Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was an early autumn dusk.

At Izuya, a boat inn in Shiodome, two men who appeared to be rogues had been sitting face to face on the front second floor, repeatedly exchanging drinks for some time now.

One was a dark-skinned, somewhat stout man whose build—clad in Yūki tsumugi silk garments with a Happan flat obi fastened about him—combined with the old Chinese karasan short coat worn over them to give his weathered appearance an even more dashing air.
The other was a pale-skinned man of rather small stature, but whether due to the striking tattoos extending to his wrists, or the way his faded kobenkei garment had an abacus-beaded sash coiled three feet long about it, the overall effect evoked not so much dashing spirit as a menacing air of dissolution.
Not only did this man appear somewhat lacking in refinement, but he also persistently used the title "Boss" when addressing his companion.
Yet their ages appeared roughly similar, and this very fact meant their camaraderie flowed more freely than the typical boss-subordinate relationship seen in the world—a truth made evident in the way they pressed drinks upon each other.

Though called an early autumn dusk, the setting sun still blazed crimson upon the Karasu-style plastered wall across the way, and the willow tree bathed in its light stood thick with luxuriant foliage—enough to vividly recall the lingering summer heat not long past. Therefore, even on this boat inn's front second floor—where reed blinds had already been replaced by paper doors—the summer lingering reluctantly over Edo displayed endless traces in the Iyo reed screens hanging from handrails, the ink-painted waterfall scroll left forgotten on the alcove wall since who-knows-when, and even in the dining utensils like water shells and rinsing bowls laid out between the two men. Indeed, even the occasional gentle breeze that drifted over from the bright waters of the canal just one street away—each time it tousled their slicked-back hair brushed slightly to the left—brought the two tipsy men a sense of coolness, yet not a hint of autumn’s characteristic chill. As for the pale-skinned man in particular, his attire had fallen open so conspicuously across his chest that one might almost glimpse the cold glint of a silver talisman chain.

Having even dismissed the maids, the two had been engrossed in secret discussion for some time, but when this too seemed to have reached a pause, the dark-skinned, somewhat stout man casually returned his sake cup to his companion and, taking up the tobacco pouch from beneath his knee,

“So that’s the reason I’ve finally returned to Edo after three years.”

“No wonder I did think your return was a bit too late.”
“But hey, if you hadn’t come back like this, it wouldn’t just be your subordinates—all us Edo natives would’ve been delighted, you know.”
“You’re the only one who’d say that.”
“Heh heh, you do say such things, sir.”

The pale-skinned small-statured man deliberately glared at the other man and smirked with a mischievous air,

“Why don’t you try asking Miss O-Hana about that?”

“There’s no such thing.”

The man called Boss kept the heart-shaped pipe clenched between his teeth, allowing a faint wry smile to surface momentarily before his expression turned serious again,

"But in the three years I haven't laid eyes on it, Edo's changed beyond all recognition."

"Changed? It hasn't changed one bit.
"The way those unlicensed quarters have gone to ruin—why, it beggars belief, I tell you."

"When it comes to this, maybe it's not just old men's talk—I find myself longing for the old days after all."

"The only thing that hasn't changed is me. Heh heh, no matter how much time passes, I'm still stuck right here."

The man in the kobenkei-patterned yukata threw back his received cup in one gulp, then immediately used that same hand to wipe droplets from the corner of his mouth before quirking his eyebrows in self-mockery,

“Looking at it now, three years ago was like heaven on earth.
“Hey Boss, back when you quit Edo—even if they didn’t reach Ishikawa Goemon’s league—weren’t there at least some keen-eyed bastards among the thieves? Take that Nezumi Kozō for instance.”

“What rot you’re spewing!
“What fool in any land would lump me together with common thieves?”

