty years Japan had governed the Korean peninsula, before Japan was defeated in World War II by the Allied Powers. Initially seen as a colony that would produce cheap agricultural goods and create new markets for Japanese-­produced commodities, colonial ­Korea was by the mid-1930s being increasingly developed as a crucial base for Japa­nese heavy industries, and for the expansion of the Japa­nese empire into the Asian continent. Although Japan had permitted a limited degree of cultural nationalism in K ­ orea for much of its colonial rule, by the late 1930s, as the Pacific War intensified, the Governor General of K ­ orea had instituted a program of coercive cultural assimilation. ­Under t­ hese policies Koreans ­were educated almost exclusively in Japa­nese, most Korean-­language print culture became effectively banned, and Koreans ­were strongly encouraged, if not coerced, to replace their own Korean names with names that sounded more Japa­nese. Taking as its main historical backdrop this moment of coercive cultural assimilation, “White and Purple” is remarkable for the way it refuses to disavow Japan’s imperial past at a time when the institutions of the state w ­ ere taking mea­sures so that this past would in fact be forgotten. Focusing on the relationship between two well-­educated, but unmarried, ­women, both with prestigious jobs in the Office of the Governor General, Sata’s story

18  Introduction

foregrounds the colonial difference that divides her Japa­nese and Korean main characters. At the same time, her story offers a nuanced understanding of how each of her characters has been marginalized and diminished in her own right, and how each attempts to manage feelings of personal inadequacy. Although many scholars concur that postcolonial thinking was practically “non­ex­is­tent” in early postwar Japan, “White and Purple” and other works of fiction must be seen as impor­tant exceptions.58 In fact, it anticipates many of the psychological insights ­later made by phi­los­o­pher and revolutionary Frantz Fanon in his 1952 Black Skins, White Masks, by showing how feelings of marginalization on the part of colonial subjects emerged from the racist arrogance and indifference of Sata’s Japa­nese characters, and manifested themselves in an attachment to the Japa­nese culture of their oppressors, as in the case of the Korean character, Den Teiki. In the early 1940s Sata had traveled through K ­ orea and other Japa­nese colonies at the invitation of the South Manchuria Railroad Com­pany and the Manchurian Daily newspaper. She not only collaborated with the war­time culture industry by producing home-­f ront fiction, as did many other w ­ omen writers such as Hayashi Fumiko, Uno Chiyo, and Yoshiya Nobuko, but she also published travel narratives about her all-­expense-­paid trips to the colonies. The product of much soul searching on the part of the author, “White and Purple” seeks to negotiate many of the contradictory pressures that w ­ ere actively shaping the Japa­nese memory of colonial ­Korea at the outset of the Korean War. It also highlights the role that language itself had played in shaping Japan’s empire, in part by drawing on the very conventions of travel writing that Sata had earlier exercised. The female narrator in “White and Purple” in fact reflects nostalgically about her life in colonial K ­ orea in precisely the same manner in which many a colonial writer once saw ancient cultures and natu­ral scenery in Japan’s colonies as quin­tes­sen­t ial markers of Asian beauty, while typically overlooking the difficult lives of colonized p­ eople. At the

Introduction  19

same time, Sata’s narrator remains stubbornly intent on unmasking the dark side of imperialism—­and her own participation in it—­through a poignant reflection on her relationship with a Korean colleague, whose embrace of Japa­nese language and culture carries ­g reat significance in the story. ­These tensions, evident in the narrator’s stance, overlap closely with many works published during the occupation period. As Jonathan Glade writes in his work on Hayashi Fumiko’s Floating Clouds (1949–1951), the contradiction between a longing for, and indictment of, Japan’s lost empire contributed to a wide range of narratives in the occupation period that refused to forget “Japan’s imperial past and brought to light the links between Imperial Japan and postwar Japan.”59 In line with Sata’s more autobiographical works, “A W ­ oman Writer” and “Deception,” this same contradiction, as it arises in “White and Purple,” uniquely highlights the role of gender as a decisive site of contestation within the conditions of colonial modernity, and foregrounds the willingness with which w ­ omen, too, participated in the construction of Japan’s empire. In selecting t­hese five works for the pres­ent collection, I join the efforts of many translators before me to bring contributions by ­women writers interested in the intersection of class, nation, gender, and ethnicity into the English-­language canon of East Asian lit­er­a­ture. Sata’s oeuvre seems remarkable for the way it often grapples with ­these concerns si­mul­ta­neously. What Sata’s works also bear witness to is the sheer variability of what might now be called feminist writing, and the alarming suppleness with which it can be aligned to the proj­ects of revolution, fascism, or democracy. Her writings certainly show how gender cannot exist outside historically specific conditions of race, class, and nation, and brook any suggestion that feminism is always po­liti­cally subversive. If the term “feminism” may be a somewhat anachronistic— or Eurocentric—­term to use in reference to works written at a

20  Introduction

time when the author herself did not embrace the moniker, the five works contained in this volume can still be read productively as part of a more universally feminist consciousness t­oday. It is my hope that this anthology does indeed help to paint a portrait of the cultural agency that Japa­nese writers like Sata asserted, usually but not always, in the production of work that challenged male authority. Only a de­cade into her ­career Sata had well understood the limits and pressures placed on writing about ­women. As she explained to her readers in the widely read Yomi­ uri newspaper, “The kinds of womanhood available ­today exist precisely b­ ecause literary masters of dif­fer­ent ages and cultures have drawn us to them: the w ­ oman we pity, the ­woman with a heart of gold, the cruel w ­ oman, the clever w ­ oman, the henpecker, the cheapskate, and the ‘good wife wise m ­ other.’ As terms we use to describe the kinds of w ­ omen who exist in the world t­oday, they have simply outgrown their usefulness.” 60 Writing in 1936 at a moment of crisis in her own ­career, Sata insisted that writers of fiction go beyond the exhausted possibilities of the Japa­nese language in order to describe w ­ omen who lived in the real world as well as ­women who they aspired to become. “New ­women” did not appear out of nowhere, but emerged out of a pro­cess of strug­g le, as they themselves challenged assumptions about gender roles that in many cases they had already internalized. For Sata Ineko, the distinction of lit­er­a­ture—be it feminist or other­w ise—­lay not in its privileged position as a vehicle for ideological contestation, but rather in its status as an ikimono, a living being which interacted with its reader, variably so, over time.61 While Sata’s stories may be challenging for ­those of us less familiar with the strug­g les of ­women in Shōwa Japan, they also open up new doors of inquiry to strug­g les we still face in the twenty-­first c­ entury: the ongoing military conflicts, the unequal treatment of ­women in the workplace, social and economic inequities that date back to our own colonial times. Let us be grateful that what counts as good lit­er­a­ture ­today still allows us to appreciate Sata’s works, even as the historical distance that sepa-

Introduction  21

rates us from them helps teach us more about the critical task of reflecting on the world in an effort to change it. Sam u el Pe r ry Provi de nce, RI Octobe r 1, 2015

NOTES

Kawabata Yasunari, “Hitotsu no seiriki (bundan),” Fujin saron 3, no. 12 (1931). 2 In his work on atomic bomb fiction, John Whittier Treat analyzes Sata’s novel In the Shade of Trees (  Juei) extensively. See his Writing Ground Zero: Japa­ nese Lit­er­a­ture and the Atomic Bomb (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 337–349. 3 Both “Café Kyoto” and “White and Purple,” selected by the author herself, ­were republished just before her death in a special volume called “White and Purple: Stories Selected by the Author Herself.” Sata Ineko, Shiro to murasaki—­Sata Ineko jisen tanpen shū (Tokyo: Gakugei shorin, 1994). “The Scent of Incense” (Kō ni niou) was among several works of propaganda excluded from Sata’s Collected Works. 4 Joan E. Ericson, Be a ­Woman: Hayashi Fumiko and Modern Japa­nese ­Women’s Lit­er­a­ture (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997), 3. 5 Victoria V. Vernon, ­Daughters of the Moon: Wish, W ­ ill and Social Constraint in Fiction by Modern Japa­nese ­Women (Berkeley, CA: Institute of East Asian Studies, 1988), 13. 6 For a translation of Uno’s novel, see Phyllis Birnbaum’s Confessions of Love (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1989). 7 Sata Ineko, “Puroretaira fujin sakka no mondai,” Sata Ineko zenshū (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1977–1979), 16:43. See also Sarah Frederick’s discussion of Sata’s story “Self-­introduction” in Turning Pages: Reading and Writing W ­ omen’s Maga­ zines in Interwar Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006), 148–149. 8 Rebecca L. Copeland, The Sound of the Wind: The Life and Works of Uno Chiyo (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1992), 49. 9 Vernon, ­Daughters of the Moon, 6. 10 Tomiko Yoda, Gender and National Lit­er­a­ture: Heian Texts in the Constructions of Japa­nese Modernity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004). 11 Vernon, ­Daughters of the Moon, 13. 12 See Samuel Perry, Recasting Red Culture in Proletarian Japan: Childhood, ­Korea and the Historical Avant-­garde (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2014). 13 See Miriam Silverberg, Erotic Grotesque Nonsense: The Mass Culture of Japa­ nese Modern Times (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009). 1

22  Introduction

14

See Norma Field, “Thinking about Form and Ideology: An Invitation to the Writings of Kobayashi Takiji,” in Michael Bourdaghs, ed., The Linguistic Turn in Con­temporary Japa­nese Literary Studies: Politics, Language, Textuality (Ann Arbor: Center for Japa­nese Studies at Michigan, 2007). See also Vera Mackie, Creating Socialist ­Women in Japan: Gender, ­L abour and Activism, 1900–1937 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 15 For a celebrated, but contrasting approach, see Nakamoto Takako, “The Female Bell Cricket,” in Yukiko Tanaka, ed., To Live and to Write: Se­lections by Japa­nese ­Women Writers, 1913–1938 (Seattle, WA: Seal Press, 1987), 135–144. 16 See Kobayashi Takiji, The Crab Cannery Ship and Other Novels of Strug­gle, trans. Zeljko Cipris (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2013). 17 Fujime Yuki, Sei no rekishigaku (Tokyo: Fuji shuppan, 1997), 288–294. 18 Osaka-­shi shakaibu chōsaka, “Shakaibu hōkoku,” no. 121 (1930); cited in Fujime, Sei no rekishigaku, 289. 19 Rebecca L. Copeland, The Sound of the Wind: The Life and Works of Uno Chiyo (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1992), 18. 20 Naimushō keihōkyoku, “Keisatsu tōkei hōkoku,” no. 13 (1935); cited in Fujime, Sei no rekishigaku, 288. 21 Viviana Zelizer, Economic Lives, How Culture Shapes the Economy (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2011), 178. 22 Writers Uno Chiyo and Hayashi Fumiko also had experiences working in cafés. 23 Sata Ineko, “Toki to hito to watashi no koto(1)—­Shuttatsu no jijō to sono koro,” in Sata Ineko zenshū, 1:427–439. 24 On female factory workers in Japan, see Elyssa Faison, Managing W ­ omen: Dis­ ciplining L ­ abor in Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007). 25 For a translation and analy­sis of two short works of fiction that feature w ­ omen factory workers, see Sata Ineko’s “Food in the Cafeteria” and Tokunaga Sunao’s “Shawl,” in Perry, Recasting Red Culture, 71–74, 98–105. 26 Elise K. Tipton, Japa­nese Police State: Tokkō in Interwar Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1990. 27 Nakamoto Takako, “Gojūnen mae no koto,” in Nihon shakai shugi bunka undō shiryō 8: “Fujin senki” “Hataraku Fujin” bekkan (Tokyo: Senki fukkokuban kankōkai, 1980). 28 Sata sees the five stories as constituting one single piece of work. See Sata Ineko, “Atogaki,” Sata Ineko zenshū, 1:435. The series continues with “Kokanbu” (Vice-­steward), “Kitō” (Prayer), “Kyōsei kikoku” (Forced repatriation), and “Nani wo nasu beki ka” (What must be done?). For the portrayal of a Christian textile worker in Sata’s “Prayer,” as translated by Mamiko Suzuki, see Heather Bowen-­Struyk and Norma Field, eds., For Dignity, Jus­ tice, and Revolution: An Anthology of Japa­nese Proletarian Lit­er­a­ture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016), 75–91. 29 Sata Ineko, “Puroretaira fujin sakka no mondai,” Sata Ineko zenshū, 16:46. 30 Hirabayashi Taiko, “Puroretaria sakuhin no ruikeika ni tsuite,” Shinchō (November 1930): 106–109; reprinted in Hirabayashi Taiko zenshū (Tokyo: Ushio Shuppan-­sha, 1976–1979), 10:356–359.

Introduction  23

Sata Ineko, “Honshitsu no ue ni kakerareta ōoi,” Miyako shimbun (May 26–28, 1932), reprinted in Sata Ineko zenshū, 16:51–55, quotation on 51–52. 32 Asahi shinbun, September 28, 1930, eve­n ing ed., 2. 33 Asahi shinbun, September 30, 1930, morning ed., 11. 34 ­These private narratives produced in the 1930s by (ostensibly former) Marxists are often referred to as “tenkō” lit­er­a­t ure, referring to their coerced recantations, or the authors’ “conversion” from Marxism. For recent work on this lit­er­a­t ure, see Yukiko Shigeto, “The Politics of Writing: Tenkō and the Crisis of Repre­sen­ta­t ion,” PhD diss., University of Washington, 2009. It was not ­until 1938 that Sata would officially be convicted for her crimes, at which time she was given a two-­year sentence, suspended for three years, for violating the Peace and Preservation Act. 35 A “report” would not do her story justice, Sata explained in her mealy-­ mouthed essay, “Frightening Contradictions” (Osoroshiki mujun), Fujin kōron (October 1935). Except for its last chapter, Crimson was serialized in Fujin kōron from January to May 1936. 36 “Shōsetsu no benkyō” (1939), reprinted in Sata Ineko zenshū, 16:110. 37 Yukiko Tanaka introduces and translates into En­g lish a short se­lection from Kurenai in her anthology To Live and to Write: Se­lections by Japa­nese ­Women Writers, 1913–1938 (Seattle, WA: Seal Press, 1987), 59–79. Ronald P. Loftus also translates a portion of Sata’s memoirs that refers to the events described in Kurenai in Telling Lives: W ­ omen’s Self-­Writing in Modern Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2004), 185–228. 38 Yamamoto Kenkichi, “Jiko wo ikasu muzukashisa: Sata Ineko saku Kurenai no Akiko,” Asahi shinbun, June 28, 1953, eve­n ing ed., 2. 39 Hasegawa Kei, Sata Ineko ron (Tokyo: Orijin Shuppan, 1992). 40 The intrepid communist critic Miyamoto Yuriko staunchly refused to see Kurenai simply as “a protest against men,” but faults the novel for not exploring the husband’s feelings as sensitively as the wife’s. See her Fujin to bungaku, reprinted in Miyamoto Yuriko zenshū, vol. 12 (Tokyo: Shin Nihon Shuppansha, 1980). 41 Amy D. Dooling, “Desire and Disease: Bai Wei and the Literary Left in the 1930s,” in Charles A. Laughlin, ed., Contested Modernities in Chinese Lit­er­a­ ture (Gordonsville, VA: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 51–60. 42 Nakano Shigeharu, “Kubokawa Ineno’s Kurenai,” Mita shinbun, no. 399 (September 25, 1938), reprinted in Nakano Shigeharu zenshū, 18:407–408. 43 Hasegawa Kei, Sata Ineko ron (Tokyo: Orijin Shuppan, 1992), 71. Rebecca Copeland and Melek Ortabasi, eds., The Modern Murasaki: Writing by ­Women of Meiji Japan (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006). 44 For the proletarian I-­novel, see also “Midnight Sun” (Byakuya) by Murayama Tomoyoshi, translated by Christopher W. Oakes in Bowen-­Struyk and Field, For Dignity, Justice, and Revolution. 45 Tomi Suzuki makes the case for seeing the I-­novel as a “historical reading practice” in Narrating the Self: Fictions of Japa­nese Modernity (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996). My understanding of the I-­novel is indebted to Barbara Mito Reed, as quoted by  J. Keith Vincent in his Two-­Timing 31

24  Introduction

Modernity: Homosocial Narrative in Modern Japa­nese Fiction (Cambridge, MA: Harvard East Asian Center, 2012). Original in Barbara Mito Reed, “Chikamatsu Shūkō: An Inquiry into Narrative Modes in Modern Japa­nese Fiction,” Journal of Japa­nese Studies (1988): 59–76, 75–76. 46 Reed, “Chikamatsu Shūkō,” 75. 47 Sata Ineko, “Shokuba wo ōwareru josei tachi ni,” Fujin kōron (September 1938), quoted in Watakushitachi no rekishi wo tsukuru kai, ed., Fujin zasshi kara mita 1930–­nendai (Tokyo: Dōjidai-­sha, 1987), 25. 48 See Nakauchi Toshio, Gunkoku bidan to kyōkasho (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1988). 49 Takeuchi Emiko, “Jūgo—­Sata Ineko ‘Kō ni niou,’ ” in Ishikawa Takumi and Kawaguchi Takayuki, eds., Sensō wo ‘yomu’ (Tokyo: Hitsuji shobō, 2013), 88–105. 50 Marie-­Luise Gättens, ­Women Writers and Fascism: Reconstructing History (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1995), 7. 51 Tozuka Kiyo, “Nihon fujin no nōryoku kōjō no hitsuyō,” Fujin kōron (April 1941): 46–57, 50. 52 “Senjika no katei seikatsu mondai wo kataru,” Fujin kōron (August 1941): 46–57, 46. 53 Sata eventually joined del­e­g a­t ions of celebrities sent out into Japan’s empire to entertain troops. In her essays about trips to K ­ orea and China ­there is often an ambivalence about the imperialist proj­ect not found in ­later stories like “The Scent of Incense.” See, for example, “Chōsen no kodomotachi” (1940), Sata Ineko zenshū, vol. 16. See also Hasegawa Kei, “Bijin sakka no kōyō—­Taiheiyō sensōka Chūgoku senchi imon,” in Okano Yukie, Kitada Sachie, Hasegawa Kei, and Watanabe Sumiko, eds., Onnatachi no sensō sekinin (Tokyo: Tokyōdō, 2004), 218–234. 54 “Kō ni niou,” in Sata Ineko, Kō ni niou (Tokyo: Shōrinsha, 1942). Two dif­ fer­ent versions of this book ­were published in 1942, the second containing three additional stories. 55 Takeuchi, “Jūgo—­Sata Ineko ‘Kō ni niou,’ ” 100–101. 56 Hasegawa Kei, “Sata Ineko no Ajia e no manazashi—­hanpuku sareru sensō no kioku to hansen no gensetsu,” in Hasegawa Kei and Okano Yukie, eds., Sensō no kioku to onnnatachi no hansen hyōgen (Tokyo: Yumani shobō, 2015). 57 Ericson, Be a ­Woman, 93. For Uno Chiyo’s war­t ime lit­er­a­t ure, see Kobayashi Yūko, “Bidan to shite no jūgo no tsuma—­k atei shōsetsu no naka no ryōsaikenbō-­zō,” in Okano et al. (2004), 235–248. 58 Mitani Taichirō, Yi Yŏnsuk, Komori Yōichi, and Kang Sangjun, “Zadankai: Naze ima, posutokoroniarizumu na no ka,” in Kang Sangjun, ed., Posutoko­ roniarizumu (Tokyo: Sakuhin-­sha, 2001), 5–28. Many works of fiction at the time grappled with the consequences of Japan’s empire, among them Japan-­ resident Korean writer Kim Talsu’s Genkainada, serialized in the journal Shin Nihon bungaku from 1952 to 1953. 59 Jonathan Glade, “Occupied Liberation: Transforming Literary Bound­a ries in Japan and Southern K ­ orea, 1945–1952,” PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2013, 141. See also the last chapter of Noriko Horiguchi, ­Women Adrift:

Introduction  25

60 61

The Lit­er­a­ture of Japan’s Imperial Body (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011). Sata Ineko, “Atarashiku tōjō shita onna wo,” Yomiuri shinbun ( January 16, 1936). See “Atogaki,” in Norma Field, Sobo no kuni ni (Tokyo: Misuzu shobō, 2000), the Japa­nese translation of her book From My Grand­mother’s Bedside: Sketches of Postwar Tokyo (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997).

Café Kyoto

1 “Th a n k you v e ry m uc h f or your business.” The words had barely escaped O-­Chie’s lips as she passed the customer his change on a small silver tray and, with an expression on her face that was both cold and formal, turned her back on him quite m ­ atter-­of-­factly to retrace her steps.1 Along with the shuffling of her felt slippers, the faint sound of her customer collecting his coins from the silver tray could be heard amid the darkness of the eve­n ing air. When O-­Chie came to the side of a square column, decorated with a mirror, she flipped on a switch. A bluish electric light flickered just above the mirror, in which she suddenly found herself staring face to face with O-­Yō, disarm-

1

Originally titled “Resutoran Rakuyō,” “Café Kyoto” was first published in the October 1929 edition of Bungei shunjū. Uniquely Japa­nese ways of naming are significant in this story and are retained ­here in En­g lish translation. The café waitresses often employ the feminine, sometimes honorific, prefix “O” in combination with the first syllable(s) of a name when addressing another ­woman. The diminutive suffix “chan” and polite suffix “san” are also used in combination with the first syllable(s) of a woman’s name. Thus Natsue, as named by the narrator, is usually called ­ Natchan by other characters, while Chie is called both O-Chie and Chie-san. 27

28  S A T A I N E K O

ingly chatting with a customer in the opposite corner. With feigned indifference O-­Chie slowly shifted her gaze away from O-­ Yō and her ­g uest. O-­Chie’s customer abruptly pushed his chair away from the t­ able and stood up to go. “Thank you for your business,” said O-­Yō, who remained standing in front of her own customer, but turned her head ­toward him. Dragging her felt slippers heavi­ly across the concrete floor, O-­Chie cleared away the dishes from the man’s ­table. Only then did she pick up the empty coin tray, toss it indifferently ­toward the register, and then look up at the clock. It was almost five. The cold, white table­cloths stood out in the darkness of the dining room—­any trace of other customers had all but ­d is­appeared. “Kiyo-­chan, I’m ­going to touch up my face. I’ll be right back.” “All right.” Kiyo was so absorbed in her cheap paperback that she ­didn’t bother to raise her head from where she sat in the shadow of a room-­d ividing screen. In the center of the kitchen was a g­ iant, ink-­black stove, on top of which several fry pans rattled, spewing out billows of oily, purple smoke, which crept along the back staircase and up to the second floor. “Oh, this is too much,” protested O-­Chie, pausing on the staircase with a grimace. “Well, excu . . . ​use . . . ​me,” cried the cook, imitating the ­woman’s high-­pitched voice. His upper body was bathed in the light of the burning coals as he twisted himself about the stove. Still in her slippers, O-­Chie slowly shuffled up the narrow, muddy staircase without casting even a sidelong glance in his direction. “Just remember, Miss Fancy Pants, you a­ in’t nothin’ but a greasy-­smelling barmaid when you hop back on that city bus,” the cook shouted back at her crossly. “Oh, this is too much—­hah, what

Café Kyoto  29

a phony . . .” A grimace appeared on the man’s dark, greasy face as he held himself away from the heat of the stove. Located at the back of the second floor, the ladies’ dressing room was a long, narrow space, and O-­Chie could see at the far end of it two ­women smoking cigarettes and chatting. Using the tips of her toes, she kicked several scraps of wastepaper away from the doorway and into the corner. Sourly she pursed her lips. “Who’s in charge of cleanup to­n ight?” The two w ­ omen stopped talking, but neither answered. Just below the win­dow, in front of a shelf set up as a makeup ­table along the length of the room, yet another w ­ oman combing out her hair was kneeling on the floor, with her feet turned out to ­either side like a baby turtle. “Beats me,” she said, from beneath her draping hair. “Like I was saying, I’ve never seen it so bad at New Year’s before,” said a large, round-­faced ­woman with plump shoulders, and a long cigarette holder dangling from her mouth. She was continuing a conversation that O-­Chie seemed to have interrupted. “I mean, they ­won’t even cover the costs of our kimono.” “Well, consider yourself one of the lucky ones! I mean, just look at me. I practically live from hand to mouth,” said another, with a soft, curvy figure, who stood up to remove her clothes. As she cast a sidelong glace at her interlocutor, her jaw bobbed up and down with the rhythm of her words. The round-­faced ­woman cast her eyes downward. “I’m sick and tired of business being so bad.” “Ahh . . . ​ahh,” moaned a tall young girl with glassy eyes, tapping out her cigarette into an empty powder jar as she ­rose. “I’m the one who’s got it rough!” she cried ungraciously, taking leave with a smirk on her l­ips. O-­Chie took off all of her clothes but for her bright-­red long underwear, on top of which she threw on an apron. Picking

30  S A T A I N E K O

up a mirror and a cardboard box filled with makeup and related paraphernalia, she sat down at her designated spot near the entrance. A ­ fter peering briefly into a mirror that s­ he’d placed on the shelf, she lit up a cigarette, turned to the o ­ thers, and began puffing away, as though she ­were fi­nally entitled to a moment or two of relaxation. She alone seemed perfectly indifferent to the ­women’s complaints. Kicking at the hem of her floor-­length skirt, O-­Yoshi then bounded into the room, wagging her square shoulders from side to side. As she untied the string of her apron, she opened the glass win­dow facing the back alley, and shouted, “Yoo-­hoo! Hey you.” “Bring me up a bowl of soba, w ­ ill ya?” “Maybe I’ll have some too,” chimed in another w ­ oman who had entered the room on O-­Yoshi’s heels, and now paused on the point of untying her a­ pron. O-­Yoshi quickly pulled away from the windowsill, just grazing the yellow-­faced ­woman ­behind her. “Hey, Miss Noodles! Bring me up one too . . .” “Well . . . ​Guess I should touch up my face a bit,” said the plump-­shouldered ­woman, rolling up off the floor. ­Every day at approximately five o ­ ’clock in the after­noon the waitresses took turns freshening up their ­faces. Seeing her customers had all gone home, O-­Yō, too, climbed up to the second floor to reapply her makeup. ­She’d been nicknamed Mrs. Air Force General. ­A fter tying on a new apron, she neatly arranged her “ear-­ hider” perm back into place. It was just then that O-­Tsuyu bounded into the room. She was due back for the five ­o’clock shift ­a fter spending some time outside. “Forgive me for being late, Chie-­san, ­w ill y­ ou?” O-­Chie looked up at O-­Tsuyu unsympathetically before her mouth twisted into something more poisonous. “­You’re always late, Tsuyu-­chan. Just look at the clock. It’s already quarter past ­five.”

Café Kyoto  31

O-­Tsuyu had once worked as a geisha’s apprentice in the Willow Bridge district, and her charmingly innocent face now broke out into a sad smile as she made her way to the far end of the room, stepping around all the kimono strewn across the floor. “What’s the m ­ atter, ­dear?” O-­Yō lowered her voice, as though to console the girl, as she removed her own kimono and leaned over to tie the string at the back of O-­Tsuyu’s apron. O-­Chie ­didn’t fail to notice. As soon as O-­Tsuyu stepped out of the room again, she started shouting ­behind the girl as though to push her even faster away. “I’ve had it with that girl. She never does anything she’s told. And, besides, she acts like a dog in heat . . . ​Eh-­eh-eh,” O-­Chie cackled unpleasantly. The gesture left her looking vulgar, almost frighteningly so, despite her dainty, high-­bridged nose and symmetrical features. The o ­ thers all knew O-­Chie had suddenly become very close with a good-­looking boy whose ­father ran an inn, a boy whom O-­Tsuyu, too, had recently broken down into tears over, complaining that he’d stopped seeing her. It was for this reason that none of the other ­women jumped in to second what O-­Chie was suggesting. Quickly changing the topic of the conversation, O-­Chie turned to a girl who’d just entered the room. “KĪ-­chan, tell me, who’s up in the second floor dining r­ oom?” “Tokunori-­san,” the ­woman replied, half-­heartedly. “Hang on a second, kid.” Still clutching her makeup brush, O-­Yoshi had raised her hand into the air in order to stop the delivery boy from the noodle shop before he left the room. “When you go back downstairs, send up Maruyama-­san from the bar, ­w ill you?” The c­ ounter in front of O-­Yoshi was littered with face powder, hair oil, cigarette butts, and h ­ uman hair. Amid this sat a bowl of Chinese soba, steam rising warmly from the top. ­Little pools of grease had floated to the surface of the soup, which now glimmered in the light of the electric bulb hanging above it.

32  S A T A I N E K O

The young man from the bar downstairs came scampering up the staircase like a bull terrier spoiled by a wealthy ­family. “So where’re my soba?” he said, kicking off his newly polished shoes as he entered the room. “­Here, have this,” said O-­Yoshi, placing the bowl ­she’d already begun eating back down on the ­counter. “I thought you ­were treating me. . . . ​This is half-­eaten!” “Oh, just take it.” O-­Yoshi peered into the mirror at her hair, and then slapped the man’s knee with a plump, white hand that was home to beautifully slender fin­gers. The man soon lifted up the bowl—­ but only a­ fter twisting his face to swallow the words, if not the soup, on the tip of his tongue. Not that O-­Yoshi noticed. She was too busy staring shamelessly into the mirror that was the light pink oval of her face. As she touched up her hair, her slender fin­gers danced gracefully around her head. Sitting beside her, her friend O-­Yō cracked a smile as she overheard the ­couple’s banter. “Hey, listen. I think I hear Nat-­chan fighting with someone.” A ­woman still in kimono raised a neatly pressed sleeve up into the air and tilted her ear t­oward the second floor dining room. “A fight?” asked the bartender, his face still in his bowl of noodles. “She’s right. Sounds like someone arguing.” Two or three ­others lifted an ear into the air. Even O-­Yō glanced over to the entranceway.

2 Th e y c ou l d a l l h e a r Nat s u e’s tearful voice ­going on about something. But O-­Chie kept staring into her mirror as she applied the final touches to her freshly made-up face. O-­Yō, too, now had her eyes again fixed on her hair in the mirror.

Café Kyoto  33

“I won­der if she’s in t­here with Tokunori-­san,” said one ­woman, holding back a maliciously curious smile growing on her lips. Tokunori was the son of an aristocrat named Yasukawa. It was an open secret that he was Natsue’s patron. Natsue’s voice grew louder and louder still, and no sooner had they made out the sound of straw sandals pounding down the corridor than did Natsue barge into the room, cutting a lean, slender figure in her colorful kimono. “I ­can’t bear the way that man treats me any longer . . . ,” she cried, throwing herself down in front of her belongings, and breaking into tears. “What’s the m ­ atter, dear?” “What did he do?” “Nat-­chan, what happened?” The bartender now stuck his head in the room as well. “D’you and Mr. Yasukawa have a lover’s quarrel?” “No, we did not. And it’s none of your business anyway!” Shouting back at him, Natsue shooed the man away with her sleeve of green and gold brocade. The scowl on her face, too, now drenched with tears, seemed oddly out of sorts with the elegantly coiffed hair perched atop her h ­ ead. “Nat-­chan, tell us what happened.” O-­Chie shifted to face Natsue, who abruptly stopped sobbing and, with a swift change of heart, began to gush. “That idiot Adachi comes right up to me, and for no reason at all starts saying t­ hings like, ‘Well, y­ ou’re just a whore,’ and ‘All you bitches are scum.’ I mean, I just ­couldn’t take it any more . . .” Still facing her mirror and engrossed in her styling, O-­Yō chimed in. “Adachi? He’s that vile friend of Tokunori’s, ­isn’t he? That arrogant l­ittle dandy always dressed to the nines?” The w ­ oman next to Natsue took the liberty of replying. “Yeah, I know him. He’s the only one among them who’s too much to ­handle. It must have been him. That scoundrel!”

34  S A T A I N E K O

“He’s trying to make you look like a fool, Nat-­chan,” said O-­Yō aggressively. “But who the hell does he think is anyway? Sponging off his parents like that, roaming from one café to the next, night a­ fter night. He’s just making you look like a fool. What business is it of his anyway, calling you a whore. He, of all ­people, has no right to speak to you like that. ‘I’ve got kids at home,’ you tell him, ‘and a husband sick in bed, and I support them both. But look at you! ­You’re nothing but a playboy, taking handouts ­every day from your old man.’ That’s what ­you’ve got to say back to him, Nat-­chan.” O-­Yō had gotten herself worked up. She was out of breath, and her nostrils w ­ ere flaring. Natsue glanced over at her. “­You’re right. And that’s exactly what I told him. He’s got no right to meddle in my business. Why ­else would I be working in this job if it ­weren’t for my sick husband . . . ​and my kids and . . .” With this, Natsue again began to weep. “Oh, stop sniffling, Nat-­chan!” shouted O-­Yoshi. “You mean Tokunori d­ idn’t stick up for you?” added another with a furrowed brow. Each of the ­women painted in her own mind’s eye a picture of Tokunori, the nobleman’s son, with his stiff, pasty-­white features, and his monkey-­like red eyes, which blinked incessantly but never widened into a s­ mile. O-­Chie had been slumped over for some time now, resting her elbows on her knees. Her face taking on the ghostly pallor of a white Noh mask, she puffed on her cigarette, staring at Natsue all the while. Downstairs in the dining hall, the orchestra suddenly began playing a tune with a force that was positively chest pounding. The sad notes of violins seemed, as always, to race ahead of the other instruments, as though chased from ­behind. The loud voice of a drunk shouting in desperation also drifted up from below. The dining room must have been nearly empty for his voice to carry so far.

Café Kyoto  35

3 Ne a r t h e s i x t h wa r d o f Asakusa, where sandal peddlers, watchmakers, tobacconists, and food vendors all set up their make-­ shift stalls, t­here stood a large, perfectly square concrete building on the corner of an alleyway. This was Café Kyoto. Like the squalid backside of any old tenement, its ground floor rested just below street level, and its cement foundation, separating the front entrance from the road, was perpetually covered with street grime. A hastily built structure—­little more than a plot enveloped in concrete—­Café Kyoto had win­dows with white-­painted sashes, fitted with rattling panes of thin glass. The heavy, nondescript doors, which led to the entry­way, w ­ ere glassed only in the upper panels, so even during daylight hours the building was exceedingly dark inside, making it seem like a cellar. Just below the front win­dows, hanging along the dirty grey exterior wall, ­were the thick, golden letters that spelled out “K-­Y-­O -­T-­O,” the final “O” dangling upside down, just below the ­others. Café Kyoto had been built a­ fter the G ­ reat Earthquake of 1923. It was one of many such cafés that had quickly sprung up in newly reconstructed Tokyo. Back in its heyday, the Kyoto was able to ­r ide the tide of more prosperous times, and e­ very day its business seemed as bustling and glamorous as the next. Café Kyoto was second only to Café Orion in this distinction, and the waitresses who worked ­there aspired quite naturally to be just like t­hose at its competition. Café Orion was one of the top two cafés, not only in Asakusa, but in all of Tokyo. The Kyoto was a corporate entity whose com­pany president was a director at a newly built beer factory, so all of the beer served at the Kyoto came from this factory. In the beginning, the restaurant did quite well, and t­ here ­were hardly any difficulties; the

36  S A T A I N E K O

beer sold well. But with time the w ­ omen heard more complaints about the beer. And most of the cafés that had mushroomed in the wake of the disastrous G ­ reat Earthquake had suffered a slow but steady loss of their customers. The Kyoto, however, seemed utterly indifferent to the need for making any changes. T ­ here was ­little effort put into redecorating the dining room. Wall­paper was left to peel away from second-­floor walls damaged by leaking ­water. The three small stoves downstairs often malfunctioned, and from time to time stopped working altogether. Word had it among the cooks that the president was taking the Kyoto’s earnings and spending them elsewhere. When it came to celebrating the New Year, the last remaining ornaments—­bright red artificial leaves—­had mysteriously dis­appeared, and nothing more than a single flower now decorated each t­ able. Only by the grace of the ­women’s kimono—­ with their vibrant designs on formal black fabric—­was the Kyoto decked out at all for the holidays. With their salaries hardly half of what they once had been, the ­women still tried their best to keep up with the standards set by the Orion ­women. Few realized that the Kyoto’s waitresses w ­ ere all that its investors had ­going for them . . . ​ Café Orion was run by the president of A Bank, a stone building located beside it. He was one of the richest cap­i­tal­ists ­doing business in Japan. A glamorous place from its inception, the Orion seemed with each passing day to become more and more prosperous. Stepping through its impressive front doors, decorated with polished fixtures in gold, one was greeted by a handsome young bellboy, erect as a piece of porcelain, who bowed deeply to each customer passing in and out of the café.

Café Kyoto  37

4 It wa s w e l l pa s t s e v e n in the eve­n ing, but something about the Kyoto dining room w ­ asn’t quite right, much like a sliding door that rattled in its tracks. It seemed rather chilly and somehow too white. The ­music coming from the orchestra circled desperately around the room, as though to mimic the animated air of a small movie theater. ­Women shuffled idly in their traditional sandals between t­ ables seated with too few guests. Looking rather serious, even snooty, the bartender Mr. Maruyama faced the front of the room with a silver cocktail shaker undulating in one hand. Standing in front of him was O-­Iku, conservatively dressed in a dark kimono, who turned stiffly at the waist as she scanned the dining room for o ­ rders. Between them, lined up carefully on a silver tray placed atop the bar, ­were several tumblers of whiskey and four large, round cocktail ­g lasses. “Kaoru-­chan, follow me.” Lifting up the silver tray, O-­Iku called out to Kaoru who was just passing by. The tumblers of whiskey sparkled like gold. The pink “Millionaire” cocktails quivered like peonies. As they watched the drinks being carried upstairs, two ­women on a divan exchanged whispers. “Looks like Whiskey Tanaka’s back to­n ight.” The second floor was exceptionally busy that night. The Western-­style drinks O-­Iku delivered w ­ ere but the first of five or six rounds eventually ordered. The sound of O-­Iku racing up and down the stairwell was enough to make anyone downstairs feel rather ­forlorn. O-­Chie and Natsue had at first been assigned to work downstairs, but they w ­ ere l­ater called up to the second floor and had been t­ here for some time now. Several o ­ thers took turns visiting the room upstairs as well. ­Those not selected to work t­here occasionally glared up the noisy stairwell and then walked away, looking offended. Mr. Ito, the waitresses’ man­ag­er, even tilted his

38  S A T A I N E K O

balding head to the side, inquisitively, and marched upstairs to take a look for himself. When he saw how many Western drinks the ­women had brought to the second floor, however, he was hardly in any position to scold ­them. O-­Yō, meanwhile, was attending two customers in a corner of the main dining room. One of them was a forty-­something burly looking man, with a square-­shaped face, a lower jaw that jutted forward, and a bald spot on the top of his head. One of O-­Yoshi’s regulars, he was a steel manufacturer they called Mā-­ san. Whenever he smiled, something rather cunning seemed to appear in the turn of his lips and the corner of his eyes. “­Shall I try to find O-­Yoshi for you?” Playing the role of gracious hostess, as always, O-­Yō refilled the men’s glasses. “Oh, ­don’t bother,” the man spit out his words. “She’s nothing but trou­ble anyway,” he chuckled off handedly with a shrug of his ­shoulders. O-­Yō ascended to the second floor by way of the back staircase. At the entrance to the dining hall stood O-­Iku and Na­ tsue, looking over a bill they ­were ­d iscussing. “Yoshi-­chan ­isn’t up ­here, is she?” asked O-­Yō in passing. “Oh, ­there you are, Yō-­san. Stop by Mr. Tanaka’s room ­later, ­won’t you?” This was Natsue, who called out to O-­Yō cheerfully as she made her way ­toward the dining room. The linoleum floors and the dark green wall­paper, of course, added to the general effect, but it was the dimmed electric lights, too, that made the second-­floor rooms seem especially gloomy. In the shadow of a large decorative screen, placed next to the back entrance, two ­women sat on a long divan with a mixed-­ blooded dressmaker looking rather somber. In the windowsill at the end of the room stood a pretentious-­looking fop who had surely, at some point, taken a poor waitress or two for all they had. Fi­nally, seated at the t­ able to the right, was the pointy-­faced, somewhat hunchbacked figure of the metal engraver. He sat in front of a plate of fruit, staring vacantly in front of him. All of ­these men

Café Kyoto  39

­ ere ­under the age of thirty. Each of them was also O-­Yoshi’s w customer. “Good eve­ning,” said the dressmaker as she saw O-­Yō pass by, bowing in a very Japanese-­like manner, as might any merchant serving female clientele. “Is that O-­Yō-­san? O-­Yō-­san. Do please come in.” Once O-­Yō had caught the eye of the metal engraver, he too called out to her, cloyingly so. The engraver felt pressed to explain how foolish he’d just been with O-­Yoshi. With his carefully parted hair, the lady-­k iller at the windowsill narrowed his eyes flirtatiously, pursed his lips, and from a midpoint on his properly buttoned suit offered O-­Yō an agile bow before replying verbally to her greeting. O-­Yoshi, however, was nowhere to be seen. Other ­women, dressed in their colorful kimono, flitted about the entrance to Room No. 1, just to the right, off the corridor. “Whiskey Tanaka” was always served h ­ ere. As she searched for O-­Yoshi, O-­Yō had attempted to pass by the room undetected, though ­unsuccessfully. “O-­Yō, do please join us.” This time it was a deep, masculine voice that called out from the room. “My dear gentlemen. Welcome, welcome,” O-­Yō replied, at long last displaying t­hose signature graces that had earned her the nickname Mrs. Air Force General. Pushing apart the curtains hanging in the doorway, she made an elegant entrance into the room.

5 In the small private room four or five ­women w ­ ere flirting with Tanaka and the two men accompanying him. But O-­Yoshi was not

40  S A T A I N E K O

among them. Tanaka was the tall man, wearing a white-­speckled Western suit. Referring to the long, oval shape of his face, the rather droll O-­Iku had once quietly shared a laugh at his expense: “­Doesn’t he look like one of ­those ‘young squires’ in erotic prints?” Some said he was a stockbroker; no one knew for sure. “How about it, Yō-­san? Just one drink?” asked Tanaka, looking around the ­table. “­Don’t tell me ­we’re all out again? Someone get us another round, and be quick about it.” “You sure are a fan of whiskey, Mr. Tanaka,” said one ­woman, before quickly leaving the room. “Oh, no,” replied O-­Yō with a smile. “I ­couldn’t possibly have any whiskey,” she said, still holding herself close to the c­ urtain. “O-­Yō-­san, y­ ou’re the only one who h ­ asn’t had a drink with us yet.” “But you must understand, Mr.  Tanaka, O-­ Yō-­ san wouldn’t dream of compromising herself.” ­These refined, rather ladylike words came from O-­Chie, who was seated in a chair directly in front of Tanaka. Holding a glass of whiskey in her hand, she had been naturally drawn into his brief repartee with O-­Yō. Once the tone of her voice fi­nally sunk in, O-­Chie threw back her head and emptied her glass. Mr. Tanaka never behaved so politely when it came to anyone but O-­Yō. “O-­Chie is quite right. Just imagine the scolding ­she’d get from her husband,” added Natsue, who had bounced back into the room as though in shoes made of rubber. “­Don’t you worry, Tanaka-­san. I’ll be sure to get good and drunk for you to­night, okay?” Natsue’s eyes narrowed as ­these slightly more vulgar words escaped her lips with a smile. Just as O-­Yō took her leave from Tanaka’s room, O-­Yoshi caught sight of her and bounded away from the lady-­k iller’s ­table, swinging her shoulders from side to side. “O-­Yō-­san,” she cried, histrionically, in a voice that was characteristically affected. Her tiny porcelain nose held up high in the air, she cast a pleading glance in O-­Yō’s ­d irection. “Mā-­san is waiting for you downstairs, O-­Yoshi.”

Café Kyoto  41

“Mā-­san? Oh, who gives a fig about him.” The roughness of O-­Yoshi’s voice stood in stark contrast to her earlier tone. “­Can’t you go instead, Yō-­san?” Mā-­san and the metal engraver had been O-­Yoshi’s customers before she moved to the Kyoto. T ­ here had been a point when O-­Yoshi would even refer to Mā-­san as her patron. ­A fter a moment of silence, O-­Yō spoke. “It’s quite lively up ­here, ­isn’t it? Thanks to Mr. Tanaka.” “Hmph.” O-­Yoshi glared at O-­Yō out of the corner of her eye, with ­little but scorn for what she implied. The rules w ­ ere fairly strict at the Kyoto when it came to sitting down and drinking with clients. For some time now, however, the man nicknamed Mr. Whiskey had made it a practice of entertaining his waitresses, convincing them to slurp down strong Western drinks one ­after another. Swept up in the spirit of this lavish spending, the dainty w ­ omen surely felt a thrill to down such strong spirits, colored pink and gold. Neither O-­Yoshi nor O-­Yō partook in the cele­brations. And perhaps this was why Mr. Tanaka’s favorites had shifted. Instead of being O-­Yoshi’s customer, he now spent most of his time with Natsue and O-­Chie. O-­Chie was an arrogant w ­ oman, through and through. She never smiled at customers whom she ­d idn’t know or found boring. With utter indifference she would stroll by any customer other w ­ omen ­were lavishing attention on if he failed to express sufficient interest in her. It was for this reason that many w ­ ere astonished by ­O -­Chie’s pleasant attitude t­oward Mr. Tanaka. Six months earlier, truth be told, her former patron had been put on trial for a misuse of public funds. By 9:00 p.m. the dining hall downstairs was bustling. Partitioned into two equal halves, Kaoru’s team had their group of customers on one side of the room, while O-­Chie’s team had hers

42  S A T A I N E K O

on the other. O-­Yō was assisting Kaoru’s team, while Natsue and O-­Tsuyu had joined O-­Chie’s. Since the innkeeper’s son was among the customers that eve­ning, O-­Tsuyu shuffled awkwardly around the dining room with a sheepish grin on her face. Meanwhile, with her drunk-­looking eyes, Natsue seemed to be positively melting, even if she was still careful as ever on her toes. Whenever anyone tried to engage her in conversation, her mouth dropped open in amusement, and out came a peal of laughter, “Ah, ha ha ha.” O-­Chie had come down from the second floor as well, and was sitting on the sofa in front of the register. As she gazed out onto the customers, no one seemed particularly in­ter­est­ing to her. Just then Tanaka came marching downstairs. He caught sight of O-­Yō in front of the bar and went over to her, grabbing a hold of her shoulders as he spoke. Tanaka had earlier promised to take every­one drinking ­after the restaurant closed that night, and now he was entreating O-­Yō to join them as well. O-­Yō happened to catch O-­Chie’s eye just as O-­Chie turned ­toward them. The sheer lack of expression whatsoever on O-­Chie’s face might have suggested she was utterly indifferent to O-­ Yō’s conversation with Tanaka, and that she had only looked in their direction ­because they had fallen into her line of vision as she turned. But O-­Yō well understood what lay ­behind the surface of O-­Chie’s indifference. Closing time was approaching, and the dining room had grown quiet, so when O-­Chie again looked over at the pair of them, both sitting on the sofa, she called out to O-­Yō. “But you ­can’t even drink, O-­Yō-­san. Just think how tedious it w ­ ill be for Mr. Tanaka and the o ­ thers if you accompanied them. It would be so much wiser, my dear, for you to stay right ­here.” O-­Chie had tilted her head ever so slightly to the side; her calm manner of speaking might have befitted a well-­bred young lady in a shinpa drama.2

2

New school (shinpa) theater developed in the Meiji Period (1868–1912) as part of an effort to modernize forms of Japa­nese drama. Although ­women had

Café Kyoto  43

“Even if I could partake, I’m in no position to go out ­after the café closes.” With this uncharacteristically distancing retort, O-­Yō arose from where ­she’d been sitting on the sofa. Calm as ever, O-­Chie remained seated on her own. ­A fter closing time, the kitchen was especially busy with the cleanup. Ishida, the chef-­in-­training, had begun to curse ­under his breath as he tackled the stack of dishes. “And what the hell’s wrong with having a bit of booze now and then? Oh, I’ll beat the crap outta that O-­Tsuyu, I w ­ ill, that bitch!” Ishida was normally a soft-­spoken man, and his tone of voice was usually mellow, even when he complained. But his small, bony face now grew more and more pale. The other cooks said nothing. Ishida, admirably, continued his scrubbing. “Good grief, Ishida-­san is drunk again.” One of the w ­ omen came out from the kitchen and whispered this with a furrowed brow to another. The dishwasher Ishida had fallen for O-­Tsuyu. O-­Chie’s home was located in a tenement ­house on an alleyway in Mukōjima. Beneath the dim light of an electric bulb, in a tiny, unkempt, tatami-­matted room, O-­Chie sat alone as she always did, untying her hair and combing through her long locks with quick, irritable strokes. In the larger room next to her she could hear her child and her hired nursemaid breathing softly in their sleep. As she wound up her hair back into a knot, O-­Chie’s face suddenly looked old. Smoking her cigarette with a vacant stare, O-­Chie thought of Tanaka, who had broken his promise with her and the ­others. She wondered about Tanaka’s relationship with O-­Yō . . . ​about O-­Yō’s New Year’s kimono, which was much

been banned from performing on the stage for centuries in Japan, the new school famously brought actresses back to the stage.

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prettier than hers . . . ​about her own lover who had just volunteered to join the armed ser­v ices ­after the New Year’s. O-­Chie then noticed the red child’s vest hanging up on the wall. That vest, too, had faded in color. Even for a headstrong, irascible ­woman like O-­Chie, seeing her child’s l­ ittle vest—­late at night in a tiny room on the outskirts of town—­was enough to make her shudder with despair. Something fearful now ran through O-­Chie’s ashen cheeks, and tears began to fall from her vacant, wide-­open eyes. She picked up the tongs lying in the charcoal brazier and gripped them tightly. With the look of a pouting child on her face, she pressed the tongs into her chest of drawers. The metal clasps on the drawer quivered. Only a­ fter they had eaten away at the wood did she remove the tongs, but then she thrust them right back into it. ­There ­were two sets of holes now bored into the white paulownia chest.3 The sensation of stabbing into the soft wood exhilarated O-­Chie. Again she pulled back the tongs over her shoulder, ready to strike again.

6 “Wh at t h e h e l l’s ­g oi ng on ? Who’s spilled w ­ ater on the second floor?” This was the dishwasher shouting from the kitchen. Soon thereafter he came bounding around to the back stairwell and pounded his clogs up the wooden treads. Grabbing onto both sides of the second-­floor railing, he poked his head up between his arms. His face was so square in shape it had earned him the nickname Boxhead.

