Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Through inherited recklessness, I did nothing but bring trouble upon myself from childhood onward.
When I was in elementary school, I jumped from the schoolhouse second story and spent a week laid up with a thrown back.
Some might wonder why I'd attempt such folly.
There was no particular reason.
As I leaned out from the new building's upper floor, a classmate taunted, "All that swaggering about—bet you couldn't jump down from there!"
Because they started hooting, "Coward!"
When the janitor carried me home piggyback, my old man glared and barked, "Who cripples themselves jumping from a measly second floor?" So I retorted, "Next time I'll jump clean without wrecking my back!"

I received a Western-style knife from a relative and was showing off its gleaming blade in the sunlight to my friends when one of them said, "It sure shines bright enough, but I bet it can't cut worth a damn."
"There's no way it can't cut!" I vowed to slice through anything they named.
So when he demanded, "Then prove it by cutting your finger," I slashed straight across the back of my right thumb, thinking "What's a finger? Watch this."
Luckily, what with the knife being small and my thumbbone being hard, the thumb stayed attached to my hand.
But that scar's staying put till I die.

When you went twenty paces east through the garden, there was a small vegetable garden on a south-facing slope, with a single chestnut tree standing in the center.
This chestnut tree was more precious than life itself.
When the nuts ripened, I would get up early, go out the back door to gather the fallen ones, and eat them at school.
The west side of the vegetable garden connected to the yard of a pawnshop called Yamashiro-ya, where there lived a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boy named Kintarō.
Kintarō was of course a coward.
Despite being a coward, he would climb over the lattice fence to steal chestnuts.
One evening, hiding behind the folding door, I finally caught Kintarō.
At that moment, Kintarō lost his escape route and desperately lunged at me.
He was about two years older than me.
He was a coward but strong.
As Kintarō shoved his bowl-cut head hard against my chest, his skull slipped into the sleeve of my lined kimono.
Because it was in the way and I couldn’t use my hands, when I wildly waved my arm, Kintarō’s head inside the sleeve flopped from side to side.
Finally struggling in agony, he bit into my bicep from inside the sleeve.
Because it hurt, I pressed Kintarō against the fence, hooked my leg around his, and sent him toppling over.
The ground of Yamashiro-ya was about six feet lower than the vegetable garden.
Kintarō collapsed half the lattice fence, tumbling headfirst into his own territory with a thud.
When Kintarō fell, the sleeve of my lined kimono tore off, suddenly freeing my hand.
That evening, my mother went to Yamashiro-ya to apologize and retrieved the torn sleeve of my lined kimono.

I pulled plenty of other pranks besides these.
I once took Kenkō the carpenter and Kado the fishmonger along and we ravaged Shigesaku’s carrot field.
Because straw had been spread all over where the carrot sprouts hadn’t fully emerged yet, when we three kept wrestling nonstop on top of it for half a day, all the carrots ended up getting trampled.
There was also the time we filled in the well in Furukawa's paddy field and got reported for it.
We’d removed the nodes from thick Moso bamboo and buried it deep, creating a contraption where water gushed out to soak the surrounding rice plants.
At the time, not understanding how it worked, we crammed stones and broken sticks into the well until the water stopped flowing. After confirming this, we went home for dinner—only for Furukawa to come roaring in, beet-red with rage.
If I recall correctly, we ended up paying a fine to settle it.

My old man never once showed me any affection.
My mother doted exclusively on my elder brother.
This brother had an unnaturally pale complexion and loved imitating theater performances to play female roles.
Every time he saw me, my old man would say, "This one will never amount to anything."
Mother said I was so rough and reckless that she worried about what would become of me.
Indeed, I never amounted to anything worthwhile.
There you have it—the outcome.
It’s no wonder they worried about my prospects.
I merely managed to stay out of prison labor.

A few days before Mother died of illness, I did a somersault in the kitchen and struck my ribs on the edge of the hearth—it hurt something fierce. Mother flew into a rage and said she didn't want to see my face anymore, so I went to stay with relatives. Then came word she'd finally died. I hadn't figured she'd go so quick. If her sickness was that bad, I thought she ought to've kept calmer about things, so I came back home. That's when my damn brother called me an unfilial wretch, saying our mother died early because of me. Burning with anger, I slapped him across the cheek and caught hell for it.

After Mother died, the three of us—the old man, my elder brother, and I—lived together.
My old man was a layabout who would bark "You’re hopeless! Hopeless!" the moment he laid eyes on anyone—it was his catchphrase.
I still don’t understand what exactly was so hopeless about me.
What a strange old man he was.

My elder brother claimed he would become a businessman and was diligently studying English.
By nature effeminate and underhanded, he never got along with me.
We fought roughly once every ten days.
Once during a shogi match, he made a sneaky waiting move and taunted me with glee whenever I struggled.
Furious beyond measure, I hurled the rook piece in my hand straight at his forehead.
His brow split open and bled slightly.
My brother went tattling to Father.
The old man declared he'd disown me.

At that point, I had resigned myself to the inevitable and was fully prepared to be disowned as demanded when Kiyo—the maid who had served our family for ten years—came weeping to apologize to my old man, finally appeasing his wrath.
Despite all that, I never really found my old man all that frightening.
On the contrary, I felt sorry for this maid called Kiyo.
I’ve heard this maid originally came from a distinguished lineage but was reduced to service employment when her family fell into ruin.
Hence, she was an old woman.
By some twist of fate, this old woman doted on me immensely.
It was a curious thing.
Mother had lost all patience with me three days before her death—Father was perpetually at his wit’s end with me—The neighborhood shunned me as a ruffian they called "Wicked Tarō"—Yet this very me was the one she doted on without reason.
Since I had long resigned myself to being fundamentally unlikable, being treated like a scrap of wood by others didn’t bother me in the least—if anything, I found Kiyo’s doting behavior downright suspicious.
Kiyo would sometimes praise me in the kitchen when no one else was around: "You have such a straightforward and good nature."
However, I couldn’t grasp what Kiyo meant by this.
If I truly had a good disposition, I thought, then others besides Kiyo would treat me a bit better.
Every time Kiyo said such things, it was my custom to respond that I hated flattery.
Then the old woman would say, "That’s exactly why you have such a good nature," gazing at my face with delight.
She looked as if she had manufactured me through her own efforts and was proud of it.
It felt slightly unsettling.

After Mother died, Kiyo doted on me even more intensely.
At times with my childish mind, I wondered suspiciously why she kept doting on me so.
It's pointless—she should quit doing this already, I thought.
I felt sorry for her.
Yet Kiyo kept right on doting.
She would occasionally buy me sweet bean cakes or plum-shaped confections using her own pocket money.
On cold nights she'd secretly procure buckwheat flour and bring buckwheat tea water to my bedside while I slept before I even noticed.
Sometimes she even bought me hot pot udon.
It wasn't just food either.
She gave me tabi socks.
Pencils too, and notebooks.
Much later she even lent me three yen once.
Not that I'd asked her to.
She brought it to my room saying, "You must need spending money—take this."
Of course I refused at first, but when she insisted I use it, I accepted.
Truth be told, I was thrilled.
I put those three yen in the gamaguchi purse and tucked it into my pocket, but when I went to the toilet it slipped right out into the cesspit.
With no other choice, I trudged out and confessed everything to Kiyo—she immediately fetched a bamboo pole saying she'd retrieve it.
A while later came splashing sounds from the wellside; when I went out she'd tied the purse's cord to the bamboo tip and was washing it in water.
Then she opened it up and inspected the one-yen note—now brown with its pattern nearly faded away.

Kiyo dried it over the charcoal brazier and said, "This should do," as she handed it over.
When I sniffed at it and said it still stank, she replied, "Then give it here—I'll get it exchanged for you," and somehow finagled three silver yen instead of the banknote.
I've forgotten what I used those three yen for.
I said I'd pay her back soon enough but never did.
Nowadays, even if I wanted to repay her tenfold, I couldn't.

Whenever Kiyo gave me things, she made sure it was only when neither Father nor Elder Brother were around.
What I hate most—there's nothing I loathe more—is people sneaking around to benefit only themselves.
Though I naturally didn't get along with Elder Brother, I had no desire to secretly receive sweets or colored pencils from Kiyo behind his back.
There were times I would ask Kiyo: "Why do you give things only to me and never to Elder Brother?"
Kiyo would calmly reply, "Elder Brother has Father buying things for him, so it's no concern of mine."
This was unfair.
Though Father was stubborn, he wasn't the sort to play favorites.
But through Kiyo's eyes, that's how it must have appeared.
No doubt she was utterly drowned in love.
She'd been born to status but was an uneducated old woman—what could one expect?
Yet this wasn't all.
Favoritism is a frightful thing.
Kiyo remained convinced I'd rise in the world and become someone splendid.
All while decreeing on her own that Elder Brother, despite his studies, was just a pale-faced good-for-nothing.
There was no competing with such a woman.
She believed those she favored were destined for greatness, while those she disliked would surely fall to ruin.
From that time on, I myself had no particular ambition to become anything.
But since Kiyo kept insisting I would amount to something, I ended up thinking I probably could become someone after all.
When I look back now, it seems absurd.
There was even a time I asked Kiyo what exactly I might become.

However, it seemed even Kiyo had no particular plan in mind.
She said that without a doubt, you would ride in a palanquin and build a house with a splendid entrance.

After that, Kiyo was intent on living with me once I owned a house and became independent.
She pleaded over and over, "Please let me stay with you."
I somehow began to feel like I could manage a household myself, so I gave a noncommittal "Yeah, I'll let you stay" in reply.
Yet this woman had an astonishingly vivid imagination, spinning out all manner of fanciful plans on her own—"Which neighborhood would you prefer, Young Master? Kōjimachi or Azabu? We'll have a swing installed in the garden, and one Western-style room will be plenty," she'd prattle.
At the time, I didn't want a house or anything of the sort.
Because Western-style houses and Japanese-style houses were completely unnecessary, I always told Kiyo that I didn't want such things.
Then she praised me again: “You have few desires and your heart is pure.”
No matter what I did, Kiyo would praise me.

For five or six years after Mother died, I lived in this state.

I would get scolded by Father.
I would fight with Elder Brother.
I would receive sweets from Kiyo and sometimes be praised.
I had no particular desires.
I thought this was plenty.
I figured all other kids must be pretty much the same.
But since Kiyo kept saying indiscriminately at every turn, "You’re so pitiable," "How unfortunate you are," I figured that must mean I was pitiable and unfortunate.
Other than that, I had no troubles at all.
The only thing that troubled me was that Father didn't give me any spending money.

In the New Year of the sixth year after Mother died, Father also passed away from a stroke.
In April of that year, I graduated from a private middle school.
In June, Elder Brother graduated from trade school.
Elder Brother had somehow secured a position at a company’s Kyushu branch and had to go there.
I still needed to continue my studies in Tokyo.
Elder Brother declared he would sell the house, settle the estate, and depart for his new post.
I replied that he could do whatever he wanted.
In any case, I had no intention of becoming Elder Brother’s burden.
Even if he were to take care of me, since we’d end up fighting, he’d inevitably start complaining anyway.
Precisely because I accepted his half-hearted protection would I be forced to bow my head to this Elder Brother.
I resolved that I could make a living even by delivering milk.
Elder Brother then called in a secondhand dealer and sold off generations’ worth of ancestral clutter for pennies.
The house and land were transferred through someone’s brokerage to a wealthy family.
The buyer seemed to have profited handsomely from this, but I knew nothing of the details.
I had been staying at a boarding house in Kanda’s Ogawamachi since a month prior, until my future direction was settled.
Kiyo deeply regretted that the house where she had lived for over a decade was passing into others’ hands, but since it wasn’t hers, there was nothing to be done.
"If only you were just a bit older, sir, you could have inherited this place," she kept insisting.
If being a bit older would allow inheritance, then I should be able to inherit even now.
Because she knew nothing about such matters, the old woman believed that if only I grew older, I could inherit Elder Brother’s house.

Elder Brother and I had parted ways like this, but the problem was where Kiyo would go.
Elder Brother was in no position to take her along, and Kiyo had not the slightest intention of tagging after him all the way to Kyushu. As for me, I was holed up in a cheap four-and-a-half-mat boarding house—one I’d have to vacate immediately if push came to shove.
I couldn’t do a thing.
I asked Kiyo.
When I asked if she intended to go into service somewhere, she finally resolved to reply: “Until you have a house of your own and take a wife, I suppose I have no choice but to impose on my nephew.”
This nephew worked as a court clerk and managed to live without particular hardship at present, so he had suggested two or three times before that Kiyo should come stay with him if she wished. But Kiyo had refused, saying she would rather do maid work than leave the house she had lived in for years.
But under the present circumstances, she must have concluded that imposing on her nephew was preferable to entering service at an unfamiliar house and having to renegotiate unfamiliar social obligations.
Even so, she kept insisting: “Get a house soon,” “Take a wife,” “Have me come take care of you.”
She must prefer me—a stranger—over her own nephew.