The man in the karasan short coat choked on his tobacco smoke, letting slip another wry smile, but his iron-nerved companion paid this no mind whatsoever and downed another cup himself,

“Take a good look around these days.”
“Those petty scoundrels are as common as dirt swept up with a broom, but a burglar of that caliber—why, you never hear of one nowadays, do you?”

“So what if you don’t hear of ’em? Isn’t that better?”
“Every country has its thieves; every house its rats.”
“The world’s better off without burglars at all.”

“Better off without ’em.”
“Better off without ’em—ain’t that right?”

The pale-skinned, small-statured man extended his tattooed arm, offering the sake cup to the Boss,

“When I think about those days, heh heh—strange thing is—I start getting nostalgic for thieves.”
“You’re already well aware of this, but that Nezumi Kozō fellow—his spirit’s what I admire most.”
“Hey, Boss.”

“No lie.”
“Backing up thieves? That’s a job for gamblers.”

“Heh heh, this one’s the most presumptuous of all.”

With that said and having given a slight shrug of his kobenkei-clad shoulders, he immediately regained his spirited tone and—

“Not that I’m one to defend thieves or anything, but he sneaks into those warm-pocketed daimyo mansions, swipes their household funds, and hands ’em out to paupers being hounded that very day—that’s what they say he does.”
“Now, I know good and evil ain’t two separate things—but seeing as we’re stealing anyway, I figure a villain oughta rack up some secret virtue while he can. Leastways, that’s how someone like me sees it.”

“Is that so.”
“If you put it that way, I suppose there’s no helping it.”
“No—that Nezumi Kozō bastard probably never even dreamed in his wildest fantasies that the naked pine of Kaidaichō would show him favor.”
“When you think about it, he was a divinely fortunate thief.”

The dark-skinned, slightly plump man returned the sake cup to his companion and spoke with unexpected solemnity, but soon—as if recalling something—grandly shifted his knees forward and suddenly broke into a bright smile,

“Well then, listen up.
"I too saw that Nezumi Kozō put on an absurd farce—even now, whenever I recall it, my sides split from laughing."

The man called Boss, after delivering this preface, casually took up his pipe again and began his tale alongside tobacco smoke rings disappearing into the sunset.

Two

Exactly three years ago, when I abandoned Edo after an under-the-table deal conducted over a zabuton cushion.

Since the Tōkaidō was slightly too conspicuous and the roads poor, I had no choice but to take the Kōshū Highway to Minobu—unforgettably setting out from Araki-chō in Yotsuya on the eleventh day of the twelfth month, finally disguising myself as a wandering traveler. As you well know, my attire would have been two layers of Yūki tsumugi silk with a single harpoon-patterned Hakata obi, a travel dagger thrust into my sash beneath a leather-brown half-coat and sedge hat.
Naturally, beyond a single split baggage, it was a solitary journey with no travel companions.
The leg-wraps and straw sandals of his travel attire appeared deceptively light at first glance, but when he considered how long it would be before these knees of his would again see daylight in Edo—how they would go unvenerated—his spirits grew heavy with each old-fashioned step, feeling as though his hair were being tugged at from behind.

The day proved maliciously cold with snow-laden clouds clinging to the earth—all the more so along the Kōshū Highway where indistinct mountains shrouded in clouds stood like folding screens above mulberry fields stripped bare of even a single withered leaf. A siskin clinging to one of those branches appeared to have frozen its throat raw from the cold, left utterly voiceless in the biting air.
To compound matters, a bone-chilling dry wind would periodically slice through the pass, violently whipping the raincoat sideways with icy gusts.
No matter how much one boasted, an Edoite unaccustomed to travel stood defenseless.
I gripped the brim of my sedge hat and looked back toward Edo countless times—who could say how often?—the same Edo I had departed that morning through Yotsuya and Shinjuku.

