「何ちゅうても、気のちごうとんなるとやきね」

と、母は言う。

「お玉さんな、まァだ？」

「物乞(ほいと)に行とんなるとやもん、何のそげ早よ戻んなるもんね」

物乞(ほいと)……と言うとき、母はちょっと眉をしかめた。

「物乞(ほいと)ちゃ何(なん)？」

「……自分な働かんで、他人にお辞儀ばして、銭はもらいよう人たい」

「ふんなら、悪か人？」

「……悪か人じやなかばって、仕事を好かっしゃれんき、横着者(おうどもん)のして、怠けもんたいね」

久子(母)と私
『十二の遠景』より
高橋睦郎著

私はお多賀さんの祭りの日、お宮に渡る陸橋の階段や、砂利道に坐って、ぶっぶつ呟いている汚い身なりをした人びとを思い乏べていた。着飾った大人たちに手を引かれた着飾った子供たち、飲んだくれた男たち、消防団員たち、国防婦人会、それら、ぞろぞろすぎる足たちの前に額垂れ、わずかな投げ銭にお辞儀をするこの苦行の人びとが横着者だとは、私には思えなかった。

「本当(ほん)な事(こと)、好いて物乞(ほいと)しよんなるとやろか？」

「好いてくさ。好いてやなからにゃ、良ゥか身分ば捨てて、どけして家ば跳び出すもんね」

ここでは、母は明らかにお玉さんのことを言っていた。

「お玉さんも、お多賀さんの日にゃ、石段のとこに坐んなると？」

私は、祭りの日の石段に坐っていた人びとの記憶の中から、お玉さんらしい人影を探そうとした。しかし、母の答は、

「お玉さんな気は狂(ちご)うとっても、気位の高いき、祭りの物乞はしなれん」

母はお玉さんに同情していた。というより、むしろ、お玉さんになりたかったのではないだろうか。気が狂う条件なら、はるかに自分のほうか揃っている。いっそ気狂いになって世の外へ逃れたほうかどんなにらくか知れない……と、母はそう言いたかったのではあるまいか。そうでもなければ、母か次のように言って、翳った笑いを見せたのか、理解できない。

「もし、もしかして……ばい、母ちゃんかお玉さんの如なったなら、如何(どげ)すんね？」

「…………」

返答に困って黙っていると、母は小さな威しでしめくくった。

「嘘たい。ばって、お前のちゃんと言うことば聞かんなら、いつお玉さんの如なるかわかちんよ」

絵日傘を開いて、母は歩き出していた。小走りに追っかけなから、私はまだお玉さんのことか気になっていた。

「まァだ戻んなれんと？　お玉さんな」

「頓野から帰りがけにゃ、居(お)んなろうばい」

しかし、頓野からの帰り途、勘六橋を渡る時にも、お玉さんの姿はなかった。

私は、ふとシンゴー町のことを思い出していた。そうだ、お玉さんはきっとシンゴー町に行ったにちかいない。どこにもあって、どこにもない幻の町、そこにお玉さんはいるのだ。

いや、そう言うだけでは充分ではない。まず、お玉さんの住まいである勘六橋、つまり、いまのいま、自分か母といっしょに渡っている足の下の橋じたいか、どこにもあってどこにもないシンゴー町ではないのか。さらに言えば、お玉さんという存在じたいか幻のシンゴー町ではあるまいか。

母や祖母、そのほかの大人たちは、お玉さんについて、さも見て来たように話す。けれども、ほんとうはお玉さんを見た人はないのではないだろうか。どこにもいてどこにもいない存在、それがお玉さんなのではあるまいか。そうだとすれば、自分たちもいつお玉さんにならないとも限らない･･････。

しかし、私は母には何も言わなかった。夕焼けの世界に架かった長い橋を渡って、私たちは誰そ彼の町に入った。

『十二の遠景』より（1970）

“After all, she is crazy,” Mother said.

“Isn’t she back yet?”

“She’s gone out begging. She probably won’t be back anytime soon.” When Mother said the word “begging,” she knitted her eyebrows slightly.

“What does ‘begging’ mean?”

She was silent for a moment. “It’s when you don’t work. Instead, you bow in front of people and get money from them.”

“Does that mean they’re bad people?”

She paused again. “They’re not bad people, but because they don’t like to work, they just act lazy and don’t do anything.”

My Mother Hisako and I
FROM Twelve Views from the Distance
BY Mutsuo Takahashi

I remembered the people I had seen on the day of the festival at the Taga Shrine. They sat on the bridge to the shrine, the steps, and the gravel road, dirty and mumbling to themselves. They were the ones who lowered their heads in front of the dressed-up people who dragged their dressed-up children by the hands. They were the ones who crouched on the ground before the drunkards, the firemen, and the ladies of the National Protection Housewives’ Association shuffling by. They were the ones who bowed when the slightest bit of change was thrown their way. I couldn’t believe that these people, who suffered so much, were lazy.

“Are they begging because they want to?”

“Of course. If they didn’t want to, why do you think they’d throw away perfectly good positions in society and leave their homes?” Her answer made it clear she was thinking of Otama-san.

“So does Otama-san also sit there on the stone steps when the Taga festival’s going on?” I looked back through my memories to see if I could remember anyone sitting on the steps the day of the festival who matched Otama-san’s description.

But Mother said, “Otama-san’s crazy, but she’s still proud and won’t come to beg at the festival.”

Mother sympathized with Otama-san — or rather, I wonder if there wasn’t some part of her that wanted to be like Otama-san. If she was crazy, then it would be much easier to resign herself to her situation as a single mother without any support. I suspect Mother thought, “It would be so much easier if I were just a little bit crazier and could escape to someplace outside the world…” If that was not what she was thinking, I do not know what to make of her next utterance, which she delivered with a shadowy smile: “What would you do if — just if — Mommy were to become like Otama-san?”

I clammed up, not knowing what to say.

Seeing that I was at a loss for words, Mother retracted her little threat. “I’m just kidding. But if you don’t listen carefully to what I’ve got to say, who knows? Maybe I might end up like Otama-san someday.”

Mother opened her decorated parasol and began walking. Walking briskly behind her, I was still preoccupied with thoughts of Otama-san. “Isn’t she back yet? Otama-san, I mean.”

“She’ll probably be there when we go home from Tonno.” But when we crossed the Kanroku Bridge on our way back from Tonno, Otama-san was still nowhere to be seen.

I suddenly remembered the town of Shingō. No doubt that was where she had gone. The illusory town that was everywhere and that was nowhere at the same time — that was where Otama-san had to be.

But no, that wouldn’t explain everything. Otama-san lived at the Kanroku Bridge. Didn’t that mean that the bridge that Mother and I had crossed with our very feet just now was itself the town of Shingō — the place that was everywhere and nowhere at the same time? Or maybe it was even simpler than that. Perhaps Otama-san herself was the illusory town of Shingō.

Mother, Grandmother, and all the other adults talked about Otama-san as if they had seen her with their own eyes, but I couldn’t help wondering if anyone had ever seen her for real. Someone who was everywhere and also nowhere — she was like that, wasn’t she? If so, there was no guarantee that we not might also end up like her…

However, Mother didn’t say a thing. We crossed the long bridge leading into the sunset and entered the town which lay before us.

— EXCERPT FROM THE MEMOIR Twelve Views from the Distance (1970)