Two days before leaving for Kyushu, Elder Brother came to my boarding house and took out six hundred yen, saying I could use it as capital for business or study funds however I liked—but after that, he’d have nothing more to do with me.
Coming from Elder Brother, this was downright decent—not that I particularly needed six hundred yen, but since I approved of his uncharacteristically straightforward manner, I thanked him properly.
He then produced fifty yen and told me to give this to Kiyo as well, which I accepted without protest.
Two days later, after we said our goodbyes at Shinbashi Station, I never laid eyes on him again.

As I lay in bed, I pondered how to use the six hundred yen.
Starting a business would be too troublesome and I probably couldn’t manage it well—besides, with six hundred yen, you couldn’t really run a proper business anyway. Even if I could, given my current situation, I wouldn’t be able to proudly claim being educated in front of others—so it’d just mean losses all around.
Capital didn’t matter—I’d use this for study funds and apply myself.
If I split the six hundred yen into three parts and spent two hundred each year, I could study for three years.
If I worked hard those three years, I could achieve something.
Then I thought about which school to enter, but I’d never liked any sort of studies from the beginning.
Above all else, languages and literature were completely out of the question.
When it came to new-style poetry, out of twenty lines I couldn’t understand a single one.
Since everything was equally detestable anyway, I figured it didn’t matter what I chose—but then by chance, passing a physics school with a student recruitment poster, thinking it must be fate, I grabbed their prospectus and immediately enrolled.
Looking back now, this too was a mistake born from the recklessness I inherited from my father.

For three years, I studied about as much as anyone else, but since I wasn’t particularly bright, it was always easier to count my seat order from the bottom.
But strange as it was, once three years had passed, I finally graduated.
Even I thought it was strange, but since there was no reason to complain, I quietly graduated.

On the eighth day after graduating, the principal summoned me. Thinking he must have some business, I went to see him, and they needed a mathematics teacher at a middle school somewhere in Shikoku.
The salary was forty yen, and he suggested I go there.
I'd studied for three years, but truth be told, I'd never once considered becoming a teacher or going to the countryside.
Still, having no prospects beyond teaching work, when he made this proposal, I agreed on the spot.
This too was my inherited recklessness at work.

Once I accepted, I had no choice but to report for duty.
For three years I'd been holed up in my four-and-a-half-mat room without hearing a single scolding.
I'd avoided any fights.
This had been the most carefree stretch of my life.
But now even this four-and-a-half-mat hole had to be vacated.
The only time I'd ever left Tokyo before was on that school trip to Kamakura with classmates.
This was no Kamakura.
I was bound for some godforsaken backwater.
On the map it looked like a pinprick on the coast.
Probably some dump anyway.
What sort of town? What kind of people? No idea.
Didn't need to know.
No point worrying.
Just go.
Though it did seem like a pain.

Even after closing up the house, I still went to Kiyo's place from time to time.
Kiyo's nephew turned out to be a surprisingly decent fellow.
Whenever I went, as long as he was there, he would unfailingly show me hospitality.
Kiyo would sit me down and boast about all my accomplishments to her nephew.
There was even a time when she spread rumors that I'd buy a mansion near Kōjimachi and work for the government once I graduated.
Because she'd keep rattling on by herself, I'd grow flustered and turn red.
And this happened more than just once or twice.
I was mortified when she occasionally dredged up stories about how I wet the bed as a child.
I never knew what her nephew thought while listening to Kiyo's bragging.
But Kiyo being old-fashioned saw our relationship through feudal lord-and-retainer lenses.
She seemed convinced that if I was her master, that made me her nephew's master too.
The poor nephew must've been dying of embarrassment.

When everything was finally settled and just three days before my departure, I went to see Kiyo only to find her lying ill with a cold in a north-facing three-mat room.
No sooner had she sat up upon seeing me than she asked, “Young Master, when will you set up your household?”
She seemed convinced that graduating would make money spring up in my pockets like magic.
The absurdity of her still calling me “Young Master” while expecting such grand things struck me as downright foolish.
“I won’t be setting up any household for now,” I stated bluntly.
When I told her I was heading to the countryside instead, her face fell with deep disappointment, and she kept fussing with the disheveled salt-and-pepper strands at her temples.
Feeling guilty, I added, “I’ll go, but I’ll come back soon.
“I’ll definitely return by next summer vacation,” I promised.
Still looking unconvinced, she asked what souvenir I’d bring her.
“What would you like?” I inquired.
“Some Echigo bamboo-leaf candy,” she replied.
I’d never even heard of such a thing.
For starters, it was completely the wrong direction.
“They probably don’t have bamboo-leaf candy where I’m going,” I told her.
“Then whereabouts are you headed?” she pressed.
“West,” I said.
“Past Hakone or this side of it?” she asked.
I was thoroughly stumped.

On the day of my departure, she came first thing in the morning and busied herself with all manner of preparations.
She had bought toothpowder, toothpicks, and a hand towel at a haberdashery on her way over and packed them into my canvas leather bag.
Even when I told her those things wouldn’t fit, she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
When we had lined up the carriages and arrived at the station, and stepped out onto the platform, she stared intently at my face as I boarded the train and said,“We may never meet again.
“Do take care,” she said in a soft voice.
Her eyes were filled with tears.
I did not cry.
However,I was just about to cry.
After the train had moved quite a distance,I stuck my head out the window,turned around—and there she still stood.
Somehow,I could barely make her out against the platform.

II

With a loud blast, the steamship came to a stop, and the lighter pulled away from the shore, rowing over to us.
The boatman was stark naked except for a red loincloth.
"What a barbaric place," I thought.
Though in this heat, you couldn’t exactly wear a kimono.
The sun was so strong that the water glistened like lacquer.
Staring at it left my eyes dazzled.
When I asked the clerk, it turned out I was supposed to get off here.
From what I could see, it was a fishing village about the size of Ōmori.
"Who do they take me for?" I thought. "There’s no way I could endure this dump!" But there was nothing to be done.
Boldly, I was the first to jump in.
Then five or six people probably boarded after me.
They loaded about four large boxes onto the deck before the man in the red loincloth rowed back to shore.
When I landed on shore, first thing, I jumped up and grabbed a snot-nosed kid standing on the beach. “Where’s the middle school?” I demanded.
The kid stared vacantly and said, “Dunno.”
"What a dim-witted country bumpkin."
"Even in this postage-stamp town, how can someone not know where the school is?"
Just then, a man wearing an odd-looking short coat came along. “This way,” he said. When I followed him, he brought me to an inn called Minatoya.
The unpleasant women all chimed in unison—“Come inside!”—so I didn’t feel like entering.
Standing at the entrance, I barked, “Tell me where the middle school is!” When they said it was still two ri away by train from here, I became even more reluctant to go inside.
I snatched my leather bag from the man in the short coat and shuffled off.

The inn staff were making strange faces.

I found the station right away.
I bought the ticket without any trouble.
When I boarded, it was a train like a matchbox.
The train had been rumbling along for about five minutes when I realized I already had to get off.
No wonder the ticket was so cheap, I thought.
It was just three sen.

Then I hired a rickshaw, and when I arrived at the middle school, it was already after school hours with nobody there.
The janitor informed me the night duty teacher had gone out on an errand.
What a carefree night duty teacher he must be.
I considered going to ask the Principal himself, but being too worn out, I told the rickshaw man to take me to an inn.
The rickshaw man energetically pulled up alongside a place called Yamashiroya.
I found it somewhat amusing that Yamashiroya shared the same trade name as Kantarō the pawnbroker.

For some reason, they showed me to a dark room under the second-floor stairs.
It was so hot I couldn't stand staying there.
When I said I didn't like this room, they replied, "Unfortunately all the others are occupied," and with that flung my leather bag down and left.
I had no choice but to enter the room, sweat it out, and endure.
Before long, they told me to take a bath, so I plunged in with a splash and got right out.
On my way back, I peeked around and saw plenty of nice cool rooms sitting empty.
What bastards.
They'd flat-out lied.
Then a maid brought a meal tray.
The room was sweltering, but the food beat anything from my boarding house.
As she served me, the maid asked where I'd come from, so I told her Tokyo.
Then she said, "Tokyo must be ever so lovely," and I shot back that of course it was.
When the maid who'd cleared the tray went to the kitchen, I heard a loud guffaw.
Pointless nonsense—I went straight to bed but couldn't sleep.
Wasn't just the heat.
The noise—five times worse than my boarding house.
When I finally dozed off, I dreamed of Kiyo.
There she was, munching bamboo-wrapped Echigo candy—leaves and all.
"You should quit eating those leaves—they're poisonous," I warned her.
"Oh no," she said munching away happily, "these here leaves are medicinal!"

When I, utterly dumbfounded, opened my mouth wide and laughed—"Ha ha ha!"—I woke up.
The maid was opening the storm shutters.
The weather remained as ever—a sky so clear it seemed to pierce through the heavens.

I had heard that travelers were supposed to give tips.
I had heard that those who didn't tip got treated poorly.
Being stuck in this cramped dark room must've been because I hadn't tipped.
Probably because I looked shabby carrying that canvas bag and silk gingham umbrella.
Country hicks but sharp judges of appearances.
I'd shock them by tipping big first.
After all, I'd left Tokyo with thirty yen from leftover school funds.
Subtracting travel costs left me fourteen yen.
Even giving it all away wouldn't matter once my salary came.
Five yen would make these stingy provincials' eyes pop.
Resolved to show them, I washed up and waited in my room until last night's maid brought dinner.
She smirked while serving from her tray.
Rude wench.
No festival procession across her face either.
Even this mug beat hers by miles.
I meant to tip after eating but snapped mid-meal—slapped down a five-yen note and told her to take it to the desk later. She pulled a face.
Finished eating and bolted straight for school.

I hadn’t polished my shoes.

Since I had arrived at the school by rickshaw yesterday, I generally knew its location.
After turning two or three corners, I came right out before the gate.
From the gate to the entranceway stretched a path paved with granite.
When my rickshaw had clattered over these stones yesterday, I'd been rather overwhelmed by their absurdly loud racket.
Along the way I met many students wearing Kokura uniforms, all entering through this gate.
Some among them appeared taller and stronger than myself.
The thought that I'd be teaching such fellows made me feel distinctly uneasy.

When I presented my business card, I was shown to the principal’s office.
The principal was a dark-complexioned man with a thin beard and large eyes resembling a raccoon dog.
He put on airs.
"Do your best and study hard," he said as he ceremoniously handed over the letter of appointment bearing a large official seal.
This letter of appointment—when I returned to Tokyo—I rolled up and threw into the sea.
The principal said he would introduce me to the staff soon, so I should show this letter to each one of them.
It was an unnecessary hassle.
Rather than go through such trouble, it would be better to just post this appointment letter in the staff room for three days.

For the teachers to gather in the staff room, the first-period bugle had to sound.
There was still plenty of time.
The principal took out his pocket watch and said that while he intended to explain everything properly later, he first wanted me to understand the basics; he then treated me to a lengthy sermon about educational philosophy.
I was naturally half-listening, but midway through I realized this had gone completely off track.
There was no way I could meet the principal's expectations.
Here they'd recruited a reckless fool like me, then made outrageous demands—that I become a student role model, be revered as the school's exemplar, and exert moral influence beyond academics to qualify as an educator.
Would any respectable person come all the way to this backwater for forty yen a month?
People are basically all alike anyway.
I'd figured anyone might pick a fight when angry, but from the looks of things here I could barely speak freely or even take walks.
If they wanted someone for such an impossible role, they should've spelled out the requirements before hiring me.
Since I detest lying, there was nothing for it—I resigned myself to having been tricked into coming here and resolved to cleanly refuse them on the spot and go home.
Having given five yen to the innkeeper, my wallet now held just under nine yen.
Nine yen wouldn't get me back to Tokyo.
I shouldn't have tipped them at all.
What a waste.
But even nine yen might somehow suffice.
Deciding honesty was better than deception even with insufficient travel funds, I declared, "I can't possibly meet your demands—take back this appointment letter." The principal stared at me with his tanuki-like eyes blinking rapidly.
After a moment, he laughed and said, "Those were merely aspirational goals—I'm well aware you couldn't achieve them, so there's no need for concern."
"If you knew that," I thought, "you shouldn't have started with intimidation tactics."