3 ­Daughters in Japan w ­ ere often given a dresser made of paulownia wood when they ­were married.

Café Kyoto  45

“What? You again?” he smiled in surprise. “No won­der no one answered.” A tiny, orange-­speckled kitten, squatting over a sunken spot on the floorboards, continued to pee as she stared up at the dishwasher’s face. “Oh, not again!” cried O-­Kinu with a smile, as she emerged softly from beneath the decorative screen dividing the second-­ floor dining room. “She wet the floor in h ­ ere just the other day, the ­little devil.” “What? The kitty peed?” With no kids of his own, and fond of cats himself, Supervisor Itō happened to be in the ­women’s changing room, reclined on the floor. In the corner sat Misao, who’d only just been hired, and was already saying ­she’d have to leave Café Kyoto. She was talking about it now with the supervisor. A young girl dressed in a long-­sleeved kimono, her hair tied up in a bob, Misao would have to find work elsewhere ­because of difficulties at home. Another café in Asakusa, called the Naraya, had made a point of collecting beautiful young girls. In order to keep them in the café for long stretches of time, it had developed the practice of loaning the girls’ families all of their wages up front. Sobbing into her handkerchief, Misao was now explaining that her body, for all intents and purposes, had been sold. Supervisor Itō picked up the kitten, who had wandered into the room, and tried to console the girl as he stroked it. Misao was a ­woman they wanted to keep at the Kyoto given that s­he’d originally come from the Orion. An arrogant one she was, to be sure, but the sight of her crying made even O-­K inu, with whom she rarely saw eye to eye, feel sorry for her. O-­K inu’s circumstances ­were not unlike Misao’s. Her own ­father had died, and she had several siblings left to support at home. Passing by Itō on her way inside, Natsue floated into the changing room like a gladiolus, dressed in several layers. “Welcome back, Madame Butterfly.” “Oh, stop it, Itō-­san!”

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On top of a shoebox fallen onto its side, Natsue tossed a pair of low wooden clogs with light-­ pink straps and then chuckled. ­A fter tearing off her deep-­red jacket and kimono, she sat down on the floor with her legs spread apart, wearing nothing but her long underwear. She began to untie the parcel she had carried inside. “Did they finish making your outfit?” said O-­K inu, twisting herself in Natsue’s direction. Two or three ­women facing the cosmetic shelf also turned around to look. No one failed to notice that on the wrapping paper of the “special order” from Mitsukoshi Department store appeared the name “Mr. Yasukawa.” It was a matching top and bottom made with traditional, large-­print fabric from Ōshima. “Oh, how gorgeous.” “Look how they match.” Several ­women peered over. “How much did that set you back?” asked one of them, reaching out to touch the fabric covetously. Unfolding her new set of clothes, Natsue mentioned the name of her five-­year-­old ­daughter and explained how she used to imagine herself strolling around in something like this, just like a young, ­m iddle-­class ­house­w ife. “When it starts to get warm outside, I’m ­going to get a fancy Western outfit made for Hanae, too, and I’m g­ oing to put on ­these new ­things and take her out to Ueno Park. I’ve been looking forward to it ever since I ordered this.” “Oh, Natsue-­san! Is that a hollyhock leaf crest on your lapel?” 4 At O-­Yō’s remark every­one’s eyes now settled on the collar of Natsue’s kimono. “Yes, well, Tazuyo-­san and I use the same crest.”

4

The trefoil hollyhock leaf crest belonged to the Tokugawa clan, which ruled Japan during the Edo Period (1603–1868).

Café Kyoto  47

As every­one knew, Tazuyo-­san was the d­ aughter of an impor­tant retired army col­o­nel, who had become Mr. Yasukawa’s so-­called ward. “­Wasn’t that the seal of ­women in the Shōgun’s Inner Chamber?” “Oh, stop it, Yō-­san,” said Natsue, with an ostentatious giggle. “But you know, I can still remember to this day when my husband got sick and had to quit his job. And I had to come to work ­here on my very first day without a single kimono of my own. I was never ashamed of having to take this job, I’ll tell you, ­until O-­Chie-­san waltzed up to me that day and said, ‘Well, I’ll bet you’ve never worn a silk kimono before.’ ” “Oh, I d­ on’t believe it. Chie-­san would never have said something like that!” Just then O-­Chie herself peered into the doorway and called out to Natsue. “Nat-­chan, Mr. Tanaka’s h ­ ere. Come down quickly, w ­ ill you?” “Mr. Tanaka? I’ll be right down.” Natsue replied cheerfully to O-­Chie, and in all sincerity, as though what s­he’d just recalled hardly mattered at all.

7 A special outing to view cherry blossoms was not or­ga­n ized by Café Kyoto this year. Each of the twenty-­one w ­ omen who worked ­there could wear what­ever clothes they pleased for the season. Nor was the dining hall decorated with anything more than a few branches of artificial blossoms, however odiously overtinted. The older ­women exchanged stories about the lively parties they used to have in days long gone by, and about the special kimono they

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used to wear for the occasion. A few even pulled out photo­g raphs of their past outings. At the Café Orion, however, the decorative banners advertising their own annual Cherry Viewing Party extended out into the street from their second-­story win­dows. The Kyoto w ­ omen could hardly admire the decorations, given how small they felt whenever they strolled by. The gloominess of its gradual decline hovered over the Kyoto’s w ­ omen like a fog, clouding their judgment when it came to ­matters of the ­heart. O-­Iku was head over heels for a man who told her, “­Until I’m married I w ­ on’t sleep with anyone.” Kaoru was still knitting a sweater for a Keiō University ­student. O-­Yō’s husband showed up ­after work, from time to time, in order to take her home. One w ­ oman succeeded in getting her lover’s parents to accept her as a bride. Another tied her hair up into a matronly bun and headed off on a short trip with her beau. Still the object of O-­ Chie’s contempt, O-­ Tsuyu fi­ nally quit the Kyoto, but only when her boyfriend eventually ­i nsisted. O-­Chie, meanwhile, had been seeing an enlisted man almost ­every day now—­whenever she could find some extra time in the morning. In fact, well a­fter closing time, while every­one ­else was busy washing up, O-­Chie would stay late to finish her own portion of the next morning’s cleanup. This had the effect of making O-­Chie look uncharacteristically worthy of every­one’s ­praise. O-­Chie’s team at the café had lost several of its members. Among ­those ­women left it was now Natsue alone whose colorful sleeves fluttered, graciously, like the wings of a swallow. The lady-­k iller and the metal engraver still came to see O-­Yoshi. But it was Kaoru’s team, to which O-­Yō belonged, that

Café Kyoto  49

now led the café in sales. To O-­Chie’s consternation they comported themselves quite gaily. Whiskey Tanaka, meanwhile, had stopped dropping by. O-­Yō had heard an in­ter­est­ing story about him from O-­Yoshi, a story that apparently had come from Natsue. One night Natsue and O-­Chie had ended up staying over with Tanaka at a geisha’s tea­house.5 They had become accustomed to ­going out for drinks with Tanaka ­after the Kyoto closed, but on this one occasion it had become too late to return home by train, and the other man in their party had returned by motorcar. When O-­Chie’s porcelain face emerged from beneath the silk-­crepe duvet, it apparently took on the kind of sultry self-­ assurance one might expect in the face of a movie star. “It’s not safe for you to sleep in the m ­ iddle, my dear. Let’s trade places?” she then said to Nat-­chan. Natsue herself had no ulterior motive for lying down next to Tanaka, so she quickly replied, “Oh, okay,” and happily switched places with O-­Chie. Truth be told, however, Natsue’s eyes had widened, and her face cracked into a broad smile as she clasped her hands, knowingly, to the side. ­A fter hearing Natsue’s story, O-­Yoshi then shared her own. She herself had gone to the Kabuki theater with Tanaka and another ­woman the summer before that. At about the same time Tanaka had started visiting the Kyoto. Not privy to all t­hese rumors, O-­Yō had simply thought O-­Yoshi acted superior to O-­Chie. Now, more than anything she was alarmed to learn how quickly O-­Yoshi had acted. O-­Yō had married a man she met at the com­pany where they both had worked, and ­she’d become a café waitress only when he lost his job ­later on. With less than a year of experience u ­ nder her b­ elt, O-­Yō had no clue what went on b­ ehind the scenes. So when O-­Yoshi stopped offering even the

5

Teahouses ­were traditionally known as ­houses of assignation.

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most basic of greetings to Tanaka, O-­Yō had no par­t ic­u ­lar reason to be suspicious. The spring sunshine cast its morning rays through the glass win­ dows of the w ­ omen’s changing room, where it seemed to dance on the weathered tatami. O-­Chie and Natsue ­were sitting alone at the makeup shelf near the entranceway. A cigarette still dangling from her fingertips, O-­Chie had thrown her hand down into her lap and was staring into the mirror with moist, vacant eyes. Natsue struck a similar pose beside her. A clamor of voices suddenly arose from the back stairwell as the w ­ omen who had just finished breakfast made their way into the changing room, noisily sucking their teeth. They each tossed themselves to the ground, engrossed in conversation, and only noticed O-­Chie’s condition when they overheard Natsue consoling her. It all had something to do with her fiancé, and how it ­wasn’t ­going to work out between them—­her and the enlisted man, that is. O-­Chie had apparently just come in from a meeting with the man this morning. They inferred all of this from what Natsue was saying to her, but O-­Chie refused to acknowledge their sympathy. “Well, my life ­isn’t exactly a bed of roses ­either! I get depressed ­every time I step into my h ­ ouse, for crying out loud.” Sitting with one knee lifted off the ground, Natsue had spun around to face the other w ­ omen, who had by now all turned in their direction. “I mean, he’s sick and all, but his brain works just fine. He wants this, he wants that—he ­won’t leave me alone!” Natsue had once broken into tears explaining how her husband lay in bed with tuberculosis but still demanded marital relations when she returned home from work, exhausted. “Ahhhh, I wish I ­were dead . . . ,” cried O-­Chie with a long sigh. As was her habit, O-­Ryū then tried making light of the situation. “Now, now, that’s not the Chie-­chan I know. If you do kick the bucket, Chie-­chan, I’ll burn some incense for you, I promise.”

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Aaah! O-­Chie tossed her lit cigarette over her shoulder, falling backward onto the floor as she did so. It was something of a sight to see tears welling up in O-­Chie’s eyes. “Be more careful, Chie-­chan,” said O-­Ryū, picking up the tossed cigarette off the floor, only to take a puff on it herself. “­Really, what’s gotten into you ­today?” “Oh, it’s just cherry-­blossom season, and this year it’s been extra depressing!” chimed in another.

8 Th at a f t e r ­n o on t h e di n i ng ro om was empty but for the oddly drawn-­out notes of a piano, playing a school anthem that sounded languid and cheap. O-­Yoshi had been playing the strange tune over and over again, trying to look serious even though no one ­else was listening. In the shade of the piano another ­woman was taking a nap. “It’s a shame our girls are so unremarkable.” On a chair in front of the bar sat President Yasuda, taking in the dining room around him through tortoiseshell glasses. “Well, I’ve always said so,” replied store man­a g­er Satō, who leaned forward in his chair, watching as a ­woman walked by the win­dows in front of him. Beside them sat Yasuda’s mistress, a young ­woman knitting beads. Far from looking the part of a former geisha, she had applied her makeup in a highly refined fashion and did ­little more than quietly attend to her beadwork. “Sure enough, Umetsuki fi­nally went u ­ nder.” “It went u ­ nder, ­d idn’t it?” repeated Yasuda by way of a reply, smiling inwardly. “­We’re the only one still hanging on.” Most of the cafés that had sprung up in the wake of the ­Great Kantō Earthquake had recently begun to close their doors. Café Umetsuki had closed only two or three days earlier, with

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“For Rent” signs now posted in its second-­floor win­dows and on its front door. But the way in which Yasuda said the Kyoto was “the only one still hanging on” almost seemed to imply the imminent demise of his own place as well. Regardless, he seemed intent on keeping his waitresses well dressed ­until the very end. Just then three men walked into the café and marched up to the second floor. It was Mr. Yasukawa and his friends. Yasukawa’s coloring seemed sickly, as was usual, and his face betrayed no emotions. One of the men in his group was the son of a member of the House of Peers, who closely resembled his overweight ­father, a man whose picture often appeared in the papers. Another man in the party had a large build but looked particularly carefree, as though he’d matured rather idly with the ­simple help of good nutrition. “It looks like Tokunori-­san’s ­here,” said Yasuda, getting up from his chair. “Is Natsue around? Send her up to the second floor for me.” A ­woman on the divan answered him, and ­after mumbling something to his mistress, he went upstairs. President Yasuda had made it a habit of looking in on Yasukawa’s group on the second floor. He always asked Natsue to attend to them, speaking to her in language that her own ­father might have used. According to Natsue’s reports, Yasuda had plans for a new business venture, and had been trying to enlist Yasukawa’s support. With an air of triumph, Natsue spoke as though her own assistance had been solicited for the venture as well. Earlier that day a notice about the staff’s dress code had been posted in the changing room. Seeing O-­Iku walk into the room, O-­Yō let her voice rise with excitement. “Look at you, Iku-­san, following the new rules to a tee, I see.” “Oh, stop it, w ­ ill you. What do they say anyway? ‘No black kimono’? I have nothing very festive so I’ll have to get a brand-­new one made.”

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“­Really, it’s just impossible. ‘Wear nice kimono, wear nice kimono,’ that’s all they ever say. But what do they actually do to help us out?” Pouting in discontent, O-­K inu thrust out her chin further with each word she spoke. But even the ­women’s blossom-­like attire seemed to wither away in the desolate cavern that was the Kyoto. The Orion, by contrast, was itself a splendid silk flower, its waitresses fluttering about it joyously like butterflies. “Who’s got three yen to spare nowadays, anyway? I mean, if y­ ou’ve got someone to buy you nice kimono it all works out just fine. But what happens to an old maid like me? I’m not working to keep myself well-­d ressed, you know, and with all the kids I have back home, I can hardly keep them fed.” The ­mother of four l­ittle ones, O-­Ryū knitted her brows and laughed ­bitterly. “O-­Ryū’s right. The prob­lem is the cost of our clothes. ­We’re still paying off the cost of our New Year’s kimono, ­aren’t we? They need to bring the price back down to fifty sen. I’ve asked Kaoru-­san about it a million times already, but she never gives me a straight answer.” “Well, she ­doesn’t have to worry, does she, b­ ecause someone ­else pays her bills. ­We’re the ones who end up suffering.” Each of the w ­ omen added a word or two to the conversation. Someone said that Kaoru was being particularly loyal to President Yasuda ­because he was planning to take her to a baseball game. Suddenly their conversation about kimono shifted into a barrage of complaints about the fees they ­were being charged by the management. Their clothing fee had been as low as fifty sen per month, but then it was raised again to a ­whole yen in December ­because of the cost of New Year’s kimono. Now it was April, however, and they still w ­ ere paying one yen a month. Out of that the café was taking thirty sen for itself and leaving seventy sen for the ­women’s “savings accounts.” But the ­women themselves ­were never allowed to carry their passbooks, and ­after O-­Tsuyu had

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resigned from the restaurant, for example, the savings she got back was much smaller than ­she’d ever expected. It was cases like O-­Tsuyu’s that stoked their anxiety. Each night the café took in twenty yen, with all twenty ­women working. But who knew what sort of expenses this six hundred yen a month was used to pay for. Even the cooks’ salaries at the Kyoto amounted to ­l ittle more than a pittance. “It’s horrible, ­isn’t it, when they take out one ­whole yen just when you think ­you’ve saved three?” cried O-­Ryū, ­plaintively. O-­Yō followed with a passionate outburst of her own. “Iku-­san, let’s talk to Kaoru-­san about it, okay? If the business goes ­under, who knows, they might not give us back a single penny from our savings.” A gust of wind swept into the room. A piece of Luster, being hung out to dry, swung up against the glass win­dow, making it rattle in its frame. Not properly fixed to the wall, the recent notice about the ­women’s dress code also began to ­r ipple. A second gust of wind then drew the piece of paper even closer to the win­dow. Soon the large white sheet had risen up awkwardly into the air and flown out the win­dow. “Yaay!” Fired up for some time now, the ­women now clapped their hands in unison and cheered like c­ hildren. One morning a man came to visit Natsue, a man living in Natsue’s ­house, whom all the ­women recalled having seen before. Natsue ­wasn’t ­there at the time, so he returned ­later that after­noon. No one knew where Natsue was that day, for she had gone home the night before and never showed up for work the next morning. “It’s terribly urgent that I speak with her. You d­ on’t have any idea where she might have gone, do you?” The man’s words suggested he was deeply troubled, but he waivered. “Let me come in for a bit,” he said, walking into the café and taking a seat. He pulled out a piece of paper from an inner pocket and handed it over to the ­woman who had greeted him.

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“Well, you see, I have this for her.” It was a five-­page letter, written with ballpoint pen, on cheap manuscript paper. “Hmm?” The ­woman began to read the letter, but then suddenly turned around and called out to her colleagues. Kaoru, O-­Yō, and O-­Ryū rushed over. The letter was the last testament of Natsue’s husband. They all crowded around each other to read it. The man had written about his anguish of being an invalid husband, about his painful resentment ­toward Natsue for the way she had recently been treating him. ­There was also something to the effect that he was on the point of d­ ying anyway, so he would try to relieve Natsue of the burden he placed on her as soon as pos­si­ble. At the end of the letter he added something about their child. “Well, my goodness, tell us what happened.” “He overdosed on sleeping pills. And while it seems as though he has made it through the worst, the doctor says that he’s gotten much weaker.” “How horrible. And for Nat-­chan, too, I mean.” “Last night she went home as she always does, I think. I won­der where ­else she might have gone.” The man then took his leave, asking the w ­ omen to have Natsue head home as soon as she returned to the café. Natsue, however, did not return to the store that eve­n ing.

9 Wh e n t h e p ol ic e s how e d u p, and then the journalists, every­one in the restaurant became alarmed. It was in a wooded area on the slopes of Mt. Haruna that the decomposed bodies from the lovers’ suicide had been discovered. The silk-­crepe kimono found alongside the bodies—­w ith its

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splashed red pattern on a background of solid black—­was O-­Chie’s. The man was a deserter from the Imperial Guards. About a month earlier O-­Chie had taken several days off from work, but a week had gone by, and then a full ten days, and still she h ­ adn’t returned to the café. Although the ­women at first seemed united in not wanting to gossip, eventually they embraced their suspicions and began whispering among themselves. Only ­later would they learn that the man involved in the incident had also abandoned his post before disappearing. Large photos of the two ­were featured, side by side, in the newspaper. The man’s photo­g raph ­d idn’t resemble him in the least. But the photo­g raph of the w ­ oman they all knew so well, even as it appeared in the newspaper, seemed uncanny in how it captured O-­Chie’s pale, puffy features. The fact that she had let the man strangle her first—­and the choice of Mt. Haruna, where they had traveled together the previous autumn—­seemed like a gesture almost too sweet and thoughtful for the O-­Chie they had all known in her lifetime. Indeed, the w ­ omen at Café Kyoto had thought O-­Chie incapable of suicide. It was O-­Yō alone who insisted that suicide was in keeping with O-­Chie’s nature. The man’s fellow ser­vicemen in the Imperial Guard battalion, however, ­were indignant that he had disgraced them. When it came to the contours of her life story, O-­Chie had apparently adjusted them just as she might her own physical appearance—­that whitely powdered face of hers, for instance, that resembled a mask from the Noh theater. Although she was by no means the type to engage in idle chatter about where she had come from, O-­Chie normally fit herself into what­ever sort of background seemed to please her. As she told it, her real name was Teruko-­san; the f­ather of her ­children was the young master of a distinguished ­family; she received a monthly payment from him each week; and she still went in and out of their g­ rand home quite frequently given that his wife treated her so kindly. This was the tall tale she was in the habit of spinning, of course, to her own satisfaction. But according to the newspaper reports, O-­Chie’s real name was Yoneda Kane (age twenty-­eight). She was the ­daughter

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of a poor farmer who had run away from her miserable life in the countryside. Her ­children had been fathered by the cook at a certain hot-­pot restaurant where ­she’d once worked. The older ­woman ­she’d hired to take care of her ­children had in effect raised them as her own in the countryside, entirely convinced that O-­Chie’s flight into the city required her to be a live-in employee at the Kyoto. When it came to the gentleman recently sent to prison for the abuse of public funds, the other ­women ­hadn’t realized for quite some time that this extravagant customer who had started visiting the Kyoto about a year beforehand had in fact been O-­Chie’s patron. The way O-­Chie always greeted him so formally—­w ith a curt “Welcome to the café” and a bowing of her head—­was all the more shocking when they learned of the full extent of their relations. The ­women had occasion now to recall all of ­these facts once again. ­A fter the gentleman in question had been arrested, it became somewhat difficult for O-­Chie to make ends meet. Her debts to the dressmaker alone had amounted to more than two hundred yen. Most of the w ­ omen had no inkling ­she’d managed to negotiate such an enormous line of credit. During morning cleanup, someone on the second floor announced that they had found the egg sack of a green lacewing on the win­ dow glass.6 This caused a ­g reat commotion among the w ­ omen. It was covered with extremely delicate gray fur, which was at least half an inch long, and it was found pointing downward. An egg sack pointing downward was bad luck, so the saying went, which is why they all surmised that the Kyoto might soon go u ­ nder. But Chie-­san had already died, ­after all, and perhaps the bad luck had

6

According to Buddhist scripture, the undoge flower only blooms once ­every three thousand years. This insect’s egg sack, named ­a fter the flower, was also considered a rarity, not unlike a four-­leaf clover.

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already come and gone. . . . ​A ll this gossiping set the ­women’s hearts strangely aflutter. Having been out of work for some time now b­ ecause of an illness, O-­Yoshi showed up in the ­women’s changing room one day looking quite well rested. About a month earlier she had suffered an acute hemorrhage of the uterus. At the time, her face suddenly turned bright red and started twitching, ­after which she collapsed in the corner of the changing room, writhing in agony. Once the sharp pain had subsided, her eyes rolled up into her head and she let out a tearful groan. “I mean, cramps are scary, a­ ren’t they? I hear it helps if you get a guy to press down on you with all his strength. Which is why Mr. Itō did his best to help her out at the time. That’s the only way she got the pain to stop, you know.” The w ­ omen suddenly began chattering away as though ­they’d experienced the shock of an earthquake. Up u ­ ntil recently, O-­Yoshi and her husband had been renting the second floor of a hairdresser’s located in Asakusa, which was eventually demolished for the sake of town planning. A ­ fter this they moved in with O-­Yoshi’s s­ ister, who had set up h ­ ouse in Koishikawa. Perhaps b­ ecause her s­ ister’s husband was a m ­ iddle-­class salaryman, even O-­Yoshi’s wicked side seemed positively civilized within a month of her convalescence. Now she simply overflowed with charm, and was using an altogether new vocabulary as she spoke with Man­ag­er Itō. She wanted to start a business of her own, she explained, before she ended up ­running herself ragged. She was thinking about opening a “tea­house.” Right now her savings only amounted to some two thousand yen, but all she had to do, she continued, was to work just a bit longer. She had stopped by simply to say hello, however, and returned home, saying she would come back to work two or three days ­later. It had been no less than ten days since then when O-­Yoshi’s husband made an early morning phone call to O-­M itsu, who had moved to the Kyoto together with O-­Yoshi from their previous positions. The man’s voice was trembling now, and he was tear-

Café Kyoto  59

ful. Having only just seen O-­Yoshi, looking as healthy as ever, O-­M itsu was shocked by the unexpected news. O-­Yoshi’s brain had apparently become infected, and t­here was ­little hope of recovery. ­Those who had been close to her, O-­Yō, O-­Iku, and O-­M itsu, all went to pay O-­Yoshi a visit at the ­house in Koishikawa. Her younger ­sister was the spitting image of O-­Yoshi, and as she came out to greet them, the w ­ oman spoke in hushed tones. Next to the entry hall was a room where O-­Yoshi was sleeping, and at her bedside they saw the “lady-­k iller,” kneeling down formally at her pillow. O-­Yō and the o ­ thers w ­ ere taken aback, wondering what he of all ­people was ­doing in ­there. His mannerisms ­were characteristically affected when he bowed to acknowledge their arrival. How could this change for the worse have happened in a mere ten days? In contrast to her soft, puffy comforter, and with her hair tied back, O-­Yoshi’s head now looked like a stiff block of wood. Seeing O-­Yoshi open her eyes, O-­Yō called out to her ­softly. “Yoshi-­chan, it’s me. Do you know who I am?” “Yes. Y ­ ou’ve come to see me? Thank you. Have you been busy at the café?” Her eyes opened for only a brief instant, and her voice was dull, almost lifeless. O-­Yō and the ­others w ­ ere overwhelmed with emotion as they stared at O-­Yoshi with sadly knitted brows. A set of dresser drawers, which the steel merchant Mā-­san had bought to her, was lined up next to t­hose of her younger s­ister, and had been decorated with a small wreathe of flowers. O-­Yoshi’s eyes suddenly opened once again as though s­ he’d awoken from a dream. “I’m just fine. You can all leave now.” She then said good-­bye and turned to face the opposite direction. With a sad smile, her younger ­sister exchanged glances with O-­Yō and the other w ­ omen. It was unclear how long the lady-­k iller had been sitting ­there beside her, but when the w ­ omen took their leave he made no effort to stand up and go. “Could he

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have come to wish her a fast recovery?” the ­women wondered, all suspicious of his motives as they returned home. O-­Yoshi’s husband had been nowhere to be seen. That night the metal engraver called O-­Yō to his ­table in the dining room. The expression on his face seemed sad, but what he had to say was quite ­matter-­of-­fact. O-­Yoshi had borrowed two hundred yen from the steel merchant, and he himself had signed on as a guarantor. If O-­Yoshi ­were to die, he would have to pay back the two hundred yen to the steel merchant. ­There had to be some way of meeting with her husband, w ­ asn’t t­here, while O-­Yoshi was still alive? “What a pest you are!” O-­Yoshi had once said to this man, who had often been the object of her indignation. But O-­Yō now looked at his sad face and ­couldn’t help but think of what ­she’d seen earlier that day—­the lady-­k iller so intently fixed to the side of O-­Yoshi’s sickbed. O-­Iku and O-­M itsu had already heard the story about the engraver being her ­g uarantor. O-­Yoshi died two or three days ­later. Syphilis of the brain was the official diagnosis. Her personal effects left b­ ehind at the Kyoto w ­ ere retrieved by her husband, who worked at an insurance com­pany. He was a solidly built man with handsome features and a w ­ holesomeness that smacked of the countryside. From the bottom of her trunk he pulled out a set of equestrian apparel, apparently never worn before, which had been made by the mixed-­blooded Western dressmaker. “What the heck is this?” said the husband, flinging it onto a pile of ­things he then wrapped into a bundle. As O-­Iku watched the man gather together O-­Yoshi’s ­things, O-­Iku recalled how the mixed-­blooded dressmaker had once let a comment slip out about O-­Yoshi. “It was not g­ oing well with her husband, and she wanted a divorce. That’s why she came to talk to me,” he said, in accented Japa­nese. The dressmaker’s ­father was Japa­nese, and his ­mother was French, but he ­d idn’t look at all like a Westerner. In fact his face

Café Kyoto  61

looked more Chinese—it seemed unfriendly and cold. Even if O-­Yoshi had complained to the dressmaker, the w ­ omen had once discussed who among them was most adored by her husband, and it had been O-­Yoshi who whispered, “Well, that’s prob­ably me.” “I’ll be taking her ashes to her hometown in Hokkaido.” O-­Yoshi’s husband left them with ­these parting words. Her ­father apparently still lived in Hokkaido, and O-­Yoshi had continued to send him money each month for his e­ xpenses.

10 O-­Yō h a d b e e n s ay i ng ­s h e’d have good news to share in June, and gleefully made it known to a few close friends she might soon be quitting the Kyoto. But when June eventually rolled around she was still working at the café. Snatched but for the time being from the jaws of death, Natsue’s husband did not last much longer a­ fter his attempt to commit suicide; he died that June. When news of his grave condition reached the shop, Natsue ­wasn’t around to hear it. Mr. Yasukawa was also sick, and Natsue had for some time now been staying at his ­house to help nurse him. This, too, had been arranged through the discretion of President Yasuda. ­A fter receiving a message from the Kyoto, Natsue made her way back to the restaurant. Sitting down in front of her trunk, she was taking her time to pick out the kimono she would wear when she headed home. The other ­women fidgeted anxiously at her side. “­Don’t worry about me. I always knew he was ­going to eventually die.” “He faked it when he tried killing himself anyway,” she explained, ostensibly resisting any urge to rush off and see him before he died.

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It was only to be expected that she never again saw her husband alive. One of the other wives in the boarding­house had to bring their child to the sick man’s bedside when at long last he moved his thin arm to reach for the hand of his l­ittle child . . . ​ Conditions at the Kyoto only grew worse. Notices of “provisional seizure” ­were attached to both the cash register and the piano, the first page of which said, “Do not remove.” Each of the w ­ omen flipped through the notices. T ­ here ­were also rumors that the telephone line would be cut off as well. One day the entire building was swarmed with merchants coming in and out of the place, from up the back stairwell all the way to the man­ag­er’s office. But still, somehow, the Kyoto managed to hang on, and kept its doors open to its depressing restaurant and bar. One night the steel merchant looked over to the metal engraver and sneered, “­You’re such an idiot.” The engraver had been explaining how he wanted to carve a replica of O-­Yoshi’s photo and send a copy to every­one O-­Yoshi had considered a friend. No one knew what­ever happened to the two hundred yen in O-­Yoshi’s bank account, which she had owed to the steel merchant. Natsue meanwhile had moved into a room near the Kyoto with her young ­daughter. She had been drinking more and more in recent days. It was shortly a­ fter closing time. ­There was barely enough room to move around in the ladies’ dressing room, given that it was filled with w ­ omen preparing to head home. Deep in the shadows of the long room, Natsue had collapsed onto the floor, dead drunk, once again. Her beloved d­ aughter had come early to fetch her and had been waiting for her to finish that night. The young girl stared with sad eyes at the ­women around her as she tried to pull her ­mother off the floor. “Mommy, let’s go home now.”

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“Oh, ­don’t, ­don’t worry, sweetie. ­We’re ­going home soon. Momma’s just a l­ ittle drunk, that’s all. Give momma a kiss, Hana-­ chan. How about it . . . ?” With her eyes closed and her face pressed up against the tatami floor, Natsue stretched out her arms and blindly attempted to wrap them around the ­little girl’s neck. The stoic child managed to slip out of her m ­ other’s clumsy embrace, however, and once again began tugging on her hand.

Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership

“Ta k e t h i s, Na k a-­s a n,” s a i d Ya e , extending her hand ­toward Furuda Naka, who now glared at her. “What the heck is it?” “Come on. You ­k now.” Stone-­faced, Yae shifted her gaze away from Naka, but pressed the scrap of paper into her hand. Naka took it from her silently. Naka suddenly felt defeated, then downright annoyed. How is the strug­gle progressing in the dormitory? What tactical moves should we make next? Come see me so we can discuss ­these press­ ing issues. Tearing up the shred of paper in the hope of reversing her sense of defeat, Naka struck back at Yae. “With all the security around this place? I ­can’t sneak out of ­here at a time like this. You know that flier someone handed out yesterday? Well, Masuda blamed it all on me. And let me tell you I got an earful b­ ecause of it. How about I just write a letter, and you deliver it for me?”

Originally titled “Kanbu jokō no namida,” “Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership” was first published in the January 1931 edition of Kaizō. 64

Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership   65

“Yeah, okay.” Yae’s reply was ­curt. Lis-­ten! Wor-­kers of all na-­tions. To the thun-­der-­ous . . .​1 Five or six ­women ­were singing a May Day song as they leaned over a win­dow railing at the end of the dark corridor. It was just ­after sunset, and the pale-­yellow, cloudless sky peeked over the roof of the Plum Blossom Dorm across the way. In the dark, damp garden just below the w ­ omen, lights from the electric poles glowed brightly. “Hey Chio!” rang the shrill voice of one of the girls, as she shouted down to a friend below and stretched her upper torso over the railing into the eve­n ing air. Along with the chaotic pounding of factory girls’ feet, scurrying back and forth unceasingly, voices tinged with the same patois could be heard zipping down the hallway. “­A ren’t you headed to the public meeting?” “I hear Fuku-­chan’s talking to­n ight.” “­Won’t that fish-­whiskered cop be ­there, too?” In the dim light of the electric bulb, hanging in the ­m iddle of the room, the faded tatami covering the floor seemed even more yellow. ­These ­women had all joined the strug­g le against the “forced return” of workers to the countryside. But some w ­ ere simply sitting up against the wall, leaning over clothes they ­were busily sewing. ­Others ­were sprawled out on the floor, flipping through well-­thumbed books with crinkled pages. Furuda Naka was writing a letter on the edge of her wicker hamper. She was rather annoyed that she h ­ adn’t been consulted,

1 ­These are the opening lines of the revolutionary song “Kike bankoku no rōdōsha.” Set to the melody of a school song composed for what would l­ater become Tokyo University, this May Day song, with lyr­ics written by Ōba Isamu, was much more popu­lar in Japan than the revolutionary song “Internationale,” which was famous throughout the socialist world. Its lyr­ics had also been officially approved by the Japa­nese Censorship Bureau in the prewar period.

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yet again, before the Zenkyō leaflets w ­ ere distributed yesterday 2 morning. Furuda Naka was deputy director of the ­Women’s Division at Tōnichi Muslin, and two or three days earlier she had met with a man from Zenkyō at the introduction of a commuting worker, Kobayashi Iku. Despite her willingness to talk with the man, someone e­ lse had handed out leaflets without her knowledge. Perhaps it had been Yae or Tae, but now Naka herself was caught up in the web of suspicion. Naka had recently been summoned by Masuda, chair of the W ­ omen’s Division, who proceeded to interrogate her at a meeting of the u ­ nion leadership. Although Naka survived the meeting itself, she ­hadn’t been entirely cleared of doubt. Due to a cutback in overall operations, the Tōnichi Muslin Western3 Factory had recently announced the “forced return” of 360 factory girls from the Weaving Division, who w ­ ere now compelled to return to their homes in the countryside. The dismissed workers w ­ ere all to be given a month’s severance. The Fraternal Society, part of the com­ pany-­ supported ­ union, was now in the pro­cess of negotiating a 50-­percent cut in the number of forced returnees as well as an increase in their severance allowance to fifty-­four-­days’ pay. What this meant, however, was that the opinions of 2,300 employees at Tōnichi Muslin w ­ ere being willfully ignored by the thirty ­u nion leaders in the so-­called Fraternal Society. The position the u ­ nion was taking represented the desires and actions of the u ­ nion leaders alone.

2 3

Zenkyō was the Communist Party-­a ffiliated ­labor ­u nion in Japan. Words stricken through in this story ­were censored in the original 1931 Kaizō publication—­either replaced with the character “X” or substituted by a parenthetical note identifying a deletion by the censors. Although the original manuscript has been lost, in order to prepare the story for republication in her Collected Works, Sata relied on her own memory to restore some, but not all, of the censored words. This En­g lish version is thus a reconstruction, based on both extant versions of the story.

Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership   67

Nevertheless, the second distribution of Zenkyō leaflets yesterday had alarmed the com­pany. News that left-­wing ele­ments now existed within the com­pany walls was an unexpected development. the com­pany stands firm our leadership buckles let’s ignore the committee and go out on strike! The com­pany stands firm, saying “Let’s see who wins in the end!” But several days ago at the Director’s meeting the com­pany deci­ ded to fire the employees at all of their factories and to hire new workers. The scum among the u­ nion leadership (  fellows like Sunaga, Yasuda, and Tanaka) tell us ­they’re ­going to “keep fighting.” Even though it works against our best interests to prolong negotiations, they continue to make endless speeches at club meetings, and to urge us ­here at the factory to “get back to work.” It’s as though the u­ nion leadership is d­ oing the bidding of the cap­i­tal­ists themselves. To inch along like this only gives the com­pany more time to hire scabs so that if and when we do go on strike, they can easily fire us all. ­Every day that we postpone the strike makes our failure ever more certain. What do you want? We ask you. To win? Or to lose? This is a ­matter of life and death. Join us to stop the machines! Join us to go on strike! (Five characters censored). Let’s hear it for the strike! Let’s strengthen the Fraternal Reform Committee! Join us u­ nder the banner of Zenkyō! An Agitation Skit Agitator Joe: What the heck is the ­union scum telling us to do now?

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Propaganda Joe: You ­haven’t figured it out? They keep saying ­we’re ­going to fight to the death, but they tell us to get back to work “in the meantime.” ­T hey’re nothing but pawns of the cap­i­tal­ists! Agitator Joe: Right on! Let’s stick it to ’em!

Leaflets such as t­hese had been scattered throughout the dormitory bathrooms. Each of the factory girls went to pick up copies for themselves. “Hey, this stuff is true. If we ­don’t act soon, the com­pany’s gonna come up with a new plan.” “You think ­they’ll can every­one?” “Well, they sure d­ on’t plan on changing their position. What does it ­matter to them if we keep on negotiating.” “Let’s go on striiiiike!” shouted one ­woman wildly, from amid the crowd, pounding her fist into the air. “That’s right. We need to strike!” “Down with all the u ­ nion scum!” “Hey, what’s ‘union scum’ mean?” “It’s written right t­ here in the leaflet . . .” The commotion caused by the leafleting had effectively spread among the factory girls, all the way down the corridors of the dormitories. But this worried the ­union leaders, determined not to let anyone go out on strike. In the end it was the com­pany that made a preemptive move against the workers. This morning ­those who had commuted to the factory found themselves standing idly in front of a gate that remained tightly shut. A wooden placard had been nailed to the gate announcing a temporary suspension of operations. The workers had been successfully locked out. Outside the gate, two patrolmen stood guard as well. A com­pany cannot do business during a depression. Although we have negotiated with the deepest of sincerity, for several days now

Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership   69

we have been unsuccessful in convincing the ­union members to understand our position. In addition, the safety and security of the factory floor have been compromised by a small segment of our employees. For ­these reasons it has become necessary to tempo­ rarily suspend our operations. At the end of the announcement it implored all employees to avoid becoming incited by this small group of evildoers. “Look, the com­pany’s beat us to it. T ­ hey’ve gone on strike themselves!” The young workers w ­ ere about to move away from the placard when they glanced over at the ­faces of the patrolmen and then called over to some of their colleagues standing beneath the eaves of a store across from the front gate. “All right, no loitering around h ­ ere. Go on home, the ­whole lot of you!” shouted one of the patrolmen, shooing them away with his hand. A dour-­looking ­m iddle-­aged ­woman, perhaps also on her way to work, then stopped in front of the placard and shouted, “Oh, what a hassle! What’s gone and happened now?” Signs of discontent ­were also heard from the ­women’s dormitories within the factory walls. For their part, the u ­ nion leadership quickly gathered in the club­house of the Fraternal Society. Naka, meanwhile, had deci­ded to write a letter in response to Zenkyō’s proposal, in which she explained that the intense security of the ­union leadership made it difficult for her to leave the factory compound. Still, she was very willing to report on what was g­ oing on at Tōnichi Muslin in writing. As deputy director of the ­Women’s Division, and a member of the leadership herself, Furuda Naka knew all the u ­ nion leadership who had come from the spinning industries, not just ­those from Tōnichi Muslin. The previous year she had even come to know a man from the Tōhō Muslin factory, who’d been indicted as a member of the

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Communist Party. She had been ­under his influence for some time now. She even read journals like Battleflag and Marxism. And she knew all about Zenkyō as well. This was the reason that Zenkyō had tried to bring her u ­ nder their tactical umbrella by way of Kobayashi Iku. Just the other day, in fact, their directive had been delivered to Naka by way of Yae. Tomorrow night six of our ­people ­will mobilize a group of w ­ omen and try to instigate a demonstration, but we need you, Naka, to pretend you know nothing about it. Once every­one is mobilized, however, you are to go out in front of the group. And when the demonstration reaches a high point, we want you to jump up onto a platform and deliver a speech. T ­ here is no need to mention Zenkyō directly, but you should attack the dirty tricks of the u­ nion leadership and expose them for what they ­really are. Right then and ­there you are to form a strike committee and select members to serve on the negotiation team. ­These ­were the detailed instructions Naka had been given about a speech she was to deliver. If she followed them, they would apparently be able to take over the W ­ omen’s Division. Even if she ­couldn’t form a strike committee, it still would be considered a major success as long as she cried out “Down with the leadership” and managed to incite a demonstration. But as the deputy director of the ­Women’s Division, Naka lifted up her head from the note, looking rather perplexed at this directive. For Naka had read it from the perspective of someone on the opposite side of the issue. When it came to the ­matter of the ­union leadership, she now clearly identified herself as one of the so-­called ­u nion scum. While she knew from reading leftist books on a daily basis what rascals the e­ nemy could be, she still embraced, if unwittingly, the mind-­set of the leadership. Naka of course knew that the u ­ nion leadership was incapable of d­ oing what was necessary—­just as the leftists had always

Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership   71

maintained. They prob­ably did bad ­things, too, from time to time. But when all was said and done, the leadership was simply working in the interests of the common worker. And even when they reached a point of crisis—­such as a strike like this—­the leadership was, a­ fter all, trying its best. ­Wasn’t it? Such was the state of Naka’s self-­consciousness, now that she was part of the ­union leadership, that whenever Zenkyō spoke of bringing the ­Women’s Division ­under its influence, she felt as though something was being snatched away from her and the other leaders. What was even more irritating to Naka, however, was that ­they’d also gone and told Yae when and where this next demonstration was supposed to happen. And now she was supposed to ask Yae for the information? To hell with that! Even when someone brushed shoulders with her in the corridor, Yae was the kind of person who always tired to pick a fight over who had bumped into whom. In fact it was only when Naka had to deal with Yae that she felt ­she’d lost control of the corridor. “Now’s not the time to tell me this sort of ­thing. It d­ oesn’t work for me,” said Naka sullenly. “Well, why not?” The tone of Yae’s reproach hit her straight on. “­You’ve gotta be kidding me. Y ­ ou’ve gotta be kidding me,” replied Naka, repeating her words before Yae had the chance to respond. “This is certainly no time to go ahead with another mass action.” Yae c­ ouldn’t argue with Naka’s assertion. She just stood ­there glaring back at her. On the following day, the 26th, a signboard for the strike headquarters was erected in front of the Fraternal Society’s head office. “Hey, Naka-­chan, can we talk?” When the secretary’s meeting had ended, on the second-­ floor office of the Fraternal Society—­ a place called the

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“Club”—­Mr. Masuda, director of the ­Women’s Division, called Naka over. Masuda had the reputation of being a womanizer, and as he looked at Naka with searching eyes the trace of a smile now appeared on his lips. “So you ­really ­haven’t handed out any red pamphlets?” Naka threw back her shoulders irascibly. “If I said I d­ idn’t, then I d­ idn’t.” “Okay, so you have no idea who did?” “­Haven’t got a clue.” “Hmm.” For a while Masuda just sat t­ here silently. The second-­floor clubroom was a large one, and ­there ­were several u ­ nion leaders huddled in the opposite corner. The Standing Committee of the affiliated Japan Spinning Workers Union, to which the Fraternal Society was a signatory, was ­there as well. Masuda had been sitting cross-­legged on the floor, cradling his knees, but now he leaned back against the wall and thrust both hands into the crease of his bellyband. Pursing his lips in discontent, he looked up to face Naka. “Listen, y­ ou’re deputy director. I want you to give some serious thought to this, okay? W ­ e’re on strike now, and the key point now is to ‘unite.’ So this is no time to jump on the bandwagon of the extreme left. The damn fools keep shouting ‘Down with the ­u nion scum!’ ‘Down with the ­u nion scum!’ But tell me, who ­else ­will take the lead if not us? I mean, legally speaking, they ­aren’t even allowed to or­ga­n ize.” “No, I get it. What point is ­there anyway in calling us ‘union scum’?” Naka felt closer to what Masuda had to say than to the official Zenkyō position. The man continued. “Remember what Sunaga said a while back? About how the com­pany had offered him a thousand yen on the sly? That’s a hell of a lot of money right now. But he d­ idn’t take it. Did he?”

Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership   73

Masuda spoke as though it w ­ ere an extraordinary act of virtuosity that the Committee Chair had refused this bribe from the com­pany. The virtuous actions of the Chair had been made public just the other day when the Chair himself extolled his own actions in remarks to a crowd gathered for a meeting. “­We’re putting you in charge of the dormitory, Naka, so you have to take this seriously. Besides, the com­pany says that they ­won’t suppress strikers ­under any circumstances. But if you let the girls get all fired up, well, that’ll complicate the negotiations. And it’ll be our loss in the end. Got it?” That night the narrow streets in front of the Fraternal Society Club overflowed with w ­ omen workers and ordinary townspeople, many of whom ­couldn’t even make their way inside. Even with the streets so full, however, pedestrians had no difficulty getting by. Many of the streets near the ser­v ice entrance to Tōnichi Muslin w ­ ere swarming with Tōnichi factory girls ­going about their everyday lives. In front of the Club ­were a general store, an ice shop, and a penny candy store, which the factory girls entered and exited as though through the doors of their very own homes. From the Club’s second-­floor balustrade hung three flags representing the local branches of the Japa­nese Spinning Workers Union. ­There had been no wind whatsoever that day, and by eve­ ning the flags still hung heavi­ly from the balustrade. Anyone looking inside the Club saw ­l ittle but the backside of factory girls, packed tightly together and facing the stage, their shoulders undulating with each round of applause. The speakers’ voices flowed out into the street as well. At the podium now was a pe­tite factory girl, who spoke with her hands thrust out firmly on the t­ able in front of her. “So just to clarify, it’s the com­pany’s fault ­we’re on strike ­here ­today.” “You said it!” “It’s the com­pany’s damn fault!”

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Dripping with sweat in this tightly knit crowd, the factory girls ­weren’t afraid of raising their individual voices. “Sending 360 of us back to the countryside? That’s the com­pany saving its ass at our expense!” The applause that followed this single comment drowned out the voice that continued to speak from the podium. “Now, tell me. What exactly are we g­ oing to do if w ­ e’re sent back to the countryside? T ­ hese are hard times back home, and our parents can barely feed themselves. If ­things ­don’t change, ­we’re talking starvation. We’ve all gotten by well enough ­u ntil now, and if our ­future back home looks as bleak as I think it ­w ill be, what other choice do we have but to fight it out, right h ­ ere and right now, with the com­pany?” The next speaker was Furuda Naka, who took a long, slow drink of ­water at the podium. “Now that ­we’ve taken our stand, ­we’ve gotta fight this ­thing out to the very end.” Her gruff manner of speaking made her sound like a man—­she even swallowed her final consonants. “Now, I’m not one of the girls who was fired. But I ­can’t just sit back and shut up b­ ecause I’ve still got my job. This is something w ­ e’ve all gotta do together. Maybe none of you in Spinning was ordered back home this time, but make no m ­ istake about it, sooner or ­later your turn ­w ill come. And believe me when I tell you that this i­sn’t just Weaving’s prob­lem.” Naka delivered her speech in standard Tokyo dialect. With ­g reat skill she slowly built up her words into a feverish pitch. “That’s why I’m asking,” she fi­nally concluded, “that not a single one of you betray our movement, so that together we can do every­thing pos­si­ble to support the strike u ­ ntil the very end.” It was a conclusion befitting the deputy director of the W ­ omen’s Division. “It is now my plea­sure to introduce to you Mr. Suzuki, who is on the local negotiation committee for Tōhō Muslin.” With this brief introduction from the tall, lanky master of ceremonies,

Tears of a Factory Girl in the Union Leadership   75

a young man then took the stage amid the crowd’s applause, with an equanimity that was almost irksome. “Ladies!” he began, raising a hand into the air. “You have all shown yourself to be brave fighters by standing up to the factory’s policy of coercive repatriation. And let me say this: in this strug­gle you are not alone. The rationalization of industry u ­ nder the cap­i­tal­ist class has led to countless factories closing their doors. ­Today thousands and thousands of workers are losing their basic right to earn a decent living. With your own strug­gle, you have emerged at the very forefront of a much larger b­ attle being waged by your b­ rothers and s­isters protesting factory closures across the entire country.” The factory girls now listened with their eyes riveted on the speaker’s face. They had heard him explain that they ­were “on the forefront of the b­ attle,” but not u ­ ntil his language became concrete did he manage to truly pique their interest. A ­ fter this they began to follow his words in earnest. “So. When the com­pany starts digging in its heels, ­you’ve got to stay firm. Stand alongside us. And keep on fighting.” “You said it!” “­Here, ­here!” “Let’s get this demonstration started!” “Smash some glasses on the floor!” With this, the audience broke out into applause, as well as an uproar of laughter. Afterward, Committee Chair Sunaga took the stage dressed in a suit and tie. “Our ­union leadership is fighting alongside you. But our strike against Tōnichi Muslin is, of course, a ‘modern’ strike. And the com­pany has given us their guarantee that ­under no circumstances w ­ ill it ‘suppress’ our striking units. In exchange, however, we too must ensure that t­here are no acts of vio­lence committed by members of the Fraternal Society. I do very much want to make certain that every­one h ­ ere understands this.”

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The man spoke like an elementary school teacher, using extremely polite, “high-­collar” language, as though the cap­i­ tal­ists and their employees w ­ ere somehow all his friends and comrades. “It is for this reason that I must implore you not to smash a single glass, or break a single win­dow. Lest we end up losing this strike, which w ­ e’ve worked so hard to achieve.” “Oh, stop with the lies!” “He’s ­union scum!” shouted someone ­else from the crowd. Sunaga tried to make out who had just spoken. The Special Higher Police detective also looked up to ascertain where the voices had come from. He had been standing on the side of the podium, taking down the names of all the speakers. Yae and Tae then made a head start out of the lecture hall back to the dormitory. As they worked their way from the cafeteria to the dormitory, they crossed the assembly grounds and walked into a hallway, at the end of which they stopped and leaned up against a railing. In the light of the electric pole they could see a small patch of new green grass below. The electric light on Orihime Shrine, across from where they stood, dimly lit up the shrine’s latticed door and the bell, which hung at the end of a rope. Yae turned around, white-­faced, ­toward Tae. “Okay, t­hey’re back.” “Yeah, they are.” Tae nodded as she picked up the sound of footsteps approaching. In stark contrast to Yae, Tae had a dark complexion, and two buckteeth, and she always seemed to be smiling. The clamor of their footsteps echoing in the hallway, the factory girls w ­ ere fi­nally returning to their rooms. Amid the voices came the sound of a meek voice singing a May Day song. Tae raised her arms in the air and shouted. “Hey, you guys. Come on over ­here.” “What’s the m ­ atter?”