Then my lack of travel experience must have looked pitiful even to passersby's eyes.
When I left Fuchū inn, what seemed like a respectable young man caught up from behind and began chattering incessantly.
At first glance he wore standard traveler's gear—navy raincoat and sedge hat—but carried a faded striped cotton bundle around his neck, his washed-thin striped kimono paired with a frayed obi. With a balding patch above his right temple and sullen jawline that made his face perpetually bitter, he looked like someone who could chill your pockets just by existing—no wind required.
Yet contrary to appearances, he seemed decent enough, kindly pointing out notable sights along the way.
I'd wanted company all along.

“Where are you headed?”

“I am heading to Kōfu.”
“And where might you be headed, sir?”

“Oh, I’m making a pilgrimage to Minobu.”

“By the way, sir, you’re from Edo, aren’t you?”
“And whereabouts in Edo do you reside, sir?”

“The plant shop in Kayabachō, oh.”
“Are you from Edo too?”

“Well, I am Echigoya Jūkichi—a small goods merchant in Fukagawa’s Rokkenbori.”

So went their exchange.
While sharing nostalgic tales of Edo and feeling they’d found good companions in each other, they hurried along the road together—and just as they neared Hino lodging, white flakes began swirling down.
It scarcely felt like solitary travel anymore.
With dusk already fallen around seven and plovers’ cries cutting through their bones beneath this snow-heavy sky, pressing on toward Hino tonight became unavoidable—yet however light their purses might be, this much held true: their resolve owed itself entirely to having Echigoya Jūkichi as fellow traveler.

“Sir, since this snow will make tomorrow’s journey quite impossible, shouldn’t we try to make it to Hachiōji within today?”

When told this, they found themselves resolved and somehow managed to reach Hachiōji through the snow.
The sky had already grown completely dark, the roofs on both sides—long since turned white—overlapping as if pressing down upon the highway still faintly visible in the night’s gloom. Beneath them here and there, hanging lanterns glowed crimson, and the bell of a horse returning late drew gradually nearer—all effortlessly composing a scene straight from a ukiyo-e snowscape.
Then that fellow called Echigoya Jūkichi, taking the lead and trampling through the snow,

“Sir, I humbly ask that we stay together tonight.”

Since he kept pestering me about it so many times, and I had no reason to object,

“If that’s how you wish it, I’d be glad not to feel lonely.”
“But unfortunately, this is my first time coming to Hachiōji.”
“I don’t know any inns here.”

“Well, that Yamajin over there is my regular lodgings.”

True to his word, he led me into an inn called Shinmise—still illuminated by its hanging lantern—which featured a wide earthen-floored entrance that appeared to connect directly to the kitchen at the rear.
When we entered inside, before the clerk clinging to the lion-mouthed brazier in front of the counter could even say “Let me wash your feet”—though it felt miserly—the smell of rice and soup had already blended with steam and heat from the fire, pungently assaulting our noses.
Then, promptly removing our straw sandals, we climbed up to the second-floor parlor together with a maid who had lowered the lantern. After warming ourselves in a bath and knocking back two or three cups of hot sake to fend off the cold, that fellow Echigoya Jūkichi—a habitual drunkard incapable of restraint yet normally tight-lipped—launched into an uncharacteristic torrent of words.

“Sir, this sake should suit your taste.”
“Why don’t you try taking the Kōshū Road from here, sir?”
“You simply can’t get sake like this anywhere else!”
“Heh heh, it’s an old joke—with Yoemon’s wife, not just me but over and over—”

While his chatter had been tolerable at first, once two or three sake bottles stood emptied, he began drooping the corners of his eyes, making his nose glisten with oil, and shaking his sullen jaw with affected flair,

"Sake holds many grudges, you see. Even someone like me—though I say this in your presence, sir—overindulging in teahouse sake has proved to be my own undoing."
"Ah, ah—that fickle Shitō makes one lose their way!"

he began singing in a quavering voice.
I was truly at my wit’s end—since I thought there was nothing for it but to put him to sleep—so after judging the right moment for dinner,

“Alright, get some sleep—tomorrow’s an early start.
“Get to sleep.”