Right, in the midst of this, the trumpet sounded.
The classrooms suddenly erupted into commotion.

When he said that the teachers had likely all gathered in the staff room by now, I followed the principal inside.
In a spacious rectangular room, desks lined the walls with everyone seated.
When I entered, they all looked at my face as if by prior arrangement.
I'm not some circus attraction.
Then as ordered, I went before each person one by one, presented my letter of appointment, and gave my greetings.
Most merely stood from their chairs and gave slight bows, but the particularly conscientious ones accepted the offered document, glanced through it formally, then returned it with ceremonious deference.
It felt exactly like a kabuki play.
By the time I reached the fifteenth person—the gymnastics teacher—having repeated this routine so many times over, I was growing rather impatient.
They only needed to do it once.
Here I was repeating identical motions fifteen times.
They might at least try showing some consideration for others.

Among those I greeted was someone called the Vice Principal.
This one was apparently a Bachelor of Letters.
If he’s a Bachelor of Letters—meaning a university graduate—he must be some distinguished person.
He spoke with an oddly gentle voice like a woman’s.
What shocked me most was him wearing flannel underwear in this heat.
Even if slightly thinner material，it must’ve been unbearably hot.
Truly elaborate attire befitting a Bachelor of Letters.
And being Red Shirt，he was making fools of people.
I later heard this man wore red shirts year-round.
He must’ve had some strange affliction.
His own explanation claimed red was medicinal for health，so he specially ordered them for hygiene—needless concern.
If that’s true，he should dye his kimono and hakama red too.
Next was an English teacher named Koga—a man with dreadfully poor complexion.
Most pale-faced people are thin，but this one looked pallid and bloated.
Back in elementary school，I had a classmate named Tami Asai whose father had that same sickly hue.
When I asked Kiyo if farming turns faces like that，she corrected me：“No—he ate too many shaded eggplants and gourds，that’s why he bloated up pale.”
Ever since，whenever I see someone pallid and swollen，I think they’re paying for gorging on shaded gourds.
This English teacher must eat nothing but those pale vegetables.
Though what exactly “shaded gourd” means，I still don’t know.
I did ask Kiyo once，but she just laughed without answering.

Most likely, Kiyo didn't know either. Then there was Horota, another mathematics teacher like me. This was a sturdy chestnut-burr-headed fellow who looked like one of those wicked monks from Mount Hiei. When someone politely showed him the appointment letter, he didn't even glance at it but just boomed, "Ah! You're the new hire? Come visit sometime! Ha ha ha!" What was with that 'Ha ha ha'? Who'd want to visit someone with such terrible manners? Right then I dubbed this monk Mountain Storm. The Chinese Classics teacher was properly stuffy as expected. The old man who kept rattling on—"You arrived yesterday must be exhausted yet already teaching so diligently"—had a genial air about him. The art teacher was pure entertainer type. Dressed in a sheer summer haori that flapped about, snapping his fan open, he asked: "So where might you be from, eh? Tokyo?" "How splendid! A fellow townsman! Why, this makes me an Edo native too!" he declared. If this clown counted as an Edo native, I'd rather never have been born there at all. I could write volumes about each one like this. But there's no end to it, so I'll stop here.

Once the greetings had concluded, the principal said I could leave for the day but should consult with the math department head about lesson plans and start classes the day after tomorrow. When I asked who the math department head was, it turned out to be that Mountain Storm. Damn it—having to work under this guy? What a letdown. Mountain Storm said, “Hey, you staying at Yamashiroya? Yeah, I’ll come by now to discuss things,” then left for the classroom carrying white chalk. “For the department head to come consult me while putting on airs—what an inconsiderate man.” Still, it was better than being summoned.

Then I exited through the school gate and thought about returning straight to my lodgings, but since there’d be no point in going back, I decided to take a stroll around town instead, wandering aimlessly wherever my feet took me.
I saw the prefectural office too.
It was an old building from the previous century.
I saw the military barracks too.
They weren’t as impressive as the Azabu regiment.
I saw the main street too.
The road was about half as wide as Kagurazaka, and the townscape fell short of that.
Even a castle town yielding 250,000 koku isn’t much to boast about.
As I walked along thinking how pitiful it was for people to live in a place like this and still brag about it being a castle town, I found myself in front of Yamashiroya before I knew it.
It looked big enough, but was really quite cramped.
This should cover most of what there is to see, I suppose.
Thinking I’d go back and have a meal, I stepped through the gateway.
The landlady, who had been sitting at the front desk, suddenly rushed out when she saw my face and pressed her head to the wooden floor, saying, "Welcome back..."
When I took off my shoes and stepped up, the maid guided me to the second floor, saying a room was available.
It was a fifteen-mat room on the front second floor with a large alcove.
I had never entered such a grand sitting room since the day I was born.
Since I didn’t know when I’d get to enter such a place again, I took off my Western clothes, changed into just a yukata, and tried lying spread-eagled in the middle of the sitting room.
It felt good.

After eating lunch, I immediately wrote a letter to Kiyo.
I'm terrible with words and can't write well, so I absolutely hate writing letters.
Besides, there wasn't anything else to do.
But Kiyo must be worrying.
Since I didn't want her thinking I'd been shipwrecked and died or something, I pushed myself to write a long one.
The wording went like this.

"I arrived yesterday.
It's a dull place.
I'm lying in a fifteen-mat room.
I gave the inn a five-yen tip.
The landlady pressed her head to the wooden floor.
Last night I couldn't sleep.
I had a dream where Kiyo ate bamboo-leaf candy, bamboo leaf and all.
I'll come back next summer.
Today I went to school and gave everyone nicknames.
The principal was Tanuki, the vice principal Red Shirt, the English teacher Pale Gourd, math Mountain Storm, and art Field Drum.
I'll write all sorts of things soon.
Goodbye."

After finishing the letter, I felt so refreshed and drowsy that I sprawled out spread-eagled right in the middle of the sitting room again, just like before. This time I slept soundly without dreaming of anything. When I woke up to a loud voice shouting “This the room?” Mountain Storm came in. “Pardon my earlier abruptness. Your assigned classes are…” No sooner had I gotten up than he launched into negotiations, leaving me thoroughly flustered. When I heard about the teaching assignments, they didn’t seem particularly difficult, so I agreed. If it’s just this much, I wouldn’t even blink if told to start tomorrow instead of the day after—no trouble at all. “Once we’ve finished coordinating the lessons, you can’t possibly intend to stay at this inn forever—I’ll find you a good boarding house, so move there.” “If it were someone else, they wouldn’t agree, but if I handle it, it’ll be settled right away.” He had already concluded on his own that since acting quickly was best—inspect today, relocate tomorrow, and begin attending school the day after—everything would be settled neatly. Indeed, I couldn’t stay in a fifteen-mat room forever. Even if I paid my entire monthly salary toward lodging fees, it still might not be enough. It was a bit of a shame to move out right after splurging on a five-yen tip, but since I had to move anyway, it would be more convenient to relocate quickly and settle in—so I decided to leave that part up to Mountain Storm. So Mountain Storm told me to come along with him for now, so I went. It was a house on the hillside at the edge of town, extremely quiet. The master was a man called Ika Gin who dealt in antiques, and his wife was about four years older than him. When I was in middle school, I learned the word “witch,” and this woman looked exactly like one. Even a witch is someone’s wife, so it doesn’t matter. I finally decided to move in starting tomorrow. On the way back, Mountain Storm treated me to a glass of shaved ice in Tōrimachi. When I first met him at school, I thought he was an overly arrogant, rude fellow, but seeing how he’s gone out of his way to help me with all sorts of things, he doesn’t seem like a bad guy after all.

But he was just as impatient and short-tempered as I was.
I later heard this fellow had actually been the most popular with the students.

III

I finally began teaching at the school.
The first time I entered the classroom and stepped up to the high platform felt somehow strange.
While lecturing, I wondered if even someone like me could manage being a teacher.
The students were noisy.
At times someone would call out “Teacher!” in an exceptionally loud voice.
I answered when called “Teacher”.
Until now at the physics school I’d been calling others “Teacher” every day, but there was a world of difference between calling someone Teacher and being called Teacher myself.
For some reason, the soles of my feet were itching.

I am not a cowardly man.
Nor am I timid—but damn it all if I don’t lack staying power.
When they bellowed “Teacher!” at me, it felt like hearing the noon cannon in Marunouchi on an empty stomach.
That first hour somehow slipped by in slapdash fashion.
Still, I managed without getting any truly troublesome questions.
When I returned to the staff room, Mountain Storm asked how it went.
I gave him a curt “Fine,” at which he seemed relieved.

Leaving for second period with chalk in hand felt like marching into enemy territory.
This class was packed with even bigger louts than before.
Being an Edo native with this slight build and short stature meant I couldn’t project any authority from that damned high platform.
In a fight I’d take on a sumo wrestler easy enough—but facing forty hulking brats armed with nothing but my tongue? That’s a trick I’ve yet to master.
Still, showing weakness to these country clods would set a bad precedent—so I lectured loud as I could, laying on that rolled R.
At first they just sat there dazed by the bluster—emboldened, I cranked up my rough-edged Edo dialect until the toughest-looking oaf front and center suddenly barked “Teacher!”
“Here we go,” I thought. When asked what he wanted: “Too fast—we ain’t followin’. Take it slower, teach?”
“Take it slower”—what half-assed phrasing.
“I’ll slow down then—but I’m an Edo man! Can’t speak your hick talk! Don’t get it? Then sit there till you do!” I shot back.
Somehow second period went better than expected.
But as I left, some brat cornered me—“Explain this one quick-like?”—thrusting some impossible geometry problem that left me sweating bullets.
No help for it—“Dunno this one—next time!” I beat a hasty retreat while they roared.
Through the din came chants of “Can’t do it! Can’t do it!”

Blockheads! Even the teacher can’t do it—that’s only natural!
Is there anything strange about admitting you can’t do what you can’t do?
If I could do such things, I wouldn’t have come to this backwater for forty yen a month—I thought as I returned to the staff room.
“How’d it go this time?” Mountain Storm asked again.
I said “Hmm,” but just “Hmm” didn’t satisfy me，so I told him the students at this school were a hopeless bunch.
Mountain Storm made a strange face.

The third period, the fourth period, and even the hour after noon were all much the same.
The classes I taught on the first day each ended in some small failure.
I realized that being a teacher wasn’t as easy as it looked from the outside.
The classes were all done, but I still couldn’t go home—I had to sit around idly until three o’clock.
When three o'clock came around, the homeroom students would clean their classrooms and come report, so apparently I had to inspect them.
After that, I checked the attendance register and was finally dismissed.
No matter that my body was bought with a monthly salary, there’s no rule that says they can chain me to the school during my free time and make me stare down a desk!
However, since all the others were quietly following the rules, I thought it wouldn’t do for just the newcomer to throw a tantrum, so I endured it.
I complained to Mountain Storm on our way out: “Forcing us to stay at school past three no matter what is downright idiotic!” He laughed with a “Ha ha ha!” but then turned serious. “You complain too much about the school—that won’t do.”
“If you’re going to gripe about it, just tell me—there’s plenty of odd folks around,” he added with unsolicited advice.
Since we parted at the crossroads, I didn’t have time to hear the details.

Then, when I returned home, the boarding house master came over saying he would make some tea.
When he said he’d make tea, I thought he was offering me a treat, but no—he brewed my own tea without a hint of reserve and drank it himself.
Given how things were going, he might have been presumptuously carrying out this “I’ll make some tea” routine all by himself even when I was away.
The boarding house master explained that he had such a fondness for calligraphy and antiques that he had finally started this business on the side.
“From what I observe, you too seem to be quite the cultured gentleman.”
“How about taking up some refined hobby?” he proposed with an absurd invitation.
Two years ago, when I went to the Imperial Hotel on an errand for someone, I was mistaken for a locksmith.
Wearing a cap, when I went to see the Great Buddha of Kamakura, I was called “boss” by a rickshaw driver.
Beyond that, there had been plenty of misjudgments about me up until today, but no one had ever grabbed hold of me and declared me to be quite the cultured gentleman.
Generally, you could tell by their appearance or demeanor.
When someone fancies themselves a person of refined taste, looking at a painting, they’re either wearing a hood or holding a poem card.
Anyone who seriously called me a cultured person like that was nothing but a fraud.
When I said I hated such idle pastimes done by retired folks, the boarding house master laughed with a “heh heh heh” and replied, “Well now, nobody starts out liking it, sir—but once you enter this path, it’s quite hard to leave,” all while pouring himself tea and drinking it with strange gestures.
The truth was, I’d asked him to buy some tea last night, but I hated this bitter, strong stuff.
Drinking even one cup made my stomach churn.
When I told him to buy less bitter tea next time, he said “Certainly” and proceeded to brew another cup to drink.
The guy just drank it like it was someone else’s tea, guzzling away without a care.
After the master withdrew, I did my preparation for the next day and went straight to sleep.