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Fifteen or sixteen girls make a circle around them. “­Don’t you think what they said at the Fraternal Society to­n ight was a bit strange?” ­A fter that Yae took over. “Our u ­ nion leaders tell us not to overreact u ­ nder any circumstances. But then they tell the strike support team at Tōhō Muslin to fight with resolution. How are we supposed to know what to do when they keep contradicting themselves?” “D’you get what w ­ e’re saying?” shouted Tae. “­They’re making fools out of us, that’s what t­ hey’re ­doing. And let me tell you: the Committee Chair might have graduated from some fancy school or another, but I’m smart enough to know ­there was something fishy about what he said ­today.” “When it comes to the strike, they tell us not to smash a single glass in the cafeteria, not to bang on a single drum, not to or­ga­nize a single demonstration (Eleven characters censored). The strike could go on for three or four months at this rate, and the com­pany ­wouldn’t be bothered in the least. I d­ on’t care if we go on a hunger strike, but we just have to make a more power­ful move. What do you all think?” shouted Yae, looking at the ­women around her. “I’m with you.” “Makes sense to me.” More and more factory girls gathered around them, shouting out in agreement, and standing on their toes to see what was ­going on. Girls who had arrived late hurried over to see what was happening. The entire corridor was now occupied by the factory girls, who had by now formed a critical mass of ­people. “Yeah, but listen,” said someone. Avoiding Tae’s gaze, she turned to the girls to her side as she spoke. She had her hair parted on the side, and wore a hairnet on her head. “The ­thing is if we go break stuff the com­pany’s just gonna dig in their heels even deeper, and I bet w ­ e’ll end up losing.” “That’s something only the ­union scum would say.”

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“That’s right! You just shut up . . .” “Union scum whore,” shouted someone e­ lse from b­ ehind. It was then that Yae lifted up her chin again. “Look, the com­pany’s never ­going to listen to us ­until we hold another demonstration. If they stop operations at a time like this—­when ­there’s not much work to do anyway—­it’s not like ­they’ll actually lose any money.” “No, they w ­ on’t. And that’s why we should smash a few win­dows and bust up a machine or two.” “I mean, we’d r­eally have to destroy a few t­hings ,” explained Yae, agitating them all in her own special way. Fifty or sixty ­women had gathered now, and over half of them w ­ ere shouting in agreement. “Let’s storm the main office!” “Let’s get this demo g­ oing!” With all the pushing and shoving that went on as they chanted, the group of factory girls now seemed to undulate up and down like a rubber ­ball. Lis-­ten! Wor-­kers of all na-­tions . . . ​Lis-­ten, Lis-­ten, ­here we go! ­A fter a c­ ouple of girls sang a line of the song, the o ­ thers then chimed in with the refrain. It was then that one girl shouted so loud that anyone might have thought her mad. “Smash all the glasses in the cafeteria!” Yae was thrilled by their success and deci­ded to add something. “Oh, and one more t­ hing! What do you make of the fact that the ­union reps came up with our demands all on their own?” A hush fell over the crowd. Then a girl in the crowd broke the silence, raising her hand high up in the air. “I’m against them! The leadership still agreed to send home half of the girls who w ­ ere originally fired. That’s why I’m against them!” Yae saw that this was Mio, one of her close friends. Tae quickly followed up on her comment.

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“You said it, Mio. ­We’re the ones who are out on strike ­here. And for the leadership to say it’s okay to send half the workers home means that t­hey’re just kissing up to the com­pany. Besides, if they send half of us home, each of us ­w ill have friends who’ll dis­appear. Do you all want that to happen?” “No way!” “To hell with the u ­ nion scum!” “Down with the u ­ nion scum!” “Let’s storm the main ­office!” Lis-­ten! Wor-­kers of all na-­tions  .  .  . ​Let’s ­go! Thun-­der-­ous May Day voices . . . ​L et’s go! It was just then that a heavy-­hearted Furuda Naka quickly made her way inside. When her eye caught sight of Yae, she rushed over. “Hey, what are you d­ oing ­here, Yae?” “What’s it to you, Naka?” Yae glared back at her. The singing stopped, and all eyes rested on the two ­women. “You c­ an’t just do something like this without clearing it with me first.” Clutching the collar of Yae’s kimono, Naka glared at her gravely. “What’s your prob­lem?” said Tae, coming up to Naka from Yae’s side. “Yeah, back off, you idiot!” Yae pulled Naka’s hand off her collar. “No, I ­won’t back off. What the hell do you think ­you’re ­doing ­here anyway? You think it makes me look good when you do something like this? I’ll end up losing all my credibility.” “Furuda Naka, just shut up!” “Back off !” “No. Every­one, listen to me!” Naka turned around to the o ­ thers and waved her hands in the air.

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“Now, please, every­one. Just think for a minute what kind of position this puts me in. All of this might seem reasonable to a lot of you, but I’m the one stuck in the ­m iddle ­here, right in between Mr. Sunaga and Mr. Masuda. And it’s not an easy position to be in.” In the excitement of the moment Naka’s voice cracked, and she started weeping. “Who cares about the stinking ­union scum?” shouted Yae, turning to the crowd. “Let’s put Furuda Naka up in front!” chimed in Tae, pushing Naka forward. “Oh, Yae-­chan, Tae-­chan! Why ­can’t you do this some other time . . . ​when I’m not around?” The other factory girls ­were now far more interested in the “tragic” tears shed by the deputy director of the ­Women’s Division than they ­were in any call for a demonstration. Several girls just returning to the dorm had missed the earlier commotion, and their concern now for Naka’s tears drew attention away from where it should have been focused. Yae, for her part, was highly annoyed that her plans for the eve­n ing had been so easily thwarted. Tae, too, headed back to her room, grinding her teeth in frustration. The thought that ­they’d failed to pull off the demonstration irritated Yae to no end. That wretched Furuda Naka had in the end betrayed them. To anyone’s eyes s­ he’d lost all her credibility. P ­ eople prob­ably loathed her now for all her arrogance. But she was hard-­nosed all right. And she had gotten her own way by breaking down into tears. If only Kobayashi Iku had still been around, s­he’d have brought Naka down a notch or two for sure. ­A fter the factory suspended operations, however, Kobayashi Iku ­hadn’t even managed to get inside the factory walls. “Hey, Yae-­chan, come over ­here, w ­ ill ya?” Sitting in the ­m iddle of the room, Yae turned around when her name was called.

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“What do you want now?” “I need to tell you something.” At the sound of Naka’s voice, all the w ­ omen in the room lifted their heads in unison, even the ones already lying in bed. Fine, if she wants to lay into me, let her do it right h ­ ere, thought Yae. Naka pulled Yae out of the room and down to the end of the corridor. Was she simply disguising her newfound arrogance ­under the ruse of secrecy? “So what do you make of what just happened out t­ here?” “Why should it ­matter what I think? What do you care anyway?” “Oh, ­really . . . ? Well, if word gets out that I’m in contact with Zenkyō, we ­won’t ever find out what the u ­ nion leaders in the Fraternal Society are up to.” “You gotta be kidding me.” Yae glared at Naka. But Naka seemed indifferent to Yae’s scorn. ­There she goes again pretending to keep up her contacts with Zenkyō, but all the while hiding her true feelings. The main point of her official report tomorrow, Yae deci­ded, would be to address the failure of to­n ight’s attempted demonstration. Furuda Naka had, in the pro­cess of strug­g le, exhibited the classic traits of ­union scum, and Yae had e­ very intention of ratting her out.

The Scent of Incense

Wi t h l av e n de r , l ig h t p i n k , a n d snow-­white petals, the sweet peas flew up out of their vase, blooming like trails of butter­ flies. Hiroko lifted the vase off the shelf, where her husband’s photo stood, and placed it beneath the faucet. When she turned on the spigot, ­water splashed against the vase, sending up a light spray into the air that she found refreshing. A ­ fter washing the stems and refilling the vase with fresh w ­ ater, Hiroko ­gently bathed the entire bouquet from its underside, and slipped the stems back into their vase, taking care with both hands to rearrange the flowers. She held the vase like an offering as she carried it back to the shelf. “­There, now that’s pretty,” she said to herself, tilting her head slightly as she admired the bouquet. When her gaze then shifted to her husband’s photo beside it, Hiroko’s cheeks filled with feeling. She had already applied her face powder and rouge that morning, and her lips looked fresh and crisp. Her husband, Sōichirō, had a habit of saying, with much dis­plea­sure, that ­women looked lazy when not properly made up, and ­there had in fact been times when Hiroko, too, forgot to perform her toilet while he was

Originally titled “Kō ni niou,” “The Scent of Incense” was first published in 1942 in a collection of stories bearing the same title. 82

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still living at home. Now that he was stationed far away, however, ­those words he had often repeated took on a life of their own, in her breast, and she recalled them each time she applied her morning makeup. ­M ightn’t her husband worry she was being lazy during his absence, she worried, and find himself feeling down? It was out of this concern for him that Hiroko always made sure her appearance was particularly neat. Hiroko turned away from her husband’s photo­g raph. When pressed for time and on her way to work in the morning, she was in the habit of preparing only tea, but on holidays like ­today she would always offer him a proper tray. She headed into the kitchen to prepare one now. During her elder ­brother’s absence from home her m ­ other, O-­Yoshi, had come to live with her, and it was her ­mother who was setting the ­table. As the sunlight shone brightly into the freshly swept room, only the gentle clinking of bowls being placed on the ­table broke the silence. “It’s so much warmer t­oday, ­isn’t it? I doubt it’ll be very cold outside.” “March is when ­things start changing,” replied Hiroko, adding a bit of fragrance to the tray with some of the Shinshū miso pickle that Sōichirō so enjoyed. A letter she had received four or five days earlier had been placed carefully next to his photo­g raph. Taken by a friend just before his departure, it showed him in uniform, with closely cropped hair. As Hiroko spoke to Sōichirō with her own ­silent thoughts, O-­Yoshi chimed in as though to join their private conversation. “Does the climate change much in Malaysia, too?” “Surely not down t­ here.” “I won­der,” replied O-­Yoshi, rubbing her hands together over the hibachi, but hardly convinced as she peered up at Hiroko, still standing before the photo­g raph. No m ­ atter how many times ­she’d been told it was extremely hot that far south, her ­mother stubbornly believed it must be cold out at sea whenever it snowed ­here in Japan.

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“Well, s­hall we eat?” Hiroko returned to her seat beside the hibachi, looking carefree now and refreshed. “My goodness, ­we’re off to a slow start this morning.” “You mentioned someone might come for a visit ­today?” “Yes, Michiko. She’s the one who stopped by the other day.” “Oh, the one who lost her son.” “Yes, that’s right.” Just then t­here was a sound of mail being tossed into the entry­way. Hiroko was quick to notice, and she practically flew into the entry­way with breathless anticipation. Finding nothing but a single letter on the floor, she was suddenly crestfallen. Given that the letter was from Michiko, however, who would be visiting that day, she opened the envelope and began reading it as she made her way back to the living room. “Is it from Sōichirō?” “No, it’s not.” As she sipped on the fresh tea her ­mother poured for her, her eyes followed the lines down the page. Two weeks earlier Hiroko had assisted Michiko in finding a job, and she recently heard word that t­ hey’d just set her salary. But when Hiroko began reading, thinking she might learn some of the details, ­there ­wasn’t a single mention of Michiko’s new job in the letter, which focused entirely on the ­woman’s current state of mind. Michiko’s first marriage had ended in failure, ­a fter her husband had betrayed her, and her letters always seemed rather tinged with self-­contempt. To make ­matters worse, she had lost her only child to a sudden illness, a­ fter making a courageous effort to raise him on her own, and the sadness of this loss also seemed to pervade her letters. A ­ fter falling out of touch with Michiko for many years and then learning of t­hese events more recently, Hiroko determined it unhealthy for Michiko to simply sit around her parents’ home—­especially in her current state of mind—­and she took it upon herself to find Michiko a job. What had led Hiroko

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to take this course of action? When Sōichirō was sent off to war, Hiroko had been a stay-­at-­home wife, and he told her that for several reasons it ­wouldn’t be right for her to sit around the ­house all alone without any work to keep her busy. He then encouraged her to enter the workforce again. Sure enough, once she began interacting with ­people at the office ­every day, she returned to her cheerful self again quite naturally. Whenever Hiroko thought of her husband on the battlefront, she also knew how miserable she would have been facing her feelings shut up alone at home. At times like t­hese Hiroko felt the truth of her husband’s words ring deeply inside her. That they managed to have this effect on her thinking, even in his absence, made Sōichirō’s instructions seem to glow all the more with love. So when Hiroko ­later heard Michiko’s story, her husband’s words instantly came to mind, and she took it upon herself to do what she could to help her friend. In the letter that had arrived ­today Michiko began by saying how delighted she was to have found a job. And yet, as though she wanted to contradict herself, she started writing about the child she lost, and how she might soon adopt a child born out of wedlock. I’m truly not thinking of getting married again, she continued. To Hiroko, something about it just ­d idn’t add up, and she was on the verge of feeling quite irritated. What could Michiko be thinking? she wondered. She wants to adopt a child, and raise him on her own? What an impossible idea! Hiroko reined in her feelings, however, when she considered what e­lse Michiko had written—to wit, that she was not thinking of remarriage. An army friend of Sōichirō’s, a man named Mizusawa, worked at the construction com­pany where Hiroko had found Michiko employment, and it had been through his good graces that ­she’d been hired. But what could it mean, Hiroko now wondered, that Michiko was writing about not getting remarried—­especially since she herself had never even broached the subject? Michiko, in any event, had added at the end of her letter confirmation of

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her visit on Sunday, and Hiroko was determined to make her friend feel at home, if only to put her mind at ease. “­Mother, we still have some red beans left, ­haven’t we? How about we make some sweet bean soup? With the increase in our monthly rations, we should have some sugar left over.” “Yes, I think we do. Something sweet might be just the ­thing for a lady. We’ve got winter rice cakes we can toast, too, you know.” “Let’s serve her as much as we can, and let her know that Sōichirō sent me the sugar for every­thing.” Hiroko smiled again, gleefully.

2 “You k now, m y h u s b a n d s e n t me the sugar to make this,” boasted Hiroko, as Michiko partook in the unexpected delicacy of sweet bean soup. “Well, it ­really is such a treat.” Since their days at school together t­here had always been something beautiful, in a very modern way, about Michiko, and ­there was no vis­i­ble change in her now. The fact that she had endured vari­ous hardships brought a tranquility to her demeanor, and her beauty seemed to disguise, from any passing acquaintances on the street, the fact that she had divorced her husband and even lost a child. But Hiroko was quick to notice a dramatic difference in her friend since the last time s­ he’d seen her, some two weeks earlier. Somehow Michiko looked extra pretty. “So how’s your job g­ oing?” “­There are times when I feel a bit lost, but overall it’s been good.” “Mr. Mizusawa has been looking out for you, h ­ asn’t he?” “Oh, he’s been very kind.”

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Michiko just then cast her eyes downward. In contrast to the rapid pace of Hiroko’s words, Michiko normally spoke slowly. Her downcast lids seemed delicate, and her lashes appeared to twitch. Hiroko made a point of avoiding any mention of what she had read in Michiko’s letter that morning. But Michiko still felt oppressed, as though Hiroko was staring into her soul. She had so much she wanted to discuss with Hiroko, and yet meeting face to face like this made it impossible for her to put into words the feelings she had written of in her letter. Suddenly she blurted out something to the effect of, “How fortunate it is your m ­ other is in such good health.” When she fi­nally looked up again, she noticed a bowl of the sweet bean soup, now placed in front of Sōichirō’s photo. “Oh, look, ­you’ve left a ‘shadow tray’ for your husband,” she declared, her eyes overflowing with feeling. Hiroko smiled. “He’s not particularly fond of sweets, but it is something rather special.” “How thoughtful of you.” “Do you r­ eally think so?” Hiroko smiled again, ­gently. “Well, I’m positively jealous,” Michiko added, staring at the photo­g raph. “How delighted your husband must be to have found such a loving wife.” “Oh, I’m hardly worthy of praise. Anyone would do that much . . . ​for someone gone off to war.” “I won­der . . . ,” Michiko replied. In Hiroko’s casual dismissal of her compliment Michiko had detected something unflinchingly confident, which instantly struck a chord of loneliness at the base of her heart. It was just then that an image of Mr. Mizusawa floated naturally into her mind’s eye. “I suppose Mr. Mizusawa ­w ill head off to war, too.” “It may turn out that way. Many men go back into the army ­after their first tour of duty. That’s his plan, too, I imagine.” Although Mizusawa had gone to the front with Sōichirō during their first tour of duty, he had stayed ­behind the second

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time around. But one never knew when a sudden call to duty might come, Mizusawa had once said to her, which is why he always kept his hair cropped short. Recalling his words suddenly stirred up violent feelings inside Michiko. Her effort to suppress them oddly made the expression on her face look stern, and at the same time, lonely. What on earth is she thinking? wondered Hiroko, staring at her friend. She looks so sad, but at the same time beautiful for all the intensity hidden beneath her gloom. Perplexed, Hiroko thought of the letter ­she’d read that morning, which still ­d idn’t make sense to her. She made a point of g­ ently clucking her tongue. “Now, about this letter you sent me this morning. The idea of adopting a child? What’s gotten into you, my dear?” Michiko stared down at the floor as though she ­were being scolded. “That’s just how I’m feeling.” “Oh, stop it. Your head must be in the clouds.” Instead of replying to Hiroko, Michiko turned her face obstinately to the side. Hiroko, for her part, knew when she should take a hint and now addressed her friend more seriously. “Well, it may be that I ­don’t entirely understand your feelings. I mean, I ­can’t imagine how horrible it must have been to lose a child, and I know that what y­ ou’ve had to deal with is even worse than that. But even still, I’m not r­ eally sure I understand all the hardship ­you’ve been facing. To put it quite simply perhaps I’ve let reason guide my thoughts about what ­you’ve been through. Though perhaps it’s not so wrong of me to do so.” “Maybe ­you’re right.” Michiko nodded her head compliantly, then looked up again. Tears had welled up in her eyes. Now it was Hiroko who felt overwhelmed, and she thought it best to continue speaking, no ­matter what might come out next. “It may feel as though ­you’re simply drifting along, carry­ ing along with you all t­ hese ­bitter feelings. But it’ll be of l­ittle use

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for me to drift along with you, dear. I’ll try my very best to pull you out of them, if you’ll let me.” “I know you w ­ ill, Hiroko, I do. And I admire you so much—­how you manage to do every­thing just right. You get that from your husband, d­ on’t you? That’s why ­you’re always so confident, and so straightforward about every­thing, i­sn’t it?” “You might be right about that . . .” It was Hiroko now who looked suddenly distracted. If Michiko thought she did every­thing so properly, she wondered, ­m ightn’t she also think her incapable of shedding tears? Hiroko wanted to speak up in her own defense, but in the end held her tongue. When Hiroko lifted her head, it was Sōichirō’s photo­ graph and the bouquet of flowers placed in front of it that appeared before her eyes. Michiko might in this case be right, repeated Hiroko, with a renewed sense of how that single photo­g raph had managed to keep her strong. ­A fter a brief silence, she again turned to Michiko, this time more lightheartedly. “How about some more sweet bean soup? We made so much of it.” “Thank you. I think I w ­ ill,” replied Michiko, holding out her red-­lacquered bowl with a hand that was still g­ ently trembling. What on earth has happened to her? wondered Hiroko, from a place deep down inside.

3 Thoug h t h e wor k day h a d a l r e a dy begun, Michiko still ­hadn’t arrived at the office. Mizusawa looked over at Michiko’s empty chair with concern and wondered if something ­mightn’t have happened. It was rather hopeless for someone to be absent so

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early on, he thought. But then perhaps he was simply feeling somewhat responsible since he’d helped her get hired. Once t­hese feelings of regret faded, he became worried that perhaps s­he’d fallen ill. Mizusawa’s office was located in a steam-­heated building, but it was almost balmy enough t­oday for him to remove his jacket—­the rays of sunshine he could see through the win­dow seemed warm. Spring is on its way, thought Mizusawa, keenly aware of the passing of yet another year spent not abroad, but ­here on the Japa­nese islands. Even the way he welcomed the onset of spring seemed to deepen inside of Mizusawa t­ hose thoughts that all men hold dear to them when they steel themselves in preparation for something. Exhaling smoke from his cigarette, he rested an elbow on his desk, turned to the win­dow, and looked up, with slightly narrowed eyes, into the sky. Complicated thoughts drifted into his mind. As he wound his way through a menagerie of feelings, he suddenly recalled that Michiko was absent that day. What happened? I won­der. Someone might have at least telephoned, he thought, raising his elbow off the ­table and stamping out his cigarette irritably before turning back to his work. ­A fter some time an office boy came by to inform him that a young ­woman had come to meet him. “Yoshimura?” Hearing Michiko’s surname, Mizusawa quickly stood up, thinking someone from her f­amily must be ­there. When he stepped outside the entry­way, he found a young ­woman standing in front of him with a gaze so intense that it startled him. With her pe­tite figure, and dressed in Western-­style clothes, the young ­woman bore a striking resemblance to Michiko. Seeing him, she offered a quick but polite bow. “I’m Michiko’s younger s­ ister.” “I see. My name is Mizusawa. Has something happened?” “Well, Michiko’s come down with a cold and ­can’t make it to work t­oday, so I’ve come to let you know.”

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“You n ­ eedn’t have taken the trou­ble. You should have telephoned.” “Yes, well,” and then she paused. “Actually, I’d like to speak to you about something e­ lse as well.” “In that case may I ask you to wait h ­ ere for a moment?” He sensed Michiko’s s­ister had something more involved to share with him so he returned to his desk and tidied it up before returning. He then invited the young ­woman to the coffee shop downstairs. “It’s awfully warm out t­oday, i­sn’t it?” he said, a­ fter feeling a gentle breeze against his skin, blowing in from outside. But the reply Michiko’s ­sister offered suggested that she ­wasn’t listening. “Yes . . . ​My name is, um, Masako.” “I see. Now tell me, how is Michiko feeling?” “Well, actually she has something of a fever. She ­hasn’t been feeling very well recently and must have overdone it.” “I had no idea. She should be more careful.” Was she perhaps twenty? thought Mizusawa, trying to guess how old she was given that ­women her age tended to look so young. She had a cheerful, alert demeanor that was altogether dif­fer­ent from Michiko’s rather melancholic personality. At the same time t­ here was something intimate about the way she looked at him. It was before noon, and the café was empty, so they took a seat inside and ordered two cups of black tea. “You wanted to speak to me about something?” “Well,” she said, hesitating. A bashful smile appeared on her face, her cheeks turned red, and she looked down ever so slightly. But then she lifted her head with apparent resolve. “I ­haven’t told my ­sister that I’ve come to meet you ­today.” “And why is that?” “I’m h ­ ere with a request.” Seated with his body faced away from her, he now turned his head in Masako’s direction.

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“I see. Well, what is it?” he asked, fishing out a cigarette from its pack. “I was hoping you might be willing to see my s­ ister, once she returns to work.” “See her?” he asked. But then quickly he surmised what the young w ­ oman must have meant. “Oh, I . . . ,” his tone now shifted. “But . . .” Mizusawa looked rather embarrassed now, and at a loss for words. “Is this something your s­ister would like to happen?” “Oh, yes, it certainly is,” replied Masako, with the relief of having fi­nally unburdened herself. A gentle smile now grew on her lips. “I have to tell you that my ­sister knows nothing about my visit t­ oday. I know it must seem shameless of me to ask, but am I wrong in assuming you know what Michiko has gone through in the past? ­You’ve had the chance to hear this from Hiroko, ­haven’t you?” “Yes, I have.” More than the content of the request itself, Mizusawa found the resolution with which Masako accomplished her task rather amusing—­surely this w ­ asn’t the kind of talk one normally had in broad daylight. Given how the young w ­ oman had addressed him with such formal language, it all felt rather odd, even comical. Masako, for her part, was working with every­thing she had as she glanced up at him with wide, round eyes. “My s­ister has been suffering something horrible, you know. Which is only to be expected, given her history. She finds it quite unbearable to go to work each morning. But at the same time, she c­ an’t make up her mind to pull back. She broods over you constantly. She and I are quite close, you see, so I’ve heard this from her directly. She went so far as to go to speak to Hiroko about you once, but she ­couldn’t even bring herself to say anything. Hiroko is apparently so exact in all that she does that Michiko was too embarrassed to mention it.”

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“Well, I see . . .” Mizusawa was on the point of adding something, but then deci­ded against it. “In any case, I promise to sit down and have a long discussion with Michiko. But first tell me about this cold she’s come down with.” “Oh, please ­don’t worry about that. I’m sure ­she’ll feel better soon. She’s hardly been out sick for a day now, and she’s already anxious about missing work.” Now that she had covered every­thing, Masako seemed to address Mizusawa now with an intimacy suggesting he was almost a ­brother-­in-­law. “Mr. Mizusawa,” she said, “I hear y­ ou’re planning to head off to war again.” ­There was something so natu­ral about the way she mentioned this, it seemed entirely unrelated to her goal of conveying her ­sister’s feelings. Since she was pinpointing a m ­ atter Mizusawa himself had clearly refrained from addressing a moment earlier, it seemed rather odd for her to bring this up. “Yes, I am,” he replied emphatically, looking straight at her. “I’m stubborn enough to be prepared to go to war whenever I’m called to go.” “Well, of course,” replied Masako, her face brightening with approval. “But you still go to the office ­every day, and you do what’s required of you, ­don’t you? That’s just how ­women feel, too, you know. And my s­ister is the type of person who would never hold back her feelings ­because ­you’re waiting for your next deployment. I’m convinced of it. She’s no dif­fer­ent from a man called out to the front. And s­he’d have horrible regrets if she let you go off to war without telling you how she felt.” What up ­until now appeared to be l­ittle more than a clear, crisp pre­sen­ta­tion on Masako’s part, for the first time seemed grounded in well-­informed opinions. Before she stopped speaking, Masako repeated the words, “I’m convinced of it.” Well, she makes a strong case, thought Mizusawa, as though he had never heard anyone put t­ hings quite like this before.

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He was surprised to find real thoughts hiding ­behind the carefree attitude of this young girl. “I understand perfectly.” Mizusawa looked into Masako’s face, and something in his heart told him he’d learned something from this girl. He had now come to terms with his feelings of irritation at Michiko’s absence, which had belabored his mind since early morning. The noontime siren rang over the radio, followed by a news broadcast. Both Masako and Mizusawa paused their conversation in order to listen. But soon the café filled with customers who’d arrived for lunchtime, which caught Mizusawa’s attention. “Would you care to have some lunch?” “No, no, I’ll pass. I need to get home anyway. Do be good to Michiko, w ­ on’t you?” Mizusawa simply smiled, then stood up to leave.

4 Alt houg h H i roko h a d b e e n e x p e c t i ng Michiko to visit that day, when she heard her voice in the entry­way, Hiroko’s hands ­were busy in the kitchen, and her ­mother had gone outside. “Come on in, Michiko,” she called out loudly. Hiroko, too, had just returned from work. The days had gradually become longer now, and ­there was still light in the sky vis­i­ble through the kitchen win­dow. “Well, you see . . .” Something seemed to be holding Michiko back, suggesting that she ­wasn’t alone. “Please come inside,” said Hiroko, making her way to the entry­way. “Well, hello,” Mizusawa greeted her with a smile. Michiko was bending down just below him, removing a shoe.

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“My goodness, Mr. Mizusawa’s h ­ ere too. Well, welcome, welcome. I thought it was just g­ oing to be Michiko t­oday, but please do come in.” As she went ahead ­toward the sitting room, Hiroko felt something inside her take mea­sure of this latest development. “I should have guessed.” She took out two floor cushions and placed one in front of each of her guests, whereupon Michiko quickly knelt down and bowed to her deeply, as if to hide the embarrassment on her face. “Thank you for all your help the other day.” ­A fter sitting upright again, Michiko shifted her body as though to defer to Mizusawa, who was sitting next to her. Then she pulled in her shoulders with a formal, almost affected gesture. “Sōichirō’s ­doing well, ­isn’t he? I just sent him a letter the other day.” It was Mizusawa who broke the silence, addressing ­H iroko quite casually as he looked up and noticed Sōichirō’s photo­graph. But Hiroko still sensed his formality, as he knelt on the floor very politely. ­Today ­there ­were freesias and red tulips arranged in front of Sōichirō’s photo­g raph. “Oh, ­you’ve taken the trou­ble to write him? I’m so grateful . . . ​A nd yes, he seems to be d­ oing quite well. Just the other day I received a letter.” Thinking she might show them, Hiroko picked up her handbag and pulled the letter out for them. Hiroko always kept her letters from Sōichirō in her bag. Mizusawa took the letter and began to read it, while Michiko leaned close to his shoulder to catch a better glimpse of it. Conscious of t­hese gestures on Michiko’s part, Hiroko pretended not to notice and started to prepare their tea. For a while no one mentioned why they had come to pay Hiroko a visit, but t­here was hardly any need to make a formal announcement. The way the two interacted said every­thing. ­There was something about Michiko’s natu­ral beauty now that had, perhaps for the very first time, allowed itself to be

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comfortably the object of someone’s gaze. Hiroko felt glad for her. “I’m so happy for you,” she said, with the sort of tender feelings that female friends normally share. Michiko replied with a shy smile and lowered her head, glancing ever so slightly in Mizusawa’s direction. They had come to ask Hiroko if she would break the news to Michiko’s parents of their plans to marry. “I feel rotten to have to ask you. And I could always go and speak to them myself.” “Oh, it’s no trou­ble at all. I’d be more than happy to talk to them. When I tell Sōichirō I’ve become the official matchmaker, though, I’m sure ­he’ll burst out laughing.” “Well, that ­won’t do, ­w ill it?” replied Mizusawa, scratching his head in earnest. Even this ­simple gesture carried a complicated set of emotions. To report this kind of happy news to someone living in a war zone made Mizusawa feel apol­o­getic, even shameful. And yet, given that he was so resolved to go through with it even still meant that ­there had to be something bright and cheerful in the news as well. “This person over h ­ ere,” continued Mizusawa, turning to Michiko. “She tells me how terribly impressed she is by the love you show, so beautifully, to your husband. It seems as though ­you’ve had quite an effect on her.” “Oh, please,” jumped in Michiko, as though to contradict him. “Please ­don’t,” she added firmly, pressing a handkerchief over her smile, and glancing over at her friend. “Well, what exactly has she said about me?” asked Hiroko. “I hear you sometimes leave out a ‘shadow tray’ for your husband, for example.” “Oh, how embarrassing. Did you r­eally tell him that, Michiko?” “I must say w ­ omen ­these days ­really do earn my re­spect. Michiko’s younger s­ister, as we ­were just saying, also knows how

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to get right to the point of a m ­ atter. It was entirely thanks to her intervention that we managed to work t­ hings out.” “Well, I’m so glad.” When Hiroko thought about Michiko’s volatile feelings—­ how s­he’d once even talked of adopting a child without getting remarried—­she found Masako’s intervention positively amusing, and truly thought ­things much better for it. Having been shaken by her early experiences, t­ here had once been a sharpness, an uncertainty, lurking deep inside Michiko, but the way her beauty now took on a fresh, new luster made Hiroko think of a flower blooming again with the onset of spring. All of them would have to stay alive now, to continue blooming and scenting the air. Such w ­ ere the thoughts that drifted into Hiroko’s mind. ­A fter she fi­nally sent the two back home, Hiroko stood ­there alone in the entry­way, smiling. With such pleasant news to share with her husband still on the battlefront, she quickly took out her pen and paper. The air seemed to shimmer inside the room t­oday, drawing t­oward her the scent of the freesia she had placed in the vase before her husband’s photo. It was warm enough to want to open a win­dow, and Hiroko’s cheeks, too, seem to take on a fragrance and a color of their own. As she began to compose her letter to Sōichirō, the image of Michiko and Mr. Mizusawa walking side by side drifted into her mind’s eye. From the very outset of her letter t­ oday her words seemed to dance out onto the page.

White and Purple

We h a d c u t ou r c on v e r s at ion short, my guest and I, as we listened silently to the three ­o’clock broadcast drifting in from the living room. “Oh, it’s the news,” Ōsawa Yoshiko had said, whereupon our conversation suspended itself quite naturally, I tilting my face slightly ­toward the living room, and Ōsawa Yoshiko fixing her line of vision on the garden as we listened. Sinking into silence at the sound of the news, it was not as though the topic of our conversation had drifted in a dif­fer­ent direction. Once the broadcast ended and the announcer began introducing the next program, the radio in the living room abruptly cut off, and in its stead came the same announcer’s voice echoing loudly but indistinctly from somewhere beyond the bushes outside. Ōsawa Yoshiko said nothing of what we had just heard on  the news, but instead turned her gaze ever so slightly up ­toward the sky. “Is that the call of a wild cuckoo?” she ventured. The flowers had fallen by now from the chestnut tree, whose fo­liage had already grown flush with the eaves. A single black cloud stretched itself out across the overcast sky, making for Originally titled “Shiro to murasaki,” “White and Purple” was first published in the September 1950 edition of Ningen.

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a curious mix of colors, dark but beautiful. Just below, a low grove of oaks and chestnuts hid itself among a green canopy of trees, their slender black trunks standing out in contrast with the o ­ thers. Somewhere in their midst was that wild cuckoo, making its distinctive call: bau-­bau gu-­ruu-­ruu. With an elegant silk sash of the striped Hakata style, Yoshiko wore a single-­layer kimono of a brownish hue, with creases showing crisply on the shoulders. Her collar and sash had been wrapped as tightly as could be, giving her the appearance of someone rather prim and proper, but also that of an errand boy, in uniform, with tightly fitted sleeves. Yoshiko’s dark skin and firmly set face, the seemingly confident purse of her lips, and her constantly shifting eyes—­eyes that fixed themselves on her interlocutor only to suddenly shift away—­these all suggested the cleverness of a professional mischief-­maker, but also left one with the impression of a w ­ oman who was rather unkind. One might attribute her demeanor in part to the blunt candor for which “natives of Saga” are well known. But having come from the same hometown as Yoshiko, and as someone whom she had occasionally visited during her college years, I sensed in her bearing something far more settled now than it had ever been a de­cade before. With her eyes averted, she began to speak. “It was such a lovely town, you know. More a village than a town, I suppose, but ever so lovely.” Whenever she spoke, it was a habit of hers to look away from her addressee, though I d­ on’t mean to suggest that she appeared melancholic. On the contrary, she possessed a very fine sense of humor, which she frequently employed. Whenever she exercised her wit, however, she never looked her addressee straight in the eye. And for that reason one was always left with the impression that her pleasantries ­were a means of avoiding a par­tic­u­ lar topic of conversation. The tone of her voice, as she began to speak once again, however, was anything but humorous. Picking up from where our conversation had previously broken off, she

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suddenly turned serious. I held my peace and allowed her to continue. “You might think it’s rather odd for me, at a time like this, to speak of the lovely cities and countryside over t­here. But I assure you this “rather odd” feeling is something I’ve always been keenly attuned to. Inviting anyone’s sarcasm is the last ­thing I want to do, and I make it a rule never to speak at work about what’s happening ­there. It hardly suffices, I know, to preface anything I can possibly say with this kind of explanation. But ­every time I listen to the radio, you see, I c­ an’t help thinking about how the villages are faring. The announcer just mentioned Suwŏn, d­ idn’t he? Well, that’s actually just a small village, you know, a farming village scattered with the ruins of an ancient palace’s walls. The Suwŏn I remember was a peaceful, lovely place, surrounded by elegant traces of an Yi Dynasty that is now, of course, long gone. I still remember its crumbling palace walls, which seemed to lay themselves down for a doze beneath the brilliant, early summer sun. Even in their state of utter decay they suggested something far more ­g rand than the tranquil setting of their final demise—­a kind of authority, perhaps, that the palace once commanded long ago. T ­ hose tall, wide staircases, carved out of stone, the lookout towers with curved roofs rising several floors higher, the brick enclosure of the palace itself—­these w ­ ere all originally built in anticipation of something or someone approaching from far below. I can still see myself and my two friends sightseeing ­there one Sunday after­noon. W ­ e’re perched atop the ancient walls of P’aldal Gate. And except for the vast sky, soaked with the golden rays of the midday sun, ­there ­isn’t another living soul to be seen. I remember the palace walls being lush with summer grasses, and insects singing. Half-­crumbled though they ­were, t­hose walls stretched far, far out into the distance. Off on the embankments t­here w ­ ere pine trees sending their branches high up into the air, where it seemed as though they w ­ ere swimming through the sky. From high atop the palace walls even the

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village huts w ­ ere vis­ib­ le far down below, their thatched roofs standing out like so many turtle shells, flat and round, amid the low canopy of trees. I remember the G ­ rand Vermillion Gate, too, and the Willow and Blossom Viewing Pavilion, as well as many other buildings close to the village itself or ­else nearby.1 But some of the other pavilions, shy of such splendor, seemed to appear almost out of nowhere, surrounded by green fields, making for a setting that was strangely serene. I remember the newly planted rice patties, their seedlings swaying softly in the breeze, and the white herons making their slow descent into the light-­g reen fields, folding their wings just as they made contact suddenly with the ground. I’d always heard that Suwŏn was famous for its herons, but we saw flocks of them t­ here gathered atop the upper branches of tall pines. When they soared g­ ently through the air, their pure white feathers showing crisply against the clear blue sky, they reminded us of traditional works of folk art—as though the birds themselves ­were painting for us a living portrait of beauty itself. Even the grandest of buildings, such as the ­Grand Vermillion Gate, seemed to have a connection to the ordinary lives of the local villa­gers. Once we happened to climb a flight of stone stairs next to the main gate, and at the top we found a wide pavilion with expansive views stretching out in e­ very direction. Its roof was supported by decaying pillars, peeling with old paint, and inside we came across two young girls, no more than ten years old, playing ball. They w ­ ere wearing white chŏgori and peach-­colored ch’ima, and one of the girls had a red ribbon tied to the tip of her long braid of hair.2 You know, I can still remember that red ribbon bouncing up and down as the girl bounced her ball. I think it came as something of a shock to us at the time to

1 2

In Korean ­these sites are known as Hwahong-­mun and Panghwasuyu-­chŏng. Chŏgori are Korean blouses, ch’ima, Korean skirts.

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realize the song ­these girls ­were singing was a Japa­nese tune: Sign­ ing a treaty . . . ​at Port Arthur . . . ​at Kaesŏng. It was the same tune about General Nogi that we ourselves had once sung playing with beanbags as ­little kids.3 I ­wouldn’t say it was unusual to come across a scene like this; in fact such encounters w ­ ere quite common. But my friend and I ­were so enchanted by the Yi Dynasty ruins encircling us that when we recognized the song to be General Nogi’s, it must have e­ tched itself into our minds. Since I was working in the Business Department of the Railroad Bureau, in the Office of the Governor General, I myself ­wasn’t especially interested in the daily lives of Koreans. A ­ fter graduating from an elite ­woman’s college, as you know, I was obliged to return to my hometown in Kyūshū, where I ended up working for two or three years at a local school. But I was fortunate enough to meet someone t­ here, through whose good offices I found myself moving almost by sheer chance to Keijō.4 In the beginning I’d expected something much dif­fer­ent from what I was used to, and it was quite disappointing to find the city of Keijō to be just like any other large city in Japan. Nor was my everyday life in Keijō all that dif­fer­ent from my life in Japan. I rented the second floor of a Japa­nese f­amily’s ­house in Motomachi and commuted to the Railroad Bureau in Yongsan. On the surface of t­hings everyday life for me was r­eally quite similar to what it had always been in the homeland—­the “homeland” being, of course, what every­one over t­here called the Japa­ nese islands at the time.5 But, you know, it’s also true that having

3

4 5

This war song by Okuno Jun’ichi and Sasaki Nobutsuna, entitled “The Meeting at Suishiei,” appears in several elementary-­school textbooks of the pre–­ World War II period. An army general at the time of the Russo-­Japanese War, General Nogi (Count Nogi Maresuke, 1849–1912) and his wife famously committed suicide ­a fter the death of Emperor Meiji. Keijō was the Japa­nese name for Seoul during the colonial period. Having been officially annexed by Japan in 1910, what we now know as South and North ­Korea ­were internationally recognized as part of “Japan” on most maps at the time, although the distinction between the “homeland” (naichi) and

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moved to Keijō I did somehow feel very liberated. Perhaps it had something to do with my own situation, feeling like something of a hayseed among my fellow Japa­nese, but in comparison to my life back in Kyūshū, where I worked as a teacher at an all-­g irls school, I had a job in Keijō that actually brought me out into society. Though I’d found Keijō to be like any old Japa­nese city when I first arrived, the city too came to seem more and more Korean as I grew accustomed to it. Even the bare northern peaks ­behind the Office of the Governor General I came to see with brand-­new eyes. The mountains now seemed more like white coral to me—­solid and yet beautiful—as they stretched on and on, encircling the city. The plain white clothing that Koreans always wore seemed to harmonize so naturally with the white color of ­those distant peaks. But, you know, I can still recall something that happened once, on a Keijō-­bound train r­ unning along the Han River. “Pew! ­Can’t you just move over ­there?” It was the voice of a young girl, who had spoken without a moment’s hesitation. Her words at the time ­d idn’t seem particularly arrogant or cruel to me. And the man, who had just settled down beside this group of schoolgirls, simply stood up and walked away. With the faint trace of a smirk on his face, meant for no one e­ lse but himself, the man moved up to the front of the car, dressed in a pair of short pants and a traditional Korean jacket stained yellow with grime. The girls glanced up at him as he walked away, but for no more than an instant. They quickly resumed their animated chatter, as any schoolgirls might do, as though the incident itself had left ­little impression on the man who’d walked away, and no impact whatsoever on the words the girls ­were now exchanging. The entire incident seemed to play out all so very naturally.

the “outer land” (gaichi) arose in Japa­nese to distinguish between the islands of Japan and, effectively, its colonies.

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For seven years I lived in Keijō ­until we ­were repatriated at the end of the war, and I can tell you this sort of scene was all too common. It’s only one of many such memories I have of Keijō, though at the time it was nothing more to me than a bit of local color. I myself was far too focused on living life, all on my own. And before I knew it, the challenges of living alone as a ­woman—­overseas at that—­had led me to become proud of myself, and even stubborn, I suppose. I was conscious of feeling proud in relation to my Japa­nese compatriots. But what transformed that pride into arrogance was the same sense that crept up on us before we even knew it—­that “Pew! ­Can’t you just move over ­there?” I was hardly alone in feeling proud of myself in relation to t­hose who had come from Japan. And I like to think now that this had something to do with the hand that fate dealt me. You see, no one ever understood how serious a person I was during my college years, or even ­after. Whenever I explained to ­people, for example, that I’d come to ­Korea b­ ecause I’d wanted to live more freely, they would always misinterpret my words to mean something, well, rather dishonest. Not every­one of course believed that ­every unmarried ­woman living abroad had a skeleton hidden in her closet, but time and time again I found p­ eople giving me the once-­ over in that belittling way they often do. Perhaps it is less so now than it once was in the past, but for some thirty years, ever since Japan had annexed the peninsula, the idea of someone g­ oing “all the way to ­Korea” took on quite a negative connotation, making any acknowl­edgment of the trip itself into a subtle marker of past experiences. We homelanders followed a tacit set of rules among ourselves, making a show of our own accomplishments only to look down on ­those of ­others, even while pretending the ­whole time to be the best of friends. And ­because of ­these unpleasant feelings, when we found ourselves face-­to-­face with Koreans, we let loose our contempt and our sense of superiority, as though it w ­ ere a ­matter of self-­preservation. I’d hazard to guess that all Japa­nese in the colony ­were plagued in this way by feelings of self-hatred, which transformed into expressions of superiority t­oward Kore-

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ans. This must have been a sign of how afraid we w ­ ere—in a calculated but still ignorant way—of the deep-­seated re­sis­tance of the Koreans in our midst. Perhaps even ­those schoolgirls on the train ­were projecting an aspect of this kind of self-­consciousness when they said ­things like: “ ‘Pickled brats’ like us ­can’t get hitched back in the homeland.” Pickled pollock roe was one of K ­ orea’s well-­k nown exports, and the term “pickled brat” referred to Japa­nese who’d been born in K ­ orea or ­else grown up ­there. It was precisely this sense of self-­u nderstanding that led to a feeling of superiority t­oward Koreans, especially on the part of the “pickled brats.” I myself built a shell around my daily existence and was only so conscientious about my work as necessary ­toward that end. When I interacted with ­people at work, I suppose I tended to be somewhat indifferent. But I ­don’t think my attitude altered significantly when it came to the Koreans I worked with. The only w ­ oman among my Korean colleagues was someone by the name of Den Teiki.6 Now, I say colleague, but it ­wasn’t as though the two of us w ­ ere ­doing the same kind of work. Den Teiki was hired to help produce the tourist magazine published by our sales department, which no doubt speaks to the extraordinary nature of her own ­career as a ­woman in ­Korea. Having traveled to Japan and graduated from a specialized training college for ­women ­there, Den Teiki was a true intellectual. She kept her hair casually tied up in a bun at the back of her head, and had typically Korean facial features—­a round face, and a broad, flat bridge on a small nose. Her mouth was firmly set, as though she ­were constantly clenching her teeth, and her eyes w ­ ere always

6

The Korean pronunciation of Den Teiki’s name would be Chŏn Chŏng-­hŭi, though it seems unlikely that the narrator would have called her this during the colonial period, or even in the narrating pres­ent of the early postwar period.

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narrowed; her brows ­were habitually pinched together as if keeping something bottled up inside. It ­wasn’t a cheerful expression, to be sure. But it seemed l­ittle e­ lse than the natu­ral expression of her innermost self, and it ­d idn’t leave one with the impression that she was particularly sad. Den Teiki at one point, it seemed, sought out my friendship. The naked earnestness with which she addressed me, however, disagreed with my nature. I was more the type to animate a situation with a joke or two, and thereby quickly accomplish what­ ever task was at hand. As a means of resisting against my male colleagues, I’d developed this tactic well before I was even aware of it. And though I say “resisting,” all I mean to imply is that this attitude of mine proved to be an effective means of gaining a certain level of recognition among my male peers. I’d become a favorite of my section chief, and in a way served as his personal secretary, making arrangements for special receptions and attending to all the necessary preparations for the occasional visitor or tourist coming from the homeland. I also became friendly with the section chief ’s wife and used to accompany her when she shopped for clothes in Honmachi or at the Mitsukoshi Department Store. Our department chief was a well-­built man with strong, broad shoulders, and while his features w ­ ere delicate, and constitutionally he was rather faint of heart, he had come from Hiroshima more than a de­cade earlier to join the Office of the Governor General. He had gradually worked his way up to his pres­ent position. He also seemed to take some pride in having a subordinate like me who had graduated from an elite ­women’s college. He once asked me, “Ōsawa, ­you’re not one of ­those ‘single forever’ types, are you? Got any plans for the f­uture?” It was in his nature to be like this—­half paternal and half provoking. “Spinsterhood i­sn’t exactly fash­ion­able, you know. So ­don’t you go teasin’ me anymore . . .” I retorted playfully in the Kyūshū patois we shared in common. “Hmm . . . ​Well, I suppose ­you’re right about that,” he replied, this time with all the pathos of a truly concerned parent.

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“Oh, please. Enough of your ‘pity the poor l­ittle girl’ routine. It’s just plain rude. I’ll get married if and when I please! And when I do, you can rest assured that I ­shall abandon this job and you along with it. . . . ​No offense intended, of course.” Such was the nature of our interactions. But when it came to Den Teiki, however, the w ­ oman would assail me with questions about classical Japa­nese lit­er­a­ture or about writers like Shimazaki Tōson. I hate to say this to you of all ­people, but you know I’m no literary won­der girl. “Miss Ōsawa,” she would say, “might I ask you who you prefer, Murasaki Shikibu or Sei Shōnagon? “I should think one’s preference reveals something about one’s true character.” 7 Den Teiki’s Japa­nese was so advanced that she had practically mastered all the voiced consonants. And it was a habit of hers to employ rather refined, feminine language, beginning many of her sentences with the words “I should think.” “Heavens, I ­haven’t thought of ­those old girls in years!” I replied lightheartedly. “Have you by any chance read The Tale of Genji?” “Why on earth would I want to read that! With all its ‘Thus spake his lordship’ and ‘So-­and-so attended upon his Excellency.’ Back in high school a friend of mine lent me a copy when I had my appendix removed. But I only started flipping through it b­ ecause I was stuck in bed the w ­ hole time. A ­ fter a while all I wanted to do was read the gossip pages of a newspaper. I’m sure I gave up on the book well before the young Murasaki chapters.” “Do you suppose it’s necessary to read classic works of lit­er­a­t ure?”

7

Murasaki Shikibu, author of The Tale of Genji (Genji monogatari), and Sei Shōnagon, author of The Pillow Book (Makura no sōshi), are perhaps the most-­ well-­k nown ­women writers from Japan’s Heian Period (794–1185). Their works ­were rediscovered and popu­lar­ized in the 1930s, when the state turned to its classical traditions in order to reconstruct a national identity in the context of Japa­nese imperialism.