After hurriedly urging the man—still reluctant to part with the sake bottle—to finally lie down (perhaps not the most tactful approach), that scoundrel who had been so boisterous let out a liquor-stenched yawn the moment his head touched the pillow,

“Ah, ah—that fickle Shitō makes one lose their way!”

He let out that creepy voice once more, but after that turned into snores—no matter how much the rats stirred, he didn’t so much as turn over once.

But this was a disaster.
No matter how you looked at it—having left Edo and this being my first night’s lodging—the quieter it grew around me with that snoring stuck in my ears, the more strangely I found myself unable to fall asleep.
Outside, the snow still hadn’t let up by the looks of it, occasionally pattering against the shutters with a dry whisper.
The rogue sleeping beside me might’ve been humming in his dreams for all I knew, but back in Edo—what with me being gone—there must’ve been a soul or two lying awake through the night worrying about me. Not that I’m being sentimental, mind you. The more I dwelled on such trifles, the wider awake I grew—until all I could think was how I wished dawn would hurry up and break.

I had heard the ninth hour strike and knew the eighth had already passed, but eventually I must have grown drowsy, for I found myself drifting off at some point. But when I suddenly awoke—perhaps because a mouse had tugged at the wick—the lamp by my pillow had gone out. To make matters worse, the bastard sleeping next to me who'd been snoring moments ago now lay as still as a corpse without making a single sound. Hmm, something's off here—I barely had time to think that when a human hand came crawling into my futon. And there it was—trembling violently all the while—searching for the knot of my money belt. Ah, I see. People aren't what they seem by their looks. To think that good-for-nothing was the Sesame Fly—this was too rich for words. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than I nearly burst out laughing—but remembering how I'd been drinking with this Sesame Fly until moments ago made resentment flare up instead—and when that scoundrel's fingers began working at untying the money belt's knot, I suddenly grabbed them in reverse and twisted upward before he knew what hit him. That Sesame Fly bastard—what's there to panic about? Just as he flailed wildly trying to break free, I threw the futon over his head and neatly ended up straddling him. Then that coward, forcing his way out from under the futon until only his face was exposed, let out a bizarre voice—hiccuping "M-m-murderer!"—as if imitating a strangled rooster. "You're the one who tried stealing from me, yet you're making a scene—I knew you were a fool from the start, but to think you'd be this pathetic!" I grabbed the pillow beside me and started pounding his face.

Well now, with that commotion being heard, the neighboring guests awoke, and the innkeeper and servants—their faces betraying that something had happened—came stomping up to the second floor, holding aloft a hand lantern. When they came to look, that bastard between my legs was already gasping for air, making a bizarre face—that’s how things stood. Anyone who saw this would burst out laughing.

“Hey, innkeeper—my apologies for all the ruckus caused by this damn flea pestering me.”
“You go give proper apologies to those other guests out there.”

That was all.
There was nothing left to explain—or not explain.
The servants immediately trussed up that bastard in tight coils and, swarming around him like a freshly captured river monster, dragged him down from the second floor.

Now then, after this, the Yamajin Innkeeper bowed deeply before me,

"Oh, what an utterly unforeseen calamity! You must have been terribly shocked."
"However, the fact that your travel funds and other belongings were not lost is at least a stroke of luck."
"Furthermore, we shall promptly hand that scoundrel over to the authorities at daybreak, so we earnestly beg your forgiveness for any inadequacies in our service."

he kept bowing repeatedly,

“Ah, not knowing he was the Sesame Fly and making him my traveling companion was my blunder.”
“There’s no call for you to go apologizing over that.”
“This here’s just a trifle, but see that the young lads who’ve been tending to us get a warm bowl of soba on me.”