Day after day, I went to school and worked by the rules; day after day upon returning home, the boarding house master would come out saying he’d make tea. After about a week, I’d gotten a rough grasp of how things worked at the school and mostly figured out what sort of people the boarding house couple were. When I asked other teachers, they said that for about a week to a month after receiving their appointments, they’d be terribly anxious about whether their reputation was good or bad—but I never felt that way at all. Whenever I messed up in class, I’d feel rotten at the time, but within thirty minutes or so it would cleanly disappear. I’m the sort of man who can’t stay worried about anything for long no matter how hard I try. I remained completely indifferent to what effect my classroom blunders had on the students or how those effects might draw reactions from the principal and vice principal. As I’ve said before, I’m not a man of particularly steady nerves, but when it comes to cutting loose, I’m remarkably decisive. Since I was resolved to leave immediately for somewhere else if this school didn’t work out, I wasn’t the least bit afraid of Tanuki or Red Shirt. All the more reason I had no intention of using charm or flattery on the classroom brats. The school was manageable enough, but the boarding house was another matter entirely. If it had just been the landlord coming to drink tea, I could’ve tolerated it—but he kept bringing all sorts of things. First he brought what he called seal materials, lining up about ten pieces before declaring: “Three yen for the lot—it’s a steal! You should buy them.” I retorted that I wasn’t some third-rate painter touring the provinces who’d want such things, whereupon he next produced a hanging scroll of flowers and birds by someone named Kazan or whatever. He hung it himself in the alcove and said: “Fine workmanship, don’t you think?” When I gave a noncommittal “Suppose so,” he launched into a tedious lecture: “There are two Kazans—one being So-and-so Kazan and another Such-and-such Kazan—but this scroll here is by the latter.” Then he added: “How about it? For you, fifteen yen.” “You should buy it,” he pressed. When I refused saying I didn’t have the money, he stubbornly insisted: “Money’s no trouble—it’s always available!” Even if I’d had the money I wouldn’t have bought it—with that I finally chased him off. Next time he hauled in an inkstone big as a demon-faced roof tile. “This is Tankei! Tankei!” he kept repeating until finally I asked half-amused what exactly Tankei was supposed to be—whereupon he immediately launched into another lecture: “Tankei has upper, middle and lower layers—everything these days is upper layer, but this one’s definitely middle layer. Just look at these eyes here!”

“Three eyes make it quite rare.”
“The ink dispersion is excellent too—try it yourself,” he said, thrusting the large inkstone before me.
When I asked the price, he replied, “The owner brought it back from China insisting on selling it, so I’ll make it thirty yen for you.”
This man was unquestionably an idiot.
The school might somehow remain manageable, but enduring this antique harassment would never last long.

Before long, I got sick of the school too.

One evening while strolling through Ōmachi, I spotted a sign beside the post office reading "Soba" with "Tokyo" written beneath it in smaller characters.
I adore soba.
Back in Tokyo days, just catching a whiff of condiments outside a shop would make me duck under that noren curtain without fail.
Though I'd forgotten about soba lately between math lessons and antique peddling, this sign stopped me cold.
Since I was passing by anyway, I figured I'd grab a bowl and stepped inside.
The interior didn't live up to the sign.
If you're going to bill yourself as Tokyo-style, at least keep things tidy—do these hicks not know Tokyo? Or are they just broke? The place reeked of filth.
Tatami mats discolored with age and gritty underfoot.
Walls blackened by soot.
A ceiling stained with lamp smoke hung so low I instinctively hunched my shoulders.
Only the price list stood out—gaudy characters listing soba varieties pasted up fresh.
They'd probably bought some crumbling building and slapped this together two days prior.
Tempura led the menu.
"Hey! Tempura over here!" I barked.
Three figures hunched in the corner—slurping and nibbling something—snapped their heads up.
Too dim to see clearly at first, but when our eyes met—my students.
They greeted me first, so I returned the nod.
That night's soba tasted divine after so long—I wolfed down four bowls of tempura.

The next day, when I entered the classroom without a care in the world, written across the entire blackboard in huge characters was “Tempura Sensei.”
When they saw my face, everyone burst out laughing.
“Is eating tempura so ridiculous just because I’m a fool?” I asked.
“But four bowls is pushing it, don’tcha think?” said one of the students.
“Whether I eat four bowls or five, it’s my money and my stomach—what’s it to them?” I finished the lecture in a hurry and returned to the staff room.

Ten minutes later when I entered the next classroom, there it was again: "Tempura—four bowls."
"But thou shalt not laugh," was written on the blackboard.
Earlier I hadn’t been particularly angry, but this time it really grated on my nerves.
A joke that goes too far is just a prank.
Like a rice cake burnt to charcoal—nobody’d praise that.
Country folk don’t grasp this nuance; they must figure they can push things as far as they like.
Living in this podunk town where you can’t find a single decent sight even after walking an hour, with no other talents to speak of—they’re probably spreading this tempura incident everywhere like it’s the damn Russo-Japanese War.
Pathetic wretches.
This is what happens when you educate kids like this from childhood—they turn into these warped little dwarfs, like potted maple trees.
If it were innocent mischief, I could laugh along—but what the hell is this?
For children, they’ve got a nasty streak of malice.
I silently erased the tempura writing. "You think this prank’s funny? Cowardly joke."
When I snapped, "Do you lot even know what ‘cowardly’ means?" some brat shot back, "Getting mad when people laugh at you—that’s what’s cowardly!"
Nasty little shit.
The thought that I’d come all the way from Tokyo to teach these brats made me feel downright pathetic.
"Quit the sass and study!" I barked, starting the lesson.
Then in the next classroom, they’d written: "Eating tempura apparently makes you sassy."
This was getting out of hand.
I got so pissed I declared, "I won’t teach such insolent brats!" and stormed back home.

The students were apparently delighted by their unexpected holiday.
At this rate,I'd sooner deal with antique peddlers than endure that wretched school.

Once I returned home and slept through the night, even the tempura soba incident no longer irritated me so much.
When I went to school, the students were present.
I couldn't make heads or tails of it.
After that, things remained quiet for about three days, but on the fourth evening I went to a place called Sumita and ate dumplings.
This Sumita was a hot spring town reachable from the castle town in about ten minutes by train or thirty on foot, complete with restaurants, hot spring inns, a park, and even a red-light district.
The dumpling shop I entered stood at the entrance to the red-light district, and since people said their dumplings were excellent, I decided to try some on my way back from the hot spring.
This time I hadn't encountered any students either, so I assumed no one would know—but when I went to school the next day and entered the first-period classroom, there it was written: "Two plates of dumplings—seven sen."
The truth was, I had eaten two plates and paid seven sen.
What a troublesome bunch they were.
When I anticipated something waiting in the second period too, there it was—"Red-light district dumplings tasty tasty."
They were an utterly appalling bunch.
Just when I thought the dumpling matter had blown over, this time something called 'Red Towel' became all the rage.
When I wondered what it meant, it turned out to be some trivial backstory.
Since arriving here, I'd resolved to visit Sumita's hot spring every day.
In every other respect, nothing here could hold a candle to Tokyo—only the hot spring was truly splendid.
Having come all this way, I determined to bathe daily, heading out before dinner under pretext of exercise.
However, whenever I went, I invariably carried a large Western-style towel with me.
This towel had become stained by the hot spring water until red streaks emerged, making it appear crimson at a glance.
I kept this towel with me constantly—coming and going, whether riding trains or walking.
And so it seemed the students had taken to calling me "Red Towel Red Towel."

Living in a small town sure was troublesome. There was more. The hot spring facility stood three stories tall—newly built—where first-class service meant being lent a yukata and having access to a shower, all for eight sen. On top of that, a woman served tea on tenmoku cups there. I always went first-class. Then they started saying it was extravagant for someone with a forty-yen monthly salary to use first-class daily. That’s none of their business! There was more still. The bathing pool had been constructed by stacking granite stones into a space roughly fifteen tatami mats in size. Usually thirteen or fourteen people soaked there, though occasionally it stood empty. The water reached chest height when standing, making swimming through it quite enjoyable for exercise. Whenever I confirmed nobody was around, I’d swim laps around the fifteen-tatami pool with delight. One day, bounding down energetically from the third floor to check if I could swim again, I peered through the pomegranate-shaped entrance and found a large sign posted: "SWIMMING IN BATH PROHIBITED" in bold black letters. Since swimmers were probably rare, this notice might’ve been specially made for me. I gave up swimming after that. Having abandoned swimming, imagine my shock upon finding "Swimming in bath prohibited" written on the school blackboard as usual. It felt like the entire student body had become my personal detectives. Fed up completely! No matter what those students said, I wasn’t one to quit what I’d started—but whenever I wondered why I’d come to this cramped backwater where even your nose feels obstructed, I couldn’t help feeling pathetic. Returning home meant facing the usual antique-related troubles again.

IV

The school had a night duty system where faculty members took turns fulfilling this responsibility.
However, Tanuki and Red Shirt were exceptions.
When I asked why these two were exempt from their obvious duty, they said it was because they held sōnin status.
That was utterly ridiculous.
They drew hefty salaries and worked fewer hours—how could escaping night duty be fair?
They created arbitrary rules and acted like they were perfectly natural.
How could anyone be so shameless?
I had considerable grievances about this, but according to Mountain Storm's theory, no amount of complaining from one person would ever get through.
Even if it were just one or two people, if they were right, it should work.
Mountain Storm cited the English phrase "might is right" during his lecture, but since it didn't make sense, I asked him to explain—he said it meant "the rights of the strong."
I'd known about the rights of the strong since forever.
I didn't need Mountain Storm explaining it now.
The rights of the strong and night duty were separate matters.
Who would ever accept Tanuki and Red Shirt as the strong ones?
Arguments aside, this night duty had finally rotated to me.
Being high-strung by nature, I never felt properly rested unless sleeping comfortably in my own bedding.
Since childhood, I'd almost never stayed overnight at friends' houses.
If even staying at friends' places was unpleasant, school night duty was downright unbearable.
I hated it, but if this was part of the forty-yen package, there was no choice.
I'd grit my teeth and do it.

After all the teachers and students had left, sitting there alone felt utterly pointless.
The night duty room was a solitary space at the western end of the dormitory behind the school building.
I tried staying there briefly, but the direct western sunlight made it unbearably stuffy.
True to country life, even autumn brought lingering heat.
I had them bring over the students' meal service and ate dinner, but its awfulness left me speechless.
How they could wolf down that slop and still cause such mayhem was beyond me.
No wonder they were heroes—polishing off dinner by four-thirty sharp.
Though I'd eaten, with daylight still lingering, sleep was out of the question.
A sudden urge struck me to visit the hot spring.
Whether leaving during night duty counted as proper conduct mattered little—being cooped up like a prisoner was intolerable.
I recalled thinking it odd when I first arrived and found the duty teacher "out on errands"—now my turn had come.
Going out was clearly the right approach.
When I told the janitor I'd be stepping out briefly, he asked if there was official business. "No business—just soaking," I shot back before marching off.
Annoying that I'd forgotten my red towel at the inn, but borrowing one there would do.

After that, I ambled about rather leisurely, going in and out of places, and when dusk finally fell, I boarded the train and arrived at Furumachi Station.
From here, it was four blocks to the school.
Thinking nothing of it, I started walking when Tanuki came from the opposite direction.
Tanuki must be planning to take this train to the hot spring now.
He came hurrying along briskly, but when we passed each other and he saw my face, I gave a slight greeting.
Then Tanuki asked with feigned seriousness, “Weren’t you on night duty today?”
“It’s not like I’m not!”
Two hours ago, he’d told me tonight was my first night duty.
I did say “Thank you for your hard work,” didn’t I?
Once you become a principal, you sure do start using annoyingly roundabout language.
I was pissed off, so yeah, I’m on night duty.
Since I was on night duty, I dismissed him with a curt “I’ll be sure to go back and stay there now,” and started walking away.
When I reached the four corners of Tatecho, this time I ran into Mountain Storm.
This town is way too small.
If I went out for a walk, I was bound to run into someone.
“Hey, aren’t you on night duty?” he asked, so I answered, “Yeah, I am,” whereupon he said, “It’s improper for someone on night duty to wander around aimlessly.”
“Not inconvenient at all! Not going out would be the real inconvenience!” I retorted defiantly.
“Your carelessness is a problem—if you run into the Principal or Vice Principal, there’ll be trouble,” Mountain Storm said, which was uncharacteristic of him, so I retorted, “I just ran into the Principal.”
“The Principal praised my walk, saying ‘Night duty must be tough without taking strolls in this heat’,” I said, then briskly returned to school to avoid further hassle.