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Unruffled by the nature of my reply, Den Teiki persisted in asking questions that only she found in­ter­est­ing. “I’m not ­really sure.” “Well, I myself find the sensibilities of Sei Shōnagon to be quite splendid.” Once the conversation had taken this turn in direction, the expression on Den Teiki’s face seemed newly animated. Her experience studying in Japan was something that she no doubt cherished. And I imagine she could have hardly come across anyone in her own land with whom she might have engaged in the sort of conversation that stroked her ego. This I now understand. “Would you by any chance have read Shimazaki Tōson’s When the Cherries Ripen?” She had seized on an opportunity that she was now loath to abandon. Had I still been a student, I might have at least shown some interest if asked such a question. But our desks w ­ ere lined up side by side, mind you, and Den Teiki kept me like this in her relentless grip on a daily basis. Den Teiki always dressed in Korean clothing. And I myself always wore a kimono. It must say something about my personality that I refused to wear Western clothes, but for Den Teiki, as indeed for any Korean w ­ oman, the decision to wear Korean clothes spoke to an altogether dif­fer­ent state of mind, I imagine. As I’ve already mentioned, Den Teiki often knit her brow as though she ­were keeping something bottled up inside her, but never did she behave in a servile way t­ oward me or, consequently, act competitively. This is why, being somewhat indifferent even to my fellow Japa­nese, I was no more invested in her than I was in anyone e­ lse in my office, nor was I particularly inclined to be sympathetic ­toward her. This was, from my perspective, the essence of our relationship. For my own part I tried to enjoy the single life to the fullest, however I pleased. Once, it happened that my heart was stirred by a young man. He was a painter from Tokyo who had come at the invitation of the Railroad Bureau and was spending

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his time wandering through famous sites and cities on the Korean peninsula. His travels brought him back to Keijō on several occasions, and whenever he passed through town, I made reservations for him at the Chosŏn ­Hotel, helped him decide on his next destination, and took care of all the arrangements for each leg of his journey. This was a rare plea­sure for me, one that eventually moved my heart. The painter himself treated me with the kind of tenderness and re­spect—­and a genuine interest in me as a person—­ that I’d never once in my life experienced before. My heart would start pounding whenever I approached his room in the Chosŏn ­Hotel. And if we happened to be standing beside each other on the ivy-­covered Hwanggungu Pavilion in the h ­ otel garden, I would lose myself in the sweetest of reveries. On several occasions he invited me to go on eve­n ing walks with him. We also did ­things like attend the Korean theater together at the play­house in Chongno. Surrounded by only Koreans in that tiny theater—­ without any other Japa­nese around—­I remember taking on a superior air and thinking I could get away with acting in the most vulgar way with him. When he told me he wanted to visit a par­tic­u ­lar kisaeng, whom he’d once had the occasion to meet, I went so far as to accompany him to a traditional Korean restaurant.8 Dressed in a blue silk blouse, the kisaeng we visited sat Korean-­style, with one knee raised beneath her bright white skirt, as he sketched her. While I myself sat to the side on a round rush mat, twisting around to catch a glimpse of his pencil racing across his pad, the white, almost transparent, face of that kisaeng somehow lodged itself in my mind. In another room t­ here was a party g­ oing on, I remember, and we could hear the pishiri, pishiri beat of a drum being pounded vigorously, as well as the violent tones of a verse sung with the almost primeval voice of what must have been some sort of old geisha. It

8

Kisaeng, ­u nder colonial rule, ­were the traditional Korean counterpart to the Japa­nese geisha.

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certainly ­wasn’t one of ­those well-­k nown plaintive tunes such as Arirang, but instead something rough, and impassioned. And ­there was something about ­those vibrations that helped to stir feelings inside me. Having managed to fan the flames of my heart, however, this man eventually returned to the homeland. He’d always had this way of staring straight into my eyes when he spoke to me, but perhaps that look on his face was all too common among ­people who spend time abroad. In fact, the ­whole affair might have been entirely in my head a­ fter all. But the damage was done, and I eventually lost the capacity to develop such feelings for p­ eople around me. Eventually I hardened, and I spent all of my time simply traveling and shopping for nice clothes. ­Here I am ­going on and on when all I ­really wanted to do was to tell you how beautiful it is in ­Korea. I know I’ve taken a path through life that’s been nothing short of irresponsible and arrogant, and yet in my memories of ­Korea all that remains is a lovely landscape. ­Korea truly is such a lovely place. And I’ve tried to embrace, in my own quiet way, what this country’s history has left ­behind for us, a part of which I think still lives and breathes inside of me. Once, I remember mentioning to Den Teiki that I’d be g­ oing on a tour of Mt. Kŭmgang, whereupon she turned to me with that typical expression on her face—­the same as ever—saying, “All Koreans hope to make one trip to Mt. Kŭmgang before they die. I h ­ aven’t been t­here yet myself. But I’m sure it’s stunning.” I d­ idn’t need Den Teiki to tell me that it was the hope of all Koreans to see Mt. Kŭmgang at least once in their lifetimes. Whenever Japa­nese living in K ­ orea boasted about the beauty of Mt. Kŭmgang to tourists coming from Japan, they always referred to this fact—as though it somehow served as evidence to support their own claims on it. When I think about it now, I can certainly see why Japa­nese foreigners referred to this ardent Korean desire mainly as a means of boasting about all the places on the Korean peninsula they now believed to be their own. I can also understand how unjust this was, and how cruel, though I must admit I

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can only say this with the benefit of hindsight. It was only ­after I found myself struck by the real­ity of repatriation that I realized for the first time that “Well, yes, of course, ­Korea is a country of its own.” I believe I just described the expression on Den Teiki’s face as being “the same as ever.” This, too, was simply a m ­ atter of me being accustomed to it, for I ­hadn’t the slightest interest in probing its meaning. When she told me, “I h ­ aven’t been ­there yet myself,” ­there ­wasn’t of course the slightest trace of jealousy on her face, or even the suggestion of sarcasm or indignation for that ­matter. It was just that she was perpetually holding something back when she addressed other ­people, and as a result this became a natu­ral part of her normal, everyday expression. It never occurred to me that this “something” had already settled itself into the way she presented herself on a daily basis to other ­people. For me and my friends, our own trip to Mt. Kŭmgang was all about the hiking. A friend of mine from girls school in Kyūshū had married an official in the Office of the Governor General and subsequently moved to Seoul, and I found myself accompanying her and two married friends once on what turned out to be a rather boisterous trip to Mt. Kŭmgang. Having come all the way to K ­ orea we might as well see the place, or so that was the basic idea. When we fi­n ally started climbing along the stream at the base of the mountain, we first noticed a ­house built in the gorge on the opposite side of the stream. And just below it was a young ­woman dressed in bright-­white Korean clothes, who had come down to the stream to wash her rice. The mountain was looming in front of us, but in that calm, wide ravine the sight of this young ­woman in bright-­white Korean clothes, crouching at the side of the river to wash her rice, was truly a peaceful and lovely scene. As we traveled further along into the gorge, we unexpectedly caught sight of the rooftops of an entire t­emple compound. The way the vividly colored buildings suddenly revealed themselves midway up the mountain—­surrounded on all sides by trees—­ was so breathtaking it somehow felt like we ­were seeing them in a dream. Its ­gently rising stone stairway had been beaten by the

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wind, rain, and sun, and even the surface of its stonework bore the color of this slow, but sure, decay. Its two-­tiered gate, main hall, and covered passageways all evoked a sense of elegance with their multicolored, detailed brushwork, an elegance that had faded over the years into the lovely complexity of a patina almost monochromatic. When we looked up above us into the gate tower, we saw a monk dressed in white linen sitting ­there cross-­legged, tranquilly looking down upon us as we climbed the stone stairs. The peonies blooming in the courtyard, at the very height of their splendor, boasted a brilliance of color that was strangely out of place against the subdued hues of the buildings surrounding them. As we took our leave from Changan ­Temple and began climbing once again through the mountain ravine t­oward Manp’okdong, t­ here w ­ ere squirrels scrambling over the rocks and jumping from one tree to another. On the mountain trail we caught sight of a w ­ oman ahead of us leaning on the arm of a Korean mountaineer, whom we proceeded to ridicule. “Looks like someone’s out fishin’. Out on a date with a mountain Gook!” We made a point of using our native dialect whenever we felt particularly carefree. Den Teiki’s hometown was Kaesŏng. But her ­family apparently no longer owned a ­house ­there. Kaesŏng was a town that had aged quite tragically. The rise and fall of the Koryŏ Dynasty had left ­behind its traces even on the city’s stones, stained as they ­were with the blood of many a loyal retainer. The Namdae Gate ­temple bell still sat atop a crumbing stone foundation, where it tolled its plaintive knell, hidden deep inside an antique pavilion. And I can still remember how the village h ­ ouses vis­i­ble from atop the pavilion w ­ ere bathed in beautiful sunshine, although they seemed to us more washed-­out and withered by the rays of the sun. Manwŏldae itself, or what was left of the Koryŏ Palace, sat atop a fairly high hill, while small, graceful stone stairways and foundation stones remained h ­ ere and t­here, all but abandoned to

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a thick blanket of wild grasses, and to a sadness that seemed to speak of long-­forgotten dreams. Kaesŏng had preserved all of this history into the pres­ent day, and the city felt to us as though its very survival depended on this pride in its antiquity. Not a soul out in the sunshine? I’d wondered when we visited, but it turned out that an archery competition was being held that day between the city’s low hills. The wisely armed archers—­strapping men each one of them—­were shooting arrows using short bows not half the length of the ones we used in Japan. In the rugged ­faces of t­ hese brawny men t­ here seemed to be something reminiscent of the heroes of ancient tales. ­Those hills carried a history of warriors practicing the ancient techniques of the bow and arrow, and this history now lingered on even in the ­faces of the archers. Flapping between the pines, ­there had also been long flags erected, each a dif­fer­ent color, it seemed, to represent the dif­fer­ent teams. T ­ here ­were white, red, even solid-­black flags, which was all quite suggestive of an ancient warrior painting. It was hardly a proper gathering—no more than a small group of men in the mountains—­but on this day not a single one of them was dressed in Western clothes. The elders in the group wore traditional hats as well, and carried long pipes in their hands. Once an arrow was released by an archer on one hillside, ­there came from the other side the do-­do-­don sound of a drum if it hit its mark. When the sound of the drum sounded through the valley, the flag ­bearer, sitting on the ground, would wave his flag and let out a long, drawn-­out call, yaaa. They took no notice of the Japa­nese ­women who happened to be scattered among the crowd. ­A fter I returned from Kaesŏng, Den Teiki asked me for my impressions. “And how did you find Kaesŏng?” “Kind of quiet, no? I’d even say rather gray. Still, it’s the most Korean place I think I’ve ever been.” Given that Den Teiki was a fan of lit­er­a­t ure, it was rather careless of me to let t­hese words slip. When I said that Kaesŏng was rather gray, I meant not only the city of Kaesŏng itself but in

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fact all of the sites where traces of ­Korea’s ancient past still lingered, w ­ hether this was Kyŏngju or Pulguksa T ­ emple, or even the washed-­out brilliance of the ­temples on Mt. Kŭmgang. My impression of all of t­ hese places was, in a word, gray. I was thinking of the low-­roofed commoner ­houses and the sight of barefoot old peasants, wearing sweat-­soiled clothes and pants rolled up to their knees, but donning elegant hats on their heads all the while. T ­ hese ­were all, in my eyes, gray. It ­wasn’t so much that they all appeared to us as quintessentially Korean; in fact I won­der if we ­d idn’t actually find plea­sure in trying to see them this way. The streets of Pyŏngyang, of course, which reeked with the body odor of Korean laborers, and the long line of factory smokestacks along the Taedong River—­these w ­ ere far more typical of con­temporary ­Korea than the ancient sites of Rangnang or the splendid ruins of Yi Dynasty architecture. And it’s not as though we ­d idn’t know this at the time. It was somewhat unusual, indeed quite rare, for Den Teiki to do so, but a­ fter hearing my impressions of Kaesŏng, she knit her brows even more sadly than usual and spoke with words that almost gushed. “Gray, you say? Does Kaesŏng truly seem gray? Well, that makes me very sad,” she said, smiling faintly before g­ oing on. “Kaesŏng, for me, is white and purple. I used to sit alone on Manwŏldae, you know, when I was a young girl long ago, and I often lost myself in my dreams t­here, dreams of both the past and the f­ uture. No, no, Kaesŏng is a beautiful place. And it makes me sad to hear you think it gray. I should think Kaesŏng ­w ill always be white and purple for me.” At the time I sympathized with Den Teiki, though it was rather unlike me to do so. I sympathized with the love t­hese ­women had for their homeland, and with their desire to see its beautiful colors. White and purple—­even I ­couldn’t altogether disagree. Den Teiki was born into what must have been a distinguished f­ amily in Kaesŏng. What sort of dreams had she embraced

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at Manwŏldae, as she traced the stone foundations of ­those palace ruins rank with weeds? T ­ here was something rather self-­evident about her choice of white and purple, and I won­der if her plans for the f­ uture had first taken shape at Manwŏldae as well. Once, I remember, Den Teiki’s work brought her on a visit to the home of an upperclass Korean f­amily, and I asked her to take me along with her. The h ­ ouse was located near Changdŏk Palace, on a residential street lined with low earthen walls and tall pine trees casting their shadows over the road. When we entered the front gate, we found that the h ­ ouse was constructed in the triangular style, built with a kitchen leading to a sitting room, then a reception room, and then fi­nally the inner quarters. Just inside the gate, where large jars and pots w ­ ere stored, t­here was something of a small courtyard. The lady of the h ­ ouse was a ­widow close to sixty years old, but she had full, soft cheeks, which had been whitely powdered, and ­there was something about her that seemed dynamic, and yet at the same time fully at ease. It was in a heated reception hall, decorated with ornamental boxes and small bureaus inlaid with ­mother-­of-­pearl, that I distinctly recall this ­grand lady nodding in our direction. ­Here, Den Teiki was using the language of her own p­ eople. And as I sat t­here, left completely out of the conversation, listening to this swirl of Korean words echoing around me, I found myself twiddling my thumbs out of utter boredom. Something about their conversation also suggested that I too was a topic of their conversation, a thought which cast a sudden chill over my feelings t­oward even this g­ rand lady, who continued to nod at Den Teiki’s words and occasionally glance in my direction. On the way back to the office I said something to Den Teiki. “We ­haven’t got a clue when it comes to understanding Korean, do we?” “Well, I should think t­here’s not much need for you to learn it,” replied Den Teiki. For some reason I felt compelled to accommodate her feelings, so I replied, “And your Japa­nese is so perfect, Miss Den.”

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“Oh, it’s hardly perfect,” she replied almost instantly, as though with a well-­rehearsed reply. “I should think the Japa­nese language ­w ill never be a perfect fit for us. But at the same time, the Korean language somehow seems imperfect as well. Putting pen to paper makes it all the more obvious, you know. It’s simply impossible for us to write in ­either Korean or Japa­nese.” “But you do get by on an everyday level, ­don’t you? ­Isn’t that good enough?” Iw ­ asn’t in the least worried that my own words came off as rather rough, with their heavy Kyūshū intonation, so I could hardly sympathize with the point she was now making. “Get by? I won­der.” Den Teiki cast her eyes downward and walked along in silence. She hung her hands in front of her, clasping onto her handbag all the while. Then she pressed her shoulders ­gently forward, striking the perfect pose of a modest, female Oriental. The cord of her bow, tied at the side of her chest, hung down below the hem of her Korean blouse. The swelling nostrils of her tiny, flat nose, the purse of her lips, her tightly clenched teeth—­even the way her hair was tightly drawn back exposing her ears—­a ll of this made the small shape of Den Teiki’s head seem much more apparent. Den Teiki then looked up with an intense, almost glaring look in her eyes, and without the slightest hesitation, or any reserve, she began speaking with a single-­m inded passion. “But I have always wanted to become a writer. And I should think I ­will always want to write novels. In fact I have been trying to write one for a very long time now. But when I attempt to describe t­ hings correctly, or try to capture nuances of the h ­ uman mind, I often find myself at a loss for words. Which language should I even write in? I won­der, when the Japa­nese words w ­ on’t come out gracefully and the Korean words hang t­ here on the page half-­finished. I then tell myself, with utter despair, that it i­sn’t simply a question of language for me, but a ­matter of my very own

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self being suspended in midair. To this day whenever I ask myself how on earth I ­shall ever become a writer, I often break down into tears.” “You ­don’t say!” I replied, in my typically lighthearted manner. My expression of disbelief, at the same time, was quite sincere. It ­wasn’t the fact that Den Teiki was losing her own language that I found so extraordinary, but rather the way she spoke with such frankness about wanting to become a writer. This is what accounted for my tongue-­in-­cheek reply. “Become an aspiring novelist, Miss Den? Now that’s what I call ambition! The thought would never have crossed our minds.” Den Teiki drew her gaze far up t­oward the sky. Was she listening to what I was saying, or was she lost in her own train of thought? Her line of vision wandered, suggesting she was in fact deaf to my words. It’s always been a bad habit of mine not to take t­hings ­people say very seriously, and had I been with a fellow Japa­nese friend of mine in the same situation, I think I would have responded in exactly the same manner. Though I won­der if by saying so I’m simply trying to defend my own be­hav­ior . . . ​In any case, my lighthearted manner, finding itself rebuffed, managed to spoil our conversation. Japan at the time had been sending more and more groups of settlers into Manchuria and was in the pro­cess of expanding a variety of its enterprises t­here. T ­ hese events coincided with intensified efforts to integrate ­Korea into a part of the Japa­nese homeland. The Name Order, for example, had just been put into effect, whereby Koreans w ­ ere ordered to replace their own names with more Japanese-­sounding ones. Japa­nese officials working in the provinces, thinking primarily of their own c­ areers, essentially enforced this policy with an iron fist. And it seems as though this was a horrible insult to the Koreans. Even ­after marriage, Korean ­women did not traditionally change their surnames. A new wife would continue to carry the surname of her birth parents. Forcing

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Koreans to change their surnames was, u ­ nder the circumstances, tantamount to the eradication of the traditional ­family, and a burning re­sis­tance to this policy seems to have inflamed the hearts of many Koreans. Den Teiki in fact followed through with the Name Order and became Tamura Sadako.9 I imagine she thought it would be best to do so as a w ­ oman who’d had the opportunity to study in Japan and who was now working in the Office of the Governor General. A ­ fter changing her name, however, Den Teiki seemed to become even more irritable. Never before had she been excessively humilific ­toward us, and thus behave in a competitive way. Quite the contrary, she had from the very beginning considered herself an equal among her Japa­nese peers and had treated us accordingly. Perhaps she had acquired this self-­ consciously egalitarian attitude while attending school in Japan, and only upon returning to her motherland had found herself in a more complicated situation. Once a new set of business cards had been printed, however, with her new Japa­nese name, Tamura Sadako, written on them, she offered me a card along with the following. “The editor-­in-­chief was ever so kind to give me this name.” ­There was something dark, almost servile, about the way she spoke, which I’d never sensed in her words up u ­ ntil then. And from that point on, it seemed, she never once tried to get close to me as s­ he’d done in the past. Though, honestly, it was all the same to me. I remember once, when on a ­m atter of official business, I entered the office Den Teiki shared with her coworkers, and I found her arguing with a male journalist from the Japa­nese homeland.

9

Using Chinese characters, the names are Den Teiki (田貞姫 ) and Tamura Sadako (田村貞子).

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“Oh, I am afraid I must object. It’s just fine the way it is now. The style is the person, as they say. And ­here the style captures my very essence. If you cut it out, I should think the writing might die.” Her interlocutor was saying something to the effect that it w ­ asn’t a ­matter of style, but rather a grammatical error. From this man’s perspective, h ­ ere was a w ­ oman—­a Korean ­woman at that—­who was defying his own better judgment, and his eyes narrowed with irritation. “Well, by all means please feel ­free to drop the piece entirely—­I’m perfectly willing to accept that. As it happens I had straight As in grammar in the homeland, you see. Which I should think makes all of this talk rather odd.” Den Teiki straightened up the ­things on her desk with efficiency, then took her leave of the office. I placed my hands on the desk of the editor-­in-­chief and turned my head around to watch her leave. My own reaction clearly speaks to how I identified with the general feeling of the editorial office, where almost every­one ­else was Japa­nese. As Japan’s war effort expanded and grew into the so-­called Greater East Asian War, the war­ t ime regime intensified in ­Korea as well. Within the space of a single year the production of traditional Korean handicrafts—­such as boxes inlaid with ­mother-­of-­pearl or decorated with metal fittings—­was banned, along with the sale of other beautiful t­ hings deemed luxury goods; consequentially, many shops experienced a precipitous drop in business. I think I already mentioned how Den Teiki seemed to become more irritable ­after becoming Tamura Sadako in accordance with the Name Order. But as the war­time regime intensified the same kind of irritability surfaced in all aspects of life in ­Korea. It was something that gradually cast a shadow over us, just as the sky gradually becomes gray. The ju­n ior high student, for example, living in the ­house where I rented a second-­floor room used to say ­things like this:

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“­Don’t you think Koreans are ungrateful? They rely on Japan for every­thing, but they refuse to cooperate whatsoever. That’s what my teacher tells us.” I also heard what his ­mother said in reply: “­They’re Koreans, my dear. What can you expect . . . ?” This attitude on the part of the Japa­nese ­wasn’t especially related to the intensification of the war, or to the general change of air in K ­ orea. The manner in which ­those schoolgirls on the train had turned to the man and said, “Pew! C ­ an’t you move over t­ here?” had been driven into them on a daily basis at school. It was the attitude of Koreans, rather, that was noticeably dif­fer­ent now, and it was changing the general climate along with it. Once, a relative of mine working in Manchuria made a pit stop in Keijō, and, in the course of showing him around town, I took him to Hwasin. Hwasin was a Korean-­r un department store that catered to Koreans. Mitsukoshi was for Japa­nese, as was Hwasin for Koreans. Thinking that this relative of mine might want to pick up some Korean souvenirs, I’d made a point of bringing him to Hwasin. And, hoping to begin the tour of the building, working our way downward from the top floors, we boarded the elevator. The elevator arrived at the second floor and then the third, and thinking that the next stop was perhaps the top floor, I asked the elevator attendant, “Is this the top floor?” Upon which the seventeen-­or eighteen-­year-­old girl with rounded shoulders replied, “This is the rooftop.” “Rats, we came up to the rooftop. I d­ on’t think they have any souvenirs up ­here.” “Oh, you mean one of ­those ­little monkeys?” replied my cousin, upon which we burst out into laughter. The elevator had now reached the rooftop, but just as soon as the girl opened the door, she suddenly shouted something and ran out of the elevator before any of the passengers could disembark. It was almost as though she ­were tearing herself away from us.

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This was quite unexpected, and only a­ fter collecting myself for a moment did I understand what she had actually shouted. “How dare you laugh at me!” s­he’d said. Only then did we realize that the girl’s unexpected ­be­h av­ior had been an expression of defiance against us. ­She’d misunderstood what we ­were saying and mistaken our peal of laughter as a form of contempt. ­A fter the girl ran out of the elevator ahead of us, we made our way outside. The girl was squatting in a corner now, talking to a fellow employee. Both of them glared at us. “How dare you laugh at me!” was an expression that any ­house­w ife might have used to scold her maid. I won­der if this girl, too, had felt the sting of t­hese biting words spoken by a Japa­nese ­house­w ife. “Scary, huh? ­These Koreans,” said my cousin. I also remember a gentle-­mannered Korean ­woman, entering the Mitsukoshi Department Store with her child, when a fat, stern-­faced ­woman approached her, looking the part of any wife of a government official. “You p­ eople a­ ren’t welcome h ­ ere. Now, go off to Hwasin,” she said, standing firmly in place, as though determined to witness for herself this Korean w ­ oman taking her child out of the store. “Well, if this is any indication, the Koreans ­will be hard to deal with when I get to Manchuria,” said my cousin. When I think about it now, it seems utterly ridicu­lous the way we reacted. In the Railroad Bureau, too, ­there was talk of how ­Korean employees had recently become difficult to deal with. I had no way of knowing how t­hings ­were among the Koreans themselves. It was winter when it happened. T ­ here was no snow falling, but the fierce cold in Keijō was of the biting kind, and even homelanders found it in themselves to praise K ­ orea’s traditional form of underfloor heating. When I arrived at work, rumors had

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already begun to circulate. Apparently Den Teiki had attempted suicide the night before. “You d­ on’t say.” Iw ­ asn’t someone to join in the gossip ­under circumstances such as t­ hese. What use in any case was t­ here in talking about the incident? But when the section chief arrived in the office and learned of the rumors himself, he told me that I, being a ­woman, should pay her a visit in the hospital. S­ he’d been admitted into a small clinic on a street near Pagoda Park. Den Teiki was lying on a dirty bed, with a Korean w ­ oman sitting at her side. The ­m iddle-­aged ­woman could very well have been the owner of the boarding ­house where Den Teiki stayed; she ­d idn’t seem to understand Japa­nese and only nodded when she saw me. Den Teiki was muttering something in her sleep. In order to learn more about her condition, I went to the reception desk and was told that she would be fine as long as she got through the day. She had occasionally come to, but truth be told nothing about her condition was quite certain yet. She appeared to have taken some combination of drugs, I was told. The entire hospital reeked of a strange odor. Once again I entered the sickroom. The w ­ oman attending her was staring into Den Teiki’s face as she spoke to her. From b­ ehind the ­woman, I too peered into Den Teiki’s face. Though her eyes w ­ ere now open, her gaze was blank, as though she w ­ eren’t looking at anything in par­tic­u ­lar. Perhaps in reaction to the ­woman’s words, Den Teiki’s eyes then shifted onto me, and widened. Almost instantly she turned her head away. “Not her!” she shouted. “I ­can’t bear her.” Perhaps it’s a funny way of putting it, but this was her unequivocal Declaration of Intent. T ­ hese ­weren’t the self-­indulgent words of an invalid, but something far more lucid—­even if the patient herself ­d idn’t know what she was saying. Her state of unconsciousness had given way, in a flicker of clarity, to something that ­rose to the surface of her mind, expressing itself clear and f­ ree

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from impurity. And to me ­those words of hers felt like a stinging slap across the face. ­W hether or not the ­woman attending Den Teiki understood what she said I c­ ouldn’t say, but she alternately shook her head and nodded in my direction. Den Teiki began to say something u ­ nder her breath. Then her voice suddenly gained intensity. “I took the black pi-­ills. I took the red pi-­ills . . .” she drew out her final vowels like a first-­g rader reading from a textbook. “Black . . . ​white . . . ​pur . . . ​ple . . .” she shouted, shifting suddenly in tone as she broke out into Korean. “Aa-an chekcho . . . ​ aa-an chingsho.” This was, at least, what it all sounded like to my ears. As she shouted, Den Teiki threw up one of her arms and tossed it around violently in the air. The frightened ­women tending to her trembled and tried to hold down her arm. Den Teiki was now shaking her head violently as she continued to rant on in her delirium. Her peculiar, delirious words w ­ ere mostly ­Korean, but scattered meaninglessly among them ­were Japa­nese words as well. She would be shouting something out in Korean, when all of a sudden she would shift into Japa­nese. “I ­don’t know . . . ​I ­don’t know . . . ​I ­don’t knoooow!” she cried, before switching back into Korean. Den Teiki drew herself back, her face strained, and flushing red, her eyes staring out into space u ­ nder tightly knit brows, but her mouth still moving tirelessly. The words “Okazaki-­sensei” I managed to catch. Perhaps she was recalling an experience she once had at a school in Japan. “In any case . . . ​up ­until now I . . .” incomprehensively, she continued. When she switched back into Korean, her words w ­ ere interspersed with what sounded like laughter, “Ha, ha, hah.” But then came a wordless cry, “Oh, oo-oh,” ­until fi­nally she seemed to have exhausted herself completely, and settled back into a quiet slumber. Winter was well upon us, but her forehead now was soaked with sweat.

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I myself was so alarmed by this course of events that I deci­ ded to quickly take my leave. I’m hardly the best judge of t­hese ­matters, but something about the scene I’d just witnessed ­d idn’t sit right with me. That said, my skepticism was still far less pronounced than was the sheer terror ­she’d instilled inside me with ­those bizarre, delirious words. It was much more than the cold air outside that sent shivers down my spine. In the end Den Teiki managed to survive the ordeal, though she ended up resigning from her post at the Railroad Bureau. As it happened, I was out of the office the day she dropped in to say good-­bye, and I never had the chance to meet Den Teiki again. I heard through the grapevine that she went home to her small village near Pyŏngyang. Well, ­here I’ve gone ahead and told this ghastly tale, when all I ­really wanted to do was talk about the lovely scenery in K ­ orea. Ever since repatriating to Japan I’ve managed to keep myself busy with work, you see, but nowadays I c­ an’t help thinking about how beautiful K ­ orea was back then. I have my own reasons for not talking about ­Korea where I’m working now. When I once mentioned in the office the nostalgia I still feel for ­Korea ­today, a young male colleague of mine, sitting beside me, turned strangely cold, almost mockingly so, as he addressed me. “It must be awfully hard to forget the charms of living in the colonies, Miss Ōsawa. I suppose it would be for anyone. But you ­can’t ever go back ­there, you know, not even one last time. Even if you somehow managed to return, it w ­ ouldn’t be remotely like it was before.” “Oh, certainly not,” I replied almost defensively. “I’m well aware that it’s impossible for me to return.” But I must say that ever since coming back to Japan, I’ve always felt something inside of me that I find makes it difficult for me to fit in. And I won­der if that’s why I’m reminded from time to time of Den Teiki. If I ever said this to Den Teiki directly, though, I can only imagine what she might say in reply.

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“I am afraid it would be rather difficult for you to comprehend,” s­he’d prob­ably say. “I should think yours is an entirely dif­fer­ent case altogether.” Still, Den Teiki’s country, ­Korea, was once such a lovely place, you see, and that’s r­ eally all I ever wanted to say.

Crimson

1 It wa s s t i l l Ne w Ye a r’s Day at Tokyo Station, though well past ten ­o’clock at night. The station building felt tranquil but deserted, as if the doors had long been locked tightly shut. ­A fter several busy days spent preparing for the holiday, the peace and quiet of a pleasant New Year’s eve­n ing had now given way to something wearisome, hanging heavi­ly in the station’s dusty air. Even in the g­ iant clock, dangling from the vaulted ceiling, t­here lingered something dreary. The waiting hall remained still when the long-­awaited call was made for the 10:55 train to Akashi. Only one-­by-­one did passengers appear, as though out of nowhere, each hastening their way ­toward the platform. Emerging from the ­women’s waiting room, Akiko and Kishiko, too, hastened their gait, as though out of habit. The excitement of boarding a train had put a spring in the step of sleepy-­ eyed Kōichi, Akiko’s son, as well, as he dashed up the platform stairs ahead of the ­others. Over their shoulders the two ­women Crimson (Kurenai) was first serialized in 1936 in the journal Fujin kōron, with an additional chapter published in Chūō kōron in 1938. The full novella was published in book form in 1938. 126

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wore plain woolen shawls, one camel-­colored and one dark brown. They each carried a small parcel tied up neatly with cloth. In the corner of a third-­class car, the ­women sat down opposite each other. They leaned back in their seats with a smile, as if to share the thought that they had fi­nally made it. Still somewhat restless, Kōichi looked back and forth between his m ­ other and the win­dow, against which he pressed his face to peer outside. He kicked his black-­shoed feet, dangling over the seat below, all the while. “This was such a good idea. I’m so glad we fi­n ally made it.” “Just as I said,” replied Kishiko, with composure. “We need to broaden our horizons as well, you know. Getting away from it all, now and then, is just the ­thing. ­Don’t you agree?” “I certainly do.” The departure bell rang as Akiko spoke. She tapped Kōichi on the shoulder. “The train’s about to pull out now.” “­Really? So soon?” Kishiko too turned to Kōichi, who had his face pressed against the glass. “Kō-­chan, I bet you like trains, ­don’t you?” “Yeah, I like ’em a lot. I was r­eally shocked. With mom waking me up and all, to go with you to­n ight.” “Remember our trip to Kōzu last summer, Kōichi?” “I remember. It’s near the ocean, right?” “That’s some memory ­you’ve got t­ here, kid.” Kishiko smiled as Akiko removed the shoes from her son’s feet. The train had already begun to move. The train was passing over a quiet neighborhood now. The ­houses seemed rather desperate for more New Year’s excitement, though inside each home someone had deci­ded to call it a night. “­There’s no one way to celebrate New Year’s, is ­there?” Kishiko was still accustomed to speaking in a language that only the two ­women could easily comprehend.

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“Certainly not.” ­There was l­ittle ­else, however, that had not changed about Kishiko in the two years that had passed. As Akiko shifted her gaze onto her friend’s purple coat, she noticed that its coloring seemed somewhat faded—­for Kishiko’s taste at least—­and the material too looked rather coarse. “Our lives keep changing, d­ on’t they? Each year brings new surprises.” “It’s ­really quite frightening. And the vio­lence of the change leads ­people to transform in unexpected ways.” “Well, like that ­woman in the waiting room, for starters.” “Exactly.” Akiko and Kishiko recalled the words a young ­woman wearing Western attire had just used to address them in the sparse, dimly lit waiting room: “Well, my heavens, if it ­ isn’t Mrs.  Takii and Mrs. Kakimura!” Five years earlier the same ­woman had appeared out of the blue on Akiko’s doorstep. Despite her young age s­he’d been extremely well spoken and appeared to be quite the activist. Akiko even donated a silk coat ­she’d received from a friend in order to support the young ­woman’s cause. ­Later on, during one of the mass arrests of left-­w ing activists, a large picture of the w ­ oman had appeared in the newspapers. And more recently, amid the many detailed accounts of po­liti­cal recantations appearing in the press, they learned she had become a reporter for a religious magazine. Even the way this young w ­ oman carried herself now—in ­those elegant Western clothes—­had been entirely transformed. Though to Akiko it was the words she used to greet them that ­were strangely disagreeable. The ­woman explained she had business to take care of in the Kansai region and that she was using the opportunity to visit her parents in the area as well. It was this unchanging capacity to burn the candle at both ends that struck Akiko as being so odd.

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“You have to admit she does know how to get ­things done,” said Akiko, thinking back. “I imagine y­ ou’re right. But the source of her vitality seems utterly disconnected from her politics. Perhaps that explains why she can work for both sides.” ­There w ­ ere so many ­people like this young w ­ oman now. With a pensive brow, Kishiko nodded as she took in the full meaning of the words Akiko had characteristically left half-­spoken. ­Every so often the steam train they ­were riding glided past a platform of the National Electric Railway, whose stations ­were illuminated with electricity all night long. Akiko placed Kōichi’s head on her lap and covered him with her shawl. She ­couldn’t help but reminisce about the same train trip she had taken last summer. Kōzu was the town where Kishiko’s parents owned a vacation home. And Kishiko, having overheard Akiko express a maternal desire to show her ­children the sea, recalled that no one but the caretaker would be staying at her ­family’s seaside cottage. On the spur of the moment she deci­ded to head off to Kōzu and asked Akiko’s ­family to join her. Akiko’s husband Kōsuke had come along as well as her ­little ­daughter Tetsuko. It was the first time that Kōsuke and Akiko had taken their c­ hildren on a steam train. It was also the first ­family trip they had taken together since Kōsuke had been arrested for his work in the proletarian cultural movement, and for close to two years lived in custody, separated from his wife and kids. Akiko and Kōsuke had been inside this very train, in fact, holding onto their two c­ hildren peering out the win­dow, when their eyes would occasionally meet. Akiko still recalled how ­they’d softly smile at each other, their hearts filled with love. At the end of her talk with Kishiko earlier t­oday it had suddenly dawned on Akiko that they would be riding this same train to Kōzu to­n ight. Thinking back on all that had happened since then made Akiko feel lonesome. Not that her married life was all that dif­fer­ent now, or that the previous trip had somehow

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been more pleasant. On the contrary, she recalled being rather ambivalent at the time, even strangely embarrassed by the fact that she was together with both Kōsuke and her c­ hildren. In fact, whenever she was in the presence of her entire f­ amily, Akiko felt slightly self-­conscious of her actions, as though someone was forcing her  to behave like a dif­fer­ent person. To allow Kōsuke to do something like hold the ­children, for instance, became almost unthinkable, and generally speaking she would find herself suddenly behaving much like any old h ­ ouse­w ife. This sudden change in her own be­hav­ior made her feel awkward, even clumsy. Never once had she experienced ­these feelings when she was alone with Kōsuke, or alone with her ­children. Why was it she felt so oddly self-­conscious being part of a w ­ hole ­family? Kōsuke had been sitting at his desk on the second floor when Akiko left the h ­ ouse earlier ­today. An image of him sitting ­there remained stubbornly fixed in the corner of her mind. When ­she’d returned home to fetch Kōichi, ­after deciding at Kishiko’s to take off for Kōzu, s­he’d fully expected him to be out on the town, as usual, but to her surprise she found him still at home. Suddenly Akiko remembered something unrelated to her current train of thought, and turned to Kishiko, who was reading a rather serious book in cheap paperback. “Kishiko, did you notice Mr. K back at Tokyo Station? Maybe you missed him? He was with his wife and ­children.” “Mr. K? No, I ­d idn’t. Did you see them passing through the station? Usually they go to the Imperial H ­ otel for New Year’s. I won­der where they w ­ ere headed?” “You d­ on’t say. Well, they certainly ­were putting on quite the show.” “I can only imagine.” For a while both ­women remained ­silent. Akiko ­couldn’t shake the image of the playwright Mr. K as he had strolled past her, flanked by the two sons he was also pulling along. His wife was trailing them, no more than a pace or two ­behind, carry­ing a large fur stole. What had left such a deep impression on Akiko was

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the general air the ­whole ­family had exuded as they strolled silently along, gazing out indifferently at their surroundings. “They ­were walking along so placidly” w ­ ere the words Akiko now used to describe the ­family to Kishiko, but she ­hadn’t actually seen them this way. Perhaps it was on account of the occasional rumors she heard about Mr. K’s ­family, but she ­couldn’t help feeling that the fur-­laden figure plodding b­ ehind Mr. K looked like a burden to her husband, holding him back as he pressed on, armed with a child on e­ ither side of him. Not, of course, that his wife alone was to blame for the situation. What Akiko had put her fin­ger on was a weakness evident in many of t­oday’s families, generally speaking. The train just then pulled into Kōzu station. “­We’ll be in quite a fix if Mrs. Tomi i­sn’t still awake,” said Kishiko, referring to the caretaker. “No one ­will ever hear us from the front gate. What do you think? Can you climb over that wall?” “Sure ­thing.” “I’ll give you a push from ­behind.” Laughing, the two w ­ omen each took one of Kōichi’s hands and exited the station. They hailed a taxi on the street just outside the station, which was decorated with pine wreathes to celebrate the New Year. “Look, Kō-­chan, ­we’ve made it to Kōzu.” “But I ­don’t see the ocean yet.” “Well, listen. You can hear the waves, c­ an’t you?” The car had turned onto the main road, which hugged the coastline. U ­ nder the eve­n ing sky the ocean appeared dark and wide, its waves breaking white along the beach. All the shops and ­houses along the way had closed their shutters, and ­there was hardly a soul walking about. Kishiko’s h ­ ouse was built on a small bluff facing the coast along the main road. “Thank you.” The car door slammed shut amid the sound of the wind and waves breaking beneath cliffs far below.

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As luck would have it, the main gate they feared would be closed had been left unlocked. Passing through the gate, they walked up the sloping path ­toward the ­house. A myriad of stars twinkled high up in the sky. Covered with ivy and set ­behind a lawn, the small Western-­style cottage that now appeared before them seemed to come straight out of a photo­g raph of ­Eng ­l and. “Look, Kōichi, it’s the Kōzu cottage. Do you remember it?” “I remember. I remember.” Kōichi’s clear voice seemed to t­ remble slightly beneath the late-­n ight sky. Mrs. Tomi, the caretaker, awoke promptly. A light came on inside and they heard someone mumbling to herself in surprise. The key turned and the w ­ oman spoke as the door opened. “Goodness gracious. Traveling so late at night . . . ?” “It was a very sudden trip. Sorry to have gotten you out of bed in this dreadful cold.” “Oh, it’s no trou­ble whatsoever, Ma’am. I’m all alone h ­ ere at night, you know, so I end up retiring early.” Close to fifty years old, Mrs. Tomi smoothed out the folds in her nightgown as she welcomed Akiko and the ­others inside. Enamored by the vast difference between this home and his own, Kōichi scampered through the large h ­ ouse, approaching each of the toys he recalled seeing last summer as though meeting old friends: t­ here was the doll-­shaped ­table bell, the cuckoo clock, the old-­fashioned model sailboat. “It’s already quite late,” said Kishiko. “So w ­ e’ll be off to bed shortly. Please bring us some tea, though, would you?” “Yes, yes, of course, Ma’am.” As soon as Mrs. Tomi went off to the kitchen, Kishiko turned back to Akiko and smiled. “So . . . ? Are you glad y­ ou’ve come?” Akiko nodded g­ ently and smiled. The h ­ ouse had been designed in the foreign style, and was just as she remembered. But the excitement of the trip and the plea­sure of heading somewhere

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new ­hadn’t yet sunk into a sense of relief at having fi­nally arrived. Akiko found herself at a loss for words. “I love the ocean in wintertime, you know. And with the New Year’s and all, I just felt like getting away, somewhere new.” Clumsily she repeated the same words she had mumbled to Kōsuke before her departure. But this time the words seemed at odds with a sadness now swelling in her breast. She had caught sight of a subtle smirk on Kōsuke’s lips when she announced ­she’d be traveling to Kōzu. That expression on Kōsuke’s face now hovered in the center of this sadness, storming strangely inside her.

2 Kōic h i ’s voic e ­r o s e c r i s p ly ou t of the darkness of the room. “Mommy?” “Mmm. Are you up already?” A streak of white light had escaped through the crack between the storm shutters. The sound of a drum, ­going Dum du-­dum-­dum, Dum du-­dum-­dum, kept rumbling on and on outside. Good heavens, that drumming’s been g­ oing on since the crack of dawn, thought Akiko, pulling herself out of bed. Had Kishiko been bothered by the sound of the drums from her bedroom, she wondered, where the win­dows faced out front? Akiko’s feelings for Kishiko led her to be particularly concerned. When ­they’d said goodnight to each other and retired into separate rooms, the distressing thought of leaving Kishiko all alone in the ­house at night had brought tears to Akiko’s eyes. She well understood the circumstances Kishiko was facing, but also knew that her situation ­wasn’t tragic, or to be pitied. For someone like Kishiko, whose emotional life was uncommonly rich, making a trip to the ­family home meant stirring up feelings of a domestic sort.

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Given how Kishiko had been kind enough to invite Akiko and her husband ­here last summer, and that ­she’d made the decision to bring Akiko ­here again ­today, it would have been difficult for Akiko to forget the kind of feelings their visit might stir up for Kishiko.1 I won­der if she managed to sleep through the night? When Akiko opened the storm shutters over the win­ dows, the sky was clear, and a gust of bitterly cold air rushed in from the cultivated hillside b­ ehind the cottage. This was the only room in the h ­ ouse with a tatami floor. It was also furnished with a large dressing t­able. Akiko folded up their futons and stowed them away. Kōichi had already come down to the kitchen and was talking with Mrs. Tomi, who began making breakfast once Akiko appeared. “Good morning, Ma’am. I hope you slept well last night.” “I did, thank you. It looks like w ­ e’ll have a beautiful day ­today.” “Oh, I think so. And it’s such splendid timing. I thought I might make some o-­zōni this morning. May I ask how you like your soup seasoned?” The deep-­blue sea sparkled in the sunlight. Soaking up the sunshine streaming in through the glass, Akiko sat in a chair and gazed down at the white-­capped waves. Dum du-­dum-­dum. Dum du-­dum-­dum. The sound of the drums was incessant, and accompanied by the voices of ­children coming from somewhere down near the main road. How fitting it all seemed for a New

1

For anyone familiar with the lives of proletarian cultural activists in Japan, often featured in the press, it would have been clear that Kishiko’s character ­here was modeled ­a fter Miyamoto Yuriko, whose husband Miyamoto Kenji was at the time still in prison for his leftist activities. Whereas Sata’s husband had succumbed to police pressure and recanted his belief in communism in order to get out of jail, Miyamoto famously refused to recant and remained in prison for over a de­cade, ­u ntil the end of World War II.

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Year’s holiday on the seaside. Kōichi deci­ded to go outside and stood on the lawn facing the ocean. With his hands thrust into jacket pockets, he practically looked the part of an adult. Kishiko emerged from the bedroom squinting in the sunlight, screwing up her face like a sleepy child. “­You’re up already? It looks beautiful out ­there ­today.” “Well, good morning. The drumming kept you up, ­d idn’t it?” “A ­little, I suppose.” “How about we go for a walk? Maybe a ­little ­later?” “Yes, that sounds good. Do you suppose it’s warmer down ­here?” “Well, I w ­ ouldn’t yet know.” Akiko smiled. “Oh, enough of you!” Kishiko laughed loudly. “Mrs. Tomi,” she called, walking into the kitchen. When Kishiko was in a good mood, her voice rang out round and clear. “Hey mom, let’s go down to the ocean,” called out Kōichi. Akiko slipped on a pair of wooden sandals and went outside. In front of the tobacco shop on the main road they saw a group of ­children banging on drums from atop a high wooden stage. Most likely the ­children of fishermen, a dozen or so ­were dressed up for New Year’s in long johns and tight dark-­blue jackets, as they performed on an array of large and small drums. The sound of the waves echoed continuously in the background. Along the straight row of h ­ ouses, all flying Japa­nese flags, walked men dressed in black kimono bearing their ­family crests. Akiko found a pathway between the fishermen’s h ­ ouses, and made her way over the dunes to the beach. From h ­ ere she could hear the sound of drunken men singing. T ­ here was a small party ­going on off in the distance, it seemed, inside a fisherman’s boat they had dragged onto shore. The voices called to mind the image of men working out at sea as they traveled the entire length of the beach to reach her. She could make out a New Year’s decoration made of straw and folds of white paper, which was strung

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across their boat. One of the singers’ voices seemed to rise above the ­others, followed ­after each pause by rounds of clapping and a yoi-­yoi refrain. A gust of wind from the ocean swept up against Akiko’s cheeks. “We swam h ­ ere with ­Daddy, d­ idn’t we?” called out Kōichi. Gathering up a mound of sand and shaping it with his hands, Kōichi looked up at his ­mother with the bashful smile he always made whenever he was happy. The day turned out to be a splendid one. She and Kishiko even crossed the train tracks and climbed up the mountainside ­behind her h ­ ouse, where Kishiko noticed the red berries of a bittersweet vine amid the dried grasses, snapping off a few stems as a gift for Kōsuke. “Remember when they let us bring our own flowers into the prison?” “Yes. It is rather annoying now, i­sn’t it? Hardly a ‘delivery of flowers’ when you c­ an’t even select what kind to send in.” When they spoke of “sending” something “in,” they w ­ ere referring to Kishiko’s husband, Nakazawa. It had been three years since Kishiko and her husband had been forced to live apart, when he joined the underground. But at the end of last year, less than a month before New Year’s, the police had apprehended Nakazawa on the street, and he was now incarcerated. Just before they ­were separated, Kishiko and Nakazawa had spent time at this oceanfront cottage, a fact Akiko ­hadn’t forgotten. The ­couple had said goodbye at Tokyo Station on their way back from Kōzu, and ever since then Nakazawa had been unable to return to the home he shared with Kishiko. The sound of drums did not stop ­until well ­after dark. But once Kōichi had been put to bed, the two ­women sat down for a conversation in the living room, where they slowly stoked the fireplace with pine logs. Atop the t­able, emitting a fragrance of the purest kind, was a sprig of early blooming white plum, which Mrs. Tomi had apparently received from the neighbors. Their conversation shifted, as it always did, to their lives as writers.

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“So in that essay you wrote about married c­ ouples who are also writers you ­were basically arguing that any hardships can be overcome so long as husband and wife are proletarian writers. But I have to tell you, when it comes down to specifics, that it ­really ­isn’t as easy as you make it sound.” Akiko allowed herself to smile somewhat sadly, but the look in her eye also harbored a sense of what she was trying to convey. Kishiko folded her arms and nodded, ponderously. “I see. . . . ​My line of reasoning was a bit too rosy?” “I d­ on’t have a prob­lem with your reasoning. Each of us, of course, wants to see the other grow as a person, and we both work hard to make that happen. But when it comes down to specifics, all sorts of issues arise.” “Well, what for instance?” “It might seem somewhat trivial, but if Kōsuke for example is debating something with a guest of his, I end up simply pouring their tea and ­don’t add anything to the conversation. It’s as if I c­ an’t possibly do anything e­ lse but pour tea. Strange as it  may sound, it feels like anything I say would somehow be taken as Kōsuke’s opinion as well. Whenever w ­ e’re together, I get the sense that ­people are only capable of seeing me, a ­woman, as Kōsuke’s wife.” “Hmm. But do you, yourself, ­really think that way?” “Perhaps I’m partly to blame for letting it get to me, but that hardly detracts from the truth of the m ­ atter. If we had completely dif­fer­ent jobs, it ­wouldn’t ­matter of course ­whether I had a husband, or even ­children for that ­matter. ­People would look at me more normally.” “I see. Well, if my husband w ­ ere in the ­m iddle of a deep discussion, I think I’d prob­ably keep to myself, too, and just pour tea.” “I know it’s a strange example though.” “No, it’s extremely concrete.” With her innate eagerness to absorb anything and every­ thing, Kishiko made an effort to speak with assurance, and Akiko

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knew that she could count on her friend to comprehend the full mea­sure of the admittedly sparse words she offered. She felt she could now speak to Kishiko with peace of mind. “Well, honestly, I just ­can’t help feeling that my responsibilities as a wife are holding me back from growing as a person. I know in part it’s ­because Kōsuke has been working from home recently. I mean, I used to be the only one who worked on lit­er­ a­ture, right? And Kōsuke was so busy with work on the outside that he was practically never at home anyway.” “­You’ve got a point ­there.” Kishiko raised her head, as though it had fi­nally sunk in. “Our lives ­aren’t the same as they used to be. Conflicts now are bound to arise.” “And it’s not just a m ­ atter of managing my time, it’s the toll it takes on me emotionally. That’s what’s so terrifying. I’m already nursing doubts as to ­whether I can continue working as a novelist if I have to keep holding back. That goes for Kōsuke, too, I’m sure. He makes his own sacrifices to accommodate my lifestyle, given what I do for living.” “Of course he does, my dear. And I’m certain he’s considerate of you, and of your work.” “But you know, I’m starting to feel as though ­we’re constantly getting in each other’s way, and that neither of us has room to move around freely. Honestly, I just want my life back, a life I can truly call my own.” “And how do you propose getting that?” “Well, recently I’ve been thinking we should separate.” “Hmm.” Kishiko took in Akiko’s words, and then stared at Akiko’s face gravely, folding up the arms that had momentarily dropped into her lap. Kishiko ­wasn’t simply worried about Akiko, she was trying to piece together the set of clues that Akiko’s story had offered, and to understand the complex tangle of issues and emotions they suggested. A steam whistle from the midnight train traveling on the Tōkaidō line sounded from the mountainside b­ ehind them. In the

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silence of the room, still but for the crackling of the fire, the sound of its speeding wheels betrayed only its length as it receded slowly into the distance. Once it became faint and then dis­appeared, the sound of waves crashing in front of the oceanfront cottage now arose from the win­dow with resounding intensity. Akiko placed a large log on the fire. ­A fter a few pops and crackles it quickly burst into flames. As the fire leapt higher, it set their f­aces aglow. “But you know, Akiko,” began Kishiko, the expression on her face at ease now that Akiko had joined her again. “How would you get by if you left Kōsuke? Could you manage all alone?” Akiko looked up with a start, her eyes shifting un­ certainly. “Good heavens!” she said, concealing her mortification with a glib retort. What embarrassed Akiko was that s­he’d been caught off guard and now found herself flustered over a question that had somehow defied all her valiant efforts to mull over the ­matter. For ­people like her and Kishiko, who o ­ ught to have re­spect for the emotions of everyday life, it was a serious question ­after all, was it not? She was mortified not to have seriously considered it. “Well, I won­ der. Perhaps y­ou’re right, and maybe I ­couldn’t manage all alone.” “Trust me, Akiko, I d­ on’t think you could. It w ­ ouldn’t be in your nature to go it alone. Certainly not.” Kishiko placed an emphasis on ­these last two words as though to make clear her personal feelings on the ­matter. Akiko replied with perplexed fragility. “It would be unbearable to wither away like that, w ­ ouldn’t it? Emotionally speaking, too, I mean.” “Yes, of course. Of course, it would. And I know how hard it must be now, having to quarrel over ­things now that ­you’re back together again. If my husband and I had been living this ­whole time together, I ­can’t imagine the kind of strug­g les we’d be facing as a ­couple.” Kishiko was not one to mince her words.