After handing over the gratuity, I found myself truly alone and reflected—even if some post-town prostitute had rejected me, it wasn’t wise to keep leaning against the wall with arms crossed forever. That said, I couldn’t sleep now, and since it must be around six bells soon, I concluded it’d be best to set out early now even if the road was still dark. Having settled on this plan, I promptly began preparing, intending to settle the bill at the front desk. I quietly made my way to the staircase to avoid disturbing other guests—only to find that downstairs, the servants were still awake, their voices audible as they conversed.
Then, for some reason, within that conversation, the name Nezumi Kozō that I had just mentioned kept coming up frequently.
Thinking it strange, I peered down from the staircase landing still carrying my paired bundles, only to find that Echigoya Jūkichi—that tightwad—sat cross-legged with insolent ease in the center of the broad earthen floor, the end of his rope tied fast to a pillar.
Around him were also young men—the manager along with about three others—illuminated by the light of the eight-mat room as they rolled up their sleeves.
Among them, the manager—grasping an abacus in one hand, steam practically rising from his bald head—was heard saying something resentfully.

“Honestly now, even this Sesame Fly here might—given enough time—end up becoming a burglar to put Nezumi Kozō himself to shame.”
“Honestly, if that day ever comes, thanks to this guy here, every inn along the highway will have their reputations stained.”
“Thinking of that, it’d be a mercy to beat him to death now.”

Even as he spoke, a man in a horse-handler’s short coat—his beard grown shaggy and unkempt—leaned in close to stare at the Sesame Fly’s face,

“Mr. Manager, good grief—you’re spouting such groundless nonsense.”
“How could this good-for-nothing ever manage to play the role of Nezumi Kozō?”
“If you say the Sesame Fly’s got guts, anyone could tell just by looking at his face.”

“That’s not it. He’s just a Weasel Brat at best.” This was said by the inn’s young servant, who had taken up a fire-bamboo as his prop.

“Honestly now,”
“If you ask me, this ape here—before he even manages to steal someone’s money belt—looks like he’d get his own loincloth stolen first.”

“Rather than bungling his way as a traveling thief, he’d be better off sticking glue on a pole tip and sneaking bent coins from offering boxes with kids.”

“Bah! He’d do better standing in my millet field out back as a scarecrow.”

As everyone tormented him like this, that Echigoya Jūkichi—for a brief moment—did nothing but flutter his eyes in apparent frustration. But when the young servant pressed the fire-bamboo beneath his chin and forcibly lifted his face, he suddenly began rolling his tongue and—

“Hey, hey, hey! Aren’t these guys a bunch of damn fools?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re spouting nonsense to?”
“You may not think it to look at me, but this guy here has made something of a name for himself as the Sesame Fly who’s traveled all over Japan.”
“This is beyond disgraceful!”
“You country bumpkins, acting above your station with that highfalutin’ nonsense!”

At this, there was no doubt everyone was shocked. Truth be told, I had started descending the ladder, but that bastard’s bluster was so excessive that I found myself pausing halfway, deciding to observe how things would unfold below a while longer. Even the seemingly good-natured innkeeper had forgotten he’d brought out an abacus and was gaping at that bastard in astonishment. But the tough one in the horse-handler’s short coat—this fellow alone kept stroking his beard with an expression that said he didn’t care which way the wind blew,

“What’s so great about the Sesame Fly?”
“Three years ago, during that great storm, I’m the Kanta of Yokoyama Inn who caught Lord Thunder Beast with my bare hands.”
“If I show even a fraction of my true power, don’t you know a Sesame Fly like you would get crushed?”

Though he puffed himself up and threatened, the Sesame Fly fellow sneered derisively,

“Hmph! I haven’t sat through some pilgrim’s tales of Tateyama, so you think I’ll just roll over for your empty threats?”
“Hey! It’s a waste for waking you up, but I’ll lay bare my true self for you—so pick your earholes clean and listen good!”