After that, night fell quickly.
Once dark, I called the janitor to the night duty room and talked for about two hours, but when that grew tiresome, I decided to at least get into bed even if I couldn't sleep. Changing into my sleepwear, I rolled up the mosquito net, kicked off the red blanket, plopped down with a thud, and lay flat on my back.
This habit of thudding down when going to bed was one I'd had since childhood.
When I lived at that Ogawamachi boarding house, a law student two floors below had once complained about this bad habit.
Law students were all weaklings yet annoyingly eloquent, going on at length about trivial matters - so the thudding noise when I slept wasn't my backside's fault.
The boarding house had been shoddily built.
"If you want to complain, take it up with the boarding house!" I'd snapped back.
Since this night duty room wasn't on the second floor, I could thud down as hard as I liked without worry.
Unless I flopped down vigorously, I never felt properly settled for sleep.
"Ahh, bliss," I thought as I stretched my legs out hard - when something leaped onto both feet.
The gritty texture didn't feel like fleas. Startled by whatever it was, I shook my legs two or three times under the blanket.
Then those gritty things suddenly multiplied - five or six spots on my shins, two or three on my thighs, one squashed mess under my rear, another that jumped all the way to my navel - until I was thoroughly alarmed.
I immediately sat up and flung the blanket back, where fifty or sixty grasshoppers came leaping out from inside the futon.
When their identity was unknown, it had been somewhat creepy, but once confirmed as mere grasshoppers, my fury erupted.
"How dare these bugs startle me!" Grabbing the bundled pillow, I slammed it down two or three times to teach them a lesson, but their small size made my forceful blows largely ineffective.
With no other option, I sat back on the futon and began haphazardly pounding the area around me, like rolling up a straw mat to beat tatami during soot cleaning.
The startled grasshoppers, propelled by the pillow's force, began clinging to my shoulders, head, even the tip of my nose - colliding here, sticking there.
Those stuck to my face couldn't be hit with the pillow, so I grabbed them by hand and hurled them with all my might.
To my utter vexation, no matter how hard I threw them against the mosquito netting, they only made it billow softly without offering proper resistance.
The grasshoppers clung stubbornly to the net where they'd been flung.

They wouldn't die.
After much effort, I finally dealt with the grasshoppers in about thirty minutes.
I brought a broom and swept out the grasshopper corpses.
The janitor came and asked, “What’s going on?” so I snapped back, “What do you mean ‘what’s going on’? Who in the world keeps grasshoppers in their bed?”
“Fool!” I barked, to which he excused himself with “I know nothing about it.”
“You think ‘I don’t know’ cuts it?!” I hurled the broom onto the veranda, whereupon the janitor timidly picked it up and left.

I promptly summoned about three boarding student representatives.
Then six showed up.
Whether it was six or ten, did I care?
Still in my nightclothes with my sleeves rolled up, I began the negotiation.

"Why the hell did you put grasshoppers in my bed?"

“What’s a ‘grasshoppah’?” said the foremost student.
Putting on that damn composed act.
In this school, it wasn’t just the Principal—even the students must’ve been using roundabout language.

“Don’t you know what grasshoppers are? If not, I’ll show you,” I said, but I’d already swept them all out—not a single one remained.
I called the janitor again. “Bring those grasshoppers from earlier.” He replied, “I’ve tossed ’em in the trash heap already—want me to fetch ’em back?”
“Yeah, go dig ’em up now!” The janitor scurried off and soon returned with about ten bugs laid out on a sheet of paper. “Terribly sorry—bein’ nighttime an’ all—this’s all I could rustle up.”
“I’ll get more come mornin’,” he added.
Even the damn janitor’s an idiot.
I shoved one bug at the students. “This here’s a grasshopper! You great lunks never seen one? What’s wrong with you?” The round-faced runt on the left end sneered, “That there’s a locust, ya know.”
“Damn fools! Locusts ’n’ grasshoppers ain’t no different!”
“First off—what’s this ‘ya know’ nonsense you keep tossin’ at your teacher?”
“You don’t eat naameshi ’cept with dengaku!” I fired back crookedly. They shot back, “‘Namoshi’ ain’t ‘naameshi,’ ya know!”
“You gonna bleat ‘ya know’ till Judgment Day?”

“Whether they’re locusts or grasshoppers—why’d you go stuffing ’em in my bed?”
“When did I ever ask you to put grasshoppers in?!”

“Ain’t nobody put ’em in.”

“If nobody put ’em in, how’d they end up in the bed?!”

“Locusts like warm spots—prob’ly just crawled in on their own, ya know.”

“Don’t talk horseshit! Grasshoppers crawlin’ in by themselves—like hell I’ll swallow that!—Now fess up! Why’d you pull this stunt?”

“If you’re sayin’ we did it, there ain’t nothin’ to explain ’bout what we never done!”

Cheap bastards.
If you can't even own up to what you've done, you shouldn't do it at all.
Long as there's no proof turning up, they're dead set on playing dumb with that brazen act of theirs.

I pulled my share of pranks back in middle school too.
But whenever someone asked who did it, I never cowered or played dumb.
What I did, I owned up to; what I didn't do stayed undone—that's how it works.
Even with all the mischief I caused, I kept my hands clean.
If you're gonna lie to dodge punishment, don't pull the damn prank in the first place!
Pranks and punishment go together like rice and pickles.
The thrill's in knowing you might get caught!
What kinda country breeds spineless worms who want the fun without paying the price?!
The same rotten bastards who borrow money and never pay it back—they'll be graduating straight into that line of work!
What're these shitheads even doing in a schoolhouse?!
They slink around lying through their teeth, covering their tracks, pulling sneaky little stunts—then swagger out thinking their diploma makes 'em educated men!
Nothing but yellow-bellied foot soldiers who can't own their mess!

“Dealing with these rotten-minded bastards makes me sick to my stomach,” I snapped. “If you’re not gonna confess, I don’t need to hear it. It’s pitiable that you can’t even tell refined from crude after entering middle school.” With that, I dismissed all six of them.

I might not have had refined words or airs about me, but in my heart, I considered myself far more dignified than those bastards.

The six withdrew with infuriating composure. In their outward appearance alone, they looked far more respectable than me—their teacher. But that very composure only made them all the worse. I could never have mustered such shameless nerve.

Then I got back into bed and lay down, only to find the inside of the mosquito net buzzing furiously from the earlier commotion.
Since lighting a hand candle to burn each one was too much trouble, I detached the hook handle, folded it lengthwise, and when I swung it wildly around the room, the metal ring flew off and struck the back of my hand mercilessly.
The third time I got into bed, I had calmed down somewhat, but sleep still wouldn't come.
When I looked at the clock, it was ten-thirty.
When I thought about it, I'd landed myself in one hell of a mess.
When you got down to it, middle school teachers were a pitiable lot—no matter where you went, having to deal with such creatures.
It was a wonder teachers didn't run out.
It must take some incredibly thick-skinned blockheads to become teachers.
I could never manage it.
Thinking of that, someone like Kiyo was truly admirable.
Though she had no education or status as an old woman, as a human being she was genuinely noble.
Until now, I'd received so much care from her without ever feeling particularly grateful, but now that I'd come alone to this distant province, I finally understood that kindness.
If she'd wanted Echigo sasaame candy, going all the way to Echigo to buy it for her would've been well worth the trouble.
Kiyo praised me as selfless and straightforward, but she—the one doing the praising—was a far more admirable person than I who received her praise.
I found myself wanting to see Kiyo.

As I lay there thinking of Kiyo and fidgeting restlessly, a sudden boom, boom, boom—like thirty or forty people stomping in rhythm—erupted overhead with such force it seemed the second floor might collapse. Then came a tremendous war cry matching the stomps' intensity. Startled by the commotion, I leapt to my feet. The moment I did, it hit me—ah! This was the students' retaliation through deliberate disturbance.

Your sins won't vanish until you confess your wrongdoing. You lot must be fully aware of your misdeeds. The proper way would've been to sleep on it, feel remorse overnight, and come apologize come morning. Even without apologizing, you should've at least lain quietly in shame. What's this infernal racket? They might as well have built a pigsty instead of a dormitory! Enough with these lunatic antics already!

"I'll show them!" I burst from the night duty room in my sleepwear and bounded up the stairs in three-and-a-half leaps. Yet strangely, the uproar that had been raging overhead moments before suddenly ceased—not a voice nor footstep remained.

This was peculiar. With the lamp already extinguished, darkness made it impossible to discern any figures, though the atmosphere clearly felt deserted. The long east-west corridor held not a single hiding rat. Moonlight streaming from the far end made that distant section eerily bright.

This was strange; ever since I was a child, I had a habit of vivid dreaming—jumping up in a daze from sleep, muttering nonsense, often becoming the laughingstock of others.
When I was sixteen or seventeen, there was a night I dreamt I found a diamond; I shot upright and vehemently demanded of my brother who was beside me, "What happened to that diamond just now?"
At that time, I became the laughingstock of the entire household for about three days and was greatly troubled.
Perhaps this too was just a dream.
But convinced that there had indeed been a commotion, I stood pondering in the middle of the corridor when—no sooner did a unified roar from thirty or forty voices erupt at the moonlit far end following a "One! Two! Three! Waaah!" count-off—they resumed their rhythmic stomping on the floorboards as before.
There! It wasn't a dream after all—it was real!

"Shut up! It's the middle of the night!" I roared back with equal volume, charging down the corridor toward them.
The path ahead lay dark, only the moonlight at the far end serving as my guide.
I'd barely run two rooms' length when my shin struck something hard and massive in the corridor's center—pain lanced through my skull as my body thudded forward.
"Damn brats!" I tried rising but couldn't run.
My mind raced while my legs refused cooperation.
Hopping over on one leg in frustration, I found all footsteps and voices silenced—still as a forest.
"No human cowardice reaches such depths."
"They're swine through and through."
Resolved to drag out whoever hid there and force apologies, I tried opening a bedroom door—it wouldn't budge.
Locked? Barricaded with desks? However I shoved, it held fast.
Next I tried the north-facing room opposite.
No luck there either.
As I fumed at catching those inside, war cries and stomping erupted again from the eastern end.
'These bastards coordinate east-west to mock me,' I realized helplessly.
"I'll confess—my courage outpaces my wits."
"In such moments I'm utterly lost."
"But losing? Never."
"My honor hangs in the balance."
"What disgrace if Edo natives get branded spineless!"
"Lifelong shame if they think I cowered before snot-nosed brats on night duty!"

Even so, I come from hatamoto stock.
The hatamoto originate from the Seiwa Genji clan, descendants of Tada no Mitsunaka.
We're different from these country bumpkins right from birth.
The only pity is that I lack wisdom.
The only trouble is not knowing what to do.
Just because I'm in trouble doesn't mean I'll lose!
It's because I'm honest that I don't know what to do.
Just think—is there anything in this world that triumphs without honesty?
If I can't win tonight, I'll win tomorrow.
If I can't win tomorrow, I'll win the day after.
If I can't win the day after tomorrow, I'll have my boarding house send over a lunchbox and stay here until I do win.
Having resolved thus, I sat cross-legged in the middle of the corridor and waited for dawn.
Mosquitoes came buzzing around, but they didn't faze me.
I touched the shin I'd hit earlier and found it oddly slimy.
It must be bleeding.
Let it bleed all it wants.
Eventually, the fatigue from earlier set in, and before I knew it, I dozed off.
When I woke to some kind of commotion, I leapt up with a "Shit!"
The door to the right where I had been sitting was half-open, and two students stood before me.
When I came to my senses and had just thought 'Ah!'—I grabbed the foot of the student right in front of me and yanked it with all my strength. The guy fell flat on his back with a heavy thud.

"Serves you right!" As the remaining student stood momentarily flustered, I lunged at him, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him a couple of times; he stood dumbfounded, his eyes blinking rapidly. When I barked "Come on—to my room!" and herded them along, they—looking every bit the weaklings—followed without protest. The night had already broken.