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Akiko looked up with the shock of someone whose innermost thoughts had been pierced to the core. “Just go ahead and say it!” Kishiko seemed to be saying, threatening Akiko with the dagger of a suggestion that had pinpointed precisely what Akiko secretly, and so cruelly, desired. At the same time, however, Akiko knew Kishiko was deeply dissatisfied with her married life, given that her husband Nakazawa was still in prison, and Kishiko’s frank words surely spoke, as well, to the strong yearning she too felt to love and be loved by ­someone. Coo-­koo, coo-­koo. The clock struck two, breaking the silence of the w ­ omen’s tranquil surroundings before yet another train passed by, rattling, rattling on endlessly.

3 Ak i ko a r r a ng e d t h e b i t t e r s w e e t i n the alcove of Kōsuke’s room. Four-­year-­old Tetsuko, two years Kōichi’s ju­n ior, looked up at her ­mother, and to her b­ rother as well, asking in a clear, childlike voice, “Momma, where d’you go?” But the girl ­hadn’t particularly suffered in their absence, and quickly began playing with Kōichi. Akiko offered a ­simple thanks to her grand­mother, Otoyo, for watching over the ­house during her absence, and then went upstairs. But on Otoyo’s delicate face, with its prominent nose, Akiko had read something oddly worrisome and at the same time rather cold. She made a point of putting it out of her mind, however, and made her way into her office. Separated for only two days, the elder ­brother and younger ­sister had already taken out the toys brought back as souvenirs and ­hadn’t yet prepared for bed. Otoyo’s irascible voice was pressing them on. The girl could have at least put the kids to bed, thought

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Akiko, angry with the young maid who had gone off early to the public bath. Otoyo was Akiko’s grand­mother. So t­here was no need for Akiko to feel particularly reserved with her. Although Otoyo had reached the ripe old age of seventy-­five, she was fortunately in good health, and Akiko was able to leave the ­children in her care. Ultimately, however, it was Akiko’s responsibility to care for them, and ­every now and then she would meet with one of Otoyo’s penetrating stares. Often Akiko felt she could hardly blame the old ­woman, but she still found herself sensitive to, or rather, put off by Otoyo’s resolute nature, however l­ ittle substance ­there was b­ ehind it. Akiko reasoned in the end that she was taking advantage of Otoyo’s sturdiness, but what led her to ignore her grand­mother’s feelings more than anything was the re­ sis­t ance she felt ­toward Kōsuke, who hardly went out of his way to acknowledge the difficulty she encountered dealing with the old ­woman. “Now, go to sleep, c­ hildren. Quickly. Grandma’s tired too.” Akiko could hear the irritation in the w ­ oman’s voice, even the scowl on her face. Akiko’s feet quickly descended the wooden staircase. “Now, now, what’s the m ­ atter, my loves,” she said softly as she entered the room. “­Isn’t it past your bedtime?” “Come sleep with me, Mommy,” replied the normally hesitant Tetsuko, turning ­toward her m ­ other with pleading eyes. “Wit’ me too, ­Mummy.” Kōichi intentionally modulated his voice in order to imitate his s­ ister’s. But not to be outdone, Tetsuko quickly raised her arms into the air, letting out a girlish whine. “Alright, alright. Between the both of you then.” Reclining herself between the two small futons, laid out side by side, Akiko first faced one child and then the other, soothing them by holding their hands and singing.

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“They w ­ on’t listen to a ­thing I say,” muttered Otoyo with a sniffle. “­Don’t mind anyone but their own parents,” she said in resignation, slipping into her own bedding. Akiko began singing a lullaby to her ­children as her mind, meanwhile, drifted elsewhere. Still brooding over the unresolved issues s­he’d discussed in Kōzu with Kishiko, Akiko found herself deep in thought now as she began to connect ­those issues to the most trivial m ­ atters of her daily life at home. With so many questions left unresolved, she pondered, had she now lost even the peace of mind to offer her own ­children a bit of affection? As she sang the lullaby’s refrain—­ Ton-­ton-­torori, ­Ton-­ton-­torori—­under the dim light of the small electric bulb, such ­were the thoughts that raced though Akiko’s mind. At some point Akiko began to lift her voice as though she w ­ ere determined to purge herself of ­these concerns. And then Mr. Badger, too, stopped his tricks as well As the melody intensified Akiko’s voice began to ­tremble as if she had fi­nally succumbed to the tune. From ­behind her nose she felt a rush of feeling. Her voice still trembling, she continued to sing, slower now and softer. Tapping tunes on his belly, for the sleeping babes Kōsuke d­ idn’t come home u ­ ntil late that night. The street outside had been still, but for the occasional sound of a car passing by, and it now echoed with the footsteps of someone hurrying along with a very long stride. The footsteps belonged, unmistakably, to Kōsuke. Akiko usually could make them out before he turned off the main road. Once, she even deliberately said as much to Kōsuke, just to emphasize a point. “Well, it’s proof that I’m always, always waiting for you, that’s what,” ­she’d said. “Honestly?” he laughed, as though he could hardly believe her, if also with the intention of dodging any mention of his own bad habit—­that he invariably failed to keep track of time. “Welcome home.”

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Peering down from the top of the staircase, Akiko called down ­toward the entry hall at the sound of the door opening. The ebullience of her voice seemed to be compensating for her recent absence from home. ­There came no answer. Akiko felt Kōsuke’s lack of reply acutely, and she looked down at him with probing eyes. He ascended the stairs, huffing and puffing, as was his habit whenever he was excited. Refusing to look at Akiko, however, he went straight to his desk, where he emptied his pockets. Then he caught sight of the bittersweet. “Where’d that come from?” he asked roughly. “I brought it back for you from Kōzu. We picked it on the mountainside.” Akiko was conscious of a softness in her choice of words now, but ­there was still something shrill about the way she voiced them. Kōsuke offered no reply, instead turning his back to Akiko, taking a seat at his desk. Oh, I see, she thought. If he thinks it was so wrong of me to leave home for all of two days then let him be like that . . . ​Spiritlessly, she crossed over to her own room. “What’s the ­matter now?” Kōsuke asked crossly, as a means of rebuking her. “What do you expect? ­You’re just sitting ­there saying nothing.” “When has that ever stopped you from talking?” “It’s not very pleasant to be ignored, you know. ­A fter all, I did just come back home, and with a gift for you, d­ idn’t I?” “It’s not exactly pleasant for me ­ either. Not in the slightest.” “Well, what’s the ­matter? Was it all that wrong of me to go to Kōzu?” “I’m not saying you ­shouldn’t have gone Kōzu,” he replied. “You know, how about you come in ­here to speak to me instead of talking through this wall,” he shouted.

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Akiko entered his room intent on facing him eye to eye, but Kōsuke, too, had swiveled around in his chair as though he was waiting for just the right moment to attack. “Who do you think you are, taking off like that anyway, without giving me any warning whatsoever? With that ‘I can do what­ever I want to do’ attitude of yours, it’s not me ignoring other ­peoples’ feelings, it’s you.” Kōsuke’s face was livid and Akiko was somewhat taken by surprise. N ­ eedless to say she was always fastidious when it came to her f­amily responsibilities, even if Kōsuke had never placed restrictions on her movements as his wife. In fact, he often regarded her in­de­pen­dence with no small sense of self-­satisfaction. Akiko was sure of it. She was for this reason able to read through his feelings. “­Really, Kōsuke, it’s unworthy of you to speak that way to me,” she replied with malice. “You had e­ very intention of g­ oing out drinking with Nagami-­san on New Year’s night. He never showed up, and now you take it out on me and my so-­called ‘attitude,’ which you clearly exaggerate.” “No, y­ou’re wrong,” said Kōsuke, shaking his head emphatically. But Akiko knew that even if she had read ­things correctly, Kōsuke was angry enough to have convinced himself other­w ise. She understood, by the way he shook his head, the extent of his indignation. “Just think about it for a minute,” she then threw at him. If she was so wrong to head off to Kōzu, then why had he left her ­behind at Kishiko’s, and gone home all alone? She was referring back to the events of New Year’s Day. “­You’re dead wrong,” he said again, with a shake of his head. Just before Akiko had departed on her trip, she had cut through the corner of Kōsuke’s study, shuffling petulantly over the tatami mats on the way into the bedroom. Kōsuke was still somewhat dumbfounded by her be­hav­ior when Kishiko ­later appeared upstairs, telling him, “Well, ­we’re off to Kōzu now,” in an effort

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to smooth t­hings over. But Akiko herself had hardly spared her husband a single word—­she’d only told him that she was “packing.” “Oh, enough of this melodrama,” had been Kōsuke’s ­response. “It’s unbearable.” But Akiko, of course, knew this much for herself already. ­After harboring her frustrations for so long now, she had fi­nally reached a tipping point. Her actions w ­ ere now l­ittle more than an effort to undermine the way she had fallen into the role of a typical ­house­w ife. For Kōsuke to make her feel so self-­ conscious of it had been mortifying. This was the reason her blood, at the time, had begun to boil. Given Akiko’s sudden reticence, Kōsuke now spoke with the prospect of an easy victory. “I have feelings too, you know. It’s not as though I had no inkling of how you felt then.” “I never said you d­ idn’t. And the same goes for me too, you know . . .” “Well, goddamn it, some difference that made!” Kōsuke suddenly shouted. “Kōsuke, please ­don’t raise your voice with me. It’s so typical of you, trying to win an argument by shouting me down.” Akiko was intent on not letting her tone of voice waver. “Well, what do you expect?” said Kōsuke, marshaling all the resources of contempt at his disposal. “Of course, I’m not as clever as you are. And surely it’s beyond someone like me to calculate what other ­people might be thinking. But for you? For you, of all p­ eople, to abandon the f­ amily at the very height of the New Year’s season? What w ­ ere you thinking?” Even if they ­d idn’t normally observe all the formalities of the New Year’s holiday, Kōsuke was implying, t­here w ­ ere still ­people out t­here who had their hearts set on visiting them over the holidays. By accusing Akiko of g­ oing off all alone on her trip to Kōzu, in other words, and thereby ignoring the customs of “ordinary p­ eople,” Kōsuke was in effect rebuking Akiko from the perspective of a po­liti­cal ideal they held in common. Indeed, she had ­little by way of a counterargument.

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“Well, I suppose that was wrong of me. I ­hadn’t ­really thought about that.” “What do you mean you ‘­hadn’t thought about that?’ You are constantly reproaching p­ eople for the kind of ‘lifestyle’ choices they make nowadays. So let me tell you something, Akiko. When it comes to being a ‘precious novelist,’ y­ ou’ve got them all beat.” Their disagreement, as always, led to this par­tic­u ­lar dilemma. What had begun rather trivially with a few hurt feelings had now intensified into a full-­blown discourse on their respective “lifestyle” choices and concluded with a trenchant critique of personal character, on all sides. ­There was no mistaking, of course, that this antagonism was a healthy outgrowth of the uncompromising lifestyle they had chosen for themselves u ­ ntil recently. But of late t­ hey’d both dug in their heels. “And what exactly do you mean by ‘precious novelist’?” she asked stiffly. “­Don’t be coy, Akiko. All you care about nowadays is coming up with a good storyline, one that’ll get you published. I can see right through that ego of yours. But the minute I start worrying about how other ­people ­w ill think about us, you tell me it’s none of our business.” “I certainly do not. It goes without saying we have to think about other p­ eople nowadays, considering the times we live in. What I’ve been saying is entirely dif­fer­ent. You need to find a job, Kōsuke—­that’s basically what I’ve been trying to tell you.” “Right, b­ ecause I just sit around and do nothing all day long.” He spat out t­ hese words he himself of course d­ idn’t believe in. “The only reason you can come out and say something like that is b­ ecause y­ ou’ve become ‘impor­tant.’ ” Akiko clenched her fists, as she grew increasingly excited. “Why must you say t­ hings so downright mean?” “Just admit it, that’s the way you feel, ­isn’t it? I’m gone for less than two years, and in the meantime, you become ‘impor­tant.’  ”

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His words ­were dripping with sarcasm, and scorn. “Well, of course I have.” Akiko shouted back at him, confusing confidence with desperation. The anger stirring inside her seemed to pulse through her entire body now, rising further up in search of an outlet. Suddenly Akiko snatched her glasses off her face, and using both hands twisted the frames in opposite directions. This pair of glasses had been a luxury purchase they had just managed to afford in order to correct Akiko’s vision. The twisted frames suddenly snapped back, propelling them up into the air. “You fool!” Kōsuke bent down to pick up the glasses and then looked up at Akiko. She glared back at him through the corners of her frameless eyes. “What a fool you are! How can you be so hot-​ ­tempered?” Kōsuke tried twisting the distorted frames back into their original shape. As he did so, he felt his own anger gradually subside. “It’s no use. They c­ an’t be fixed.” Now blue in the face and stiff with bottled-up emotions, Akiko—­and her foibles—­normally defeated Kōsuke, which ­today made her seem all the more lovable. He now sensed they had fi­nally touched on something that might allow them to patch ­things up again. He continued as though he’d only been joking all along. “Well, I may get angry at times, but I myself have never tossed up twenty yen into the air before. Smashing a cracked teacup on the floor, or flipping over a sturdy t­ able, well, maybe . . .” The smile on his face made it clear to Akiko that Kōsuke was ready to make amends. Thoroughly exhausted, however, Akiko could do l­ittle ­else but shift the weight of her body against the side of the charcoal brazier, and stare vacantly into the air. Living alone for t­ hose two years he was gone, I truly had a taste of freedom.

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How depressing it was to think this now. What was it about a w ­ oman’s life that gave rise to this contradiction? How could one love one’s husband and still yearn for the freedom of living alone? Tears began to well up in Akiko’s open eyes now. And as soon as Kōsuke noticed this, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Oh, Akiko,” he said tenderly. “­You’re such a fool.”

4 Onc e t h e e a r t h ag a i n b e g a n whispering signs of spring, Akiko found herself drawn into memories of a certain moment in her past. On cold days in par­tic­u ­lar ­these memories flashed before her eyes whenever a gentle breeze swept up against her cheeks, whenever she caught sight of unseasonably new buds swelling on the trees, or whenever she noticed the sweet whiff of flowers in the air. Each one of t­ hese sensations redolent of spring carried with it vari­ous thoughts and feelings bound up with a par­tic­u ­lar moment in the past, and with subsequent springs that followed. Akiko reflected on t­hese moments with sweet, tender feelings, on a life that had gradually changed with the passing of each year, and over the course of a de­cade, as the meaning of life for Akiko had gradually deepened. Akiko had learned for the first time to assert herself during her courtship with Kōsuke. Her memories of their time together brought her both joy and pain. They had joined the proletarian movement together in the spring of 1928, just before the March 15 Incident, which she recalled now with a raw but new emotional intensity.2 The following year s­he’d been active

2

A date that looms large in the history of the Japa­nese Communist Party, March 15, 1928, refers to the day the JCP and its affiliated ­labor ­u nions and

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in the ­labor relief movement, paying ­house calls to victims’ families in working-­class neighborhoods. This was the same year Kōsuke had fallen ill and dropped out of the movement, and Akiko recalled now how difficult life had been for her. ­She’d once even broken down into tears at the neighborhood well when it suddenly dawned on her—­her heart still trembling with grief—­that spring had fi­nally arrived. It was springtime, too, when Kōsuke had years ­later been arrested, and Akiko traveled to the police station to bring him food and bedding with Tetsuko, her newborn child, strapped to her back. ­She’d been so overwrought at the time even the fresh new leaves failed to give her any comfort. She then threw herself into the cultural movement at a time of extraordinary adversity, and faced the full intensity of a po­liti­cal strug­g le while also coping with the emotional demands of being a m ­ other with two small c­hildren. ­These distant memories had often brought a smile to Akiko’s lips whenever she longed for Kōsuke, from whom s­he’d been forced to live apart for so long. And yet, last year Kōsuke had fi­nally come home. It was Akiko who then fell ill, and Kōsuke who looked ­after her. “We’ve been through so much together, ­haven’t we?” she remembered saying to him once, with real feeling. Now springtime was ­here once again. Akiko had recently dropped in on Kishiko, who was living alone now in Kamiochiai. The two went off for a stroll through the dark, quiet lanes of the neighborhood. Daphne flowers filled the air with their perfume.

cultural associations ­were victims of a raid by the Special Higher Police in one of the first major crackdowns on leftist po­liti­cal activity. The incident, in which thousands of p­ eople w ­ ere arrested, tortured, and in many cases given long prison sentences, is memorialized in Kobayashi Takiji’s short story “March 15, 1928,” available in En­g lish translation in Heather Bowen-­Struyk and Norma Field, eds., For Dignity, Justice, and Revolution: An Anthology of Japa­ nese Proletarian Lit­er­a­ture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015).

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“­There’s a large daphne bush on this street, if I remember correctly. Quite rare for this neighborhood.” This was the only detail Akiko seemed to recall. “A strong scent, i­sn’t it?” As they inhaled the sweet, rich scent of the flowers, the two ­women hung their heads in contemplation. Akiko picked up where s­he’d left off earlier. “Well, I think it’s wrong for anyone to suggest that the lifestyle of a writer necessarily cuts you off from ordinary p­ eople. Your connection to the ­people is a ­matter of the perspective you take as a writer.” “Yes, I think ­you’re right.” “But, you know? B ­ ecause of that . . . ​­because we want to write about the lives of ordinary p­ eople, the way we have to live our own lives makes that difficult. The works themselves ­don’t lie, do they? And ­there’s an immediacy, ­isn’t ­there, to the emotions we experience everyday? Especially for ­people who tend to react easily, p­ eople like writers.” “Yes, I agree,” Kishiko nodded emphatically. “But in times like ­these, with the movement now underground, all we have to support us is our ideas, and for some of us, the fixed routine of daily life that we need to follow as professional writers. What I mean is ­there’s a difference in the way we live our lives when compared to other p­ eople. ­Doesn’t it all come down to the question of how we make that difference somehow less vis­i­ble?” “It sounds like something we all need to discuss. What’s Kōsuke’s opinion on the ­matter?” “Oh, he’s entirely absorbed in his own reading. It’s as if the questions I’ve been grappling with have no bearing on him whatsoever. Whereas I, on the other hand, want to connect ­these questions immediately to my writing.” “Writing novels and writing literary criticism are rather dif­fer­ent though, ­wouldn’t you say? Even if they do share some of the fundamentals.”

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“Yes, I agree. And I remember quarreling over this point some time ago with Kōsuke. He was insisting that we move to Ogikubo, and I said I d­ idn’t want to leave Ōji. Ogikubo and Ōji are entirely dif­fer­ent neighborhoods when it comes to the feeling of everyday life on the streets, ­wouldn’t you say? Kōsuke made the case that the association headquarters was located in Ogikubo, and in the end I suppose our move t­ here freed me from the sort of empiricism I’m often guilty of.” “Well, t­hese are difficult times. But what we do for a living is write, and at least we still have the freedom to think and talk about our work. For the true activists in the movement, though, who’ve basically lost their jobs along with our institutions, it’s been especially tough. And in that sense we writers should ­really count our blessings.” When the two ­women parted, they offered each other a cheerful smile and a comforting tap on the shoulder. Upon returning home Akiko found Kōsuke working on the second floor. “I’m back,” she said, sliding open the paper door to his room. Kōsuke glanced up to acknowledge her return. He seemed to sense something troubling her. “What’s the m ­ atter? You look so serious.” Could he tell? she wondered. Reflecting on her talk with Kishiko, Akiko realized, had perhaps left a furrow in her brow. But t­here was l­ittle she could do now to change her feelings so quickly. “Yes, well, I’ve just been out for a walk with Kishiko and had a nice, long talk with her.” “­Really? About what?” Notwithstanding his inquiry, Kōsuke had already turned to face the manuscript he was writing, and he proceeded to draw Akiko into m ­ atters of his own research. “What do you think about this passage? Have a listen . . .” But nor was Akiko capable of pulling away from her own feelings. She sat down beside him, staring out blankly in front of her.

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On many occasions that spring Akiko’s face had betrayed her seriousness in a similar manner. Perhaps this accounted for why ­she’d been so uncharacteristically numb to the emotions that springtime normally excited in her. It was at the end of March that Akiko made up her mind to rent a room in a working-­class neighborhood in Jōtō-ku. The room was on the second floor of a row h ­ ouse, adjacent to an abandoned factory lot and swampland abutting a black river coated with purple swirls of oil. The row h ­ ouse was one of six connected buildings, all of which lurched perilously to one side. Early each morning the man of the ­house­hold went off to the dye works, while his wife set up a dumpling shop inside the home, keeping herself busy with handi­work by sewing gloves. An old man with a white crew cut, who resembled the younger man, could always be found squatting on the ground out front. In this neighborhood the sun r­ose and set in the sky to the sound of factory sirens. Even the pitch-­black stillness of midnight was pierced by a shrill howl, which seemed to trail on forever. The noise gave Akiko an odd sense of oppression. At noon the small apprentices would emerge from the small factories along the back alleyways to warm themselves in the sun. Still l­ittle c­ hildren, they would play with each other like tiny kittens in small, tight bundles. In their oil-­stained corduroys and rounded caps, they indeed looked exactly like baby cats. Akiko coughed whenever she walked along the low road at the edge of the swamp, where the yellow smog descended to ground level. The smoke sometimes hovered in the sky above the residents and at o ­ thers enveloped the entire neighborhood, especially when t­ here was no wind. Nature h ­ ere did not bless the streets with the sights and sounds of spring. One morning Akiko made a point of leaving the h ­ ouse quite early. Workmen commuting on bicycles, the sounds of wooden sandals scurrying along, men shoveling down their break-

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fasts in canteens—­the streets bustled in preparation for the workday to come. Out of an alleyway hurried two young factory girls, dressed in soiled aprons, with shawls draped over their heads. Both ­were barefoot. Each one had covered her head with a shawl, but none even bothered to wear socks. In the cold morning breeze their pink, naked feet looked positively raw. Yes, fi­nally, a sign that spring had come! It was in the early morning feet of ­these factory girls that Akiko felt the arrival of spring in ­these working-­class streets. Life in this neighborhood filled Akiko’s mind with complex thoughts and feelings. ­There ­were Korean ­women always mingling in the streets amid the nighttime shoppers, and Akiko, too, put on a serge apron and cheap wooden shoes in order to blend in whenever she walked around. On grimy floor mats slanting to the side she slept, she woke, she worked, in solitude. But the fruits of her l­abor w ­ ere disappointing, and she grew increasingly forlorn. One night, as the rain poured down heavi­ly on the roof, Akiko found it all suddenly unbearable. She threw on a shawl, waited endlessly for a taxi, and then returned to her home in Totsuka. The streets gradually grew brighter with electric lighting as she approached her home. She thought it strange how close to home s­he’d actually been living all this time and now saw with fresh eyes what made her new life in the workers’ district so dif­ fer­ent from her life h ­ ere at home. She was more determined than ever to study the lives of ordinary ­people. At the same time she feared losing her connection to the feelings of the activist lifestyle she once lived, and worried about drowning in the more dangerous aspects of ordinary culture. By now she was becoming more accustomed to the general mood of life in the tenements. And so it was that Akiko spent the spring of this year feeling depressed and rather tormented. With no intention of uprooting herself completely from her new neighborhood, and fully

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committed to finding a room in a dif­fer­ent f­amily’s home, Akiko happened to return to her own home in Totsuka one day to find Kawada Masae, who lived nearby, announce herself in a high-­ pitched voice, impatiently making her way inside. “Akiko, listen. ­They’ve arrested Kishiko.” “What? When did this happen?” Akiko sank down in front of the charcoal brazier. “Just this morning.” “How horrible. Why, I won­der.” But the next morning “they” came for Akiko too. “Well, hold on a minute, would you?” she said, stomping up to the second floor. “Kōsuke, t­ hey’ve come to take me away.” “You d­ on’t say.” Always late to rise, Kōsuke quickly lifted his head off his pillow, looking serious. “This ­isn’t good, is it? Do you know why?” “I imagine it has something to do with Kishiko.” “But . . . ,” he began, then falling ­silent. In the apprehensive glance they quickly shared with each other ­there still burned a deep love. From the bottom of the stairs came a voice that announced a wish to see the rooms on the second floor. At this even Kōsuke jumped out of bed. Having packed up some paper and a few hand towels, Akiko went off with the men shortly thereafter. Kōsuke even slipped into a pair of sandals and came out to the main street to send them off. Kōichi had been playing as though nothing at all was out of the ordinary. “Where are you ­going?” he simply asked, without getting up to follow anyone outside. Tetsuko, for her part, did l­ittle more than imitate her b­ rother. Akiko turned back, and waved good-­ bye to them all with a smile. “Just off on an errand.”

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5 Af t e r s e v e r a l day s b­ e h i n d b a r s Akiko was eventually sent up to the offices on the second floor so she could write for a few hours each day. The sunlight shone in brilliantly up h ­ ere, and through the win­dows Akiko could see fresh new growth on the trees in the garden of a neighboring villa. She could also see a young ­woman dressed in a woolen coat outside, bounding down the sidewalk. Akiko herself, deprived of a proper sash, detested the feeling of being underdressed, and though she made a point of covering herself with a half-­length coat at all times, the ­soles of her bare feet still clung uncomfortably to the thin, bamboo sandals she was required to wear. She was working on two documents up ­here on the second floor. The first, related to the police investigation, and the second, a piece of writing all her own, which she had received special permission to finish. It just so happened that Akiko had a manuscript due that month, the compensation for which was to comprise a major part of her ­family’s yearly income. Forcing her to miss this deadline would have caused the f­amily extraordinary hardship. Akiko continued to write each day, resting her eyes on the young, green leaves that seemed to deepen daily in color. She worked on her official statement in the hopes of ending the investigation quickly, but also took advantage of quieter moments to work on her own manuscript. Whenever she set herself to the task of composing her official statement, Akiko could feel herself communing with her friend Kishiko, who was most likely locked up in a room just like this one, writing something of a similar nature. It became a source of strength for Akiko to think they ­were both encouraging each other. It even gave her a ­silent plea­sure. Knowing she was making

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pro­g ress on her own manuscript, too, brought Akiko peace of mind whenever she began to worry about the f­amily she had left ­behind. The door to the hallway suddenly swung open, and just over Yasuyo’s shoulder Tetsuko’s rosy cheeks appeared. ­There was her l­ittle girl staring straight at her. “Mama!” she cried, with no sense of reserve. Kōichi had accompanied Tetsuko and the maid as well. Surrounded by men in black uniforms, Akiko felt tense at the sight of her f­amily when they appeared at the door, and she made a point of not replying to her d­ aughter immediately. The ­little girl’s voice was so out of character with the nature of the investigation room, it was all Akiko could do not to muffle the child’s cry with her sleeve. ­A fter receiving permission to do so, Akiko took Tetsuko into her arms. Tetsuko found a red, swollen insect bite on Akiko’s neckline and asked, “Does it itch?” The girl used her ­little fin­ger to scratch the bite for her. Yasuyo opened the lunchbox she had brought along for Akiko, who had Kōsuke to thank for the special treat. He had worried about her health, and the work she was busy completing. Kōichi, for his part, had at last learned to exercise restraint, and with all but a ­simple look in his eyes pleaded with his m ­ other for a slice of fruit from her lunchbox. Given her life inside the jail­house, Akiko’s desire to see her ­children was at times overwhelming, but she found it arduous to endure the conflicting emotions that assailed her now that she and her ­children fell ­under the gaze of the men in this office. She recalled the very first time that Kōichi had come to visiting hours. A particularly sensitive child, Kōichi had always read Akiko’s feelings perfectly and delighted in the covert expressions of love that his ­mother offered him. When preparations began for them to go back home, he fi­nally smiled and brought his mouth up to his m ­ other’s ear. This was “Mommy’s special room,” he’d been told before coming, and he must have remembered once

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spending the night in the rented room his m ­ other had occupied in Jōtō earlier that spring. “I’m staying ­here to­n ight too, Mommy,” he whispered. Akiko smiled, without replying, but then pulled herself away from him. Her smile notwithstanding, the expression on her face made it clear to the boy that she had quickly ruled out his proposal. ­There was no doubt Kōichi felt betrayed by the motherly love that only moments earlier he’d experienced so warmly. The sulking boy began acting out with sudden gestures. Akiko ­rose to her feet in a businesslike manner despite her son’s protest. But Kōichi was unable to comprehend the delicate shift in his ­mother’s demeanor, and he reacted contrary to her expectations. His face turned puffy and red, and he proceeded to shake off Yasuyo’s attempts to pull him away. He clung to Akiko. Loath to reprimand the boy in public, Akiko was on the point of covering his mouth with her hand when she stared at him sternly. ­Things having progressed this far, the sadness Kōichi clearly felt at being pushed away led him to resist even more stubbornly. Then, one of the m ­ iddle-­aged men in the room, just as Akiko had feared, fi­n ally placed his hand on Kōichi’s shoulder. The man patted the boy on his head and he ushered him out the door. With his lower lip thrust forward, Kōichi descended the stairwell slowly, one step at a time. Akiko watched him as he turned around halfway down the staircase, and she tried her best to smile back at him cheerfully. D ­ oing all he could to hold back his own tears, Kōichi no doubt felt betrayed by her smile, and all of a sudden his eyes, nose, and mouth violently contorted. “I hate you, Mommy!” he shouted. With this, Kōichi relieved himself of his pent-up feelings, and he proceeded to run down the remaining stairs. Akiko forced herself again to smile. And now again ­today, ­a fter Akiko finished eating her lunch, she would have to send her c­ hildren back home alone. This time it would be a trivial incident that left her with unpleasant feelings.

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­ fter her ­children had left the investigation room, Akiko A was forced to move into the lecture hall, one room over. The win­ dows of this room also faced the road, and ­were on the same level as ­those of the room s­ he’d been working in. Akiko went to stand by the win­dow, as she was so accustomed, and waved good-­bye to her c­ hildren once they had made their way out front. From the shade of the shrubs at the side of the entrance directly below her, Tetsuko looked up at her m ­ other’s face from Yasuyo’s shoulder and called out good-­bye to her. Now that Yasuyo, too, was f­ree from the gaze of strangers, she managed to bow her head to Akiko, with a faint gesture of heroic tragedy that seemed fitting for the sensitive young w ­ oman. Kōichi raised his voice as well, calling out to his ­mother. But his line of vision was fixed on the win­dow where she normally stood, where he was now waiting to catch sight of her. He called out again even louder without noticing that Akiko was three or four win­dows over. With all the confidence of having her m ­ other in plain sight, Tetsuko continued to call out good-­bye. Not to be outdone by his ­little ­sister, Kōichi cried out as well, though to his own eyes, he’d been forsaken. “Mommy!” he cried, practically doubling over. Akiko signaled at Yasuyo to point Kōichi in her direction, but Yasuyo was far too caught up in her own emotions to realize what Akiko was saying. Kōichi continued to cry out loud, which kept Tetsuko endlessly calling out as well. Still facing the same win­dow where his ­mother had failed to appear, the boy stubbornly refused to budge, and Yasuyo still ­hadn’t made sense of Akiko’s gestures. For her own part, Akiko ­couldn’t bring herself to call out loudly to Kōichi, nor could she pull herself away from the windowsill. In agony, Akiko fi­nally made a gesture with her hand as if to say, “just go home.” Yasuyo understood this one. Writhing violently, Kōichi cried out “Mo—­mmy”—­in two long, drawn-­out syllables, still having failed to catch sight of his ­mother. ­A fter saying something to Yasuyo, he fi­nally allowed her to pull him along. He turned back one last time as he walked away only to look up again at the window where his ­mother had refused to appear.

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Oh, he’s just a child, thought Akiko, and h ­ e’ll likely forget it all once he finds himself riding the big bus back home. But all day long Akiko felt her chest tighten at the thought of how the boy must have felt when he failed to catch her eye. That night, for the very first time—­beneath a foul-­smelling blanket that prickled her skin—­A kiko broke into tears, unable to bear her suffering any longer. One eve­n ing Kōsuke came for a visit. Akiko was for the first time able to indulge in the carefree pleasures of being pampered for a change. Kōsuke knew from firsthand experience what Akiko was dealing with and what she might most desire, and he proved to be supremely thoughtful when it came to the details. He even carried in with him a small bundle of loquats, which had just come into season. ­A fter a pause in their conversation, however, and in the presence of the guard on duty, he then dropped something with all the confidence that a casual remark afforded. “Oh, so I’ve deci­ded to rent an apartment.” “An apartment? What­ever for?” Her response was impulsive, but it was only natu­ral that ­she’d have questions. “Well, y­ ou’ve got an awful lot of work to finish, Akiko, and you’ll need a space of your own on the second floor now. The past few weeks have made me realize that much.” Akiko’s absence from the ­house­hold had clearly forced Kōsuke to put himself in her shoes. But was he ­really taking into account her anx­i­eties, and her aspirations? On the one hand, Akiko was deeply relieved, even delighted, that Kōsuke was trying to see ­things from her perspective. On the other, his interpretation of her feelings seemed almost too good to be true. Could Kōsuke have an ulterior motive? she wondered, pricked uneasily by a flicker of jealousy. ­These feelings somehow amused her. She had never experienced the emotion of “groundless suspicion” before, and it shocked her how firmly this sense of unease seized her, despite ­there being no real basis for concern.

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Kōsuke had now become the center of his f­amily’s attention, and for the first time ever he understood the kind of strength and sheer determination such a role demanded, if also the freedom that attended it. He also understood now all the frustrations Akiko faced at home, which had been building up inside of her. He realized that, when all was said and done, t­ hese w ­ ere his prob­ lems too.

6 Af t e r f or t y day s away Ak i ko fi­nally returned home. It was already midsummer. The colors Akiko saw around her ­were so intense they seemed to sink deeply into her eyes. What Akiko wanted more than anything, once she returned home, was to take her c­ hildren to play outside. The relief she now felt from her investigation having concluded uneventfully—­for the time being at least—­should have given her the motivation to begin her next piece of writing. Was it a sign of the times that she was instead prioritizing the pleasures of rest and relaxation? Kōsuke, for his part, was leading what appeared to be a busy life. ­After being released from prison over a year and a half earlier, Kōsuke had often complained of having no place of his own in the h ­ ouse. But now it was Akiko who felt something similar. It was as though the workings of the entire h ­ ouse­hold had now fallen ­under Kōsuke’s occupation. She could hear the raucous voices of Kōsuke and his adult, male visitors conversing. She could hear Kōsuke scolding the maid for not cleaning his room. She could hear Kōsuke’s footsteps on the pavement when he accompanied guests into town. So invested was Kōsuke in his new calling as a literary critic that he stood visibly taller now—as did the stacks of new books that w ­ ere piling up in his study. Although he shared

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with Akiko the plans he had for his new ­career, Akiko ­hadn’t the emotional reserves to feel his excitement, never mind the wherewithal to cheer him on. “Well, you sure have a nice set up h ­ ere, d­ on’t you?” Kōsuke had said this to Akiko when he’d come home from prison and taken full mea­sure of Akiko’s study. At the time he truly felt as though t­here was no place for him to sit down. Both of them, of course, more or less understood the situation. In Akiko’s case now, however, it w ­ asn’t just a ­matter of having no place to study—it was that Kōsuke had become the ­house­hold’s new center of gravity. As a writer, Akiko began to worry that the very foundation on which her c­ areer was grounded had been pulled out from u ­ nder her. Quite apart from Kōsuke’s own intentions, t­here was ­a fter all a force that demanded dif­fer­ent ­things from men and ­women in any f­amily. How much longer would it have to m ­ atter that she was “the w ­ oman” of the ­house­hold? agonized Akiko, often to the point of tears, as the days became darker for her and more desolate. This darkness sharpened the scowl on Akiko’s brow, and her gaze spitefully traced ­every move Kōsuke now made. If ­there had once been a time when Akiko joined Kōsuke’s guests in conversation, now she simply shut herself away, indifferent to his affairs. But she did long for the days when all their visitors—be they men or ­women—­had come to visit her, not him. What a huge difference this made in the way she managed her feelings. From time to time, when Akiko did join Kōsuke and his guests in the sitting room, she would find herself left ­behind when every­one ­else ­later headed downtown, as though it w ­ ere perfectly natu­ral for Kōsuke to abandon her t­here. But why was it that she was always being left ­behind? It was an odd question to ask, but still she felt as though life with Kōsuke now made it impossible for her to pursue a separate, in­de­pen­dent life of her own. In the finely woven fabric of her daily routine, the thread of Akiko’s feelings spun precipitously downward. Given the force of her personality, the darkness pent up inside her gave off an

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eerie glow of inner strength. And while Kōsuke did not fail to notice, he was in his own way competing against t­ hese feelings, if only for the sake of the passion with which he now pursued his own work. Kōsuke could never do enough now to expand his social circles, and thereby expand his prospects for new work. He was interested in action, and he muscled his way through in order to get ­things done, with ­little thought of the consequences. One spiteful glance from Akiko, however, was enough to sink his spirit. And to this he typically responded with anger. Akiko knew full well that his indignation was justified. On more than one occasion she even wished she could make Kōsuke’s circumstances more carefree. That ­these feelings amounted to a self-­contradiction, however, brought Akiko to the point of tears. For in order to help Kōsuke live a more carefree lifestyle, she had to earn more money—­ not as a writer but by taking on other part-­time work. Kōsuke, meanwhile, was a man who acted on impulse, and ­because he dove headfirst into one opportunity ­a fter another, he kept busy. He even brought in some income. But from Akiko’s perspective ­there was reason to feel discontent, given that not a penny of her hard-­earned income was being allocated to her own ­career plans, precisely b­ ecause of Kōsuke’s insistence on living more lavishly. She felt pressed into the role of a supporter, in other words, simply for the sake of maintaining Kōsuke’s ever-­expanding circle of friends. ­There ­were instances when Akiko, too, had seen the con­ ve­niences of having more acquaintances. But the fact that t­hese relationships ­hadn’t been forged in the interest of her own ­career plans cast a shadow that loomed darkly over her heart. “So tell me, how have you been? Have you finished any work recently?” a friend once asked her. “Oh, I ­don’t know. I can hardly bring myself to work on anything at all. It’s as if I only write now to keep the ­house­hold ­going.” This was Akiko’s oddly off-­the-­cuff reply. And Kōsuke took her to task for it. Precisely ­because he was dissatisfied with his own talent, he had taken pains to arrange for himself a series

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of jobs that he was now working steadily to complete. So for Kōsuke, Akiko’s attitude smacked of a brazen lack of humility. It was ­little more than a sign of her hubris. At the same time, Kōsuke was no match for the sheer force of it, for it knocked down anything and every­thing in its path. It was true that during Akiko’s absence he had come to understand, quite viscerally, how much he had relied on Akiko as a life partner, but still he found it impossible to endure her darkness. Being the man he was, Kōsuke felt incon­ve­nienced, too, when asked to make accommodations for the sake of his wife. The pair now spoke in terms of “winning” and “losing.” What a ­couple we make! thought Akiko, imagining all the wives out t­here who considered their husbands’ line of work their very own, and tolerated not even the slightest rumor about their husbands to circulate in public. For t­ hese married c­ ouples, the wife’s aspirations in life w ­ ere none other than t­hose of her husband. She prepared what he needed, she offered him what help he asked for, and she spoiled him from time to time to maintain his good humor. She joined him in his indignation about the outside world and urged him on in e­ very way she could. The husband, meanwhile, took on responsibility, grew strong, and worked with abandon. When Akiko tried to align her thoughts with this perspective, she often felt sorry for Kōsuke. The challenges of daily life and the complexity of ­human interactions took a heavy toll on them both. They held firm to their core princi­ples in terms of what constituted success and defeat, but Akiko could marshal l­ittle of the energy necessary to nurture Kōsuke’s new enthusiasm for work. Her unforgiving eye, on the contrary, was remarkably ­adept at dampening his spirits, and her stubbornness slowly but surely wore him down. Given the nature of their daily scuffles, Akiko worried, would they perhaps both lose re­spect for the unique work they did as writers? Would not one of them end up utterly defeated if this state of affairs carried on? And might not they both suspend their work altogether if they strayed from the path by way of compromise? The uncertainty was terrifying.

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­ nder the pressure of t­hese tensions, the love they once U had for each other gradually dried up. One eve­n ing, ­after Kōsuke returned home late at night, he invited Akiko out for a stroll. It was the time of night when a certain Chinese noodle vendor often played his flute on the streets, pulling along a cart decked with yellow paper lanterns. They walked along the main ave­nue to the nearby station and then turned back again. Even the crisp eve­n ing air, however, did ­little to brighten the ashen pallor of Akiko’s stonelike complexion. “­Can’t I enjoy the ­simple plea­sure of a walk around the block?” said Kōsuke, in utter frustration. “What on earth is the ­matter?” “Well, y­ ou’re not exactly making it pleas­ur­able.” Kōsuke was no match for Akiko’s icy words, which ­were akin to the sound of a door slamming shut. No full-­blown quarrel ensued this time, as normally it might have, but they ended up retiring into separate rooms for the night. In spite of her dark feelings, however, Akiko allowed herself to grow curves and lustrous skin, and for this Kōsuke found her irresistible. Akiko felt something competitive even in the way she expressed her sensuality. Therein lay one of the psychological means by which they each furtively attacked the other. It was a clear night with a fine moon. Kōsuke was out for the eve­n ing, and Akiko sat next to an open win­dow on the second floor. The air felt cold for a night in mid-­July, perhaps on account of the moonlight. She could hear the ­children downstairs getting ready for bed—­they ­were jumping on top of their newly laid-­out futons, and somebody was scolding them. For some time now Akiko had felt suffocated by her pentup feelings, and she sensed an uncontrollable urge lurking deep inside her. Suddenly she leapt to her feet like a madwoman, and made her way downstairs. “Kōichi . . . ​come ­here.”

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“What’s the m ­ atter, Mommy?” From inside the mosquito net came the cheerful voice of a boy who d­ idn’t seem very sleepy. She beckoned him with a wave of the hand so that Tetsuko w ­ ouldn’t see. Kōichi emerged in his terrycloth pajamas with an impish smile now lighting up his face. “So, what’s g­ oing on?” he asked, trying to sound adultlike. “How about we head over to the river and take a look at the moon.” “­Really? Go see the moon?” Quizzically he slipped on a pair of wooden sandals and quickly followed his ­mother outside. Back ­here on the side streets, with streetlamps far and few between, the moonlight cast a clear blue glow, and the trees cast crisp black shadows across the road. “Look how bright the moon is to­n ight.” Clasping his tiny hand in hers, Akiko spoke as though to nurse in the ­little boy’s heart the very same feelings she held in her own. “­You’re not cold, are you, honey?” “Nope. I’m not cold.” Notwithstanding how she continued to speak to Kōichi and how she had wrapped her arm around his shoulders, Akiko refrained from peering down onto his face, determined as she was to walk alongside her son as though he ­were an adult companion. My dear boy, has he grown so much that he can keep his ­mother com­pany on a lonely night? Only one step removed from her conversation with Kōichi, she ­d idn’t know if the inner workings of her heart w ­ ere seeking to comfort the boy, or to comfort herself. Akiko hastened her step, and Kōichi, now more the friend than the son, hastened his step as well. Akiko addressed him in boy-­like language, using words that suggested she was a kid too. Kōichi reacted in kind, and proceeded to detail the day’s adventures to a ­mother barely paying attention.

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Aware of what was ­going on, Akiko thought herself more heartless than ever. ­Here she was dragging along her child at the whim of her emotions, and the boy was unknowingly taking plea­sure in it. Had she gone so far as to subject even her ­children to the terms of her private affairs? Akiko trembled at the thought of it. The poor child. Akiko chimed in with an “okay” h ­ ere and an “uh-­huh” ­there, pretending to listen to the babbling boy, while deep inside she was shuddering. She m ­ ustn’t go so far as to take advantage of her child . . . ​ Akiko tried asking herself why she found it necessary to drag her c­ hildren into this mess of her own making. Was her lifestyle so impoverished that she was using her kids to conceal her loneliness? ­Shouldn’t she instead devote herself to creating a new life, one far more enriching than the one she led now? A life where her emotions could soar, and her passions ­were intense. That’s what I want ­after all, what I’m searching for, in my own life as well as in the life of the masses. The light of the moon at the riverside was bright, and the sound of murmuring w ­ ater hung in the air. They walked along the gravel-­paved road up to the edge of the bridge. The lonely figure of a man in a cotton robe stood out on the bridge, like a sign of the stillness that often greeted moonlit nights. On the steel railings of the bridge the moonlight cast a sharp, almost chilling glow. But its reflection floated ­gently on the surface of the river, occasionally flickering out of sight as the ­water flowed. “Let’s sit ­here for a while.” Akiko was keen on calming the trembling of her heart, and sat down on the gravel beside Kōichi. “The moon sure is bright, ­isn’t it?” She could now see the moon’s reflection in the boy’s eyes as he looked up in the sky to where she was pointing.

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Oh, what a darling l­ittle boy! My darling ­little son sitting ­here so joyfully at my side. With t­hese tender thoughts caressing her mind, Akiko noticed a pebble at the side of her shoe. She picked it up, shook it around in her cupped hands, and then separated her hands into two fists, which she stuck out in front of Kōichi. “Now, tell me, which one has the pebble?” Huh? Kōichi smiled with surprise, looking up at his ­mother. Once it became clear to him how to play the game, he set himself to the task of comparing his m ­ other’s two fists with mischievous determination. “This one,” he said, tapping firmly on one of her fists with his fin­ger. “Oops, I lost. Now you try, Kōichi.” “Awright.” In his childish way, he imitated what his m ­ other had just done, his growing smile now illuminated by the moon. Then he thrust his two fists out in front of him. “Let’s see. How about this one.” “Nope, you got it wrong, Mommy. It’s this one.” The boy triumphantly opened his clasped fists, then raised his hands once again to his ears, shaking them around. A chill from the gravel she was sitting on passed through Akiko’s cotton robe. Her shoulders, too, felt cold in the white light of the moon. Akiko paused for a moment to listen to the murmuring river as it flowed along ceaselessly. Rippling and rolling, this way and that, the winding river eventually flowed into downtown Tokyo. Along the way it would pass through filthy channels lined with tiny ­houses as the screeches of streetcars drowned out the sound of the ­water. It would shimmer in the harsh light of daily life as it meandered its way through the city’s center. At the prefecture’s border it would fi­nally merge with the much larger river and fi­nally pour out into the sea. The w ­ ater would keep coming and coming, flowing infinitely.

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From time to time ­there blew the whistle from a train heading far to the north of the river; t­ hese ­were commuter trains from Tokyo bound for Kawagoe. ­There was something sad in the sight of Akiko sitting ­there like this, hiding her feelings in a game of stones with her son. With his back and slender neck forming a soft, round silhouette, the boy himself looked like a baby monkey, sat t­ here ever so small beneath a sky crowned with the rising moon.

7 Th e w e t fac e o f s u m m e r had come and gone, the storminess sinking into a place invisible to the naked eye. The air became dry; the earth stood still. The sense of calm one felt on the heels of such intensity was uncanny. So, too, might one have described Akiko’s state of mind. Despite her daily confrontations with Kōsuke, the tempestuous nature of her emotions gradually subsided. When she looked back on each of t­hese events in retrospect, Akiko could never pinpoint exactly what had sparked her arguments with Kōsuke, and still they continued. What triggered them, it seemed, ­were the pesky details of daily life, and the general feelings they precipitated. If such petty realities caused such quarrels, they also managed to cut deeply into the basic princi­ples upon which they lived their lives, and to grate away at the essence of their work. Akiko had once found herself among a group of w ­ omen participating in a roundtable conversation about lit­er­a­t ure, a conversation that was being recorded for publication. What happened, the question was posed, when both husband and wife worked as writers, but held dif­fer­ent viewpoints?