Though he began his grand pronouncement in an awkwardly theatrical tone, one look at his face revealed his wretched state—a glistening trail of snot beneath his nose. To compound matters, the area I had struck—from the receding hairline near his temple down to his jaw—had swollen grotesquely as if his face had been twisted out of shape. Yet even these country bumpkins seemed somewhat swayed by the brazenness of that rogue’s claims. As he postured dramatically, spinning tales of his criminal exploits since childhood, even the shaggy-bearded man in the horse-handler’s coat—the self-proclaimed captor of Thunder Beasts—gradually stopped challenging the Sesame Fly. Seeing this, that wretch shook his mended jaw and swept a defiant glare across the three men,

“Hmph! You country bumpkins—did you think your little act would scare me?”
“In your dreams.”
“If you think I’m just some Sesame Fly, you’re dealing with someone else entirely.”
“You probably remember—on that stormy night last autumn, who was it that broke into this inn’s village headman’s place and made off with every last coin? None other than yours truly.”

“You bastard! To that village headman—”

It wasn’t just the innkeeper who had spoken.
The young man holding the fire-bamboo also seemed to have lost his nerve; letting out an involuntary cry, he stumbled back two or three steps.

“That’s right. If you’re shocked by that little job, you’re still wet behind the ears.”
“Now, listen up good.”
“Just the other day at Kobotoke Pass—who do you think did in those two couriers?”

That bastard sniffled back snot and rattled off increasingly outrageous crimes—breaking into storehouses in Fuchū, setting fires at Hino Post Station, nearly assaulting pilgrim women in the Ashigawa Pass mountains—but strangely enough, as he went on, the innkeeper and two men gradually became courteous toward that tight-lipped man.
Especially the large-framed man in the horse-handler’s short coat, crossing his arms that seemed to possess brute strength, stared intently at that bastard’s face while,

“You… What a villain you are, I must say.”

When the man let out a growling voice, a surge of amusement welled up within me—I nearly burst out laughing. Moreover, that Sesame Fly had likely sobered up by now; his face was deathly pale, teeth chattering uncontrollably, yet he kept up his bold front through words alone:

“What’s this? Finally grown a spine?”
“But my takings ain’t anywhere near that level yet.”
“The reason I slipped outta Edo this time? ’Cause my disguise got stripped off after I strangled two folks and some old hag with my own hands—all just to get my mitts on that dirty money.”

When he struck that theatrical pose, all three gasped as if facing a star kabuki actor, gaping reverently at his face swollen from the temples downward.
Finding this farce unbearable, I'd resolved to stop watching and begun descending two or three ladder rungs when that bald innkeeper—God knows what possessed him—suddenly slapped his thigh and,

"Ah! I've got it!
"I've got it!"
"That Rat Thief everyone whispers about—that's your alias, eh?"

When he let out that shrill cry, I suddenly changed my mind again. Wanting to hear what nonsense he’d spout next, I found myself pausing once more on the dimly lit ladder’s middle rung.
Then, that Sesame Fly bastard glared sharply at the innkeeper—
“You’ve hit the mark—can’t do a thing about that now.”
“Indeed, the much-talked-about Nezumi Kozō in Edo—that’s me.”
He sneered with arrogance.
But no sooner had he said this than his body gave a shudder, followed by two or three pitiful sneezes in quick succession—utterly ruining his menacing glare.
Even so, the three louts didn’t even wait for a sumo wrestler’s ceremonial challenge—they just kept egging on that idiot Jūkichi,

“I’d been thinking the same thing.”
“Three years back in that big storm—I’m Kanta from Yokoyama Inn, the one who caught Lord Thunder Beast bare-handed. Even cryin’ kids hush at my name.”
“You stand before me now, and not a twitch outta you.”

“No mistake there. Now that you mention it, there’s a certain sharpness in your eyes.”

“Honestly! Like I’ve been sayin’ from the start—this guy here’s gonna make one hell of a burglar.”
“Honestly!”
“Even Homer sometimes nods—even the best let water slip through their hands tonight.”
“It leaked—but this one ain’t leakin’ at all.”
“The guests upstairs’ll be stripped bare, I tell ya.”