When I began interrogating the one I'd dragged to the night-duty room, these pigs—beat them or thrash them all you like, they'd still be pigs—just kept up their "Dunno" act, clearly resolved to stick to their story through hell or high water; they absolutely refused to confess. One came, then another came, until they'd all trickled down from the second floor into the night-duty room. Looking them over, they all stood there heavy-lidded and sleepy-eyed. Petty bastards. You call yourselves men after losing one night's sleep and pulling that face? I told them to go wash their mugs first if they wanted to argue properly, but not a single one budged to clean up.

I had been engaged in a back-and-forth with about fifty students for nearly an hour when Tanuki suddenly showed up.
When I later inquired about it, apparently the janitor had gone out of his way to inform them that there was a disturbance.
To call Tanuki over such a trivial matter showed a complete lack of backbone.
That’s why he’s nothing but a middle school janitor.

Tanuki listened to my explanation.
He also heard a bit of what the students had to say.
He told them to keep attending school as usual until he decided their punishment, then dismissed all the boarding students with orders to quickly wash their faces and eat breakfast before they missed class time.
It was a lukewarm response.
If it were me, I’d expel every last boarding student on the spot.
It’s because they handle things so leisurely that students look down on night-duty staff.
On top of that, when he said to me, “You must be quite worried and exhausted; there’s no need for you to conduct your classes today,” I replied:
“No need for concern at all.”
“Even if this happened every night, I wouldn’t fret while breath remained in me.”
“I’ll teach my classes. If missing one night’s sleep made me unfit to teach, I’d refund every yen of my salary back to this school!”

The Principal stared at my face for a while, perhaps wondering what to make of it, but then noted, “Your face has swollen up quite a bit.”
Indeed, I did feel a bit heavy.
On top of that, my face was uniformly itchy all over.
The mosquitoes must have bitten me relentlessly.
While scratching my swollen face vigorously, I answered that no matter how puffed up my face got, my mouth still worked fine, so it wouldn’t interfere with my classes.
The Principal laughed and remarked, “You’re quite energetic.”
To tell the truth, he wasn’t praising me—he was mocking me.

Chapter Five

“Would you care to go fishing?” Red Shirt asked me.
Red Shirt was a man with a creepily gentle voice.
You couldn’t tell if it belonged to a man or a woman.
A man ought to have a manly voice.
Especially being a university graduate.
Even someone like me—a physics school graduate—had this rough voice of mine, yet here was this Bachelor of Arts sounding like that. How shameful.

I gave a vague “Well...” in reply, whereupon he asked rudely, “Have you ever fished before?”
“Not much, but when I was a kid, I caught three crucian carps at Koume’s fishing pond.”
“Then I hooked an eight-inch carp at the Bishamonten festival in Kagurazaka—but just when I thought I had it, it slipped off the hook with a plop. Even now I still regret it,” I said, whereupon Red Shirt thrust his chin forward and laughed: “Hohohoho!”
There’s no need to put on such airs when you laugh—you seem decent enough.

"I see—you still don't grasp fishing's true essence," he said with evident pride. "If you wish, I could offer some instruction."

Who'd want his precious lessons? Let's face it—all these anglers and hunters are heartless bastards through and through. If they had any decency, they wouldn't take pleasure in killing. Fish and birds would rather keep living than get slaughtered, wouldn't they? Sure, if your livelihood depended on it, that's one thing—but claiming you can't sleep unless you kill something when you're already living comfortable? That's pure decadence.

I kept these thoughts to myself, knowing he'd outtalk me with his fancy Arts degree eloquence. Mistaking my silence for surrender, Red Shirt pressed on: "Why not join us today? It gets lonely with just Yoshikawa-kun."

Yoshikawa-kun meant Nodaiko, that art teacher who shadowed Red Shirt morning and night like some servant—hardly a colleague at all. More like master and lackey. Given how Nodaiko trailed after him everywhere, why invite me along when they clearly didn't need company? Probably wanted to show off his fishing skills to impress me. As if I'd care if they hauled in three tunas! Still...if I refused, that pretentious bastard would assume I skipped out from incompetence rather than dislike.

After all—I'm human too. Toss in a line and something's bound to bite.

Having thought this through, I replied, “Let’s go.” After finishing up at school, I went home briefly to get ready, met up with Red Shirt and Nodaiko at the station, and headed to the beach. The boatman was alone, and the boat had a shape I’d never seen around Tokyo—long and narrow. I’d been looking around the boat since earlier but hadn’t spotted a single fishing rod. When I asked Nodaiko how they planned to fish without rods—was such a thing even possible?—he stroked his chin and said in a blackface-like manner, “We don’t use rods for offshore fishing; just the line.” If I was going to get shut down like this, I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

The boatman was rowing slowly, ever so slowly, but his skill was remarkable; when I looked back, we were already so far out that the beach appeared small. The five-story pagoda of Kōhakuji Temple rose above the forest, needle-like in its sharpness. When I looked across, Aoshima floated into view. They say no one lives on this island. When I looked closely, it was nothing but rocks and pine trees. No wonder you couldn’t live here—nothing but rocks and pine trees. Red Shirt kept remarking on what a splendid view it was. Nodaiko exclaimed, “What a magnificent view!” I didn’t know whether it was a magnificent view or what, but there was no denying it felt pleasant. Out on the vast sea, I thought letting the salty wind blow through me was just what the doctor ordered. I was getting awfully hungry. “Look at that pine tree—its trunk perfectly straight, the top spreading like an umbrella. It could be straight from a Turner painting,” Red Shirt said to Nodaiko, who gushed, “Absolutely Turner-esque! The way it curves is simply unmatched! It’s just like Turner!” he declared with a knowing look. I didn’t know who this Turner was, but since not asking wouldn’t cause any trouble, I kept quiet. The boat circled around with the island to its right. There were no waves at all. It was so calm you could hardly believe this was the sea. Red Shirt’s doing made it quite pleasant. Since I thought that if possible, I’d like to go up onto that island, I asked whether the boat couldn’t be brought to that rocky area.

“It’s not that we can’t dock,” Red Shirt objected, “but for fishing, being too close to shore isn’t advisable.”
I remained silent.
Then Nodaiko made an unnecessary proposal: “How about it, Vice Principal? Shall we name that island Turner Island from now on?”
“How amusing,” said Red Shirt. “We shall henceforth call it such.”
If I’m included in this ‘we’ of theirs, what a nuisance that’d be.
Aoshima was plenty for me.
“How about placing Raphael’s Madonna on that rock?”
When Nodaiko said, “That’d make a fine painting!” Red Shirt let out a creepy laugh. “Ho ho ho! Perhaps we should avoid mentioning the Madonna.”
“Oh, there’s no one here—perfectly safe,” he said, briefly glancing my way before deliberately turning his face away with a sly smirk.
I felt an unpleasant sensation.
Whether it was Madonna or some young master, it was none of my business—they could parade whoever they wanted out there for all I cared. If people wanted to spout nonsense I didn’t understand, then I didn’t need to bother listening to what I couldn’t make heads or tails of anyway.
That was a vulgar gesture.
With this, the man himself went around saying things like “I’m an Edo native too, you know.”
I concluded that this “Madonna” must be the nickname of some geisha Red Shirt frequented or something along those lines.
If they wanted to stand their favorite geisha under a pine tree on an uninhabited island and gaze at her, that would be simple enough.
Nodaiko might as well paint that as an oil painting or something and submit it to an exhibition.

Thinking this spot would do, the boatman stopped the boat and dropped anchor. When Red Shirt asked how many fathoms deep it was, he replied it was about six fathoms. "At six fathoms, sea bream would be tough," Red Shirt remarked as he cast his line into the sea. He seemed intent on catching a prize sea bream—a bold move indeed. Nodaiko chimed in, "Why, with the Vice Principal's skill, you'll surely hook one!" Flattering further while unspooling his own line, he added, "And with this calm weather too," before casting his sinker-laden hook. It was just a lead weight dangling there—no float in sight. Fishing without a float struck me as absurd as measuring fever without a thermometer. As I watched skeptically, Red Shirt prodded, "Come now, why don't you try? Have you line enough?"

"There's line aplenty," I retorted, "but no float."

"Needing floats marks the amateur," he scoffed. "Here's how it's done—when the line hits bottom, gauge the rhythm at the gunwale with your fingertip. A bite telegraphs straight to your hand... There!" He suddenly yanked his rod up, reeling frantically only to find empty hooks and stolen bait.

Served him right.

"What rotten luck, Vice Principal!" Nodaiko fawned. "That was clearly a monster catch—if even your expertise fails today, we must stay vigilant!"

"But what does losing one matter?"

"Still better than those gaping at floats like simpletons!"

"It's precisely like cyclists needing brakes," Nodaiko prattled on with nonsensical analogies. I seriously considered boxing his ears. Wasn't I human too? This wasn't some private sea reserved solely for His Vice-Principalship. The damned place stretched endlessly wide.

Thinking that even a single bonito might bite out of courtesy, I plopped the sinker and line into the water and half-heartedly jiggled them with my fingertips.

After a while, something began intermittently tugging at the line.
I thought.
This had to be a fish.
If it wasn't alive, there'd be no reason for it to twitch like this.
Yes! Got one! I started reeling it in vigorously.
"Oh, caught something? A prodigy for the ages!" Nodaiko mocked. By then I'd already reeled in most of the line—only about five feet remained in the water.
When I peered over the gunwale, a fish with goldfish-like stripes clung to the line, swaying side to side as it surfaced in response to my tugging.
Fascinating.
As I lifted it from the water's edge, it gave a plop and splashed seawater across my face.
I finally grabbed it and tried removing the hook, but it wouldn't budge.
My hand turned slimy from gripping it.
Disgusting.
Too much trouble—I shook the line and flung it into the hull space, where it died instantly.
Red Shirt and Nodaiko stared in astonishment.
I washed my hands in the sea with vigorous splashes and sniffed my fingertips.
Still reeked.
Had enough.
Didn't want to handle any fish, no matter what I caught.
The fish probably hated being grabbed too.
Quickly reeled in the line.

“First blood to the rookie, but calling it ‘Gorky’?” Nodaiko taunted again. To which Red Shirt quipped: “Gorky does sound like the name of some Russian literary figure.”
“Yes indeed! It’s exactly like a Russian literary figure,” Nodaiko immediately chimed in.
“If Gorky is a Russian literary figure, then Maruki must be a photographer from Shiba, and a rice-bearing tree must be someone’s dear parent.”
What an insufferable habit Red Shirt had.
No matter what they caught, they kept slapping these foreign-sounding names on them.
People ought to stick to their own fields.
How was a math teacher like me supposed to know if it was Gorky or Shariki? They could at least show some consideration.
If they wanted to name things, why not use terms even I recognized—like Franklin’s autobiography or “Pushing Two Ze Front”?
Red Shirt sometimes brought a crimson magazine called Empire Literature to school and pored over it like it was scripture.
When I asked Mountain Storm about it, he said all Red Shirt’s fancy foreign terms came straight from that rag.
Empire Literature was nothing but trouble.

After that, Red Shirt and Nodaiko kept fishing with great effort, and in about an hour, the two of them had reeled in fifteen or sixteen.
The funny thing was, every time they caught something—every single time—it was nothing but Gorky.
You couldn’t get a sea bream here even if you wanted to make medicine out of it!
“Today’s a big hit for Russian literature,” Red Shirt told Nodaiko.
“Since it’s your skill that makes them Gorky, there’s no helping it if someone like me ends up with Gorky too.”
“Naturally,” Nodaiko answered.
When I asked the boatman about it, he said these little fish were full of bones, tasted awful, and were completely inedible.
But they could be used as fertilizer, apparently.
Red Shirt and Nodaiko were diligently fishing for fertilizer.
What a pitiful sight.
Having had enough after just one fish, I lay down in the hull space and gazed up at the vast sky.
This was far more stylish than fishing.

Then the two of them began whispering about something in low voices.
I couldn’t make out what they were saying—not that I wanted to.
I was gazing at the sky and thinking about Kiyo.
If I had money and brought Kiyo along, how delightful it would be to visit such a beautiful place like this.
No matter how fine the scenery might be, being stuck with someone like Nodaiko made it thoroughly dull.
Kiyo might be a shriveled old woman covered in wrinkles, but I’d never feel ashamed to take her anywhere.
Someone like Nodaiko—whether riding in a carriage, boarding a ship, or ascending Ryounkaku Tower—could never be endured.
If I were the vice principal and Red Shirt were me, he’d undoubtedly be groveling with flattery while mocking Red Shirt.
People say Edo natives are frivolous, and sure enough—if trash like this goes around the countryside bleating “I’m an Edo native!”—then country bumpkins would inevitably decide frivolity defines Edo natives and Edo natives mean frivolity.