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“Mrs. Kakimura, I imagine you and your husband must always be of the same opinion.” The editor of a certain magazine, appointed as the discussion leader, had turned t­oward Akiko to address her. “Well, I suppose . . . ,” Akiko had replied, the odd silence of the assembled group and the shifting glances of its participants having awkwardly cut short her answer. Akiko often thought about what had happened at that meeting. She might have just as easily dismissed the event with a b­ itter smile, but t­ here ­were times when she would pause, with a pensive brow, and contemplate ­whether the sentiments of the discussion leader ­were ­those of so-­ called normal ­couples. It had felt to Akiko as though the entire group of ­women gathered ­there had felt sorry for her, having been singled out and told that surely she and her husband shared the same opinions. None of the w ­ omen had asked follow-up questions or ventured further into the topic of conversation, and it seemed as though all of the w ­ omen had avoided eye contact with her at that very moment, almost as a courtesy. But Akiko had been embarrassed at the same time to feel so oppressed by the general atmosphere of the gathering. In an inverse sort of way it also seemed to be proof that the old belief—­“What a man commands, his wife ­shall follow”—­had in fact penetrated the minds of ­these professional working w ­ omen. When both husband and wife held c­ areers of their own, t­ here could be l­ittle question that such a c­ ouple shared certain fundamental perspectives, but how could this be so easily, and so grossly, misinterpreted? Living without compromises was am ­ atter of hashing out the details of daily life together. This meant sometimes encouraging each other, sometimes arguing with each other, and sometimes, based on the strong bond they shared, even criticizing each other quite severely. How could even ­these working w ­ omen not comprehend this? It was at times infuriating. Such was Akiko’s train of thought as she reflected on the roundtable discussion. And yet still the unwavering ideals she and Kōsuke held in common did ­little to check the individual desires

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they both asserted. This intensified the fiction between them at home and gradually wore Akiko down. Akiko began to think that their relationship had developed into an inescapable contradiction. Indeed she wondered if the effort they exerted butting heads w ­ asn’t simply a colossal waste of time. Exhausted from working throughout the night, Kōsuke was downstairs picking a fight with Yasuyo, the maid, and Otoyo, Akiko’s grand­mother. Listening to them from her desk where she was working on the second floor, Akiko felt compelled to go downstairs to resolve the situation, and found it impossible to focus. Still fidgeting ner­vously at her desk, Akiko asked herself indignantly why she was forced to waste so much energy worrying about Kōsuke. But even in cases when the reasons w ­ eren’t so clear, the words they exchanged on a daily basis came out sharp, even cross, just ­because they ­were both so tired. Sometimes Kōsuke would also seek out affection from Akiko only to be rebuffed by her insoluble feelings. Precisely b­ ecause ­these w ­ ere ­m atters of everyday life, the dynamic between them was as difficult to grasp as was the air they breathed. At times Akiko found it almost suffocating, as though she had no place to truly rest. In a rare moment of privacy, feeling completely at ease, Kōsuke had once let something slip to Akiko. “All I want, when I’ve finished a manuscript and am physically beat, is to be left alone so I can sleep.” His tone was that of a spoiled child. Lest his words be misunderstood as selfish, however, Kōsuke quickly realized he needed to amend them. “Well, what I mean of course is that it’s difficult for anyone in this h ­ ouse to find time to rest. Even if one of us gets something finished, it’s hard to sit back and relax u ­ ntil ­we’re both done with work.” “It is, ­isn’t it?” Akiko nodded compliantly this time. But beneath the veneer of her meek acquiescence she had become coldly indifferent. A friend once broached the subject in a lighthearted way.

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“You h ­ aven’t been arguing lately with Kōsuke, have you?” “Well, I suppose you could say w ­ e’ve at least come to terms with what leads us to quarrel . . .” Akiko began ­these words rather self-­critically, but somehow found herself compelled to complete the thought without mincing any words. “Which perhaps only means that our arguments are getting worse. I sometimes won­der where it ­will all lead us in the end.” “In the end?” replied her companion, looking puzzled. Akiko too seemed to have come to a sudden revelation, but then quickly dismissed the thought with a sad smile and a shake of her head. ­Until early one morning, that is, when she found Kōsuke staring into the serenity of her ivory-­white face, making a playful gesture as though to poke her cheek with his fin­ger. “Too bad you ­can’t get work done when ­you’re this gentle,” he said with a sigh. Akiko looked away from him, and replied with a bashful smile. “Well, I’m gentle deep down inside, you know. I just need lots of ‘encouragement’ to let it show.” Afraid he might spoil this unusual expression of tenderness if he ­were to reply, Kōsuke simply stared into Akiko’s face and smiled. He felt himself thinking that this was what ­really made Akiko one of a kind—as though he had his doubts about finding this lovely kind of tenderness in any ordinary wife. ­There was, therefore, a general sense of unease in the air as Akiko came to place higher and higher expectations on herself for the sake of her work, but remained ever-­vexed by her powerlessness to accommodate t­ hese passions. Consumed by such feelings, Akiko gave less attention to Kōsuke. Something similar had perhaps occurred in Kōsuke as well. Their desire to grow as individuals was no longer intertwined with the growth of one another. Glancing up into the blindingly bright sky, Akiko was standing at the second-­floor win­dow, muttering something almost

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wistfully. It was as though she ­were trying to shake off her own smallness, which she found unbearable. Beside her sat Kōsuke. “Oh, I wish I could take a trip somewhere overseas. If I went with Kishiko, ­there would be nothing to worry about, and just think how much fun it would be.” Kōsuke quickly interjected with gentle disapproval. “That’s a rosy picture y­ ou’re painting, Akiko. Two writers traveling together? D ­ on’t you think you’d lose every­thing fresh and unique about your own first impressions? Before you knew it, you’d end up making all sorts of compromises for each other’s sake.” Akiko felt the force of Kōsuke’s words as though they confirmed the same doubts she held about their marriage. I guess he’s right, she thought, nodding to herself, but without answering. In which case, the contradictions they faced ­were, ­after all, of a far more fundamental nature . . . ​

8 Ki s h i ko h ­ a dn ’t y e t be e n r e l e a s e d from jail. But Kawada Masae, who had taken it upon herself to bring her toiletries, food, and books, occasionally stopped by with news about her. Kishiko was apparently focusing her efforts on staying healthy, so Akiko and the o ­ thers needed not to worry much about her. Considering that Kishiko herself was living in custody, she had made arrangements for Masae to make deliveries to her husband Nakazawa. ­These ­were truly of a detailed nature in that she paid careful attention to almost every­thing, from the cover on his futon to the quality of his towels. Bearing witness to the kind of love Kishiko held for her husband, Akiko reflected sadly on her own feelings for Kōsuke,

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which had become even more cynical. One day she received a letter from a female friend and found herself deeply moved by it. Her friend was a married ­woman, who also worked as an artist. Akiko knew that she was not only busy with her own ­career, but also worked actively alongside ordinary ­people, her baby strapped to her back all the while. Her friend’s letter had been written with tiny characters strung tightly together. A ­mother herself, the w ­ oman was sympathizing with the hardship she i­ magined Akiko must have felt having been separated from her ­children for forty days. Then she transitioned rather naturally into a discussion of her own situation, which she conveyed with ­g reat passion. I’ve only just recently come to terms with my life, but I must say ­until recently I suffered horribly from feelings of anger and frustration, feelings which truly immobilized me. Whenever I tried to change t­ hings, I always managed to find shortcomings inside myself I felt I needed to conquer. And oh, how I strug­g led to overcome them! It’s already been close to six months now since I’ve arrived in this village, and while I’m relatively ­free of mundane concerns, I feel like I’ve only just become adequate to the task of painting landscapes. You see I never had the emotional capacity to foster a love for landscapes before, and have found myself struggling against a fear of empty places, places with few passers-by that I’ve spent my entire life avoiding. What a dear person, thought Akiko, with a gentle smile, as she read her friend’s confession. The ­woman had grown up in a prosperous ­house­hold but had now inserted herself, with such a pure heart, into the lives of ordinary ­people. Perhaps she ­hadn’t completely overcome what was causing her fear, the letter went on to say, but she was learning so very much from the ­women and young

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girls in the village as she painted. She had also come to realize, so the w ­ oman continued, how much poor p­ eople in the cities craved the beauty of nature that landscape paintings could offer. I must confess, however, that I still ­haven’t mastered the ­human form. I’m in the pro­cess of painting an ironsmith now, and while I can sense something about what he carries inside him, I still ­haven’t been able to capture that something on canvas. It pains me to admit this, but on this par­tic­u ­lar point I do feel like something of a failure. ­ fter writing about her own lack of fortitude as an artist, Akiko’s A friend began, sure enough, to describe the torment she felt over her husband. Mentioning him by name, she continued, One of the t­hings that irritates me constantly and leaves me feeling like an utter failure is my husband. I’ve always wanted to ask you about your life together as a c­ ouple, and while I know that my own thinking on the m ­ atter is entirely mistaken, I find myself endlessly tormented by t­ hese feelings. T ­ here once was a time when, insofar as our oil painting was concerned, t­ here was hardly anything that set us apart. You might say that our common deficiencies shared something of an original (as odd as that might sound) quality. But ever since ­we’ve returned to the countryside, and I’ve been whiling away my time as I cope with my second pregnancy, it’s clear to me that he’s managed to make true pro­g ress and to move to the next level. Even what I used to like most about my own style now seems utterly worthless in comparison to his paintings. I ­can’t find in my paintings anything worthy of being exhibited or put up for sale. My sadness then turns into an anger that I take out on him. While half of me feels sorry for myself, the other half ends up blaming him. So each

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day I start painting, thinking maybe this ­w ill be the day, the day I produce something at his level, perhaps even something better. But in the end, when I line my work up against his, I always find it lacking. Instead of looking for creative inspiration in his work, or learning about the technical feats he has mastered, what I end up ­doing is feeling l­ittle e­ lse but envy. As Akiko read her friend’s letter, she suddenly found herself on the verge of tears. “Oh, the poor ­thing, the poor ­thing,” said Akiko, letting the muted words slip from her trembling lips. “­Women share so many sorrows, so many dif­fer­ent sorrows,” she cried. At least this friend of hers had the means of escaping them. Feeling envious of her husband’s work had opened up for her a win­dow of opportunity. A ­ fter all, ­there ­were so many w ­ omen who never even harbored such envy, and the vast majority of w ­ omen, Akiko reasoned, had no profession to call their own. To nurse an envy of one’s husband’s artistic talents, as her friend seemed to understand it, meant she was compelled to work even harder in order to break ­free. In a case like this, the ­woman’s husband certainly ­wasn’t to blame for the situation, but nor could anyone possibly blame her. It made perfect sense to Akiko how t­ hese feelings might have tormented her friend given the pressures of everyday life. Was this anguish specific to the world w ­ omen inhabit? wondered Akiko, shuddering with a sense of revelation. The sympathy she felt for her friend now bore down on her chest heavi­ly, as though it spoke to the collective anguish of all womanhood. ­There was no reason to expect Kōichi and Tetsuko, for their parts, to understand their parents’ relationship, and they continued to play on the street corner everyday, covered head to toe with sweat and mud. “I be back soon . . .” “I ho-­ome . . .” Still unable to form her words, Tetsuko offered t­hese greetings from the entry hall

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whenever she left the ­house or returned from playing. And ­there she was now, in the red h ­ ouse­dress s­ he’d already outgrown, sticking out her fanny like any l­ittle girl might do. She was making her way into the alleyway with short, quick steps in wooden clogs. Akiko had caught sight of her through the bamboo blinds from where she sat in the living room. Since it was still somewhat hard for her to step up over the threshold, Tetsuko would always grab onto the pillar in the entry­way in order to climb into the h ­ ouse. ­She’d invariably call out, “I ho-­ome,” to elicit a response from anyone nearby. Watching her ­d aughter, Akiko suddenly felt overcome with feeling. “Even that tiny ­little girl . . . ,” said Akiko, “thinks of this place as a real home.” She had mumbled ­these words to no one but herself. Sitting beside her, Otoyo simply smiled g­ ently, without reading much into them. The neighborhood ­children ­were playing outside, blocking off all passage through the alleyway. Each one of them had their own mommy and ­d addy, and a h ­ ouse they called their own. And for Kōichi and Tetsuko, too, she and Kōsuke ­were unmistakably theirs, just as this h ­ ouse was none other than the place they considered home. Perhaps it all went without saying, but as Akiko bore witness to the absolute, utterly innocent, faith her ­children held in her, it was as though she now saw the very essence of her motherhood, and felt compelled like never before to reflect on her past. ­A fter giving birth to each of her babies, she had on occasion looked down at her newborn, suddenly a new member of her ­family, and however logical it all might have seemed, thought it ever so strange to feel such an unbreakable bond with the child. “Where in the world did you come from?” She had lovingly whispered ­these words to each of her newborns when they cried with all their might.

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Now that her c­ hildren had thoughts and emotions of their own to consider, Akiko found herself swayed by feelings that ­were even more delicate. Nursing such complicated feelings t­ oward both her husband and her ­children, the burden she felt was doubled. In August it was deci­ded that the ­children would go off to the seashore in C Town, located along the National Electric Railway line. Kōsuke had a rather weak constitution, and the ­children took a­ fter him. So much so, in fact, that Akiko had been advised by their ­family physician to send them, if pos­si­ble, to the seaside this summer. At first, however, Akiko had neither the interest nor the energy to make it happen. “Look, Akiko, ­we’ve got to take them t­here as soon as pos­si­ble.” It was partly a sense of fatherly responsibility that led Kōsuke from time to time to say so much to Akiko, but she also sensed the irritation of a patriarch in his words, which she countered with cold indifference. Kōsuke had for some time now been placing unreasonable constraints on their expenses, ostensibly for the sake of this holiday planned for the c­ hildren. But Akiko felt her personhood was being held prisoner by ­these mea­sures, and doubted ­whether her own thoughts had any bearing on Kōsuke whatsoever. And so it was that the ­children ­were to be sent off to the seashore. Taking with her a small sum of money allocated for clothing, Akiko headed to a department store to buy bathing suits and other necessities. Department stores made Akiko feel restless and agitated, oppressed by the stuffiness of the large crowds. But like m ­ others everywhere she wanted to pick out for herself t­hose ­things her ­children would be wearing. That feeling, too, she was compelled to recognize, was entirely inimical to her very being, and she began to weave her way through the bustling crowds with a look of utter emptiness. ­Later still, Akiko became conscious of herself—­sweat beading at the tip of her nose—­picking through, no, digging through, a mountain of kids bathing suits, in search

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of something just the right color, something just the right price. Haha, what man, it suddenly dawned on her, would ever deign to join this vulgar frenzy! “Resist every­thing about you that is foolish, old-­fashioned, and weak!” Akiko pulled her hands off the pile of clothes and took two or three steps back. From each and ­every direction, ­there ­were ­house­w ives, and homemakers, and well-­powdered ladies bumping into her, rubbing up against her, frantically pushing her aside. Each of them was searching for the best pos­si­ble outfit with which to dress her child, mused Akiko, gazing at all the ­women gathered beneath the store’s seductive display.

9 “I’m hom e   .  .   .” Akiko had spent the day at the seashore and returned with a mild sunburn on her face. She made her way inside from the entry hall, stepping clear of three or four pairs of men’s shoes, deposited most likely by friends of Kōsuke. “Oh, good,” came Kōsuke’s voice from the sitting room. “So how was it? “Well . . . ,” she began, with cheerful ambivalence. “I suppose it has the virtue of being a safe place. But it d­ oesn’t quite feel like the ocean to me.” ­These ­were friends with whom they w ­ ere on the very closest of terms. Kōsuke had several days earlier gone to take a look at the beach for himself and managed to rent a few rooms. Without the ­children or her grand­mother around, the ­house felt transformed somehow, almost empty. Yasuyo, too, had accompanied the ­children. With the furniture now covered in a vis­i­ble layer of white dust, and the living room littered with tea-

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cups and cigarette butts left ­behind by young men, the entire ­house seemed positively liberated in its unkemptness—­a ll the more so for Akiko, who had just returned from her trip with the c­ hildren. Akiko sat down among the men, and lit up a cigarette. Gathered that night w ­ ere friends engaged in similar work, having a spirited discussion about lit­er­a­ture. Akiko jumped enthusiastically into the conversation, her face suddenly animated. Eventually Kōsuke and the ­others went off for a night on the town. ­A fter she had seen them off, Akiko made her way up to the second floor with soft, deliberate steps. Typical for a bedroom where a man was living alone, his covers w ­ ere thrown to the side of his bed, and the makings of an old pot of tea had dried up on his desk. Akiko collapsed onto his bed, atop the pajamas Kōsuke had tossed ­there, and she stretched her legs out comfortably. Vaguely conscious of the body odor coming from his pajamas, she gazed up at the ceiling deep in thought. ­Were the c­ hildren in bed already? she wondered, if only half-­heartedly, her thoughts shifting like t­hose of an e­ ager pupil to a story she was still in the pro­cess of writing. She had folded her hands ­behind her head, but removed them to swat a mosquito on her upper arm, and stood up again. She nimbly gathered up the tea paraphernalia left on Kōsuke’s desk, and quickly descended the staircase. Singing to herself a popu­lar new song, she gave a firm twist to the lever of the faucet, letting the w ­ ater splash freely as she started the dishes. She had half a mind to pull up her skirt and run around the empty h ­ ouse. It was all so unceremonious, and self-­indulgent. I could get used to this, thought Akiko. ­Later that night, “So it’s just the two of us.” “Been a while, ­hasn’t it?” “It has.” It was rare for Kōsuke, at a time like this, to offer a sincere reply. Availing himself of her feelings, he continued with good humor.

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“Guess what, Akiko? I met someone who reminds me exactly of you.” He spoke as though he was picturing a ­woman in his mind’s eye. “Oh . . . ​­really?” “I’m not the only one who thinks so e­ ither. Every­one out with us said so too. ‘She’s just like Akiko, just like her,’ they all say. And it’s not just your features e­ ither, it’s your personality too. It’s kind of funny, but you know how sometimes you swallow your words and only say half of what you ­really mean? Well, she’s just the same way.” With all the enthusiasm he customarily marshaled to explain himself, Kōsuke conveyed to Akiko all he knew about this ­woman he’d just met. “You d­ on’t say.” With a rather indulgent peace of mind she allowed herself to hear him out. Kōsuke took the bait. “All the ­women who catch my eye seem to be exactly the same kind. ­Women who are kind of sassy but modest at the same time . . .” She and Kōsuke frequently talked about ­women. Back when they ­were young, for example, if they caught sight of a beauty walking out of the public bath, they might praise her as someone who belonged in an Edo print from the Floating World, and maybe even follow her for a while. But when Akiko connected Kōsuke’s story to­n ight with what she found rather hateful about his recent lifestyle choices, she found herself listening to Kōsuke in an oddly detached way. The next morning, too, the empty h ­ ouse made Akiko feel something altogether new. She even called out his name informally when his breakfast was ready. They shared a single tray between them that morning. “It’s funny being in the h ­ ouse without the c­hildren, ­i sn’t it?”

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“Well, someone’s g­ oing to have to clean up l­ater on. ­There’s dust all over the place. Did you see how filthy the upstairs hallway is?” Kōsuke, it seemed, had completely failed to understand her feelings. Akiko now felt a shadow pass over her heart. “Well, the cleaning is a prob­lem, ­isn’t it? I did tidy up this room, but I’m not about to do the ­whole place alone. It’s far too exhausting, and ­I won’t get any of my own work done afterward.” “Well then, just leave it that way,” said Kōsuke irritably, as though he c­ ouldn’t be bothered. “But, you know, with all the win­dows left open, the dust keeps flying inside. It’s ­really disgusting.” The two w ­ ere clearly not seeing eye to eye that morning over their breakfast. Akiko’s newly budding feelings t­oward Kōsuke ceased then and t­ here to flower. Two or three days ­later Akiko was writing a postcard to Kōichi using all katakana, which the boy could now read. As she carefully penned the large letters, she felt as though she ­were the only one who now cared about the c­ hildren. Kōsuke, meanwhile, seemed engrossed in his own new lifestyle as a writer. Mommy is g­oing to finish her work quickly and join you very soon at the beach, she wrote. “I wrote that D ­ addy says hi too.” “Okay,” Kōsuke replied from the next room. “Hey, d­ on’t you want any tea?” “Oh, sure.” Kōsuke sat at his desk, working. The white sky of the after­noon opened up through the win­dow. T ­ here was a breeze blowing through it t­oward the back of the ­house. “You think you’ll finish in time?” “It’s just not ­there yet.” Kōsuke put down his pen and shifted in his chair.

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“Looks like w ­ e’re in for a hot one,” he said, oddly apprehensive as he looked up at the sky. He took the teacup that Akiko handed him. “Well, you better get back to work on your next big manuscript. Y ­ ou’ve hardly written anything since the New Year.” “I was locked up in jail, remember.” “I suppose so. But I’m inclined to think that w ­ omen just ­don’t have the stamina that we men do.” “Well, everyday life takes a bigger toll on ­women, you know.” “Yes, of course. But still . . .” Kōsuke then continued in a tone that was lighthearted but also threatening. “You better watch out, Akiko. I might just start churning out the manuscripts. And before you know it, you’ll be swallowed up by all my work. D ­ on’t fall ­behind.” “Well, that’s exactly my prob­lem. I’m trying my best to help you out as well.” “Hmm.” Kōsuke knit his brow as though deep in thought. “You know how tough it is for two writers to live ­under the same roof —­especially in a small place like this. Somebody always has to compromise. Back when the movement was still g­ oing strong, I was always out working so it was easy for you to manage.” “What do you think we should do now?” “Well . . . ​I think we might have to live separately.” It was highly irregular for Kōsuke to initiate a conversation about their prob­lems at home. Akiko smirked at him evilly through narrowed eyes. “­Isn’t it rather out of character for you to bring up this sort of ­thing?” “Not ­really,” he protested, looking over at Akiko affectionately. “I just think I’ve become something of a thorn in your side. Being the person I am, I’ve been too focused on getting done as much work as I possibly can.”

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“I think you might be right. Maybe the only solution is to live apart.” “The t­ hing is, Akiko, no one e­ lse is ­going to put her heart and soul into taking care of me. And if we do live apart, you might end up bearing an even bigger burden, which ­won’t solve anything, ­w ill it?” “It’s too bad I ­couldn’t be a better wife for you, Kōsuke. Work more as your personal assistant, I mean. I might have been quite the model wife if t­ hings w ­ ere dif­fer­ent.” Akiko fixed her gaze on Kōsuke, arrestingly, and then whispered, “Go find yourself a real h ­ ouse­w ife. That’s fine with me.” His feelings on the m ­ atter still unsettled, Kōsuke seemed both sweetly impatient and sadly hopeful in his silence. But as if to toss Akiko’s words off his lap, he abruptly stood up from his chair and walked over to the back win­dow. He stood with his hands thrust into his sash, his face staring up into the distant sky. Akiko was now transfixed by the sight of him standing t­here with his back turned t­oward her. She approached him from the side and softly wrapped her arms around him. “Something wrong?” he said, turning ­toward her with a faint smile. “No,” she replied with a shake of her head. Perhaps as a means of drawing him slowly ­toward her, she added, “It’s not that I ­don’t still care about you.” Kōsuke grinned, determined not to be caught off guard by her sweetness. “Hmm, I won­der . . . ​, ” he said in jest, the pitch of his voice rising at first, then falling. Akiko looked up at him imploringly. “I r­ eally mean it, I do.” A block away in the distance, across from the win­dows facing front, ­there ­were three or four zelcova trees stretching their limbs proudly up into the sky. Watching the leaves on the trees gradually change color had been one of the pleasures of living in

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this ­house together. The lush fo­liage was dark green now, and its vitality seemed to defy even the intensity of the summer heat. For a while Kōsuke and Akiko stood ­there in silence, staring out at the trees.

10 T­h e r e w ­ e r e s ig n s t h at s om e t h i ng might happen any day now. Indifferent to Akiko’s wishes, Kōsuke continued to head out at night. Accustomed to his attitude, Akiko began inviting friends like Masae to go out with her to the cinema. Strolling through the liveliest part of town ­after seeing a movie, Akiko always felt an intense craving for something, but she found only emptiness in the colorful surroundings. All ­things considered, she still managed to scrape together enough money to send off for the ­children’s expenses at the seashore. Without the inner reserves to delve into serious literary texts, Akiko had gone out for a stroll one night and was returning now to a dark, empty ­house as usual. Kōsuke always came home very late at night. For her own part Akiko no longer spent much time thinking about their relationship. Kishiko had once listened to Akiko share her feelings, and had responded in this way to her: “I won­der if what’s g­ oing on between you is an inescapable contradiction—­something based on the essential prob­lem that you are both working writers.” “I’ve often wondered that myself. We used to always be concerned about each other’s well-­being, and we w ­ ere both so busy, frankly speaking, that we hardly saw each other at home. I ­really think the way we live our lives now is to blame.” “It’d be an awful shame if that ­were true.”

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In contrast to the conviction of Kishiko’s words, Akiko replied with a half-­hearted chuckle. “Yes, for the both of us.” The so-­called “Age of Recantation” had engulfed society like a wave, relentlessly permeating ­people in myriad, subtle ways.3 Such was the case for Kōsuke and Akiko too. Notwithstanding their determination to resist this grim real­ity and to focus on cultivating their own strengths, the pursuit of justice now was limited to means that ­were profoundly individualistic. This led to compromises made for the sake of con­ve­n ience. While Akiko herself could sense this happening, she still allowed herself to be pulled along with the tide. The force of everyday life was terrifying. In their sleep they now inhaled the air of the times, as something essential to their core gradually changed color. They lost the ­w ill for self-­correction. They lost track, in fact, of any sense of ­these changes. Focused so narrowly on resisting something inside of themselves, they neglected to see how ­these changes took shape from within a broader real­ity. In years past, when they ­were involved in the movement, Akiko had privileged Kōsuke’s lifestyle as an activist over her own lifestyle as a writer, and she had always done her utmost to support him. Kōsuke for his part was able to steer his own passions for lit­er­a­t ure ­toward Akiko’s work since he himself had given up writing. But now they both had begun to assert themselves as writers. The difference between justice, on the one hand, and a

3

The “Age of Recantation” (tenkō jidai) refers to a moment of po­liti­cal entrenchment that followed in the wake of a brutal campaign against the Communist Party and its cultural organ­i zations. Gaining momentum in the early 1930s, the campaign, carried out largely by the Special Higher Police (toku­ betsu tōkō keisatsu), managed through a program of incarceration, torture, intimidation, and ­legal prosecution, to force social activists, many writers among them, to renounce their ties to the Communist Party and to refrain from criticizing the state. Crimson itself is seen by many as a work of “recantation lit­er­a­t ure.” The term tenkō is sometimes translated as “ideological conversion.”

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distortion of princi­ples, on the other, was becoming more and more nebulous, given the atmosphere of the times exerting its influence upon them. The pressures of everyday life are terrifying, just terrifying, Akiko kept saying to herself, all the while falling victim unwittingly to them. One night, four or five days ­later, Akiko found herself in bed with her eyes suddenly opened. The ­house was still; Kōsuke h ­ adn’t come home yet. Dear me, she thought, trying to gauge the time by listening for sounds of activity outside. It had to be quite late, since she could no longer hear cars driving on the boulevard. Maybe he’s not coming home to­n ight . . . ​ That very instant she felt something sink inside her. Glaring up at the ceiling, illuminated by the streetlight, she let her mind wander as to Kōsuke’s whereabouts. All the while hoping, subconsciously, for the faint sound of his footsteps approaching from the boulevard . . . ​Kōsuke, however, d­ idn’t return. Well, well, has something fi­nally happened? Akiko was seized by a ner­vous excitement that spread almost painfully through her chest, but t­here was also something oddly fortifying in that excitement, which brought a smile to her lips. Though it was now morning, Kōsuke still failed to return. The wide-­open ­house at long last felt empty. Plagued by the same feelings ­she’d had earlier that night, she quickly set herself to some cleaning. Akiko found it hard to believe that Kōsuke could have taken such a decisive step as to spend a night out with a ­woman. She was worried that perhaps ­there had been some sort of fight, that maybe he’d been thrown into jail. The café where the w ­ oman resembling Akiko worked had many kinds of customers, and one ­thing ­she’d heard from Kōsuke was that several of them ­were trying hard to win her over.

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Akiko thought about the kind of man who might be brought to blows on account of an infatuation. Kōsuke certainly had the kind of disposition to throw himself into a situation like that. On this point alone she worried about him, as might an older ­sister. Akiko visited a ­family friend in the neighborhood who knew of this café, and she asked him to investigate for her. What if he’d been caught up in a brawl and been taken into custody? she worried. Would his name appear in the newspaper? Such an incident involving a former left-­w ing activist would surely offer any journalist a catchy headline. As she waited for her friend to return from the café, it was not simply a m ­ atter of personal shame that worried her, it was a m ­ atter of his responsibility. “Hello?” The sound of a deep voice called out, announcing her friend’s arrival in the entry­way. Akiko jumped up to greet him. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you. Did you find out anything?” “Well, apparently, he came by the café at about ten ­o’clock last night. He left for a while, and then returned around midnight. When the place closed for the night they say he was headed back home.” The man then went on to mention that when Kōsuke left the café he was in fact with his friend Mr. A. “Oh, well, thank you so much. He must have ended up ­going home with Mr. A. But that’s quite strange, considering he lives further away than we do.” It was deci­ded, in any case, that it would be best for her to send off a tele­g ram. It was already eight ­o’clock in the eve­ning. “Even still, it’s awfully strange he h ­ asn’t come home yet.” The neighborhood post office was prob­ably closed at this hour, so her friend offered to stop by the main office, which he would be passing on his way home. Akiko went out with him. “­There’s also a place I think I’ll try telephoning.”

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Of course, as Akiko walked alongside her friend, she made no mention at all of a w ­ oman possibly being involved in the situation. She felt embarrassed all the same at having to make such a fuss over the ­matter. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He prob­ably got caught up in a heated conversation.” Kōsuke ­wasn’t at the ­house she tried telephoning. “He’s not t­ here. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to send that tele­g ram a­ fter all.” Standing beside the automatic telephone booth, she handed the man fifty sen worth of coins. “It’s so rare for him to be away like this. I’m quite worried.” “I certainly understand. Well, goodbye then.”

11 Thoug h no r e p ly c a m e t o her tele­g ram, shortly a­ fter one ­o’clock that night Akiko heard the familiar sound of Kōsuke’s footsteps coming down the alleyway, though it seemed rather softer than usual. Akiko did not get out of bed to greet him. Rare though it was for him to do so, he climbed stealthily up the staircase. Rather than enter his own room at the top of the stairwell, he made his way down the narrow corridor ­toward Akiko’s. He entered the tiny room, its floor space taken up entirely by Akiko’s futon, onto which he lay himself down softly. “Akiko. You awake?” he asked, bringing his face close up to hers. Brushing up against his cheek, she turned her head away from him. “Where have you been all this time?” “Well, sorry about that.”

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Kōsuke accepted the fact he w ­ ouldn’t be facing her. “I have to talk to you about something, Akiko. W ­ ill you hear me out?” he said, his head still resting on her bedding. The room was pitch black. Akiko felt a strange sense of anticipation now as she stared into the darkness. Her eyes narrowed maliciously at the way Kōsuke had placed his head on her futon, but she refused to turn and face him. “What do you need to talk about?” “Well,” began Kōsuke, lifting his head off the futon. “Kōsuke has found himself another w ­ oman.” Scarcely had he finished saying t­ hese words when he proceeded to take her face into his two hands and try to kiss her as a means of keeping her s­ ilent. Akiko resisted, pressing her lips firmly together and shaking her head back and forth. “What’s the m ­ atter?” he asked. “What do you mean, what’s the ­matter?” she replied forcefully. “­You’ve hardly explained yourself.” “But you d­ on’t mind, do you?” “Of course I mind. How about you start by telling me where you spent the night yesterday.” “Yesterday?” Realizing where the conversation was headed, Kōsuke turned serious. “Oh no, it’s not what you think. I stayed at Mr. A’s last night. I’d never do something like that to you.” He stood up and flipped on the electric switch. U ­ nder this bright light neither looked the other in the eye. Kōsuke then began walking ­toward his room when Akiko called ­after him. “Well, tell me what happened. Is this the w ­ oman you said looks just like me?” “Let me get out of my clothes first, would you?” Mentally exhausted from the tension of the past two days, Kōsuke was now seized by a sweet sadness. He had spoken to the ­woman in question about his troubled life at home, and when

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he insinuated a connection between his feelings for her and the hope he held out for starting a new life, the w ­ oman had apparently consented to his proposal. This boost to his confidence made him feel as though real­ity was playing out much like a dream. Kōsuke heaved a deep sigh. Akiko smiled faintly at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes twitched involuntarily. For some reason she felt a wave of affection for Kōsuke. She called out to him again from her futon. “She seems quite accommodating. Unnaturally so. She must like you very much.” “I won­der. She hardly says anything at all. But then all of a sudden she tells me that if it’s just a ­matter of renting an apartment, I should go ahead and do it.” “­Don’t tell me ­you’ve already gone that far.” Kōsuke sensed that his good nature had perhaps led him to get ahead of himself insofar as planning his new life was concerned, and he now felt blood rushing into his cheeks. “You see, Akiko, I just d­ on’t see a ­future in the kind of abstract love we have for each other. This new affair of mine feels more concrete. ­Because it’s connected to my dream of finding a new way for myself to make a living. I d­ on’t think it’s pos­si­ble for you and me to love each other anymore, without some connection to our shared work.” As he spoke, Kōsuke began to feel something invigorating, something hopeful surge inside of him. It w ­ asn’t so much that this new person in question was a w ­ oman, but that she was willing to be a partner in building this new life of his, a singular force dedicated to propelling his c­ areer forward. This much Akiko could sense for herself. The affair was inseparable from his feelings for own his ­career. Despite her own desire to become in­de­pen­dent, however, Akiko’s heart still sunk at the thought that she herself was no longer necessary. ­These feelings did ­little to curb the spiteful words she now spewed. “So basically ­you’ve fallen in love with someone ­else ­after ­r unning off in search of a more con­ve­n ient lifestyle?”

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“A more con­ve­nient lifestyle? Well, I ­wouldn’t exactly put it that way. It may be true that the affair materialized in part ­because she fulfills a basic set of preconditions that might help me reconstruct my c­ areer. But you ­can’t simply jump to the conclusion that I’ve run off in search of an easier situation. The result may be that I’m able to have the kind of lifestyle I’m looking for, but the point of departure was that I’d found a ­woman capable of living with me. Falling in love d­ oesn’t come with certain demands for a par­tic­u ­lar kind of lifestyle, Akiko. The ­simple fact of the ­matter is that I’ve fallen in love.” While Kōsuke was loath to admit that his affair had anything to do with an interest in living an easier life, Akiko was now envious of the way he seemed to treat his own feelings of love with such import. “­You’re awfully confident about it all, a­ ren’t you?” she replied coldly. “I w ­ ouldn’t say that. You have an odd way of putting ­things.” With this Kōsuke embraced Akiko around her chest. Akiko glared at him, their f­aces almost touching. “Well, just think about it, Kōsuke, instead of a wife like me, who nags at you viciously and does l­ittle but pour cold w ­ ater on all your plans for a new ­career, soon you’ll have a proper ­house­w ife sitting beside you, someone who’ll do anything and every­thing you need. I’m almost jealous . . .” “Stop putting it that way. It makes me feel rotten. As if I’m the only one who’s ­going to be happy in the end. Of course you have your own perspective on the situation, but ­couldn’t you at least consider that I also have regrets. Besides, I hope we can find an assistant for you too.” “­Don’t be preposterous, Kōsuke! How do you expect a ­woman to find a man who’ll also work as her assistant? But, ­really, it d­ oesn’t m ­ atter. It’s better that I do every­thing myself anyway. Once I’m on my own, I’ll be f­ree as a bird, and eventually I’ll be liberated.”

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She spoke defiantly, but Kōsuke was quick to cut her down. “You’ll be ‘liberated,’ w ­ ill you? And how w ­ ill you go about ­doing that?” “Why should it ­matter? And frankly, I ­don’t think it’s any of your business.” “I disagree. What­ever you do with your life, I’ll be the one eventually held responsible for it. One can never be too careful when a ­woman chooses to live alone—­who knows what sort of scandal could come out of it.” Akiko was suddenly plunged into an abyss of solitude. She could see herself, u ­ nder the dizzying weight of her work, tumbling slowly downward, the smile on her face fading away with each tumble. “How about we call the ­children back tomorrow,” she whispered, gazing out into the distance. “Call back the ­children? You must be kidding. We’ve taken the trou­ble of sending them off to the seaside—we could at least keep them t­here ­until the end of the month. We’ve worked hard to send them away a­ fter all.” “But I’m lonely, and I ­don’t want to be all by myself.” Akiko spoke softly, burying her face into his chest. “Well, I can understand how you feel. But let’s just keep the ­children ­there, at least ­until the end of the month. It’s not as though I’m insisting we separate right now, you know.” “No, I c­ an’t go on living with you any longer. ­We’ll need to split up right away. You’ll be seeing that ­woman everyday, I imagine. How can we possibly stay together?” “But . . . ​well . . . ​hear me out, Akiko.” Kōsuke seemed to be stumbling wearily for the just right words, daunted once again by the gravity of the situation. He now stared at her searchingly with a fire in his eyes. “I realize it must be hard for you to accept that I’ve found another w ­ oman. But it’s not as though I detest you. We’ve managed to get along up ­until now, so what’s wrong with staying to-

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gether for just a l­ittle longer? Besides, if I’m setting up a new ­house­hold, I’ll need to raise the funds for my move. I want to spend time with the c­hildren before that, too. Once the kids come back from the beach at the end of the month, I think we should all live together ­until mid-­September. Just a ­couple more weeks, okay?” It was clear that Kōsuke had feared the makings of a scandal, and was planning to carefully slip away. Akiko read in his thinking how ­little he truly loved their ­children. Her own words now dripped with sarcasm. “I see y­ ou’ve thought it through quite carefully.” “No, ­you’re missing my point. I’m at a total loss when it comes to the ­children, and ­really won­der what you think. I mean, if you insist, I’d be willing to take one of them.” “Never! The ­children go with me.” Akiko knew that Kōsuke would ­under no circumstances take the ­children with him, but she still shook her head forcefully, insulted at the thought of having an unknown ­woman come between her and her kids. “Well, I’ve spoken to her about the ­children, and it appears s­he’ll consent if I insist on bringing them with me, though I do think t­hey’d be better off with you. Since she’s never been married before, I think I’d also feel bad leaving the kids in her care as soon as we got married.” Akiko then tried to escape from Kōsuke’s arms, squirming violently. For the first time she felt jealousy gnawing at her breast in response to Kōsuke’s love for this other ­woman. “No. Let go of me. I said no!” said Akiko, still struggling. “Married. Is that what you said? What do you mean by that?” On this ­matter Kōsuke ­hadn’t an ounce of shame, and he laughed heartily at her question. “Well, what do you expect, Akiko? Consider her perspective.”

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“Oh, I see, I see. How could I have been so foolish to think. . . . ​Well, I’ll just have to change my ­legal status as well. And as luck would have it, you a­ ren’t even the official head of this ­house­hold, so I might as well register the c­ hildren ­under my name ­after all. You w ­ ouldn’t object to that, would you?” “Oh, come on, Akiko. T ­ here’s no need to get worked up about it. It ­w ill all work itself out in the end.” Kōsuke spoke to her with real feeling. “Anyway, let’s get back to work,” he continued. “If we ­don’t have that, we ­don’t have anything. I’m sure once ­you’re out on your own, it’ll be easy for you to start up again.” “Maybe y­ ou’re right,” she sighed. “Back to work, work, work.” The words gushed out of her. “But ­we’ll still see each other a­fter we separate, w ­ on’t we? At conferences and other places?” “Well, I hope we can meet up whenever we want to.” Kōsuke spoke suggestively, and then caressed her. Akiko’s feelings, too, made her rather flirtatious. Now that Kōsuke seemed at ease, he told her quite calmly that he had photos of the ­woman if ­she’d like to see them. “Show me,” replied Akiko. She watched him and waited with tired, vacant eyes as he went to retrieve the photos from his desk drawer. He handed her two of them. “The one of her on the boat looks just like you, d­ oesn’t it? It’s a picture of her at Ōshima, on vacation with her aunt.” “My, my, she looks like a darling girl. Just the type of person I’d be drawn to.” The other photo showed her on a h ­ orse, her chest wrapped up abundantly in a h ­ otel robe. She was bending over cautiously, as she perched herself on the first h ­ orse ­she’d prob­ably ever ridden. Her lips had opened softly into a natu­ral smile, and against the flatness of her face, her delicate but handsome nose seemed to bring all her features together very nicely. The expression on her

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face was almost glamorous, but at the same time self-­composed. Had Akiko been a man, she surely would have been smitten. With ­these new impressions of the w ­ oman racing through her mind, she felt compelled to congratulate Kōsuke with a pat on the shoulder. How much more relaxed he would be with this type of ­woman looking ­after him. She ­really seemed like the type capable of caring for him. Again Akiko felt almost envious. “But, I d­ on’t think she looks like me. My front teeth stick out and my nose ­isn’t nearly so refined.” They w ­ ere lying down, side by side, as they looked at the photo­g raphs. “Regardless, ­there’s something similar ­there. Maybe it’s just your personalities,” said Kōsuke. “In any case, this photo was not taken on a trip with her aunt. She was with a man.” “No. I remember her saying she was with her aunt.” “Well, when two ­women are off on a trip, they usually have their photo taken together, d­ on’t they? All dressed up like that, in a ­hotel robe, and smiling the way she is, my guess would be that a man is taking her picture.” “I won­der.” “Well, it ­shouldn’t ­m atter anyway. ­You’re not worried about her past, are you?” “Oh, who cares if it’s a man or a ­woman? Stop prying.” Clearly he d­ idn’t want to discuss the ­matter. “Let’s just forget about the photo. This is still our home, yours and mine. ­Isn’t it? Let’s get some sleep.” By the time they had turned off the lamps, dawn had cast a purple glow through the win­dows, and they could hear the first sounds of the neighborhood awakening. “So Kōsuke has fi­nally fallen in love. How I envy you.” Akiko wrapped her arms tightly around Kōsuke’s neck.

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12 In pa r t ­b e c au s e t h e s u n had already risen, Akiko never managed to fall asleep. Kōsuke had a deadline that day for a short manuscript he began writing just as soon as he woke up. Someone was already downstairs waiting to retrieve it. “Akiko. Would you mind reading this?” He spoke somewhat meekly, turning around to look at her. Akiko, for her part, looked rather forlorn. Silently she took it from him and read it through. “What do you think? Is it weird?” Akiko shook her head. With a boyish, melancholic look on his face, Kōsuke heaved a gentle sigh, caught up in dreams he could hardly make sense of, and a sense of dread that tore at his heart. His manuscript had set out on topic all right, but then meandered into a discussion of his current state of mind. Kōsuke had fallen in love again, and lamented the myriad contradictions that had ensued—­the more Akiko read of it, the more it hurt her. His outpouring of emotion indeed made his writing lyrical. And Akiko read it with an envy that was hard to endure. All jealousy aside, though, the thought that he would actually publish something like this was offensive. And yet, someone was waiting downstairs, this very moment, for him to finish it. Her voice cracked when she fi­nally spoke. “I ­don’t want gossip out ­there before ­we’ve made any decisions. Be careful what you say, okay?” “Of course I ­w ill. I ­won’t say anything beyond what we know for sure.” If this was Kōsuke’s idea of humility, it had the effect of making Akiko feel all the more forlorn. Which is not to say that, even for Akiko, t­here ­wasn’t a palpable sense of expectation racing through her now, at the prospect of actually realizing the kind

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of life s­he’d hoped to live for so long. The situation was playing out, in fact, exactly as it had in her dreams. ­Free from any responsibility, out ­there all on her own, she could now live her life however she wished to. In pursuing her own hopes and dreams she ­wouldn’t in the end hurt Kōsuke, and Kōsuke too would be ­free to pursue his. As Akiko gave ­f ree rein to her imagination, she settled on an image of herself walking forward, freed from all concerns. The next place s­he’d move to would be a home of her own making, where her own feelings would become fortified, where her own work would invariably proceed according to plan. I ­w ill no longer be constrained by this tedious impulse to resist, she thought, and my new life ­w ill be ­free from precisely what diminishes my innermost feelings. No longer ­w ill I feel the need to be loved by another man. Akiko’s brazen aspirations ­were unfolding, in other words, within the very same notion of a new ­house­hold, in which Kōsuke, too, had placed his own hopes for a new life. What would have to precede above all e­ lse, for Akiko, was the task of setting up a ­house­hold of her own. It was in this spirit of in­de­pen­dence that Akiko came to a decision: T ­ oday is the day I cut off my hair. Fashion hound or not, the way a w ­ oman arranges her hair conveys a subtle statement about her character. No m ­ atter how she wears it, her state of mind invariably comes through. In recent days Akiko had l­ittle interest in troubling with her hair. For a while she had cut it shorter and fastened it with ­little clips. But the girlish look was out of date now, embarrassingly so. At the same time, Akiko c­ ouldn’t bear the thought of having to wrap up her hair above the neckline—as was all the rage now—­nor did she have it in her to use a curling iron, or to style it all to one side over her ear. ­These styles ­were somehow out of keeping with the person she was. In the end she deci­ded to tie her hair discreetly into a bun. The only reason she even bothered with such a small, perfunctory knot was to blend in with the girls in the factories and the h ­ ouse­w ives in the tenements. More recently s­he’d become

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inclined to think, however, that all this fuss would hardly make a difference anymore, insofar as her relationship with factory girls was concerned. The tiny bun at the back of her head now seemed like l­ittle more than a cheap symbol of her lingering attachment to old fashioned ­things. Increasingly, she found herself repulsed by it. ­Today is the day I cut off my hair, she concluded. As though in ­doing so she might cast off the entire shell of her former self. ­A fter finishing his own work, Kōsuke had laid his beleaguered body on the edge of the living room floor, dozing off with his hands folded ­behind his head. Loath to pull herself away from him reclined beside her, Akiko gazed vacantly into the garden, and sat ­there beside him in silence. The sky was overcast, and a warm summer breeze blew the eve­n ing air. “You’ll be ­going to Shinjuku again to­n ight, w ­ on’t you?” The obliqueness of her inquiry notwithstanding, Kōsuke rolled onto his side, and only a­ fter a lengthy pause, as though the question ­hadn’t been meant for him, did he grunt in reply. “Well, in that case, I think I’ll head out with you. It’s hard for me to stay h ­ ere all alone. And I’ve been thinking of g­ oing to the hairdressers anyway. Why ­don’t we meet somewhere ­later on and come back home together?” “Sounds good to me. I’m glad to hear ­you’re ­going to the hairdressers.” “I’ve deci­ded to cut it all off.” Akiko smiled ever so slightly, and looked over at him. “What? Cut it all off?” He lifted his head in surprise, before changing his tune. “Well, I . . . ​I think that’s a swell idea, Akiko. It’ll be a refreshing change. And make you look years younger, too,” he said by way of encouragement. That night, with the sound of few snips, Akiko’s long, thick locks w ­ ere severed with a pair of silver shears. Akiko looked into the mirror at the hair collecting on her shoulders, and watched

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as the shape of her head gradually transformed. But deep inside all Akiko could think of was Kōsuke, from whom she had just parted. Never before had she set foot in one of t­hese new beauty salons. As she transposed the image of herself seated in that chair with the figure of Kōsuke she held in her mind’s eye, she did in fact look hopelessly worn down. As her instincts to resist fi­nally kicked in, she glared back contemptuously into the mirror—at this person trying to look beautiful by changing the style of her hair. Her original impulse to get a haircut had transformed into something of an altogether dif­fer­ent nature. Her hair was neatly bobbed now, looping around her ears and coming out again onto her cheeks. But the cut fell short of Akiko’s expectations. Akiko walked out of the shop heedless of the rain showers that had just begun to fall. Her bayberry-­scented locks ­were soon wet and disheveled, and she tossed them back over the top of her head. Since nobody was looking, she kept on walking, glancing at her reflection in the showcase win­dows u ­ ntil she found yet another beauty parlor a few blocks down. This new shop catered to w ­ omen in the entertainment business, and when the shop­keeper greeted her like a w ­ oman of more colorful sorts, she played the part perfectly with a spirited retort. ­A fter leaving the shop Akiko lost this cheerful demeanor, and she walked down the street looking forlorn. She was headed in the direction of a coffee shop where ­she’d arranged to meet Kōsuke, but was also on the point of cursing herself for having so utterly transformed her look with this newly coiffed do. Irritated by the long sleeves of her kimono, she gathered them up and pressed onward with a dark gleam in her eye. What came to her lips then was a far cry from anything philosophical. I’ll fight fire with fire, I ­w ill. Indeed Akiko felt as though she ­were burning up inside, having altered her appearance with this chic, “modern” getup. Once again, she repeated the very same words, this time overcome with emotion. I’ll fight fire with fire.

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13 Gi v e n t h e s tat e o f Ak i ko’s feelings, once she met with Kōsuke in Shinjuku and they proceeded to make their way home, a protracted set of negotiations ensued of a rather delicate, psychological nature. In the midst of t­hese discussions, a voice sounding like Nagami called out from the entry­way. Despite the heatedness of their conversation, Akiko’s sharp ears had managed to catch it. “I know. Let’s let Nagami-­san in on our ­little secret.” Kōsuke had friends he could turn to in order to talk about this recent turn of events. But Akiko was essentially all on her own. Bearing the brunt of the situation without support of friends had been hard on Akiko, so when she heard Nagami’s voice she responded in the hope of gaining an ally. Not only had Nagami been a literary cohort of Kōsuke’s since their early days as students, he had also been one of the few ­people to know them both from the time they had first fallen in love. Nagami, moreover, had been involved in the same circles as Kōsuke ever since he had joined the class-­conscious movement. Akiko and Kōsuke made their way downstairs. Nagami, who lived in the neighborhood, had come by to borrow a book. Given that her social skills now ­were as sharp as barbed wire, Akiko was the first to broach the subject. “So listen. The two of us are breaking up. Kōsuke has found another w ­ oman to live with.” She spoke bluntly, without looking Nagami in the eyes. “Wh . . . ​what did you say?” The news had come so suddenly that Nagami was unprepared to form an opinion on the ­matter. He’d been sitting cross-­ legged, and now rested his hands on his knees as though preparing himself to hear more. It was Kōsuke, rather than Akiko, who brought in the teapot and cups.

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“Well, the t­hing is, I’ve found another w ­ oman,” he declared. With her back now to the both of them, Akiko knelt on the floor facing the garden, biting down silently on her lower lip. Once Kōsuke began relaying the details of his new relationship, he continued at some length. “So that’s where it stands now, and at this point I’m simply waiting to start up a new ­house­hold with her. As far as I’m concerned, I am absolutely determined to do this. So, yes, I’m the one who instigated it. But the root of the prob­lem goes back to my life with Akiko. ­Here we are squeezed into this tiny ­house, with two kids and an old w ­ oman to boot, and we both have manuscripts to write. Our workload is incredible, and it’s impossible to accomplish anything ­under ­these conditions. Since Akiko is the ­woman of the ­house, I know it’s been extremely hard on her recently, and she’s even talked about living somewhere ­else. At the same time I completely understand why Akiko has reason to be upset with me now that I’ve found another w ­ oman.” When speaking to Akiko, Kōsuke had always been careful not to hurt her feelings, and he often lost much of his courage ­because of his own complicated feelings of love for her. But as he was speaking directly to Nagami now, he seemed nothing if not resolute—no doubt b­ ecause she and Kōsuke had both deci­ded to confide in him. Hearing Kōsuke go on and on, Akiko now felt herself shaking violently. “­Here, have some tea,” said Kōsuke, handing over a cup of the tea to Akiko as well. “Akiko has suffered a major blow, psychologically speaking, and I fully understand why. But this makes it hard on me as well, you see. The last t­hing I want is for Akiko to think that I somehow hate her. It might seem like something of a contradiction, but it’s true.” “Well, I’m sure you mean it,” replied Nagami. With the doors and win­dows on both sides of the ­house open, their voices seemed to travel far into the dark silence outside.