Though they didn’t even try to untie the rope, they all kept buttering him up.
Then again, that Sesame Fly bastard wasn’t putting on airs anymore.

“Now then, innkeeper—your master’s had a stroke of luck, having Nezumi Kozō stay at your inn.”
“If you let my throat go dry like this, I tell ya, this inn’s good fortune’ll run out.”
“Hey, just use the measure—pour me about five cups of sake, will ya?”

A bastard like this had some nerve, but the innkeeper who took him at his word was just as much of a fool.
Under the eight-mat light, when I saw that bald-pated innkeeper making that drunken Sesame Fly drink sake from a measure, it wasn’t just Yamajin’s servants—the utter foolishness of people everywhere was so funny, so funny, I could hardly bear it.
Why, you ask?
Though we’re all called villains, snatch thieves over home invaders, pickpockets over arsonists—even those are still lesser crimes, aren’t they?
If that’s how it is, one would expect society to show more pity to petty thieves than grand ones.
But people aren’t like that.
Even if they’re lowly thugs, they’ll bow their heads to gilded villains from afar.
Call yourself Nezumi Kozō and they’ll offer you drinks, but say you’re a mere Sesame Fly and they’ll beat you down.
If I were a thief myself, I wouldn’t want to be some petty crook.
Well, I thought all this, but I couldn’t keep watching this farce forever. Deliberately making noise, I descended the ladder and threw my luggage down at the entrance.

“Hey, innkeeper! I’m leaving early—have my bill ready, will you?”

When I called out, that bald-pated innkeeper—whether flustered or what—hurriedly passed the sake measure to the man in the horse-handler’s short coat while repeatedly touching his temples,

“Oh my—such an early departure—yes—please do not take offense—and earlier—yes—you even left us such a generous tip—though happily the snow has cleared up nicely now—”

When he started spouting such gibberish, my amusement turned into something beyond mere amusement.

“As I was coming down just now, I happened to overhear—apparently this Sesame Fly here is that notorious Nezumi Kozō fellow they talk about.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard—hey! Hurry up and bring the straw sandals.
“The hat and raincoat are here—what an impressive thief he must be.—Yes, I’ll prepare your bill right away.”

The innkeeper, trying to hide his embarrassment, scolded the young staff while hastily retreating behind the counter’s lattice, then began clattering away at the abacus with exaggerated diligence, a brush clenched between his teeth.
I put on my straw sandals during that time and took a smoke, but looking over, that Sesame Fly—apparently having already downed the sacred sake—sat there reddening even his balding temples. Whether from finally feeling some shame, he kept trying not to look my way, using only sidelong glances.
When I saw that pitiful appearance of his, I found myself feeling sorry for that bastard now—

“Hey, Mr. Echigoya.
“Well, Mr. Jūkichi.
“You shouldn’t make such pointless jokes.
“If you go around claiming to be Nezumi Kozō, those naive country folk will actually believe you.
“That’d be a raw deal for you.”

I said this with feigned kindness, but that idiot with his hollow head—was his little act still not finished?

“What did you say?”
“So I’m not Nezumi Kozō?”
“What a know-it-all you are!”
“Look, with all this ‘sir, sir’ business—”

“Look here.
If you want to keep up this tough talk, the horse handlers and young lads here would make perfect opponents for you.
But you’ve likely had your fill of that bluster since earlier anyway.
First off—if you were truly Japan’s greatest burglar, you’d have no reason to rattle off worthless old crimes that serve no purpose.
Let’s make this clear—you’ve got no choice but to shut up and listen.
Now if you keep stubbornly insisting you’re Nezumi Kozō no matter what, even the officials might start believing you’re the real Nezumi Kozō.
But if that happens—at best you’ll get your head displayed, at worst crucified. No escaping it.
So when they ask, ‘You still claiming to be Nezumi Kozō?’—what’ll you do then?”