While I was thinking such thoughts, the two of them started giggling for some reason.
Amidst their laughter, they were saying something in fragments, but it was completely incoherent.

“Huh?”
“Hard to say…”
“Absolutely… I know nothing about it… It’s a sin.”
“No way…”
“The grasshopper… It’s true.”

I hadn’t paid attention to their talk until Nodaiko’s “grasshopper” hit my ears, making me stiffen instinctively.
Nodaiko had stressed that word oddly—clear as day to me—then blurred what came after on purpose.
I stayed motionless but kept listening.

“That Horota again…”
“That might be the case…”
“Tempura… Ha ha ha ha ha!”
“…instigating…”
“Dumplings too?”

Though their words came in fragments, judging by mentions of grasshoppers, tempura, and dumplings, they were undoubtedly discussing me in secret.
If they wanted to talk, they should’ve spoken up properly. And if they meant to whisper secrets, they shouldn’t have invited me at all.
What a detestable bunch they were.
Whether it was grasshoppers or trampled snow, the fault didn’t lie with me.
Since the principal had told me to leave things be for now, I was holding back out of deference to the Tanuki’s authority at this moment.
Nodaiko, for all his airs, had the nerve to offer meddlesome criticism.
He should’ve gone off to suck on a writing brush and stayed out of sight!
As for my affairs—sooner or later—I’d settle them myself; that was no trouble. But I couldn’t help worrying over their talk of Horota and that “instigating” business.
Was it saying Horota had instigated me to escalate the disturbance? Or that he’d stirred up the students to bully me? I couldn’t tell which way they meant it.

As I gazed at the blue sky, the sunlight gradually weakened, and a slightly chilly wind began to blow. Clouds like incense smoke were quietly spreading across the crystal-clear depths when, before I knew it, they flowed into the far reaches of those depths and cast a thin haze.

“Perhaps we should head back,” Red Shirt said as if suddenly remembering.
“Yes, it’s just about time,” Nodaiko replied.
“Are you meeting Madonna tonight?” Nodaiko added.
Red Shirt sat up slightly from his position leaning against the boat’s edge and scolded, “Don’t spout such nonsense—people might misunderstand.”
“Ehehehe, it’s perfectly fine,” Nodaiko tittered.
As Nodaiko turned around muttering, “Even if you heard—” I fixed my saucer-like eyes squarely upon his head.
He reeled back as if dazzled, then shrank his neck in surrender and scratched his head.
What brazen impudence!

The boat rowed back to shore through the calm sea.
When Red Shirt remarked, "You don't seem particularly fond of fishing," I answered, "Nah, I'd rather lie here and look at the sky," then flicked my half-smoked cigarette into the sea. It hissed as it hit the water, swaying and drifting across the waves churned up by the oar blades.
"Since your arrival has greatly pleased the students, do put in some real effort," he now began saying something utterly unrelated to fishing.
"They’re not exactly thrilled, I suppose."
"No, this isn’t empty flattery."
"They’re absolutely delighted, right, Mr. Yoshikawa?"
"They’re far from delighted.
They’re in an uproar," Nodaiko said with a sneering grin.
It’s baffling how every single thing this guy says gets under my skin.
"But if you don’t take care, things could take a dangerous turn," Red Shirt said, so I retorted, "They’re dangerous no matter what."
"If it comes to this, I’m prepared for danger," I shot back.
In reality, I was resolved to either get fired or make every last one of those boarding students apologize—one or the other.
"If you put it that way, there’s no getting through to you—but I’m saying this as your vice principal, out of concern for your well-being. Don’t take it the wrong way."
"The vice principal truly has your best interests at heart.
Though my abilities are limited, as a fellow Edo native, I’ve been doing my utmost behind the scenes to ensure you can stay at the school as long as possible so we can support each other," said Nodaiko, speaking in an uncharacteristically human manner.
If it comes to being indebted to Nodaiko, I’d rather hang myself and die.

“So you see, the students are quite delighted by your arrival, but there are various circumstances involved.”
“You must find many things infuriating, but I want you to consider this a test of patience and endure through it.”
“I would never do anything that isn’t for your benefit.”

“Various circumstances—what circumstances are those?”

“It’s somewhat intricate, but you’ll grasp it in due course.”
“Even without my explanations, it will naturally clarify itself—wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Yoshikawa?”

“Oh yes, decidedly intricate indeed.”
“Not something one comprehends overnight.”
“But you’ll gradually understand—it’ll become clear without my explanations,” Nodaiko echoed Red Shirt’s phrasing.

“If it’s such a bothersome affair, I’ve no need to hear it—but since you raised the matter yourself, I’m obliged to inquire.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable.”
“For us to start the conversation and then leave it unfinished would be irresponsible.”
“In that case, I’ll just mention this much.”
“With all due respect, you have only just graduated from school, and teaching is your first experience.”
“However, schools are places rife with personal considerations; they don’t operate with such bookish simplicity.”

“If we don’t proceed straightforwardly, then how exactly should we proceed?”

“Well, you’re so straightforward—that’s precisely why we say you still lack experience…”

“I’m bound to be inexperienced anyway. I did put it in my resume—twenty-three years and four months.”

“Well then, that’s precisely where you might get taken advantage of from an unexpected quarter.”

“As long as I’m honest, I’m not scared of anyone trying to take advantage.”

“Of course you’re not scared—not scared at all—but you’ll get taken advantage of. In fact, since your predecessor was taken advantage of, I’m telling you need to be careful.”

Noticing that Nodaiko had grown quiet, I turned to look and found him already at the stern talking with the boatman about fishing.
With Nodaiko gone from our conversation, it became much easier to speak freely.

"Who took advantage of my predecessor?"

“If we were to name names, it would damage that person’s honor—so we can’t say.”
“Moreover, since there’s no clear evidence, stating it outright would only reveal our own failings.”
“At any rate, having gone through the trouble of bringing you here, if you were to fail now, our efforts in summoning you would prove entirely pointless.”
“Please do take care.”

“Even if you tell me to be careful, there’s no being more careful than this. As long as I don’t do anything wrong, that should be fine, right?”

Red Shirt laughed with a “Ho ho ho ho.”
I don’t recall saying anything particularly laughable.
Even now, I firmly believe that this is right.
Reflecting on it, I think the majority of people in society actually encourage becoming wicked.
They seem to believe that one cannot succeed in society without becoming wicked.
When they occasionally encounter an honest, pure person, they nitpick with labels like “young master” or “greenhorn” and look down on them.
In that case, maybe ethics teachers in elementary and middle schools shouldn’t teach students not to lie and to be honest.
It would be better for society and the individuals themselves if schools instead boldly taught methods of lying, techniques of distrusting people, and schemes to deceive others.
Red Shirt’s “Ho ho ho ho” laughter was directed at my simplicity.
In a world where simplicity and honesty are laughed at, there’s no helping it.
Kiyo never laughed at times like these.
She would listen with genuine admiration, I tell you.
Kiyo was far superior to Red Shirt.

“Of course it’s fine if you don’t do anything wrong yourself, but even if you avoid wrongdoing yourself, if you can’t recognize when others are doing wrong, you’ll still end up in terrible trouble.”
“In this world there are those you must never let your guard down with—even if they seem magnanimous or unassuming or kindly help arrange your boarding house…”
It got quite cold.
It was already autumn—the shore had turned sepia through the mist.
What a view.
“Hey there, Mr. Yoshikawa! What do you make of that shoreline view...” he called out loudly to Nodaiko.
“My word! This is truly sublime!”
“I’d sketch this given time,” Nodaiko exclaimed with vigorous clapping, “but what a crime to leave such beauty untouched!”

As a light came on in Minatoya's second floor and the train whistle shrieked, the boat I was riding in scraped against the sandy shore, its bow digging in until it came to a stop.
“Good evening and welcome back,” the landlady greeted Red Shirt from where she stood on the beach.
From the boat’s edge, I finally let out a shout and leaped down onto the shore.

Six

I hated Noda.
For Japan’s sake, someone should’ve tied pickle-weights to that bastard and sunk him to the ocean floor.
Red Shirt’s voice grated on me.
He was probably putting on airs with that voice of his to seem gentle.
But no amount of posturing could fix that face of his.
Even if someone fell for him, it’d only be Madonna.
Still, being Vice Principal, Red Shirt said trickier things than Noda.
Back home, mulling over his claims, they almost sounded reasonable at first.
But he never spelled things out clearly—hard to tell—though I gathered he meant Mountain Storm was bad news and I should watch my back.
If that’s the case, he should’ve said it outright—what a spineless move.
And if he’s such a rotten teacher, they ought to fire him pronto.
The Vice Principal’s got no guts for a literary scholar.
A man who badmouths others without naming names—coward through and through.
Since cowards are kindly by nature, Red Shirt must be one of those womanish do-gooders too.
Kindness is kindness and a voice is a voice—hating his voice doesn’t mean you dismiss his kindness. That’s just wrong.
Still, the world’s a madhouse—the guy I can’t stand acts kind, while the pal I liked turns villain. Like we’re all jokes.
Probably ’cause it’s the sticks—everything here flips Tokyo ways upside down.
What a lawless dump.
Next thing you know, fires’ll freeze and stones turn to tofu.
But Mountain Storm riling up students? Didn’t seem his style.

Since Mountain Storm's said to be the most popular teacher, he could probably manage most anything if he put his mind to it—but first off, instead of all that roundabout nonsense, he could just grab me directly and start a fight; that'd save everyone the trouble.
If I'm in their way, they ought to come out and say it straight: "You're in the way—resign." Tell me that plainly, and I'd be fine with it.
Things get settled through proper discussion.
If their reasoning makes sense, I'll resign tomorrow itself.
It's not like rice only grows in this one place.
Wherever I end up, I won't be dying face-down in some ditch.
Mountain Storm's really not one for talking things through either.

When I first arrived here, Mountain Storm was the one who treated me to shaved ice.
Letting a two-faced bastard like that treat me to anything—even shaved ice—would disgrace me.
I only drank one cup, so I only made him pay one sen and five rin.
But whether it's one sen or five rin, being indebted to a fraudster would leave me feeling sick to my grave.
When I go to school tomorrow, I'll return that one sen and five rin.
I borrowed three yen from Kiyo.
Five years have passed since then, and I still haven't repaid those three yen.
It's not that I can't repay it.
I'm choosing not to repay it.
Kiyo doesn't harbor even momentary expectations about getting that money back from my pockets.
Nor do I intend to put on some stranger's airs about dutifully repaying her soon.
The more I worry about this repayment business, the more it feels like doubting Kiyo's sincerity—no better than sullying her pure heart.
Not repaying her isn't trampling on Kiyo—it's because I consider her part of myself.
Kiyo and Mountain Storm were incomparable from the start, but whether it's shaved ice or sweet tea, accepting favors silently means recognizing the giver as someone worthy of respect.
Paying my share would settle things outright, but heartfelt gratitude isn't some transaction you can buy with coins.
Even without rank or title, I'm a full-fledged independent man.
For an independent man to bow his head must count as thanks more precious than a million ryō.

Even so, I felt that by making Mountain Storm splurge one sen and five rin, I had repaid him with something more precious than a million ryō. Mountain Storm should have thought it was something to be grateful for. Moreover, to go behind someone’s back and act so despicably—he was an outrageous bastard. Once I went tomorrow and returned the one sen and five rin, there would be no debt or obligation left between us. Once I did that, I would go ahead and pick a fight with him.

Once I had thought this far, I got sleepy and fell sound asleep.

The next day, having something to settle, I left for school earlier than usual and lay in wait for Mountain Storm. However, he was nowhere to be seen. Pale Gourd came out. The Chinese Classics teacher came out. Noda came out. Finally, even Red Shirt came out, but on Mountain Storm’s desk, only a single piece of chalk lay vertically, leaving it quiet. I had intended to return it as soon as I entered the staff room, so from the moment I left home, I had gripped one sen and five rin in my palm like bathhouse coins all the way to school. Because I have sweaty hands, when I opened my palm, the one sen and five rin were damp with sweat. Thinking that if I returned the sweaty coin, Mountain Storm would have something to say about it, I placed it on the desk, blew on it, and gripped it again. Just then Red Shirt came over and said, “My apologies for yesterday—it must have been quite a bother,” so I replied, “It wasn’t a bother at all. Thanks to you, I worked up an appetite.” Then Red Shirt leaned on Mountain Storm’s desk and brought that round face of his right up to the side of my nose. Just as I wondered what he was up to, he said, “You’ll keep what we discussed yesterday on the boat a secret, won’t you?” “You won’t go telling anyone yet, will you?” he said. Precisely because he speaks in a womanly voice, he strikes me as a fussy sort of man. I certainly haven’t said anything. However, given that I’m fully prepared to speak my mind now—even having the one sen and five rin ready in my palm—it’s rather inconvenient to be silenced by Red Shirt here. Red Shirt is really something else.