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“You know,” began Akiko, still facing the garden, and clearly holding herself back from an outpouring of emotion. “You know . . . ​I ­really think ­we’ve lived an honest life together for the past ten years—in the sense that ­we’ve both been able to grow as individual ­people. And it took both of us, of course, trying hard to accomplish this. Trying r­ eally, ­really hard. But it’s created this contradictory situation now where we c­ an’t live ­under the same roof any longer. And it’s hard for me not to get emotional when I think about it.” Akiko’s voice cracked u ­ nder the strain of t­ hese emotions. “This is the worst pos­si­ble kind of contradiction, i­sn’t it? ­Here we are two ­people, working hard to support each other so we can both grow as h ­ uman beings, and then we reach a certain stage in our lives when we seem to be chaining each other down. I feel truly helpless at this point. And I’ve never dealt with anything so terrible. The last ten years have taken an awful toll on me, you know, something most p­ eople never have to deal with . . .” Akiko had been holding back her tears, but fi­n ally she melted. She was all alone now, and longed to become that w ­ oman she had once been, that w ­ oman who had worked so tirelessly for a de­cade. Back then she had always put Kōsuke’s life first and foremost. And while fate had intervened by making her into a writer well before he himself had a chance to take up the pen, this had in fact made her into a more considerate wife. She had always kept Kōsuke ­f ree from the trivial affairs of the ­house­hold, and she had tried her very best to safeguard what she thought was pure about him—­the poetry of his innate unsuitability with the world of vulgar ­things. Now it seemed as if Kōsuke was reacting against the ways she had always been so protective of him. She could feel how this came through in the points he’d raised since yesterday. He had mentioned, for example, how adorably helpless he’d found the wife of one of his friends. He, on the contrary, depended on Akiko for so many ­things he feared he might end up carefree forever.

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Nagami tried to offer up a tentative proposal. “Well, how determined are you to follow through with this affair, Kōsuke? Can you imagine trying to patch ­things back up with Akiko?” “No, I’ve made up my mind. My feelings for this new ­woman have followed the very same trajectory, psychologically speaking, as they did when I first met Akiko. And I’m the kind of person who lets love lead me to impor­tant opportunities in life.” Oh, ­really? And just what does he make of the de­cade we suffered through together? Akiko suppressed the desire to cover her ears, only momentarily, by clenching her fingertips. “No, I agree. I’m ready to move on too. I know it was wrong of me to take my chances, and to risk throwing away the life ­we’ve built together. But I simply ­couldn’t cope with the situation any longer. And now I’ve started thinking about my own life for a change.” With her finger Akiko wiped away a tear.

14 Ak i ko wa s s o on at t h e mercy of the turbulence inside her. What a sight it was to behold ­these emotions intensifying, fast and furiously. She herself would never have foreseen it. For three full days she was practically sleepless. She had no appetite to speak of. Her body felt like rubber, and her saucer-­like eyes simply w ­ ouldn’t close. As their love-­hate relationship escalated, their interactions ­were e­ ither curt or complicating. When Kōsuke left in the eve­ ning, she ­couldn’t bear staying in the ­house alone. She even developed the habit of accompanying him to Shinjuku, indulging him in conversation along the way. Like young lovers, t­ hey’d share parting glances a­ fter turning to go their separate ways. But then,

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like a burning ember suddenly snuffed out, the passion with which ­she’d just addressed Kōsuke suddenly turned to dust. She dragged her sandals down the sidewalk. Sitting at the back of a dark, crowded movie theater, Akiko faced the screen with an expression of self-­scorn e­ tched on her face, amused that she had brought herself to see this par­tic­u­lar film once again. The movie was a Technicolor called La Cucaracha.4 The reds and blues of the color film ­were projected onto the screen with a luster that reminded her of satin. With a penetrating gaze, and a firm set of white teeth glowing in her mouth, the colored ­woman on screen sang with the intensity of a barbarian, tossing her head this way and that. Her movements seemed to soften, however, when the leading man became angry with her; her body arched backward. But then she began to shake her shoulders, and to dance with even more fury. Her movements w ­ ere power­ful enough to pull back the man, who had momentarily retreated. The scene left a strong impression on Akiko. Why on earth am I so jealous? Akiko asked herself. Was it indignation at having been humiliated, now that someone ­else had captured his affections? The alluring strength of the colored ­woman in La Cucaracha shook her. Such was Akiko’s state of mind as she began to witness the pro­g ress of Kōsuke’s affair, step by step. One day the ­woman even arranged a trip into the suburbs so she and Kōsuke might discuss the details of their new life together. “I’m ­going with you to the station,” said Akiko, looking up at Kōsuke with a hot and teary glance. She peeled off her robe and bared her shoulders in front of the mirror. Then she called Kōsuke over. Handing him a b­ ottle of lotion, she asked him to apply some of it to the nape of her neck. She stared at him in the mirror with such intensity that her gaze seemed to touch him.

4

The 1934 version of La Cucaracha was the first Technicolor movie of its time.

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With the words of a sad caress Kōsuke kissed her shoulder. Akiko’s body melted at his touch. “­You’re still willing to throw all of this away? I won­der who ­w ill get it next . . .” Like a madman Kōsuke passionately kissed her and then shook his head. “No, no,” he shouted. “I w ­ on’t give you up to anyone!” Akiko clung to his words. “Just promise me something . . . ,” she replied, breathing hotly just below his neck. “If you meet with her ­today, ­don’t do anything more than that, all right?” Akiko then pressed Kōsuke for a reply. “As long as ­we’re still living together, I ­don’t want you to, okay?” Akiko cocked her head to the side and looked up at him indulgently, on the verge of tears. But Kōsuke was more concerned about keeping his ­appointment, and it was time to go. Saying as much to her, he ­rose to his feet. “Now ­really, Kōsuke, when have you ever arrived on time?” She did have a point t­ here, and they shared a laugh over it. On the way to the station, she looked up at Kōsuke. “I hate to bring this up . . . ,” she began, having seen how excited Kōsuke looked at the prospect of the day’s events. “But I’d rather you not discuss the c­ hildren t­oday,” she continued coldly. “Well, why not?” he asked. “I d­ on’t want you, of all p­ eople, worrying about the ­children. You ­don’t worry about them now, and you never have anyway. So ­t here’s no need for you to get all high-­m inded about it.” “­Don’t bring that up again, Akiko. We’ve just made up, ­haven’t we? It’ll make it difficult for me to head out if you start pouting.” “Difficult or not, ­you’re still ­going to see her, ­aren’t you?”

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This time it was Kōsuke who turned sullen, and quickened his pace. Akiko had to catch up with him. “Well, I’m headed off to Masae’s now. This is all very hard on me, so do come home early, w ­ ill you? I’ll be waiting for you, all freshly made up.” Akiko stumbled along the street, besotted with blind passion. Once she arrived at Kawada Masae’s ­house, however, and found herself on the point of tears at a turn in the conversation, she had to steel herself in the face of her emotions. “I’ll write, I ­w ill. I’ll write about all the hardships, and all the grief that w ­ omen face. It’s the only way I can possibly save myself. Just think of all the ­women out ­there, and all their suffering! I’ll write about it all, I w ­ ill.” Akiko had turned to face the wall as she spoke. Masae, for her part, having heard only rumors of their “incident,” c­ ouldn’t find the words to reply, and simply sat ­there with Akiko in silence. Akiko’s grand­mother, Otoyo, who was still at the seashore in C Town, h ­ adn’t an inkling of what was g­ oing on between her and Kōsuke, and she continued to send Akiko letters asking when they should expect them for a visit. At a night vendor’s stand in ­ ere lacquered Shinjuku, Akiko bought a pair of toy geta. They w clogs meant for girls, though no larger than game pieces on a chessboard. Made with paulownia wood bases, they had red and gold string fastened into tiny toe straps. Indulging in memories of her own childhood, Akiko bought them as a gift to send off to Te­ tsuko. Smiling sadly, she lingered for a moment, meditating on what it meant for her to buy toys like this at a moment of such deep, personal anguish. Her thoughts grew heavier, however, when they turned ­toward what her ­future life would entail. Could she endure a life devoted to her ­children, while Kōsuke devoted himself to a new wife? For ten long years she had worked hard to make her marriage work with Kōsuke, and in the end ­those efforts had pushed him away from her. Beyond the emotional toll that this realization had already taken on her, ­these new worries

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about her f­uture made Akiko practically ­tremble with fear. She would do her very best, her very best, to go on for the sake of the ­children, but s­ he’d have to devote herself to her work as well. And how on earth could she possibly manage both at the same time? Would she eventually prioritize one over the other, and be left with l­ittle but regrets? And if she w ­ ere working hard to support her ­children financially, would that mean ­she’d risk neglecting them, and thus fail miserably as a parent? It was around this time that an incident occurred involving a former news announcer, a w ­ idow who had killed herself a­ fter raising the last of her kids. The story drove Akiko into a state of uncontrollable weeping. A certain newspaper had sent a journalist over to collect her thoughts on the incident, but she had ended up retreating to the second floor, along with the copy of the newspaper article the man had shown her. She now found herself unable to go back down again. For Akiko, this w ­ oman’s story had opened up a win­dow onto her own bleak f­uture. When ­w idows had to work for a living, as well as raise their kids, they faced difficulties widowed men simply did not share. Perhaps this came down to a w ­ oman’s lack of strength, but a flawed social system that was merciless to ­women was surely also a ­factor. Worried that the journalist waiting downstairs would overhear her, Akiko broke down, even still, into a fit of violent tears.

15 By now no t h i ng bu t e mo t ion s existed for Akiko. Only she had no means by which to give shape to them, and no place to direct them. What­ever the intensity of her feelings for Kōsuke, so strong was their collective w ­ ill to live separate lives, it h ­ adn’t crossed her mind to try to win him back again. Sadly this only intensified her attachment to him. Akiko was like a wheel spinning

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in midair, and once Kōsuke became ensnared in it, his heart, too, was shaken. Blinding themselves to their own better judgment, they slid into the depths of the senses. One day, in the midst of all this, Akiko came to think of their tumultuous private life in relation to public opinion, as though she had gazed out of a win­dow and suddenly expanded her field of vision. She knew that at some point news of their situation would spread far and wide, and that neither of them could afford to be complacent if they wished to avoid any distortions. Surely this was a m ­ atter of responsibility, which they owed to the public. Whenever they ran into ­people they knew as they walked side-­ by-­ side through Shinjuku Station, she always reacted quickly, with a ready-­made smile, in the hope that no one would recognize the indecency of their be­hav­ior. Hoping to keep buried any news of their separation, Akiko suggested to Kōsuke that they sign a calmly worded statement, something to the effect that their addresses had changed. “That sounds like a ­g reat idea.” Kōsuke spoke, however, somewhat hastily. He seemed momentarily confused by what appeared to be a gap between Akiko’s thinking and what he had always expected would happen. “­Shouldn’t we also say something about my wedding at the beginning of the statement?” he quickly added. Akiko sat silently for a while, and then looked over at Kōsuke. Given the delicate nature of her feelings, she suddenly trembled. The tone of her voice now shifted to suggest not only the feeling, “I give up,” but also something akin to a threat. “Bigamy is against the law, you know. And legally speaking you are still my husband. How can you go around publicizing your wedding?” “Well, I guess ­you’ve got a point t­ here.” “Do you know what your prob­lem is? You are so fixated on the idea of making a new life for yourself that you d­ on’t realize how hard it’s actually g­ oing to be. Y ­ ou’re not a normal person,

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Kōsuke, and you ­don’t think like one. That’s why I’ve always respected you and have been proud of the life w ­ e’ve built together. But now what you want is just a normal ­house­w ife. And that is a true sign of your defeat.” “No, ­you’re wrong. I’m sure ­there are plenty of men out ­there nowadays who just want a normal h ­ ouse­w ife. And for you to say something like that to me now, well, it’s just plain low of you, that’s what it is. You should be the first one to admit that living together makes it impossible for us to get our work done. Well, I want to get my work done. So it’s all a bit more complicated than you make it out to be.” “Wait, are you saying ­there ­were no benefits, from your perspective, to having a w ­ oman who w ­ asn’t a normal h ­ ouse­w ife? I’m not talking about the fact that I brought in income . . . ​Surely you must have been grateful that I was around for the sake of your work, as well. I’m certainly glad that you ­were ­there for me. Right now all you can think about is how this new arrangement is g­ oing to be more con­ve­n ient for you, but let me remind you that ­we’ve both witnessed more than a few cases where so-­called normal ­house­w ives w ­ ere far from ideal. All I can say is, once you move in with this new w ­ oman of yours, you better make sure she d­ oesn’t start wrapping you around her fin­ger. You ­can’t ever have ­children with this w ­ oman. And you ­can’t possibly entertain the thought that ­she’ll ever write anything for you. W ­ e’re in the mess ­we’re in ­today ­because of the pressures of our work, so you’d better make sure to train this new wife of yours very carefully. Just think about it—­when did I ever once ask you to hold the ­children for me? I’m sure that’s why you ­couldn’t care less about what the ­children are ­going to face a­ fter we are separated. . . . ​That is the sort of freedom I’ve offered you over the past ten years. But mark my word, Kōsuke, you have another baby with this new wife of yours and ­she’ll make you hold it. S­ he’ll be a normal ­house­w ife ­after all.” Consumed by her passion, Akiko lost all sense of her self as she ranted on and on about him. Halfway through, her words became malicious, and she began imitating the w ­ oman’s voice.

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“Oh, I can just see it now: ‘Oh, Papa, it’s your turn to hold baby now,’ s­he’ll say, dropping the child into your lap. Now I’m sure you’ll be a goodhearted man and work as hard as you can to support a wife like that. But just make sure this new life of yours ­doesn’t pave a path to your demise.” Kōsuke had been visibly displeased as he listened to Akiko, but fi­nally he snapped, unable to put up with it any longer. “Oh, stop it. For crying out loud,” he shouted. “­Don’t take me for a fool. Use that brain of yours for a damn minute, and think about what ­you’re actually saying to me.” “Well, y­ ou’re the one who wants to be rid of me, and run off somewhere ­else, ­aren’t you?” “I’ve had enough of this. Go head and buy yourself another book to keep you com­pany if you get ‘lonely’ from ­here on in.” Akiko felt her face turn bright red with humiliation. “You better believe I w ­ ill. The fact that I buy books may grate on your nerves, but let me tell you something, Kōsuke, I’ve grown into the person I am t­ oday all on my own, precisely b­ ecause I’ve had books to teach me. I ­don’t just collect them like you do, as though it w ­ ere some sort of hobby!” “Hobby, is that right? In fact every­thing I do is all about having fun, while y­ ou’re the one who suffers. Well, I’m done. It’s over between the two of us.” “You know full well that I’ve never once said that about you.” “No, ­you’re right. You just kept it bottled up inside.” “Oh, Kōsuke, how can you say such a ­thing? It’s too cruel.” They both said ­things to each other that ­were far more hurtful than necessary, and physically they even struck out at each other. But afterward, feeling remorse, when her love for Kōsuke again welled up inside her, Akiko became an entirely dif­fer­ent person, melting softly into tears. ­Later that day Masae dropped by, carry­ing a large cloth bundle. She had just seen Kishiko during visiting hours at the po-

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lice station. Peeking through the seams of the parcel was one of Kishiko’s summer kimono, a delicately patterned one made of cotton crepe, which Akiko had seen Kishiko wear several times before. The filthy robe was a graphic reminder of how physically unpleasant Kishiko’s daily existence must have been. “Did you get a chance to talk?” asked Akiko, smiling through her tears. “Well, we did, but only briefly.” Masae being a gentle soul, she shifted somewhat to the side as though it w ­ ere difficult to breach the subject. But then she told Akiko how she had informed Kishiko of her separation just as Akiko had requested. “How did she take it?” “When I told her that Kōsuke had found another ­woman, she said, ‘What a fool that man is, what a fool!’ I could see tears welling up in her eyes.” Holding back the urge to let out a faint groan, Akiko listened, determined all the while not to shed tears herself. Kishiko had also asked about the financial details ­they’d worked out as well. It was so like Kishiko to bring up such practical concerns. Masae furtively glanced around the unkempt ­house and asked, “Well, where is Kōsuke?” “He’s upstairs, sleeping. He d­ idn’t come home ­until early morning.” “I see,” nodded Masae, hesitating in her own way to say what she felt ­couldn’t be left unsaid. “It’ll be hard for me to look him in the eye ­after all he’s put you through. It’s so deplorable, and so selfish for him to go through with this.” “Well, that’s b­ ecause ­you’re a ­woman, ­isn’t it? I think men are more likely to sympathize with Kōsuke. ‘How could anyone bear having a wife with a ­career?’—­I remember years back hearing the men say t­ hings just like that, you know.” “But back then it was an entirely dif­fer­ent . . .”

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“Yes, that’s what I mean . . . ​I know it’s wrong of me to think like this, but emotionally speaking it gets me irritated at all men, in general.” Akiko grew pale, and smirked as though filled with self-­scorn. “Well, make sure you take good care of yourself, Akiko.” With this, Masae fi­nally took her leave. But shortly thereafter Akiko heard her voice calling out again in the entry­way. By the time Akiko had come downstairs, Masae was already gone. In the doorway she found a paper bag with a carton of eggs inside. She must have bought them at the local grocers.

16 On e m ig h t h av e t houg h t Kō s u k e would be on the point of collapse, given the intensity and extraordinary effort with which he had thrown himself into his work. Akiko had been acting like a madwoman, and ­after leaving her to fall asleep in bed, he would finish his work at nighttime. Kōsuke too was struggling over how best to approach his work. He d­ idn’t need Akiko to inform him of the negative feelings in the air, for he sensed them well enough himself. ­There was ­little he could do but brush them aside by concentrating on his manuscripts. It was now late morning, and Akiko awoke from the short nap she was accustomed to taking. Given the season, it had continued to rain all morning long, but ­today Akiko caught a faint glimpse of sunlight, and she heard the voices of the neighborhood ­children playing outside. The morning commotion pulled her back into the realities of everyday life, which paid l­ ittle heed to Akiko’s feelings. A morning just like any other! she thought to herself momentarily, before she suddenly felt her chest collapse, and sank back

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into the darkness. She wrapped her arms around her chest and lifted herself out of bed. Through the back win­dow she caught sight of the ­g iant zelcova trees. The familiar sight of the trees seemed to shake her out of her pres­ent state of mind with an intensity that bore straight into her. “A morning just like any other,” she said to herself again, breaking down into childlike tears, and looking around the room restlessly. “Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed.” “What’s the ­matter?” asked Kōsuke, dropping his pen and coming over to stand beside her. “­You’re just tired, Akiko. Just calm yourself down and get a bit more sleep, ­w ill you?” “No, no, no,” Akiko brushed away Kōsuke’s hand, her eyes wandering around the room with an unsteady gaze. “Oh, what am I supposed to do? I’m finished. I c­ an’t bear it any longer. I can tell something horrible is ­going to happen. My ­children, oh my dear c­ hildren, come to Mommy. Come and give Mommy a hug.” My ­children, my ­children—­the words continued to escape her lips as she now paced back and forth atop her bed like a madwoman. “I’ve never felt so lonely before, never so lonely. What should I do? I won­der. All that hard work to get where I am t­ oday, but what use is it all now? What a fool I’ve been, what a fool!” Akiko was knocked down by a sense of grief she ­couldn’t contain. It was impossible for her to stay still. She kept rambling on and on, pushing Kōsuke’s arms away. She jumped up and down on the bedding. “What’s wrong with you? C ­ an’t you see I have work to get done?” When Kōsuke had found himself unable to help her, the angry words he let cross his lips now sunk deeply into Akiko’s heart. Oh, so now Kōsuke’s working, is he? He’s fallen in love with a ­woman and feels responsible for his new ­family now? And that’s why he’s working so hard? Well, why has he never shown me this

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kind of love before? I­sn’t it what I’ve always wanted? But oh no, Kōsuke has never worked so hard as this before. So if I’m to blame ­because of the kind of wife I was, then ­there was already a contradiction in the love we felt for each other. Oblivious to the old-­fashioned nature of t­hese feelings, Akiko tossed around terms incoherently in a manner completely unlike her. Ten long years they had strug­g led together, and now Kōsuke wanted to sneak off with every­thing ­they’d achieved? To set up h ­ ouse with another w ­ oman? What wrong have I done to deserve this kind of retribution? “That’s enough, Akiko. Now, stop it this instant! And get the hell out of this room if y­ ou’re ­going to keep me from ­doing my work.” Akiko’s sadness and confusion had made her lose exactly what made her Akiko. And with his high-­handed blow, Kōsuke attempted to pull her back from the abyss into which she was disappearing. He was drawing Akiko back by compelling her to resist his anger. But Akiko struck the miserable figure of someone utterly defeated, as she slowly made her way down the staircase, one step at a time, with all the pathos of a scolded child. “I just want to die. I just want to die,” she kept saying as she made her way downstairs, and fi­n ally crouched down in a dusty corner of the unkempt tatami-­m at room. The sound of Akiko’s incessant sobbing drifted darkly to the second floor. Kōsuke was suddenly seized by fear and rushed down the staircase. Akiko had rolled herself into a ball, like a used rag, and was pressed up against the wall, sobbing. The sight of her came as a ­g reat shock to Kōsuke. Now quite shaken himself, he tried to pick her up in order to carry her to the second floor. But Akiko pushed him away and fled to the opposite corner of the room. Exhausted and on the verge of tears himself, Kōsuke followed Akiko, only for her to flee to the next room over, where she pressed herself against the wall in the shadow of a cupboard.

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“What in god’s name are you ­doing, Akiko? I’m trying to get my work done. ­Can’t you just stop this?” Kōsuke was tired and out of breath, and ended up shouting at her once again. As her sobbing mounted, Akiko tried to contain her cries in the sleeve of her kimono, ­until she suddenly slid open the papered door and buried herself in the closet ­behind it. The c­ hildren’s bedding had been removed, leaving it empty but for its frayed rush flooring. Akiko could hear the sound of Kōsuke’s footsteps as he left her ­behind and headed to the second floor. Her uncontrollable sobs echoed inside the dusty closet. She felt as though Kōsuke had just slapped her across the face, in spite of all that ­she’d ever tried to do for him, and now her tears kept flowing and flowing. She was beyond even trying to control them. How she pitied herself now, pitied herself for being so foolishly honest. Perhaps t­ here was a time when hubris had gotten the better of her, but did she r­ eally deserve all this as retribution? For what reason had she ever wanted to grow in the first place? she wondered, as though the entirety of her life had suddenly been rendered utterly worthless. Could she have simply lost the stamina to go on living? The very faith by which she had once lived her life now seemed ripped out of her. And all she could see before her eyes was how Kōsuke’s love had gone somewhere ­else. But how could a momentary display of hubris, she protested, lead to such a horrible reprisal? A heavy sense of regret then beat down upon her as if she had r­ eally invited it all onto herself. What a pathetic fool I have been! thought Akiko. And what point is t­here in whimpering my life away? In the end w ­ ouldn’t it just be easier to call it quits while still seized by the madness of the moment? Akiko emerged from the closet in a wretched state of mind, and picked up a pencil to write out a last testament for her ­children. Her sense of conviction had risen to the occasion. Even as she began composing the letter, however, Akiko found herself surprised by the way her violent sobbing persisted—as though she ­were a ­little girl who c­ ouldn’t stop whimpering. Meanwhile, what she had

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set out to write as a letter to her c­ hildren had transformed into something addressed to no one in par­tic­u ­lar. When I look back on the life I have lived, I must begin by saying that . . . ​spiritually speaking I have always been blessed by the love of ­those around me, and that it is for this very reason I’ve managed to live so comfortably up ­until now. The hubris I have displayed in recent weeks stems from this place of comfort. I am simply receiving a dose of my own medicine. I understand this now. But when I think about how I’ve spent my entire life helping o ­ thers, it’s hard to blame myself for my selfishness, for wanting to live a life helping myself now. I know it w ­ ill be my downfall. It means erasing every­thing I have ever achieved in life up u ­ ntil now. With the scant remnants of reason I still have inside of me I call myself a fool, an utter fool. Even still, t­ here is something to relish in seeing reason get the better of me. Perhaps my death w ­ ill indeed be a betrayal of the masses. But please try to find some humor in my inability, even now, to escape the pettiness of a w ­ oman’s mind. Oh, my c­ hildren, my ­children! Forgive me, my darlings. How could I ever have believed that I was a good m ­ other? Please forgive your ­mother for casting a shadow over your lives. My death is ­little more than the impulsive act of an urban ­house­w ife. Kōichi, Tetsuko, please forgive me.

Sobbing even harder at the thought of her dear c­ hildren, Akiko finished scribbling ­these delirious words. She then wrote a separate letter to Kishiko that was hardly less self-­indulgent: “What a fool, what a fool!, you’ll prob­ably say angrily. But you’ll cry for me too, Kishiko, ­won’t you?”

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Akiko placed the letters on top of the cupboard, then carefully lined up a floor cushion between two floorboards in the kitchen. Kneeling down on the cushion, she attached her mouth to the gas spigot—­the foolish figure of an impulsive, urban ­house­w ife, just as she had described in her letter.

17 Sh e wou l d a l s o c ro s s ou t the ­children’s names from his ­family registry, she said to herself. With the cold intensity of an interloper, she also considered breaching the subject of abandoning his surname as an author as well. But this was ­little more than a sign of Akiko’s despair, the intensity of which had led her to lose herself just the other day. Nor was Kōsuke, emotionally speaking, any more capable of understanding, himself, how they might work out all their issues. He seemed e­ ager to remind himself that t­ hings would naturally take their course, yes, naturally. “So what I’m saying is that all you have to do is send me a tele­g ram if you r­ eally need me. That way you can tell me anything I need to know about the ­children. W ­ ouldn’t that be easiest?” ­These ­were the terms in which Kōsuke began to talk about how their relationship might look once they ­were separated. “And you’ll come over right away if I do?” Wrapped in his arms, Akiko looked up at Kōsuke, her eyes sparkling darkly. “Sure, I’ll come right over.” Kōsuke replied with a faint smile, and Akiko seemed to take his words to heart. But she told him that she d­ idn’t want to be the only one initiating his visits. They should decide on a day when he would come over no m ­ atter what, and make a promise

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that it would always happen, she added, her breath now deepening. Seized by the plaintive ardor in Akiko’s voice, Kōsuke consented. As though to confirm his affirmative response she added, “Do you r­ eally? You ­don’t think ­she’d find it unfair?” “Well, I c­ an’t speak for her, of course.” Kōsuke anxiously looked away from Akiko with a vacant gaze. Akiko had spoken impulsively, and she realized now that she was unsure, herself, if the words she had just uttered reflected her true feelings. Perhaps her wish to maintain a connection with Kōsuke, she wondered, did not mean that she was still deeply in love with him, but rather suggested something much more vulgar, an escape from life’s hardships via the pursuit of romantic desire. Akiko did her best to bury this thought, however, and looked up at Kōsuke again, with misty eyes. “I could make sure that one day a week is set aside for just you and me,” she said. Then quickly she added, “But ­you’ve already made up your mind to forget all about me, and to go live with her, ­haven’t you? Is that the way you still feel? Even if you do promise to visit me, ­after all, you’ll still end up ­going back home to her, am I right? In that case, maybe it would be best not to prolong all this suffering, and to cut off all contact from each other completely. I’m the one who’ll end up getting hurt, remember, not you.” “What makes you think you’ll be the only one with regrets? You make it sound as though I’m perfectly content to have found someone e­ lse. I can even understand why you might feel that way, but as of right now it’s not as though my feelings for you have dis­appeared, have they?” “That’s ­because men are always attracted to ­women who are blindly in love with them.” “Oh, enough of that, okay?” Though she was turned away from him, Kōsuke clung to her tightly.

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“All you ever talk about ­these days is how I’m about to move out. But why c­ an’t you possibly entertain the idea that I might just end up moving back in. That’s what I think is so rotten of you.” “But the ­whole idea ­behind this new lifestyle of yours is that it’ll be more con­ve­n ient in an everyday sort of way. That’s why y­ ou’re moving, ­isn’t it?” Their conversation had carried itself to the place where it always landed. “Well, it’s true that I might move out for good. You’ll just have to accept that. All I can say is that w ­ e’re ­going to wait and see how t­ hings take their course.” “Easy for you to say.” “Be reasonable, Akiko. I know it ­won’t be easy when we split up. But like I said, perhaps you’ll change your mind, in the meantime, and I w ­ on’t end up ­going anywhere.” “Change my mind? What’s that supposed to mean?” said Akiko, coating her accusation with a chuckle. Kōsuke at first seemed a bit flustered, but then quite intentionally twisted his mouth into a dev­ilish smile. “That’s right. Change your mind.” “The burden is on me now, is it?” “I guess so. Call me selfish.” But Kōsuke was weary of this tête-­à-­tête, and hoping to put an end to it all added, “Let’s not fight ­today, all right? I have to finish this manuscript by the end of the day.” He turned back to the work in front of him, looking worried. “Well, I suppose ­you’re right. If you ­don’t finish this soon, Iw ­ on’t be able to go see the c­ hildren. How about I help you with your work ­today?” In exchange could she ask him one ­favor? she added, hesitantly. “All I ask is for one night, Kōsuke. But please promise me you ­won’t go off to Shinjuku?”

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Kōsuke looked up and then laughed heartily, knowing that he c­ ouldn’t refuse. As though she w ­ ere on the point of springing into his arms from the corner where she sat, Akiko felt drawn by his vigorous laughter, and she repeated her request, this time in a coddling, almost pushy sort of way. By now it was nearly noon, and the skies ­were, as usual, overcast. Akiko fi­nally got up out of bed, where she left the defeated Kōsuke, from whom she had fi­nally managed to extract her promise. With her coin purse in hand she left the ­house to go shopping for dinner, heading off t­oward the market, where she could hear the tofu peddler blowing his horn. Without thinking of the need to be practical, and purely of a mind to do something nice for Kōsuke, Akiko wandered from shop to shop, buying a variety of ­things from the fishmonger and the greengrocer. ­After sweeping out the main room on the ground floor, Akiko set out his dinner tray at the edge of the room. The grilled mackerel with teriyaki sauce had been garnished with a glisteningly pink piece of new ginger, with the tip of its freshly sliced stalk exposed. The sashimi, which she had generously sliced into thick squares, was served with a white puree of mountain potato. And to the soup she had added small chunks of silver whiting. ­A fter sprinkling crushed nori onto the cooked greens, and arranging all the dishes just so, however, she felt, for some reason, a sadness run through her. As though to dispel the feeling, Akiko dashed up the stairs to the second floor. “Kōsuke, wake up. I’ve just made dinner for you,” she said, tugging on his arm. Kōsuke drew in his breath deeply, with the satisfaction of someone relying on a w ­ oman’s kindness. “You did?” he asked, getting up out of bed almost gleefully, and throwing on his clothes as might a child. His happiness was so heartfelt that Akiko was almost touched by what she took to be a naïve masculinity. On the verge of tears, she turned away from him. “This is so pathetic, so pathetic,” she said u ­ nder her breath, as though forcing out words addressed as much to herself as they ­were to him.

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Akiko sat beside Kōsuke’s desk half the night, clipping out articles from newspapers, bringing him midnight snacks, and discussing his manuscript with him. Kōsuke was clearly delighted, and occasionally noted out of concern for her how tired she must be. “Oh, I’ve hardly lifted a fin­ger,” replied Akiko, in order to put his mind at ease. Her smile, however, betrayed a deeper sadness within. The two of them had no ­f uture together, and she was now resigned to that inevitability. Now, more than ever, it would be impossible for her give up her own work. She could hardly fathom the thought of living harmoniously with him again. What Kōsuke had earlier said about her only having to “change her mind” was l­ittle more, from her perspective, than a final farewell. Once the meager remuneration for Kōsuke’s work was delivered, Akiko deci­ded it would be best to see the ­children as soon as pos­si­ble. So long as they lived together, at any rate, it ­didn’t look as though she would be able to get any work done herself. But she i­magined she might if she went to stay with the c­ hildren. It was just before the Obon holiday, according to the lunar calendar, and s­he’d been worried about coming up with something for Yasuyo, who had wanted to send off gifts to her parents in the countryside. Not only had Akiko yet to pay Yasuyo her wages, she still had to buy her a kimono for the holiday season, which she had been pressed by Kōsuke’s younger s­ ister to provide her—­ the w ­ oman in the countryside, that is, who had arranged for Yasuyo to come work for them. Besides ­these miscellaneous ­m atters to which she had to attend, Akiko also worried about providing for Otoyo and the ­children. Kōsuke, for his part, seemed to show a willful disregard for t­hese sorts of domestic concerns that preoccupied Akiko. And in the spirit of re­sis­tance, Akiko, too, tried to do as l­ittle as pos­si­ble to get by. In the end, however, it was she who was left to take care of every­thing. It was a dreary day of torrential rain the morning Akiko was to leave to visit the ­children. She felt depressed, departing all by herself in the pouring rain, and perhaps for this reason, too, a bit cranky.

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“Why on earth has it been raining so heavi­ly? It’s been like this almost all summer.” Her body overcome with an unshakable melancholy, Akiko muttered ­these words while looking up vacantly at the dark, low-­hanging sky. With the wind blowing, she heard now and then the pattering sound of falling rain. As she got up all alone out of bed and began preparing for her trip, it was this sound of the rain that sent chills through her body. Shivering, shaking, even sighing out loud, she started to nag ­after Kōsuke with biting words. But Kōsuke kept his head buried beneath the duvet, pretending to be too tired to move. He could hear her perfectly well, however, and he worried that seeing the ­children might even exacerbate her loneliness. Then again, perhaps spending time with them would cheer her up a bit, and give her something ­else to live for—in which case he himself ­wouldn’t have to put up with all of her grumbling. Akiko thought it heartless of him to have said so much to her. Irritated though it made her, she still made up her mind to set off t­oday. The ­children ­were waiting for her. Otoyo was out of money, and left all alone in an unfamiliar place. No doubt Yasuyo, too, was worried about the holiday gifts she was supposed to send off for Obon. It was t­ hese concerns that hurried Akiko along. At this late date it was no longer pos­si­ble to put off ­these m ­ atters, no longer pos­si­ble to ignore them. If this made her angry with Kōsuke, it also made her own miserable position seem positively wretched. Akiko announced that she would fi­nally be leaving and went downstairs, but as soon as she made it to the entry hall she turned back to the kitchen, and then moved into the waiting room, wandering back and forth as though she had too many ­things to do. Not a sound came from the second floor. Her heart fluttering wildly, Akiko then dashed up to the second floor. A ­ fter a while she slowly made her way back downstairs, one step at a time. In the entry hall she sat down quietly on the step for a while, but then she turned around, ran back up the steps, and cursed at Kōsuke shrilly. Un­perturbed, Kōsuke calmly tried to soothe her.

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At long last Akiko opened the front door and stepped outside. She could hear the cold, fine rain pattering on her umbrella. She walked down the street mechanically, making her way from the side street onto the main ave­nue. ­There ­were few pedestrians on the asphalted thoroughfare, now wet with rain, and the automobiles seemed to glide along its surface. The sounds they made blended in with that of the falling rain as the cars raced along the street. Akiko had made her way to the street corner, when she stopped and lingered for a while, holding up her umbrella. A sadness welled up in her breast as the cold rain sent chills down her spine. Kōsuke had never been the kind of person to leave home with a shadow cast over his own heart. T ­ here was, ­a fter all, no reason for him to feel this way now. Akiko knew that their quarrel that morning might well have been nothing but a ruse for Kōsuke, and she burned with indignation at the thought of it. Spurred on by the anger inside of her, she spun around and quickly made her way back home. Leaving her parcel in the entry­way, she bounded up the staircase, short of breath. Kōsuke tried using his duvet as a shield to protect himself from Akiko’s desperate blows. ­Later that day both Kōsuke and Akiko headed out to Shinjuku along with two of his friends, who had stopped by that after­noon for a visit. Akiko was to buy some gifts for Yasuyo ­there and planned to depart from t­here to the seaside. Perhaps ­because both of Kōsuke’s friends ­were well acquainted with Kōsuke’s new girlfriend, Akiko spoke in a particularly high tone of voice and asserted herself much more than usual. Kōsuke, for his part, was in urgent need of a certain book in order to complete his next manuscript. He told them that he was headed out to find it. A ­ fter the four of them dined together, Akiko went off on her own. She exchanged ­little more than a parting glance with Kōsuke as she announced that she was now off. In order to finish her shopping, she made her way into a department store. ­A fter some time, she emerged once again, embracing a parcel piled high with gifts, all carefully tied together with a large piece of cloth. T ­ here was a light rain falling. Perhaps b­ ecause of

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the rain, it seemed closer to eve­n ing than it actually was, and the streets of Shinjuku seemed particularly busy with p­ eople pushing their way through the crowds. It had been necessary for Akiko to make very careful purchases, and t­here was now a very distant look on her face. It was just then that she noticed Kōsuke and another friend of his across the road at the entranceway of the movie theater; they ­were looking over at her and smiling. Just beneath the showcase win­dow with a poster of the feature film, the two of them had been sitting on a metal railing, holding on with both hands and dangling their feet below. Akiko’s kneejerk reaction was to break out into a smile as well. But she was dressed rather oddly, in a purple summer kimono made in a cotton-­flax blend, and with long sleeves dangling from her arms. She was also holding a large black umbrella dripping in the rain. She had her arms wrapped around a bundle so high that it reached her chin, and she was plodding down the sidewalk in wooden clogs. Suddenly Akiko realized what a sight she must have seemed, and she was filled with feelings of hatred and shame. Her feet stopped moving. And ­there was Kōsuke, blending in with the crowd without a care in the world, pretending as if he had nothing to do with her, but checking her out like some playboy out on the town. As she took it all in, her blood ran cold. That’s it! That’s precisely what I hate about him, she muttered almost unconsciously, as though she ­were speaking from her heart for the first time. Akiko straightened her shoulders defensively, started walking straight ahead of her, and raised a single hand to bid them farewell. This too, however, looked like a strange mimicking of something from a Western movie. Even Kōsuke himself seemed to see this in Akiko’s gesture, turning once again to say something to his friend. It was the same moment that Akiko had herself become self-­conscious of her appearance, and she could feel her face burning with humiliation as she ­imagined what Kōsuke had whispered to his friend. With both arms wrapped around her heavy parcel, she plodded along the Shinjuku platform in her high, wooden clogs, feeling herself a misanthrope through and through.

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18 Th roug h t h e w i n ­d ow o f t h e train she could see the sky above the workers’ district in Jōtō, hazy in the light rain as darkness fi­nally settled in. Akiko recalled the days she had spent ­there last spring quite vividly. It had only been six months ago that she had lived t­here, but how very far away it seemed now. She shuddered momentarily at the thought of it. Still no decision had been made in the case involving Kishiko, which meant that her friend had been locked up for four months to date. It was not certain, legally speaking, what would happen to Akiko herself e­ ither, but she had barely been affected by the uncertainty. She had once written in a notebook that writers w ­ ere far more sensitive than most ­people to the workings of real­ity, but she ­hadn’t realized how spot on her observation had been. It was perhaps 6:00 p.m. when she arrived at the sandswept station on the seashore in C Town. The main street was lined with candy shops and local B&Bs, advertising their ser­v ices with the same red-­and-­g reen-­colored placards one found at cheap county fairs. Dripping wet in the rain, the rattling billboard made the buildings look abandoned. Akiko recalled a letter that Kōichi had once written to her in ­simple characters—no doubt with help from Yasuyo—­about how ­they’d come almost ­every day to the station with grandma to see if mommy and d­ addy had come to visit them on the train. With this in mind, she hastened her gait as she set out on the sandy road, strewn with pebbles, to the rooms t­ hey’d been renting. Ah, that soft, squeaky voice she could now hear surely belonged to Tetsuko. Akiko turned the corner around a fence lined with sunflowers past their peak, and when she peered through the win­dows into the ­house in front of her, she caught sight of her ­family sitting down to dinner. Just as soon as she had pushed aside the wooden door, all four of them, Yasuyo included, instantly turned to the door with a start. Each of them mumbled something

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dif­fer­ent as they r­ ose before their dinner trays with a clatter, and rushed over to greet her. With l­ ittle thought of t­ hose around him, Kōichi spoke in a voice that stood out among the o ­ thers. Not to be outdone by her b­ rother, Tetsuko practically threw herself into Akiko’s arms with a face that appeared to be on the verge of a meltdown. The ever-­so-­slender Otoyo, for her part, began to walk circles around Akiko as though she w ­ ere swimming in ­water. As the ­others asked about Kōsuke, Tetsuko brought her tiny hands up to her m ­ other’s face and stared into her ­eyes. “Tet-­chan no ‘fraid of ocean. But she no like crab,” she said, explaining to her m ­ other as quickly as pos­si­ble what ­she’d been ­doing, and leaving Akiko nowhere ­else to ­settle her gaze but on her face. How much the dear child resembled Kōsuke! A ­ fter two weeks away, Tetsuko’s small, round eyes staring up at her relentlessly reminded her so much of Kōsuke’s. In his masculine way Kōichi offered up his own objections, with equal mea­sure. “Why d­ idn’t you and D ­ addy come to visit us? ­Were you having a hard time finishing your work?” “Yes, we ­were,” Akiko smiled darkly. But soon she began responding to her ­children by nodding in a more motherly fashion. “How about we all take a walk to the beach? Maybe ­after dinner?” It was just then that Akiko realized how much ­she’d been looking forward to spending time with her kids, and she felt overcome by a wave of pathos for both herself and her c­ hildren. “Lucky for us the rain has stopped,” said Otoyo, clapping her hands. And so, during the brief interlude between showers, the two ­women, the two c­ hildren, and the old lady, as well, walked in a group of five ­toward the beach in the twilight. The main streets, too, lined with boarding h ­ ouses and barbershops, w ­ ere quiet perhaps on account of the rain, and they hardly reminded one of a summer resort. As they all made their way through town, and then down the sandy pathway to the right, Kōichi told every­ one about the turkey that lived near the well of the seashell store

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on the corner, the one with the reed screens hanging out in front. The turkey made funny sounds whenever someone passed by during the daytime. Muscling her way into the conversation, ­little Tetsuko repeated what her elder ­brother Kōichi had already said, using words of her own to vie for her ­mother’s attention. Both ocean and sky seemed to melt into the same dark colors that extended far and wide out into the horizon. The wide, shallow seabed opened out into a long, expansive beach at low tide, so while ­water crept up to the edge of the road, no waves could be heard crashing on the shore, and only the raw scent of the sea was strong on the nose. Large “ocean bungalows” stood out over the open ­water, their long legs lapped by the tide down below, decorated with l­ittle more than dim neon lights hanging from rooftops done in the ancient style. Even the makeshift bars, for that ­matter, set up with planks and reed screens along the beach, wore nothing but tiny bulbs, illuminating the prices of their drinks. All of this lent a barren, melancholic feeling to a seascape already quite ­bleak. Clip-­clopping their way down a long, narrow pier in wooden clogs, Akiko and the o ­ thers crossed over to one of the ocean bungalows. Beneath the lonely glow of a solitary bulb, the building looked like an abandoned shack eerily laid to waste; they could hear the sound of lapping waves far beneath the plank floor. From t­ here they could see the tiny, bean-­like lights of fishing boats, floating over the waves, h ­ ere and t­here, out at sea. The ocean seemed to pull Akiko into its gloomy abyss. A ­silent, mist-­like rain, almost invisible to the naked eye, began to fall across the ocean. Afraid that the narrow, wet pier might be slippery, Akiko took Tetsuko from Yasuyo’s back and lifted her onto her own. As Kōichi and the old ­woman walked out ahead of the o ­ thers, they peered ­behind them with concern. Only in the glow of the bare electric bulbs, hanging over the pier, could the fine streaks of falling rain be seen. As she walked ahead wearing glasses fogged up in the rain, Akiko could feel Tetsuko’s warm body pressed up, damply, against her back.

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That night, within the narrow confines of the shared mosquito net, the c­ hildren fell asleep perfectly content, having l­ittle reason to notice their ­mother’s reticence. T ­ here was even a sense of relief in the distant look on Otoyo’s sleeping face, now that s­ he’d been freed, if temporarily, from her duties. The el­derly c­ ouple who owned the ­house had been whispering quietly to each other in the next room over, but they too had fallen s­ ilent. Only a single lamp in the corner of the room, draped with a piece of cloth, now cast its dim light into the mosquito net. The two ­children and the el­derly w ­ oman tossed and turned in their sleep. Curled up tight into a corner of the crowded net, Yasuyo, too, slept soundly, the sound of her breath mingling with that of the ­others. As if to escape from the suffocating air, Akiko turned to face outside and exhaled deeply. From now on she would focus on the ­children, she whispered. The ­children would indeed have a childhood. And only once ­she’d sent them out into the world would she find some way of reinventing herself . . . ​ The next day Akiko took out her pen and pad of paper. In order to earn a bit of money, she was determined to write her next manuscript quickly, right ­there in that very room. Her pen started off, however, addressing a note to Kōsuke. “Tetsuko’s eyes look exactly like yours,” she managed to write, but she was unable to sustain the feeling, and hastily scribbled down only a few more lines: I’ve lost most of my appetite and c­ an’t manage to eat even a small bowl of rice. Last night we walked across the pier along the coastline in a smoke-­like rain. From inside the mosquito net I could hear the ­little ones breathing and saw how soundly the old lady slept now that I’m ­here. The sight of it all gave me the chills. ­ fter writing this, Akiko did not forget to ask Kōsuke a ­favor, one A related to her next manuscript. In the empty space remaining

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she added in tiny script: “I also forgot my rouge, and ­can’t bear looking so pale.” Beside Akiko sat Otoyo now, who once again found in Yasuyo a partner-­in-­arms as she began to open up the parcel of gifts that Akiko had bought with her. Kōichi and Tetsuko w ­ ere playing outside by the well, a red plastic bucket between them, but their voices carried themselves clearly, making their way into Akiko’s ears, if only incidentally. The sky was overcast, as ever. The grey clouds loomed large as they drifted across the sky. Before sealing her letter into an envelope, Akiko laid her head onto a floor cushion and, before long, had drifted off to sleep again. Her delicate, bluish eyelids made her look exhausted. From time to time, and ever so faintly, they twitched.

19 Th e r a i n c on t i n u e d t o fa l l at the seaside. Akiko had arrived at the rooms t­ hey’d been renting two days earlier, and though the clouds kept shifting up in the sky, all hope s­ he’d held for a ray of light to break through them was dashed when a fine rain began to fall yet again. Swept by gales off the ocean, the rain flew down almost sideways and was quickly absorbed by the sandy soil. Dragon­ flies drifted by from time to time, braving the rain as though they ­were lost. The wet reed screens hanging from the eaves had gone a deeper color now, and the rooms felt damp with the sliding doors still removed for the season. It was hardly a place anyone could relax. Having left Kōsuke’s side, Akiko lost the fire burning inside of her, and was left feeling melancholic and fatigued. She lay her cheek down on the damp, grass-­woven floor, as though she might hide herself in a corner of the room, and

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curled up into a ball to catch some asleep. ­Here of all places, with her c­ hildren at her side, s­ he’d ­imagined she could easily finish the short manuscript she was being pressed to complete. But she found it impossible to sit still h ­ ere, perched up on the elementary school desk they had borrowed for the occasion. More than once s­he’d simply collapsed onto the floor with a sigh, grabbing as a pillow what­ever she could find nearby her. With nothing around to stimulate her emotions, she could do l­ittle more than cast a lonely gaze on the dreariness around her. She seemed doomed from the outset to have such feelings of resignation. Although she tried to paint a picture of the new life she was about to embark upon—­ supporting only her ­children and the old ­woman—­a ll she could do in this damp, crowded set of rooms at the seaside was to glare at Otoyo, who shuffled over the tatami mats like an intractable geriatric, and then allow her thoughts to drift once again to Kōsuke. But no fresh ideas could surface in her mind’s eye as she ­imagined her husband living by himself in their ­house in Tokyo. Before long Akiko found herself drifting in and out of consciousness, having lost all color in her face out of sheer fatigue. T ­ oday, as she had yesterday, Akiko wandered in a state of shallow dreams. Having come all the way to visit her c­ hildren, Akiko found it was the alarming resemblance to Kōsuke in her ­little girl’s eyes that more than anything seemed to tear at her heart. She even found herself telling Kōsuke about the resemblance in her letter—­ not as a way of appealing to his fatherly emotions, but merely to convey the fact that she too was suffering, and to underscore the tragedy of their situation. “But y­ ou’ve hardly eaten, dear,” her grand­mother Otoyo would say to her ­later, noting Akiko’s pale complexion from across the dinner ­table. Akiko barely lifted her head, merely grunting in reply to keep the w ­ oman from opening her mouth any further. Although her ­children, Kōichi and Te­ tsuko, had been waiting desperately for their ­mother’s arrival, they ­were now playing outside together, ignoring her perhaps, but still content with the plea­sure of knowing she was nearby.

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“I have a letter for you.” It was the raspy voice of the landlord. Yasuyo, the maid, quickly replied and got up to retrieve the letter. Listening to their exchange, Akiko d­ idn’t bother to open her eyes. As it happened, however, the letter was from, of all ­people, Kōsuke. Still reclined on the floor, Akiko tore open the envelope. If her trembling fin­gers betrayed the sudden upheaval of her emotions, the grave expression on her face suggested how much she resented this emotional turmoil. Is it true that y­ ou’ve lost your appetite? I d­ on’t suppose t­ here’s much you can do, but it still pains me to hear it. Please make an effort to eat your meals. I am ­doing every­thing I can to complete my work.

