七 3

You can tell who's holding the reins. Country folk are stingy, though, so even a mere two-sen difference in fare seems to weigh heavily on them, and most ride third class. After Red Shirt, Madonna and Madonna's mother went into first class. Uranari always rides third class, as if stamped by a printing press. The teacher stood at the entrance to the third-class compartment, looking rather hesitant, but the moment he saw my face he steeled himself and jumped inside. I felt inexplicably sorry for him just then, so I followed right behind Uranari and got into the same compartment. There's no harm in riding third with a first-class ticket.

When we arrived at the hot springs and I went down to the bath from the third floor in my yukata, I ran into Uranari again. I'm the type who clams up and can't talk when something's decided like a meeting or whatnot, but normally I'm quite the talker, so I tried striking up all sorts of conversations with Uranari in the bath. He just seemed so pitiful I couldn't stand it. I think it's an Edokko's duty to comfort a man's heart with even a word at such a time. But unfortunately Uranari didn't pick up on my tone at all. No matter what I said, it was just "eh" or "yes," and even those "eh"s and "yes"es seemed quite a burden, so in the end I cut it short and excused myself.

I didn't meet Red Shirt in the bath. There are plenty of tubs, though, so even arriving on the same train doesn't mean you'll meet in the same one. I didn't think much of it. After the bath the moon was lovely. Willows were planted along both sides of the town, their round shadows falling across the road. I thought I'd take a little stroll. Climbing north to the edge of town, there was a large gate on the left, with a temple straight ahead and brothels on either side. A pleasure quarter inside a temple gate—a phenomenon unprecedented. I wanted to peek in, but figured the badger might chew me out at the next meeting, so I passed by without stopping. Next to the gate was a small, single-story lattice-windowed place with a black curtain, where I'd eaten dumplings and botched things. A round lantern with "sweet bean soup" and "rice cake soup" written on it hung there, its light illuminating a willow trunk near the eaves. I thought I'd like to eat, but restrained myself and walked on.

It's a shame not to eat the dumplings you want. But it's surely a greater shame when your own betrothed turns her heart to another. Thinking of Uranari, I couldn't complain even if I fasted three days, let alone skipped dumplings. Truly nothing is as unreliable as a human being. Looking at that face, you'd never think he'd do something so heartless—but the beautiful one is heartless, and the old Mr. Koga, puffed up like a wax gourd, is the virtuous gentleman, so you can't let your guard down. The calm Yanami I thought mild turned out to have incited the students. And having incited them, he then pressed the principal for their punishment. The smug, kneaded-together Red Shirt was unexpectedly kind, even cautioning me as an outsider—yet he deceives Madonna; and just when you think he deceived her, it turns out Koga said he won't marry unless the engagement is broken. Thinking Ika will pick a fight and drive me out, a new guy is swapped in right away—nothing can be counted on. If I wrote this to Kiyo she'd surely be shocked. Being beyond Hakone, she might say monsters have gathered.

I've always been the careless type, taking nothing to heart and scraping by till now, but within a month of coming here—less, even—I suddenly find the world a treacherous place. No grand events befell me, yet I feel aged five or six years. Best to wrap things up and return to Tokyo soon. Mulling thus from one thought to the next, I found myself crossing the stone bridge onto the bank of the wild-celery river. "River" sounds grand, but it's a trickle barely a yard wide; following the bank some twelve chō downstream brings you to Aioi Village, where a Kannon statue stands.

Looking back at the hot-spring town, red lights glimmered in the moonlight. The drum must be from the pleasure quarter. The stream is shallow but swift, shimmering restlessly like nervous water. Strolling the bank, after some three chō I noticed figures ahead. Against the moon, two shadows. Perhaps young men returning to the village from the springs. Yet they sing no song—unusually quiet.

As I walked on, being the faster, the two shadows grew larger. One seemed a woman. Hearing my steps, when they'd closed to some ten yards, the man suddenly turned. The moon was behind him. Seeing his face then, I wondered. The man and woman resumed walking. Curious, I broke into a full sprint. Unaware, they kept their slow pace. Now their voices were clear as handled. The bank was six feet wide—three abreast at most. I caught up easily from behind, brushed the man's sleeve, stepped two paces ahead, wheeled, and peered into his face. The moon lit my cropped head to chin, no courtesy given. The man gave a small "ah," then turned aside and, urging the woman "let's go back," turned back toward the town.

Is Red Shirt brazen, meaning to bluff? Or timid, failing to name himself? Yet I wasn't the only one cornered by the narrowness.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”