When I pressed him further with this jab, that spineless wretch began turning pale right down to his lips before my eyes,

“Sir, I’ve no excuse at all.
In truth, I’m not Nezumi Kozō or anything—just a mere Sesame Fly.”

“That’s right.”
“If that weren’t the case, it wouldn’t make sense.”
“But given that you’ve gone so far as arson and burglary, you’re quite the villain yourself.”
“You’ll lose your head anyway.”

As I knocked my pipe against the edge [of the tobacco tray] and teased him with dead seriousness, he—apparently sobered up now—sniffled back a runny nose and let out a voice trembling on the edge of tears,

“Oh—all of that was lies too, sir.
“As I told you earlier, sir—I’m Echigoya Jūkichi, a small goods merchant. Since I travel this highway once or twice a year, I’ve picked up all sorts of rumors for better or worse—so I just started spouting whatever came to mind—”

“Hey now—didn’t you just call yourself a Sesame Fly?
“A Sesame Fly peddling trinkets—never heard such nonsense since crossing into this province.”

“No—touching other people’s belongings—tonight was my first time ever.”
“This autumn my wife ran off, and then one misfortune after another kept piling up. As they say—poverty dulls the mind—so on a sudden impulse, I did something terribly rude.”

No matter how much of a fool I thought he was, I had at least believed him to be a Sesame Fly—so when I heard this tale, I sat there with my pipe still packed with tobacco, too dumbfounded to speak.
But while I was merely dumbfounded, whether the man in the horse-handler’s short coat and the young men were angry or not—well, that’s another matter.
While I was trying to stop them, they suddenly dragged that bastard down—

“You bastard! You really made fools of us!”

“Slap that jaw clean off!”

Beneath the shouting voices, bamboo fire-tubes went flying, wooden masu cups raining down.
Poor Echigoya Jūkichi—after having his cheek swollen like that, ended up with his head covered in lumps too.…

III

“That’s all there is to the story.”

The dark-skinned, slightly plump man, having finished recounting the entire story, picked up the neglected sake cup on the tray.

On the Karasu-style sea cucumber walls visible across the way, the light of the setting sun had already ceased to fall, and on the single willow tree leaning over the canal, dusk was gradually deepening.
Then, the bell of San'en-zan Zōjōji Temple quietly shook the briny-scented air beyond the railing, seeping the calendrical autumn into the two guests' chests as though belatedly realizing its arrival.
The Iyo reed screen swaying in the wind, the crows’ cries from Ohama Palace’s woods, then the cold gleam of cup-washing water between them—the flame of the maid’s approaching candlestick, its tip bending crimson as it emerged from below the stairs, would surely make its appearance before long.

The man wearing the Kobenke summer kimono, upon seeing his companion pick up the sake cup, immediately gripped the base of the sake flask and,

“Well now, that’s beyond preposterous.”
“What do you take the guardian deity of Japan’s thieves—my cherished Nezumi Kozō—to be?”
“As the boss, you wouldn’t know—but if it were me, I’d have slapped that bastard senseless by now.”

“There’s no need to get so worked up over it.
“Even a fool like that gets to play the big shot just by calling himself Nezumi Kozō—the Rat Thief himself must be thrilled beyond words.”

“But even so, you—letting some novice Sesame Fly take Nezumi Kozō’s name—”

The tattooed, small-statured man still showed signs of wanting to argue, but the dark-skinned man wearing the Chinese linen short coat smiled composedly and—

“Well, since I’m the one saying it, it must be his heart’s desire. You may not have known yet, but three years ago, the one who was highly rumored in Edo as Nezumi Kozō was—”

When he said this, keeping the sake cup poised, he sharply scanned his surroundings,

“It was this Izumiya Jirokichi.”

(Taishō 8, December)