The letter had begun in a typical way for Kōsuke, for whom t­here was no solution, but in work, to the unbearable suffering he was in the midst of experiencing. For he’d been unexpectedly pulled into Akiko’s inner turmoil as well as into the vortex of his own emotions, precipitated by his new affair. Kōsuke’s intensity came across in the length and extraordinary detail with which he described his latest work in the letter. His body was physically drained, he explained, but his heart was doubly so, given the complexity of t­ hese intertwining feelings and the endless work that kept him from sleeping. Home all alone, ­there ­were no after­noon breaks in his daily routine when he might catch a catnap. Not only did he have to cook his own meals, not a soul was around to comfort him. But whenever he thought of how Akiko must be suffering, it was hard for him to think that his own prob­lems ­really mattered. As though Akiko, too, w ­ ere convinced that the only solution to their prob­lems lay in a focus on their work, Kōsuke proceeded to itemize his thoughts in the form of a to-do list: #1 through #7 ­were messages related to Akiko’s business affairs as well as a few ideas of his own, #8 was the question of if ­she’d be

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returning, and if so, would she please tell him exactly when. By way of encouragement, he mentioned reading her essay in the newspaper that morning and told her he’d thought it well done. Fi­nally, he wrote that she should stay at the seaside if she found it to be relaxing, but while they lived in separate ­houses they should still meet in person once a week at least. What Kōsuke’s letter made abundantly clear was that he had come to a decision—­even if his emotions h ­ adn’t come to terms with it yet. Before signing off, he touched again on the subject of Akiko’s work, asking if she ­were still unable to compose the thought piece another newspaper was pressing her to write, and ­whether she intended to take on a dif­fer­ent manuscript that ­she’d promised to complete. To ­these par­t ic­u ­lar questions he had added exclamation marks. This was followed by the dates of his trip to Yamanashi Prefecture, where he was to deliver a lecture, as well as a separate message for the ­children. Kōsuke’s unsteady hand suggested the extent of his physical exhaustion, and as Akiko drew a picture of Kōsuke in her mind’s eye she willfully ignored his emphasis on work in the letter, preferring instead to tease out his inner feelings. Kōsuke ­hadn’t bothered to ask if she would be stopping by to see him, ­because he knew she would be; he in fact wrote explic­itly that he wanted to see her. At the same time, he instructed her to stay at the seaside if it put her mind at ease. How could he think it pos­si­ble for her to magically suppress her feelings? Granted he w ­ asn’t being overbearing, but Akiko still found herself annoyed at t­ hese efforts to placate her. The fact was that this time he had not pleaded with her to return home just as soon as ­she’d read his letter; this made her all the more envious of the fact that he still seemed rather cool and collected. Her melancholic gaze now drifted, despondently, up the wall u ­ ntil it arrived at a tattered frame hanging down from the ceiling. She ­hadn’t the strength in her to get angry. She knew Otoyo and Yasuyo, sitting beside her, w ­ ere holding back their eagerness to discuss lunch preparations, but it was impossible to conceal from them the dismay that now settled onto her brow.

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Once again Akiko picked up the letter. She knew that Kōsuke would be traveling to Yamanashi. In fact he’d been planning to leave that very day. He’d written that he would send the ­children a picture postcard from the countryside, which meant he’d be away from Tokyo for several days. Akiko somehow found a way to comfort herself with this knowledge. Turning ­toward her ­children, who w ­ ere now playing in the garden, she adjusted her kimono and got up off the floor. A fine rain was falling outside, beneath the soft light of the sun. ­There was no mistaking that it was August, however, for the humid summer heat had taken hold early on that day. Kōichi and Tetsuko ­were playing in the sand beneath the roof that overhung the well. As she stretched around to look b­ ehind her, she saw Tetsuko squatting over her red sandals, with her ­little round butt sticking up into the air. Seized with the desire to startle her c­hildren, Akiko noticed the cord that had held her luggage together, hanging now from one of the pillars on the balcony. She went outside, wrapped the cord around each of her hands, and then stepped down into the garden. “Watch this,” she called out, showing them how well she could still jump rope. “Count how many I do.” Potan, potan went the sound of the cord, as it hit the ground with each swing of her arms. Akiko walked t­oward the ­children as she continued jumping. Kōichi and Tetsuko ­were both riveted, their eyes sparkling widely. “One . . . ​t wo . . . ​Come on, ­you’ve got to count with me,” said Akiko, struggling for breath. She fi­nally stumbled over the rope, and bent over, laughing uncontrollably. “Mommy, let me try too!” said Kōichi, ­r unning up to her. Not yet, not yet, she replied, starting up her jumping all over again. A warm rain was falling around her. Tetsuko’s ­little clogs tapped the ground as she chased her from ­behind. Otoyo and Yasuyo, too, got a kick out of Akiko’s actions as they peeked out, all smiles,

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from the veranda. But t­ hese extra pairs of eyes fixed on her made Akiko feel silly. She turned around into the shade of the h ­ ouse and released the rope from her hands. Turning away from her ­children, too, she wiped her brow of the rain and sweat with a long sweep of her sleeve.

20 Th r e e day s ­l at e r , j u s t a s Kōsuke was to return on the eve­n ing train from Yamanashi, Akiko too made her way back to Tokyo. She even went to Shinjuku that night to meet him. Instead of returning home, however, she spent the night at Kawada Masae’s. She had managed to finish the manuscript ­she’d been hurrying to complete. Though she tried to turn a blind eye to her feelings as she wrote, the story itself ended with a series of question marks. From the seaside she headed straight to the newspaper office, where she received her payment. And from t­ here she went to the closest post office she could find, where she had a money order drafted and sent to the ­children. With this accomplished, she fi­nally felt somewhat at ease. Her posture even straightened in the satisfaction of having worked with such a progressive publishing ­house. Instead of ­going back home to an empty ­house, however, she had then gone to her friend Kawada Masae’s. With another impor­tant job ahead of her, which she was also pressed to finish quickly, she had arranged to use Masae’s second floor as a workroom. But when night fell Akiko invited Masae out to Shinjuku. It w ­ asn’t as though ­she’d set out to welcome Kōsuke back to Tokyo, nor was she even certain that Kōsuke would be returning that night by train. But something had drawn her out on the town,

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and she felt compelled to head to Shinjuku, where the trains coming from Yamanashi arrived, and where Kōsuke’s new companion was now living. ­A fter leaving the movie theater, Akiko took Masae to a late dinner at the make-­shift oden shop she and Kōsuke had been frequenting. When he got off the train would Kōsuke, too, stop by for a quick bite to eat? Before she knew it, she was listening to Masae with only half an ear, and the more she spoke, the more her mind drifted, the tone of her voice ­running at counterpurposes to her inner feelings. She was speaking sadly, even wretchedly, to Masae, but when she sensed so much and tried to rectify ­these feelings, the words she uttered seemed to spin idly in midair. The train from Yamaguchi would be arriving any minute now, and the expression on her face did l­ittle to conceal the thoughts churning silently inside her. She ­couldn’t help but keep lifting up her head to look around. Sure enough, when Kōsuke and his friend got off the train they stopped by for dinner. “And look who’s h ­ ere!” Kōsuke offered this casual greeting upon the surprise encounter, but all Akiko could do was to cast a piercing glance at his face in order to quickly read his feelings. It did not escape her that he’d diverted his eyes and pretended every­thing was normal. Akiko offered an obvious reply if through a twisted smile. But her words w ­ ere so plastic she could feel her cheeks burning. Feigning ignorance, both Masae and Kōsuke’s friend deferred to Akiko and Kōsuke’s feelings. A ­ fter exchanging several words they simply lowered their heads and silently continued eating. What preoccupied Akiko was the thought that Kōsuke’s friend had for the past two days heard all about Kōsuke’s new girlfriend, heard all about Kōsuke’s suffering, and about all the contradictions that had arisen in his life with Akiko. The man no doubt had sympathized with Kōsuke. Something akin to a hostility ­toward them both strangely worked its way up inside her. Even her voice had become raspy

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and loud. Akiko was to be with Masae that night, so while she did in fact won­der where Kōsuke headed ­after that, she still managed to fall asleep at Masae’s without dwelling on it. Though it was rare for her to feel this way, from a distance she even thought Kōsuke loathsome. The thought then crossed Akiko’s mind that perhaps now it was, in fact, pos­si­ble for her to go it all alone. By the following morning, however, Akiko was writhing again in the emotional throes of indecision. Before she knew it, her arms and legs had suddenly stiffened, and even when she attempted to relax her muscles, she felt short of breath, and listless. She knew she had to meet Kōsuke now face to face. “I’m just heading out for a bit,” she called to Masae, who was busy pedaling the sewing machine with a pupil. It was an oddly shrewd maneuver, but she still managed to slip out of the ­house. She found Kōsuke still in bed, on the second floor. “Oh, when did you come home?” Looking up at Akiko standing tall in the bedroom doorway, Kōsuke smiled at her sleepily. “You d­ idn’t come back last night. Why not?” “No, I ­d idn’t,” she replied with a steady gaze, and a tellingly subtle smile. “Well, I’ve made my mind up, and I’ve deci­ ded not to live with you any longer.” “Oh, ­really?” said Kōsuke, beckoning her from inside his bed. Taking a few steps backward, she said, “No, no more of that,” with a shake of her head. “But why not?” he replied, incredulously. “I’ve made up my mind. And I’m rescinding our agreement to meet at least once a week.” “You d­ on’t have to go that far.” “No, I do.” This time she pulled away from his arms even more forcefully. ­There was something stern in her eyes that now glared at Kōsuke.

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“What on earth’s gotten into you?” he said, getting up out of bed. Akiko turned away, pressing herself up against the doorframe, and then smiled provokingly. “I have to prepare myself now. . . . ​For my new life, you know. I need to become pure again.” “I’m not following you.” “Have you never considered that I might just want to find a new life of my own? I want to keep myself nice and clean for when the time comes.” This time she left l­ittle to the imagination. “What exactly do you mean by that?” shouted Kōsuke, now that he’d grasped the gist of what she was saying. “Well, w ­ e’ll just have to see . . .” Her hair in utter disarray, Akiko then pushed Kōsuke away, glaring at him now, but also on the verge of tears. “How could you? How could you be so selfish! W ­ e’re ­going to separate anyway.” Kōsuke did not reply with words, but leapt at her as though to attack. Akiko dashed to the stairwell and frantically thumped her feet down the stairs—­do do do do do do. Without glasses on his pale face Kōsuke’s eyes stood out menacingly as he chased her. Fighting him off, Akiko fled from one room in the ­house to the other in order to escape. The excitement of his emotions had fi­nally sent Kōsuke into a rage. And when at last he caught hold of her, he lifted her up and carried her recklessly to the second floor. ­There was the long sound of something ripping—­the indigo crepe of Akiko’s robe. Like a madman Kōsuke leapt to his feet again, gasping for air, and began to tear wildly at Akiko’s clothes. Her body was tossed side to side with each tug. R-­r-­i-­i-­p-­p . . . ​r-­r-­i-­ i-­p-­p. Her senses ­going numb, it was this sound of tearing cloth alone that echoed in her ears.

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21 Wi t h t h i s e p i s ode b­ e h i n d t h e m , both Akiko and Kōsuke managed to keep their feelings at bay, and faced each other now with a tranquil sense of sorrow. “­There’s not much ­else we can do but to work, Akiko. So let’s try not to get so excited, emotionally speaking. You have something to finish soon as well, ­don’t you?” “I guess ­you’re right,” she replied, anxiously averting his gaze. “But I won­der if I can possibly write in this state of mind? It’s an entirely dif­fer­ent world out ­there I need to describe now, and I’m not sure how to gain access to it.” “I see what ­you’re saying. But you’ll have to come up with something.” Despite all her complaining, ­she’d likely still finish the piece, surmised Kōsuke, though even still, he c­ ouldn’t help but intervene. It w ­ asn’t that he himself felt guilty for Akiko’s agony, but he’d become accustomed to ­doing so at times like t­hese. He was, however, being more gentle than usual. “Come on, Akiko. Pull yourself together, and sit at your desk. Do that much and I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” “But for some reason . . .” Like a child, Akiko continued unrelentingly to rattle on. “My imagination flies in too many dif­fer­ent directions when y­ ou’re not around. So I was hoping that on the days I d­ on’t come back ­here, you could perhaps visit me at Masae’s? You head out to Shinjuku e­ very night, right? And Masae’s place is hardly out of your way. If I have something to look forward to, I’m sure I’ll be able to focus.” “You head out to Shinjuku e­ very night, right?” ­she’d said to him. Kōsuke could do ­little ­else but nod sheepishly in reply. ­A fter extracting this promise, Akiko returned to the second floor of Masae’s studio. But each time a freight train passed by, she felt the building shaking from side to side. And whenever

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she found herself all alone, she ended up losing herself in her thoughts, staring out vacantly into the air. Sometimes ­she’d lie down onto the floor and fall asleep, no ­matter where she was. The manuscript was a short one, but it was a story that ­she’d have to throw herself into. What she was trying to write was a portrait of two alloy casters in a factory, one an experienced forty-­year-­old and the other a novice, whose emotions would get the better of them both in the end. She was even ­going to have them come to blows. Whenever Akiko felt tired at her desk, she moved to the bed. But as soon as she lay down her head, she drifted off. Time and time again she lay herself down. And each time, she slept. It was an odd sign of her fortitude. On nights when Kōsuke was supposed to visit, Akiko always found herself on edge as the eve­n ing deepened. She even tried to make out his footsteps on the pavement, while the studio rattled with the sound of freight trains incessantly passing by. Just as soon as she heard his hushed call—­“Hey, it’s me”—­ from outside the front gate, Akiko would throw open the sliding door and appear on the second-­floor veranda. Glowing in the light from her room, her perfectly powdered face was to Kōsuke’s eyes arrestingly beautiful. The following day, as she was composing some parting lines in the voice of her obsequious, temperamental alloy caster, she was suddenly seized by burning desire. She dashed outside, and then down the road that led back to her home. Without a parasol to protect her from the blinding sun, now baking the noontime streets, Akiko forged onward, as though part of a chase. Several times she was on the verge of crying out for Kōsuke, but she bit down on her handkerchief and pressed on. Her chest felt heavy ­under the pressure necessary to keep herself from groaning out his name. Reaching the h ­ ouse, she found Kōsuke w ­ asn’t t­ here. Having rushed over breathlessly, she now stood in Kōsuke’s empty room, looking around her: the pen on his desk, his chair, the clothes

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he had tossed onto the floor—to each of t­hese t­hings she felt an intense attachment. She even began now to look for t­hings that Kōsuke’s hand had touched. The intensity of her emotions reminded her of that lonely night back when Kōsuke’s affair had just begun, when she had curled up inside the musty closet and wailed for hours on end. But t­here was something dif­fer­ent about her feelings t­oday. A strong sense of resignation had intertwined with them now, and she was also supremely aware of what was g­ oing on inside of her—­ aware of the recklessness with which she had once relinquished the ­whole of her body to t­hose feelings. Knowing she had made pro­ gress on her writing no doubt also gave her the strength to see this transformation in her feelings. She had in the end finished the work. And she had made all the arrangements necessary to retrieve her grand­mother and ­children from the seaside. “­Shouldn’t we buy you a new kimono? It’s almost September, and a bit odd for you to be wearing such a light one.” “Odd? Do you ­really think so?” “Well, it is awfully dirty.” As Kōsuke and Akiko discussed this issue of his clothing, they both of course had a third party in mind. Akiko had heard from Kōsuke what the new ­woman told him to wear. Something in black would apparently suit him well. “Well, it must be embarrassing to still be wearing it. You ­don’t find it revolting?” “You d­ on’t find me revolting?” is what Akiko’s tone in fact suggested. They went out to buy Kōsuke a new set of clothes. The way they went about selecting just the right pattern made them look like a perfectly happy c­ ouple. “Pick out a shade of lipstick for me, w ­ ill you?” she whispered, in a subtly enticing manner. “From the premium collection . . .” Akiko was not fussy about her makeup, but she adored lipstick. As they left the kimono store to find the cosmetics shop, she started thinking. A tube of lipstick lasted normally one year,

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but now that she had something from the premium collection, what sort of ­future would it bring with it? she wondered. What­ever was g­ oing through Kōsuke’s mind in the cosmetics shop, he had in fact leaned over the display case to carefully search for just the right shade of red, which he eventually chose for her. ­A fter they left the shop and started walking through the crowded streets of Ginza, Akiko turned rather sullen. “What’s the m ­ atter?” Kōsuke whispered. Akiko twisted her face into something of a smile. “Have you picked out lipstick for that ­woman of yours too? I hope you ­d idn’t end up choosing the same color.” Akiko remembered the picture she had once seen of the ­woman—­sitting tall, with a gentle, even intelligent face. She would make a good wife for him, she mused. “Stop talking nonsense,” replied Kōsuke. “Every­thing ­will work itself out.” He glanced over at Akiko’s face from the side. “I just wanted to . . . ​, ” she began, looking up into Kōsuke’s eyes, longingly. Imagining what a good wife the ­woman would make for Kōsuke, Akiko was seized by an overwhelming pang of loneliness. “Well, as far as your f­amily registry goes, I know I said I wanted to remove my name from it, but now I d­ on’t think I want to anymore. You d­ on’t mind, do you?” Her tearful voice contained the seed of something more threatening. “Now you d­ on’t want to remove it? Well, that’s fine with me, Akiko. But you keep changing your mind.” “Well, you see, if I’m ­going to take care of the ­children, I figure it’ll be odd to have a dif­fer­ent last name, and actually quite incon­ve­n ient.” “I’m sure ­we’ll figure something out with the kids. ­A fter all, we ­don’t have to make any decisions right away. Then again, if we let ­things drag on for too long, ­there’s bound to be some anxiety involved for anyone e­ lse entering the picture. And if the kids are involved too, it could make it even more stressful.”

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“Well, I understand that, Kōsuke, I do. But you c­ an’t ­really expect me to bend over backward for the two of you.” They w ­ ere walking over Sukiya Bridge, which was still lit up by the setting sun. Kōsuke’s emotions had been stirred, and he’d hastened his pace. Akiko tried to catch up to him with short, quick steps, addressing him as she looked up from the side. Now ­there was a furrow e­ tched into his brow. “Bend over backward?” “You know what I mean.” Akiko swallowed her words, turning sullen. “You mean the kids?” said Kōsuke, as though pushing her away. “Well, ­don’t worry. I’ll take one of them off your hands in due time. If that’s what you want.” Good grief, thought Akiko, her shoulders drooping. “­You’ve become quite cruel, ­haven’t you?” “What are you even talking about? ­You’re the one who has always pushed this issue. ­Didn’t we ­settle what ­we’re ­doing with the c­ hildren a long time ago? What reason could you possibly have to bring it up again now?” “I’m not bringing it up again now. All I’m saying is that I ­don’t want to take my name off your ­family register. You could at least do me the f­avor keeping it ­there. I ­haven’t exactly objected, ­after all, to any of your new plans.” “Okay, I’ve had enough. Just do what­ever you want. ­People are g­ oing to call me the selfish one anyway, no m ­ atter what happens between us. The sooner ­we’re finished with this, the better, as far as I’m concerned.” “Well, that’s quite a comeback, ­isn’t it?” Akiko exhaled deeply, resisting the impulse to break down into tears. But Kōsuke had had enough. “What is wrong with you? We’ve just had a nice day shopping together, and now all of a sudden this? Look, I’ll see you ­later to­n ight.” They had just reached Hibiya when Kōsuke made an abrupt about-­face and crossed to the other side of the road. Akiko

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was left ­there standing alone, somewhat dumbfounded. Stubborn in her own way, she was incapable of following ­a fter him, and simply stood ­there staring at his figure retreating into the distance. He retraced his steps back t­oward Yūrakuchō, pounding the pavement as he wove his way through the crowds. Akiko’s eyes followed him, but he ­d idn’t turn around. Akiko ­imagined for a moment that this would upset her. But she suddenly turned her back on him as well, defiantly so, and boarded a bus bound for Shinjuku.

22 It wa s t wo or t h r e e days ­later, well into the month of September. Several letters had arrived from the old ­woman and the ­children, imploring them to bring them home. It was far too lonely now at the seashore. The makeshift cabanas had all been dismantled, and the lanterns decorating the station had been removed. She and Kōsuke had even received one dubious letter, written in a child’s hand, which Otoyo had most likely dictated to Kōichi: EVERYDAY WE GO TO WHERE THE TRAINS ­ RRIVE TO SEE IF MOMMY AND ­DADDY HAVE A COME TO GET US. WELL THEN, GOODBYE FOR NOW. The money she had set aside to retrieve the ­children, however, Akiko ended up lending to Kōsuke, who promised to pay it back once he’d finished a piece of his own. She now found herself unable to leave for the seashore ­until he did. Although Akiko had become accustomed to this new lifestyle of getting by hand to mouth, she also felt pressured by their obligation to the landlord to retrieve her f­amily by the end of August. She i­magined her

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lonesome grand­mother, sick with worry. And the thought of her two ­children, in turn, looking sadly perplexed at the ­woman’s distress, made Akiko’s heart flutter with apprehension. For close to two months now, ever since the c­ hildren had been away, she had done her best to send them what­ever spare change she had on a regular basis. They w ­ ere living a life that u ­ nder normal circumstances would have been well beyond their means, but ­precisely ­because of that they had found themselves rising to the occasion, and Akiko now had no financial worries about what would happen to her a­ fter her separation. Kōsuke’s promise to send her money each month to support the ­children Akiko had interpreted simply as an expression of his love. But then a friend once told her they needed to make it perfectly clear—­from the new perspective they shared—­that ­fathers too must bear responsibility for their ­children. “Oh, but I ­don’t ­really care about that,” ­she’d said in reply, holding something back with a look on her face that suggested her thoughts ­were elsewhere. Unwilling to concede, her friend went on to assert her own position in even more logical terms. But Akiko felt for the first time as though she wanted to stand firm on the side of convention, and pushed back by saying so. “Well, it’s not something I personally see as a prob­lem. The reason I was insistent on making no more money than we needed to cover basic expenses, is basically ­because I was stubborn, I wanted an opinion of my own. But Kōsuke took this as arrogance, and no doubt found it hard to deal with. Back when he was in a very dif­fer­ent environment, I did every­thing I could do to support him, so I ­can’t all of a sudden place that kind of financial burden on him now. It’d be embarrassing. And besides, it’s not all that impor­tant to me personally.” So basically I stopped being a good wife, and Kōsuke, being Kōsuke, deci­ded he needed to move on, to do with his own life what he ­really wants to—­this is what Akiko now muttered ­under her breath. Now, if the reason for her unhappiness seemed contradictory to the demand she and the o ­ thers ­were also

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making—­that ­women, too, should play a role in the workplace—­ well then, perhaps apologies w ­ ere in order. But their own failure to work ­things out, she reasoned, simply meant that the circumstances of their own unhappiness ­were par­t ic­u ­lar. “I find that hard to believe,” replied her friend, who seemed disappointed. Akiko tried to smooth t­ hings over. “Kōsuke has promised to send me enough money to support one of the ­children. And as far as the money I just made from my last job goes, Kōsuke said that he’d take his share of it out as a loan, which ­he’ll eventually pay back.” ­A fter Akiko had finished her last manuscript, she moved out of Masae’s second-­floor room and returned home. Over the next two or three days she came face to face with Kōsuke. But ­after learning that he’d been ­going out to Shinjuku ­every day, and that he’d even gone to meet the ­woman in the after­noon, Akiko’s emotions began to spin out of control once again. One minute ­she’d be crying tears of love, and the next her eyes would be filled with hatred. The following morning they quarreled again violently. And this time, too, what started out as a small regret that had grown out of feelings of mutual affection had, in the course of their argument, blown up into a serious point of contention. “You know, it might sound weird for me to mention this now, but I still won­der if I’ll be able to write anything once I’m all on my own, feeling lonely and depressed.” “That’s not g­ oing to happen to you, Akiko. You’ll always have work to keep you busy. I’m the one who needs to worry.” “Except that y­ ou’re ­going to have a devoted wife at your side, d­ oing every­thing for you . . . ​And let me just remind you that I’d have made a pretty good h ­ ouse­w ife myself. If I h ­ adn’t started working, that is. Sometimes I won­der why I even started. Maybe I ­shouldn’t have . . .” Akiko meant this simply as a private lament, but, ­after ten years of living together, Kōsuke found something haughty and sarcastic in the way she spoke.

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“Hold your tongue, Akiko. It’s not worthy of you. You ­don’t even believe what ­you’re saying anyway. All you want to do is upset me.” “Well, right now, at this very moment, that’s how I feel. So no, I’m not trying to upset you. Personally I d­ on’t think I was a bad wife, and that’s exactly why I’m so fed up with it all. I’m certainly not singling you out as the guilty one h ­ ere just ­because ­you’ve found a new ­woman. This is a tragedy of my own making. And that’s why . . . ​that’s why I sometimes ask myself why I even started writing. I was absolutely devoted to my husband, precisely ­because I was also a ­woman with a ­career of my own. But what a fool I was! How could anyone have understood my delicate position! Not you, of all ­people. So if t­ here’s a reason why I feel sorry for myself, t­ here you have it.” “Oh, stop it, ­will you? I’ve heard enough! You ­really think ­you’re the only character in this tragedy of yours? But then again, it’s always the same with you, ­isn’t it? I’m always the one making life difficult for you, and living my life without a care in the world for anyone ­else. ­Isn’t that right? Well, if I’m ­really such a dis­ appointment, why ­don’t you go ahead and announce it to the entire world? Oh, look every­one—­that’s Kakimura Kōsuke, what a selfish jerk!” As Kōsuke spoke, he was gradually overcome with anger. “I mean, just listen to yourself. Now it’s all my fault that you became a novelist in the first place? I’m so sick of it, sick of it! This arrogance of yours. How could you of all ­people say something like that to me? Only a published author, someone overflowing with confidence, could possibly be so arrogant. You see, I myself want to spend e­ very single moment of my time now trying to grow as a person. ­There’s a difference t­here, if you ­haven’t noticed. You can easily say you want to give it all up, while ­here I am breaking my back like a fool just to make a bit of pro­g ress. How could you possibly understand how that consumed me for two ­whole years while I was in prison? Do you know how afraid I was of d­ ying ­there with nothing to my name? How deep that

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sort of frustration reaches? When ­you’re locked up in prison, you lose all of your confidence, Akiko. So, honestly, I ­don’t care what it takes now, ­because all I know is that the time has fi­nally come for me to do my work, and I’m not about to let someone like you get in my way.” ­These words, flowing out of Kōsuke’s mouth, seemed more like an impassioned confession than an angry outburst, but they still penetrated Akiko to the core. “And y­ ou’re willing to give up every­thing y­ ou’ve achieved so far? D ­ on’t be a fool, Kōsuke.” Akiko could feel how the age in which they ­were now living had projected itself onto the screen of their lives. The meaning of Akiko’s words was not lost on Kōsuke. “Life i­sn’t so s­imple as you make it seem. The way p­ eople think and feel . . . ​I’ve certainly learned a ­thing or two about that. When the foundation of your life gives out on you, y­ ou’re bound to get caught up in frivolous concerns. Most ­people just ­don’t talk about them. But try to imagine if you possibly can, Akiko, the humiliation of not having work you can call your own. It’s not something you can grasp u ­ ntil ­you’ve experienced it firsthand, is it? And I can tell you one ­thing, neither you nor that friend of yours, Takii Kishiko, has ever experienced that kind of humiliation.” ­These ­were grave, complex feelings that Kōsuke was sharing. Even if Kōsuke was exaggerating, and being far more obstinate than necessary, Akiko realized that in ­doing so he was giving her a win­dow of opportunity through which she could peek inside his inner world. Akiko felt herself g­ oing soft as she responded. “I do understand how you feel, I do. I’ve never once meant to stand in the way of your ­f ree ­w ill, and it’s far too late for me to do that now anyway. You should feel ­free to do what­ever you want. I certainly have no intention of changing how I go about my own work.” For Kōsuke, as well, the prospect of ­going on living together u ­ nder the pres­ent circumstances was unthinkable. Not only would this complicate their love lives, but they would end

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up simply wearing each other down, needlessly hurting each other emotionally as well as physically. His suggestion that they continue to live as a f­ amily for just a bit longer—­once the c­ hildren had returned from the seashore, that is—­seemed ­little more than a figment of his fanciful imagination. Given Akiko’s delicate state of mind, such an arrangement could only intensify her anguish, and end up making their final parting even more unpleasant. Just as soon as the money came in from Kōsuke’s manuscript, he threw himself into the preparations necessary to begin his new life. He then visited a friend named Miyazaki, who worked for a newspaper, and asked him to meet with the w ­ oman in question so they could work out the details. Starting a new life together would entail a change, of course, in her living situation as well. Kōsuke had enlisted his friend to act as a go-­between in order to make ­these plans concrete, which meant helping her rent a h ­ ouse as soon as pos­si­ble.

23 He av e n s, h e’s b roug h t s om e on e w i t h him, thought Akiko from her futon, her ears perking at the sound of footsteps downstairs. “Wait ­here for a minute, w ­ ill you?” Kōsuke spoke to someone in the entry­way before quickly making his way upstairs. Akiko sat up in bed, adjusting the top of her nightgown. She stared into Kōsuke’s face, on which ­there now appeared the traces of a smile. “I’ve given up on the w ­ oman. So every­thing’s fine now, okay?” Could Kōsuke possibly be so hopeless as to think “every­ thing” was “okay”? And yet sure enough this is what he had just whispered into her ear.

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Akiko listened, her eyes widening, and she started to shake violently. “What’s happened to me? I c­ an’t stop shaking.” “Now, now. Calm down, Akiko. Miyazaki’s downstairs and I’d like you to come down and say hello. I’ll explain to you every­thing ­later, but the long and short of it is that Miyazaki has just served as my go-­between.” Akiko followed Kōsuke downstairs. Did p­ eople always ­tremble like this when taken by surprise in the ­m iddle of the night? she wondered. Seeing the electric lights on in the empty living room made her feel as though this was an incident of g­ reat magnitude. Once Akiko had made it downstairs, however, she was entirely unsure of what to do with herself—as if she ­were a young ­d aughter brought back home ­after having run away. Kōsuke, meanwhile, continued to talk in animated tones with Miyazaki, who spoke without reserve in front of Akiko, having set himself to the task of summarizing the events of the day. “Well, when I met her, it turned out that she was the girlfriend of an acquaintance of mine, the owner of a restaurant. So we deci­ded to go meet with him as well.” “The four of us had a real showdown,” added Kōsuke, with such excitement in his voice one might have ­imagined he was speaking about someone ­else altogether. He then went on to explain how the w ­ oman in question then declared Mr. Kakimura should please consider their negotiations over and done with. “Well, what ­else could she have said in front of this guy? He’s a scary one, I’ll tell you. I just ­don’t understand why he was never up front about being her lover. He treats her just like any of the other employees at his shop. And what a brute he is!” ­There had always been something innocent about Kōsuke’s nature, and he was acting now as if the man had actually dragged the w ­ oman around by her hair, demonizing the man and sympathizing with the w ­ oman, in a way that exposed his inherently ­simple nature. To this, however, Miyazaki seemed oblivious.

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“Well, let’s be glad we resolved this as quickly as we did.” “It can get quite difficult if y­ ou’re in deeper,” he continued, without even the hint of a smile. “She was a careless one, too.” Well, it was getting late, said Miyazaki, and with that he took his leave. But the instant he dis­appeared through the doorway, and the two of them ­were left alone, Akiko heaved a deep sigh, as though a heavy burden had suddenly been dropped onto her shoulders. She scared even herself with ­these feelings. Is this what it means to be coldhearted? she wondered. “Hey, what’s wrong with you? What’s wrong?” Kōsuke shook Akiko’s shoulders. ­There was no doubt he had been anticipating an expression of joyful, even burning affection from her. And ­there was no doubt that he was now seeking out that affection as a place he could lean on for support. Akiko could understand that much. But even now, as she offered him a loving embrace, she could still feel something in her heart begin to darken and shrivel. The next night Kōsuke went into town, and by morning he still ­hadn’t returned. It was as though the taut, delicate string that was still holding Akiko upright had fi­nally been severed. She had no place now to rest the heaviness in her heart. In her pres­ent state of mind, Akiko was uncertain how to pro­cess the fact that Kōsuke was once again out all night long. His face was pale and greasy when, exhausted by his all-­ nighter, Kōsuke eventually made his way home. “Oh, . . . ​just a bit of barhopping,” he said with a guileless smile. Akiko took him at his word. “Kind of shameless of you, no? ­Here I am beside myself with all that’s been ­going on, and you go off and leave me all alone?” Kōsuke turned his face t­oward hers as though he ­were ready to confront her. “­You’ve made it perfectly clear to me, Akiko, that you ­don’t think I’ve come back to you on my own accord. And maybe ­you’re right to say so. But that d­ oesn’t explain every­thing. And

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now that I know how you think about me, it might just be I d­ on’t feel like I have a home to return to.” The sadness on Akiko’s face deepened, and she gasped for air. It had only been yesterday that ­they’d avoided this kind of idle bickering and agreed to still move into separate households—as a way of helping each other overcome the contradictions in the life they shared. When it came to the incon­ve­n iences that would inevitably arise from living in separate ­house­holds, however, and to the emotional emptiness that might result from that separation, they both knew that the deep affection they still shared would be necessary for any hope of finding solutions. At the same time, however, Akiko feared that this would surely lead to even more difficulties, of an unforeseeable kind, further down the road. When Kōsuke spoke to her as he just did, she would suddenly have premonitions about her ­future again, and find it difficult to breathe. “In any case, some guy from the newspaper might show up ­today. I met him last night while I was out drinking. He said he’d like to write something about us.” “Oh, Kōsuke, how could you? H ­ aven’t we just set every­ thing straight?” “Wait, h ­ ere he comes.” Just then they heard the sound of footsteps enter the narrow entrance to their home. “Oh, dear me, I think he’s h ­ ere. What ­shall we do?” She raised her arms in a gesture of the futility of any resistance—­the floodwaters had now breached the levy and ­were headed right t­oward them. Desperately she looked around the room as though she might find a means of escape. “Hello? Might anyone be home?” The voice was now coming from inside their hallway. Heavens, how formal w ­ ere this stranger’s words! Kōsuke and Akiko, half-­naked though they ­were, w ­ ere both drawn out to greet him. A picture was taken of them looking dejected, and unsure of themselves.

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It was only ­later that Kōsuke explained how he’d now gotten himself into a fix. “Well, you see, Miyazaki said he wanted to write something up for his newspaper, but I asked him not to. So it ­won’t look good at all if something comes out in a dif­fer­ent one. I have to go apologize.” “­You’re ­going to go all alone? And leave me b­ ehind?” Suddenly dragged out into the public eye, Akiko was practically in a state of shock, and her face reflected her worry and confusion. “It’ll be rude not to go talk to him.” “Well then, I’m coming with you.” If they w ­ ere about to be washed away in a flood of publicity, ­they’d have to face it together. Other­w ise, she might just go insane. Akiko threw on a white cotton cap—­the kind any schoolgirl might wear on her way to class—­a nd without a moment’s hesitation she made her way outside, right on Kōsuke’s heels. And so it was that, u ­ nder the high ceilings of a meeting room, at the very end of a long conference t­ able, the two of them sat, side-­by-­side, slouching in their chairs. In addition to Miyazaki, all the movers and shakers of this leading newspaper had gathered around the conference ­table, along with their underlings, and they w ­ ere now taking turns interrogating Kōsuke and Akiko. Kōsuke spoke frankly about the serious obstacles that any ­couple had to face on a daily basis when both ­were writers. He also explained that his recent love affair had come to naught, but that he and Akiko would still be following through with their plans to separate. Akiko, for her part, seemed resigned to the task of picking at her own wounds, and she refused to look directly at her interrogators. Her nerves w ­ ere frayed, and her voice began to ­tremble. “It’s been terribly difficult up u ­ ntil now, with both of us working, but when we start living separately I think it’s only ­going to be harder. It’s ­going to be much, much harder.”

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“Could I ask you to please face each other now and smile?” It was time for the photo­g raph, and once the chairs had been rearranged, leaving just Kōsuke and Akiko sitting in front of a decorative screen, it was the cameraman now who offered ­these perfunctory instructions. And so it was that, in a corner of the newspaper’s conference room, which looked so calm and quiet but at same time seemed to roar, Kōsuke and Akiko did as they ­were told, shifting their knees ­toward each other and ­gently smiling. In front of them they could see Miyazaki and the o ­ thers discussing something among themselves. “Well, thank you,” said the photographer, lowering his device. Akiko turned around to hide her face from him, as though she ­were adjusting her chair. But as she faced the wooden screen, where no one could see her, she felt compelled in a very natu­ral way to scratch an itch she felt, emotionally speaking. Without giving it much thought, she suddenly screwed up her face, and bared her teeth with snarl.

24 “In a n y c a s e , l e t’s g o get the kids.” This was Kōsuke’s suggestion, made in the hope of using the soft, pink bodies of their c­hildren as a way of mitigating the tensions at home that he himself had exacerbated. They set off together to the summer resort where the c­ hildren w ­ ere still staying. It had been an unusual year, without a single clear day all summer long. Given that it was well into September, the seaside resort had changed, just as Kōichi had described it, into a lonely, ­little village amid the dunes. With the colorful posters and billboards all put away, the town had cleaned up nicely. T ­ here was a

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real substance to the town now, which gave it a calming effect. Even the insects could be heard chirping in the bushes in mid­after­noon. And having chased away all the city slickers, the h ­ ouses on the main street seemed to sit in silence, their inhabitants ­free to stretch out their limbs a bit and enjoy some quiet, private time of their own. Are we the only ones to keep our kids h ­ ere for so long? thought Akiko, feeling more or less guilty of abandoning her c­ hildren. The c­ hildren shed tears of joy upon seeing them, and in the rooms they rented an unseasonably raucous scene ensued. They made the decision to stay for one more night, and then Kōsuke made a proposal as a way of apologizing to his ­children. “Well, now that papa’s h ­ ere, how about we all go out for a boat r­ ide,” he said, getting up to go outside. Kōichi instantly turned in surprise, and, as was his habit, he ran up to his ­father’s side. Tetsuko took her ­mother’s hand and followed b­ ehind them. The c­ hildren and their ­mother w ­ ere headed off for a boat ­r ide with papa. The clouds seemed to hang low over the wide open sea. Just offshore they found a clam fishery, marked with large stakes jutting out of the ­water, on top of which perched several seagulls, resting their wings and bobbing their softly rounded heads up and down. Kōsuke manipulated the oars as he explained the sights to the c­ hildren, but with his eyes he was ­doing l­ittle e­ lse than whispering into Akiko’s ear. As she looked at Kōsuke over the tiny heads of their c­ hildren, she held before her eyes a vivid reminder of their connection. Once again she felt how much pain they had unintentionally caused each other, and her body responded now with a wave of love that made her shudder. As though her heart, too, ­were a sea sponge drenched by the salty waves, her eyes began to glisten though still wide open. Out on the open sea, with nothing to obstruct the view around her, Kōsuke’s body seemed to loom largely in front of Akiko, as though ­there was nothing ­else for her eyes to see. The expression on his face just then lodged itself within the orbit of her soul.

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­ ater that night Akiko remembered her lonely visit to the L seaside earlier that summer. As she had listened to the faint sounds of her c­ hildren and grand­mother sleeping alongside her in the mosquito net that night, she had felt a chill pondering the gravity of a f­ uture living all on her own. To­n ight, however, Kōsuke was ­here lying alongside them. Akiko held herself back from saying anything to him in front of the ­children, but she ­couldn’t help but make a gesture, so as not wake the o ­ thers, to suggest they get up and go outside. A layer of fog had enveloped the town that night, anticipating the autumn to come. The beach was wide and shallow h ­ ere, so t­here was no sound of crashing waves, no sound whatsoever but for the whistle of an electric train hooting far in the distance. Instead of heading ­toward the sea, they turned into the village center and walked along the private train line, which led out into the distant farmland. From below their soft footsteps they could hear the sound of crickets chirping, a sound that almost filled the night air. The distinct sounds of pine crickets and bell crickets seemed to come in waves, the one giving way to the other. The fields soon made way for the elevated train station and its electric lights, glowing dimly in the heavy fog. But as they walked along the small path that paralleled the tracks, drenching their feet in the dew-­ soaked grasses, they themselves seemed to gradually dis­appear into the darkness, only to reemerge, floating inside the mist that enshrouded them. In front of them now stood a dark hill wooded with young pines. “Hey, where are we ­going?” Kōsuke felt overwhelmed by Akiko’s feverish energy. His arm firmly in her grasp, he turned to read the expression on her face, but she was staring straight ahead, trampling the grass ­u nderfoot as she dragged him along, and gasping for breath as she spoke, “Come on now, come on.” As though possessed by her emotions, she began pounding her legs into the slope of the hill, her body perfectly erect as she ascended it.

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From atop the hill t­ here was a view of the wide open sea during daylight hours, but now only a few young pine trunks stood out against the narrow horizon. In contrast to the coldness of the earth and the wet touch of the tall grasses, it was Kōsuke alone who felt warm to Akiko, and she felt the blood pulsing through her hand in his grip. From the town in the distance an electric train gradually approached them, sounding its siren relentlessly before fi­n ally hugging the hill and passing through the station just below them. The lights that shone inside the tiny boxes that the train from up h ­ ere resembled for a brief instant illuminated their figures up on the hill. It appeared to be the last train of the eve­n ing, and shortly thereafter the station’s electric lights all suddenly vanished, leaving nothing b­ ehind but the darkness and the fog. Back in Tokyo life seemed to have returned to its old rhythms. ­A fter Akiko worked into the wee hours of the morning, t­here’d be the sound of Yasuyo getting up downstairs, and then the sound of clattering breakfast dishes. Without any sense of feeling rested, Akiko would then soon be assaulted by the strident voices of Tetsuko and Kōichi—­“You lose, silly! This is the Osaka version of rock, paper and scissors”—­which to Akiko’s ears ­were almost novel. “The kids are back home ­after all!” she once found herself thinking, if only b­ ecause she still felt so terribly lonely. Back at her desk in the next room over, she once turned to see Kōsuke still engrossed in some book or another, and, clenching her fists in irritation, she felt as though nothing had changed whatsoever. One time she found herself on the point of tears, ready to scold him as might his own ­mother: “What in the world am I ­going to do with you?” Instead she ended up saying, “I feel sorry for you, Kōsuke.” “Me?” he replied, lifting his head out of his book and waving off her words. “Believe it or not, I actually feel fine. Instead of thinking about what she ­really wanted, I ended up focusing on my own ­career plans, and got ahead of myself. A ­ fter the showdown—­w ith

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me and Miyazaki, her and that shopkeeper—­I think I suddenly realized, ‘Well, I guess that’s the end of that.’ I walked right out of that shop and started laughing out loud in spite of myself. So, ­really, Akiko, it’s not a big deal.” Kōsuke tried to make light of his situation, but beneath the tone of his voice lingered a sense of deep misgiving, which sunk like sediment into the stream of his words. It was no less apparent to Akiko. “I’m so sorry,” she said, the expression on her face somewhere between a sob and a smile. Both she and Kōsuke knew the words w ­ ere of ­little comfort, however, as they wavered emptily in mid-­air. One day Kawada Masae came to deliver news about Takii Kishiko. Apparently they had fi­nally deci­ded to send her to the Bureau. Masae was now suggesting that Akiko, too, might consider visiting her before she was transferred. B ­ ecause Akiko had been arrested based on the same intelligence, ­there was some question about w ­ hether it would be pos­si­ble for her to visit Kishiko before her own case was settled. But Masae surmised that ­those close to Kishiko would most likely permit it. Once her official business had concluded, Masae then had something e­ lse to say, as though she ­were glad to fi­nally get it off her chest. “You know, I just have to say that I knew from the beginning ­there was something fishy about that girlfriend of his. I mean, she would have suffered horribly with someone like you as the victimized wife, ­don’t you think? If she ­really had taken the ­whole ­thing seriously . . .” I imagine she’s right, thought Akiko. Instead of thinking about it from the perspective of the jealous wife, Masae was foregrounding the facts, and pointing out how stupid the ­whole plan had been from its conception. Akiko felt herself blushing at how frivolous ­she’d become. “When I saw the photo­g raph of the w ­ oman, she did seem like a decent person, you know. So I just assumed s­he’d taken

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Kōsuke’s intentions as being honorable. I do won­der, though, why I never once held any hard feelings against her.” But even this, she now regretted, had been an expression of her strong w ­ ill, and a coldness t­oward Kōsuke that had grown out of her desire for a change in the way she was living her life. Perhaps if I had flown into a jealous rage and threatened to rip out the w ­ oman’s hair, she mused self-­critically, that would have at least been one way of expressing my love. As she considered visiting Kishiko, however, she cringed at the thought that Kishiko might notice how much she had changed. She would most likely think her be­hav­ior an exaggerated response to the situation, and as a sign of her low self-­esteem. All too conscious of their own faults, Kōsuke and Akiko sought out each other’s com­pany with all the pathos of two dogs licking the wounds they had inflicted on each other. Kōsuke found in Akiko a place he could lean on emotionally, while Akiko, for her part, hoping to protect herself from a loneliness still rooted deeply in her heart, never left Kōsuke’s side. Even still, they w ­ ere conscious of a chill in the air that blew between them. One time, Kōsuke started fidgeting restlessly in his seat and then turned mischievously to ask, “Hey, Akiko, how about we go see a movie?” They headed out into the bustling nighttime streets, feeling as though they w ­ ere on the top of the world. Once they made their way into the theater and had settled into the darkness of the assembled crowd, they managed to lose touch with all sense of real­ity, as if they too w ­ ere shadows lit up on the screen. The liveliness of the band and the sheer silliness of the comedians managed to relieve their strained nerves. One night they found themselves returning from a similar night on the town, walking shoulder to shoulder, when a drunken man whose face they seemed to recognize suddenly shook his fin­ger at them. “Shame, shame on you! You should ­really try to be more discreet, with all that’s been in the papers.” The man’s

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boozy words w ­ ere said half in jest, but ­there was also something quite earnest about them. Akiko could feel the inevitable bitterness of her smile s­ ettle deeply into her chest. Kōsuke was sensitive enough to perceive this, but feeling embarrassed himself about what had just happened, only managed to aggravate her devastation. “Well, you know they all blame me anyway.” “This ­isn’t only about you, Kōsuke.” “No, ­you’re right. You’re the real victim h ­ ere. My sincerest apologies. I ­couldn’t possibly live as honest a life as you anyway.” “Oh, Kōsuke, that’s enough, ­isn’t it? ­There’s been enough bitterness between us already.” “­Don’t you worry. I have e­ very intention of leaving this ­house and finding an apartment of my own just as soon as I can.” “Is that why ­you’re so intent on tormenting me? ­Isn’t that a bit unfair? You know how sad that thought makes me . . .” “Well, I’m just getting what I deserve, am I not?” Oh, this man is simply impossible! mumbled Akiko u ­ nder her breath, turning her face despondently away from him. Given that Kōsuke and Akiko w ­ ere both good-­natured ­people, it was true they both tended to share their suffering with ­those around them whenever they craved a bit of sympathy. “I ­can’t tell you how much ­we’ve both suffered,” Akiko used to say as a means of getting attention, only to feel the shame now of being repeatedly slapped in the face for it. Her husband had been guilty, perhaps, of having a ­little fun on the side. But she was now using her work as a writer, apparently, to make excuses for the decisions she had made as his wife—­this was precisely the kind of humiliating accusation being hurled at her from the outside. And yet, what more could she do but dry her eyes, force a smile, and accept the criticism? Scoffing as much at herself as this ­thing called the public eye, Akiko once mentioned in passing to Kōsuke that perhaps the opinion makers w ­ ere right ­after all.

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“­There’s no need to make us sound like a pair of fools,” retorted Kōsuke, as though wiping off the mud she had flung onto both of them. Shortly thereafter ­there appeared another commentary about their scandal, one that compared Kōsuke’s and Akiko’s respective characters. “Well, what’s done is done, Kōsuke, and t­here’s nothing we can do about it. Of course t­ hey’re ­going to sympathize with me, and place all the blame on you.” “Well, I d­ on’t know, but I’ll tell you one t­hing . . . ​I’ve had enough of it!” Kōsuke had been so outraged by the indignity of ­these latest accusations his face actually went pale. How can we possibly succumb to this sort of social pressure? thought Akiko, overwhelmed by the wave of publicity that was crashing down upon them. Fully conscious of that social pressure, they still found themselves swept away by it, l­ittle by ­little. If at first they had sought to mutually console each other in response to it, however, they now felt compelled to poke viciously at each other’s wounds. Having lost all sense of pretense in the wake of scandal, they now quarreled openly, drawing on a reservoir of hateful, even shameless, words they would never have dreamed of using earlier. And the more they quarreled, the more lonesome they grew. Akiko’s emotions, up u ­ ntil the very end, pierced the air with a pitch that verged on the hysterical. Kōsuke, for his part, was also deeply disturbed. But he was braced for anything that might come his way, and he managed to hold his own. As the days went by, the very air between them seemed hewn a deeper shade of gray, perhaps a sign their relationship was in fact unsalvageable. What they shared was the common belief that their private life had been a failure. If this feeling of resignation sank into a stubborn narcissism, their self-­scorn verged on the nihilistic. They each went about their respective work, forever rubbing each other the wrong way. “That’s right. I’ll bet you ­can’t wait for the day when I march right out of this ­house forever, can you? I know ­you’re fed

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up with me. Must I apologize now for making you put up with me for so long?” Kōsuke flung ­these words at Akiko hatefully. But then, as though to intentionally contradict himself, he added, “But I’d never think for a moment that you kicked me out of my own ­house. So d­ on’t you worry.” Akiko twisted her lips into an incredulous smile, then glared piercingly into his pale face.

About the Author SATA Ineko (1904–1998) was one of the most prominent and prolific writers of twentieth-­century Japan. She followed a unique path for a writer in Japan, one that took her from life as a child laborer and a café waitress on to an illustrious seventy-­year ­career as a writer and activist. A product of both literary modernism and the revolutionary avant-­garde, Sata became famous for drawing on modernist techniques to highlight social inequalities. Eventually jailed and brought to court for her antiwar activism, Sata would subsequently succumb to the pressures of the fascist state by producing World War II propaganda, but a­ fter the war spent more than half a ­century in atonement. Over the course of her long c­ areer she accrued an astonishing array of literary prizes, including the W ­ omen’s Lit­er­a­t ure Prize (1963), the Kawabata Yasunari Literary Award (1976), and the Asahi Prize (1983) for her contribution to modern Japa­nese lit­er­a­ture. She left b­ ehind over a dozen novels and memoirs, as well as hundreds of shorter stories and essays, which bear witness to the extraordinary historical scope of her work and her faith in the power of fiction as a force for social change.

A b o u t t h e E d i t o r / Tr a n s l a t o r Samuel PERRY is associate professor of East Asian Studies at Brown University. Perry is the author of Recasting Red Culture in Proletarian ­Japan: Childhood, ­Korea, and the Historical Avant-­garde (University of Hawai‘i Press, 2014). Awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Translation Fellowship in 2013 for his work on Sata Ineko, he is also the translator of the Korean novel From Wŏnso Pond (The Feminist Press, 2009) by Kang Kyŏng-ae, and of several other works of Japa­nese and Korean lit­ er­a­ture. He is now at work on a historical monograph about Japa­nese culture during the Korean War, as well as an anthology of Korean fiction called “The Melancholy of Queer ­Korea.”