Even if he didn't explicitly name Mountain Storm, to drop such an easily inferable riddle and then call it a nuisance to solve now—that was irresponsibility unbefitting a vice principal. Under normal circumstances, when I'd started waging war with Mountain Storm and we were locked in combat, he should have stepped into the fray and openly taken my side. That's how he could justify being a school vice principal—the very rationale for wearing that red shirt would hold water.

When I told the vice principal, "I haven't told anyone yet, but I mean to have it out with Mountain Storm now," Red Shirt grew flustered and said, "You can't do something so outrageous!"
"I don't recall making any explicit statements about Mr. Horota—if you stir up trouble here, it would put me in a most awkward position."
"When you ask such absurd questions as whether I came here planning to cause school disturbances—of course not! Drawing a salary while making trouble would naturally inconvenience the institution," I retorted.
Red Shirt then entreated me, sweat beading on his brow—"In that case, keep yesterday's matter strictly to yourself as reference—don't breathe a word of it." So I agreed: "Fine—I'd be in a fix too—but if it troubles you that much, I'll drop it."
"You're certain about this?" Red Shirt pressed.
There was no plumbing the depths of his womanishness. If all literary scholars were like that lot, they were worthless creatures. He made inconsistent, illogical demands without batting an eye. And now he doubted me! The nerve of him calling himself a man! As if I'd stoop to scheming behind his back to break our agreement!

Just then, the owners of the desks on both sides also arrived at school, so Red Shirt promptly returned to his seat.
Red Shirt put on airs even in his way of walking.
Even when moving about the room, he gently lowered the soles of his shoes to avoid making noise.
It was from this moment that I first came to understand that walking without making a sound could be a point of pride.
It’s not like you’re practicing to be a thief—just act normally.
Before long, the trumpet signaling the start of classes sounded.
Mountain Storm never showed up after all.
Having no choice, I placed the one sen and five rin on the desk and headed to the classroom.

Due to class arrangements starting a bit late for first period，when I returned to the staff room，all other teachers were at their desks talking.
Mountain Storm had also arrived without anyone noticing.
I thought he’d been absent，but he’d just been late.
The moment he saw my face，he said，“Today I was late because of you!”
“Pay the fine，”he demanded.
I took out the one sen and five rin from my desk and said，“Here，take this.”
When I placed the coins before Mountain Storm，explaining they were payment for the shaved ice we’d had in Tōrimachi，he laughed and asked what nonsense I meant—but seeing how dead serious I remained，he swept them back onto my desk，snapping，“Don’t make such idiotic jokes.”
Hmph—for someone called Mountain Storm，he sure clung stubbornly to playing the generous host.

“This isn’t a joke—it’s the truth.
“I have no reason to let you treat me to shaved ice, so I’m paying.”
“How can I not take it?”

“If that one sen and five rin weighs on you so much, I’ll take it—but why pay it back now out of the blue?”

“Whether now or later, I’m paying it back.”
“I’m paying because I hate being treated.”

Mountain Storm looked coldly at my face and snorted.
If not for Red Shirt’s request, I’d have exposed Mountain Storm’s underhandedness here and started a huge fight—but having promised silence, I couldn’t move.
What right had he to snort when I was burning with anger?

“I’ll take the money for the shaved ice—now get out of the boarding house.”

“If you take the one sen and five rin, that settles it. Whether I stay or leave is my own damn business.”

“But it’s not up to you! Yesterday, the landlord came saying he wants you gone. When I asked why, his reasons made perfect sense.”
“Still, I went there myself this morning to hear the full story.”

I couldn’t make heads or tails of what Mountain Storm was on about.

“What the landlord told you—how should I know?”
“What’s the use of you deciding everything alone?”
“If there’s a reason, state it properly first.”
“Don’t you dare claim the landlord’s completely reasonable from the start!”

“Fine, I’ll tell you.”
“You’re too rough for them to handle at that boarding house.”
“Even if she’s a boarding house landlady, she’s no maid.”
“Making her wipe your feet—that’s putting on too many airs.”

“When did I ever make the boarding house landlady wipe my feet?”

“I don’t know whether you made her wipe them or not, but they’re at their wits’ end with you.”
“The landlord said they could make up ten or fifteen yen in boarding fees just by selling one hanging scroll.”

“You pretentious bastard!”
“Then why’d they take me in?”

“Why they took you in? How should I know? They did take you, but now they want you out.”
“Get moving.”

“Obviously.”
“You think I’d stay if they begged me on bended knee?”
“You’re the unscrupulous one who found me this damn place to begin with!”

“Is it me who’s unscrupulous, or you who can’t behave properly—one of the two, I’d say.”

Mountain Storm, being no less hot-tempered than me, raised his voice loudly, refusing to back down. Those gathered in the staff room, thinking some commotion had begun, all turned to look at me and Mountain Storm, their jaws slack as they stared blankly. Since I hadn’t done anything particularly shameful, I stood up and scanned the entire room. Amidst everyone’s astonishment, only Nodaiko was laughing with amusement. When my large eyes—projecting a glare that asked "You looking to pick a fight too?"—pierced through Nodaiko’s dried-gourd face, he suddenly adopted a serious expression and became reserved. He seemed a bit frightened. Before long, the bugle sounded. Both Mountain Storm and I stopped fighting and headed to the classroom.

In the afternoon, there was a meeting about disciplining the boarding students who'd been rude to me the night before.
Since I'd never been to a meeting in my life, I couldn't make heads or tails of how they worked, but I figured the staff would all crowd in, spout their selfish ideas, and the Principal would lazily patch things together.
"Patching things together" should be saved for matters where right and wrong aren't clear yet.
Holding a meeting over something as obviously improper as this was pure time-wasting.
No matter how you looked at it, there couldn't possibly be any disagreement.
Something this straightforward should've been handled by the Principal on the spot.
This showed a complete lack of backbone.
If this was how Principals operated, they might as well call them "Wishy-Washy Fools" instead.

The conference room was a long, narrow space adjacent to the principal’s office that ordinarily served as a substitute dining hall.
About twenty chairs upholstered in black leather were arranged around a long table, giving it an air somewhat akin to a Western restaurant in Kanda.
At the end of the table sat the Principal, with Red Shirt positioned beside him.
The rest could sit wherever they pleased, though I heard the physical education teachers always modestly took seats at the end.
Since I didn’t understand the seating customs, I squeezed in between the natural history teacher and the Chinese classics teacher.
Looking across the table, I saw Mountain Storm and Nodaiko sitting side by side.
No matter how I looked at him, Nodaiko’s face remained undeniably inferior.
Even if we fought, Mountain Storm would still have far more character.
His face closely resembled that hanging scroll displayed in Kohinata’s Yōgen-ji Temple during my father’s funeral.
When I’d asked the priest about it back then, he’d said it depicted a monster called Idaten.
Today Mountain Storm kept rolling his bloodshot eyes and glancing my way.
I wasn’t about to be intimidated—glaring back with equal intensity, I fixed my gaze on him.
My eyes might not be handsome, but when it comes to size, they don’t lose out to most people’s.
Kiyo often used to say, “With eyes that big, you’d make a fine actor someday.”

When the Principal said, "I believe we're nearly all here," Kawamura the clerk began counting heads one by one.
He was one person short.
He had been thinking there was one person missing, but this was indeed a case of being short by one.
The pumpkin-faced Pale Gourd hadn't come.
I don't know what karmic bond from a past life tied me to Pale Gourd, but ever since first seeing his face, I simply couldn't forget it.
When I entered the staff room, Pale Gourd would immediately catch my eye; even when walking along the way, his figure would rise in my mind.
When I went to the hot spring, he'd sometimes be there with a sallow face swollen in the bath basin.
When I greeted him, he'd shrink back with an "Oh!" and bow his head till I felt sorry for him.
At school, there was no one as quiet as Pale Gourd.
He rarely laughed and never spoke out of turn.
I'd known the word "gentleman" from books—something that lived in dictionaries but not reality—until meeting Pale Gourd made me realize with some admiration that here was a character who gave those letters real substance.

Given how closely connected we were, the moment I entered the conference room, I immediately noticed Pale Gourd’s absence. To tell the truth, I had even secretly made it my aim to sit next to this man.

The Principal muttered "They should be arriving soon," untied the purple cloth bundle before him, and began reading what appeared to be a mimeographed document.
Red Shirt started polishing his amber pipe with a silk handkerchief.
This man treated this as his favorite indulgence.
That had to be Red Shirt's typical affectation.
The others whispered among themselves with their neighbors about something.
The one with idle hands kept scribbling on the table using the rubber eraser attached to a pencil end.
Nodaiko occasionally tried to strike up conversation with Mountain Storm, but Mountain Storm utterly ignored him.
He would only grunt or mumble in response while periodically glaring fiercely in my direction.
I glared back just as intensely without backing down.

Just then, the long-awaited Mr. Pale Gourd entered looking pitiable and politely apologized to Tanuki, saying he had some business that caused his tardiness.
With "Let us commence the meeting," Tanuki first had Clerk Kawamura distribute the mimeographed sheets.
When I looked, the first item was regarding disciplinary measures, followed by student supervision, and two or three other matters.
Tanuki put on his usual airs and, with the demeanor of a so-called living spirit of education, made remarks to the following effect.
“Any failings among our school’s staff or students all result from my own lack of virtue. Whenever incidents occur, I privately feel ashamed that someone of my caliber should remain principal—and now, having unfortunately caused yet another such disturbance, I must offer my sincere apologies to you all."
"However, since it has already occurred, there is no helping it—we must implement some form of disciplinary measures. As you are all already aware of the facts, I ask that you share your candid opinions regarding measures to address this matter for our consideration."

Listening to the Principal’s words, I was impressed—truly, beings called principals or tanuki do say remarkable things.
If he was going to take full responsibility like this—going on about his own faults and lack of virtue—then he should stop punishing the students and resign first. That’d make more sense.
If that were done, there’d be no need to hold such a troublesome meeting.
First of all, it’s clear from common sense alone.
I quietly carried out my night duty.
The students acted violently.
The ones at fault weren’t the Principal or me—it was conclusively the students alone.
If Mountain Storm had incited them, dealing with both the students and Mountain Storm would’ve sufficed.
What country has a fool who shoulders others’ blame and goes around shouting “My fault! My fault!”? Only Tanuki could pull off such a stunt.
He spouted this unreasonable argument and looked around smugly at everyone.
Yet no one said a word.
The natural history teacher was gazing at a crow perched on the roof of the First School Building.
The Chinese classics teacher kept folding and unfolding the mimeographed document.
Mountain Storm was still glaring at my face.
If meetings were such a farce, I’d be better off skipping them to take a nap instead.

I had grown so impatient that I decided to give them a proper argument and was halfway out of my seat when Red Shirt started speaking, so I stopped. Looking over, he was putting away his pipe while wiping his face with a striped silk handkerchief and saying something. That handkerchief must have been snatched from Madonna. A man should use white linen.
"As Vice Principal, I am deeply ashamed that upon hearing of the boarding students' misconduct, I have been remiss in my duties and that my usual moral guidance has failed to reach these youths."
"Such incidents arise from systemic deficiencies. While superficially these events may seem entirely the students' fault, a thorough investigation of their true cause might reveal the responsibility actually lies with the school itself."
"Therefore, imposing severe sanctions based solely on surface appearances could conversely prove detrimental to our future."
"Moreover, being youths of impulsive spirit filled with vigor and lacking moral discernment, we cannot rule out that they performed this mischief half-unconsciously."
"Of course, disciplinary measures fall entirely within the Principal's purview—it is not my place to interfere—but I would ask that you take this into consideration and endeavor to administer as lenient a resolution as possible."

Indeed, if Tanuki was Tanuki, then Red Shirt was Red Shirt.
He was publicly declaring that when students acted up, it wasn't their fault—it was the teachers who were to blame.
They say when a madman bashes someone's head in, it's because the person getting bashed was at fault—that's why the madman does the bashing.
What a blessed farce.
If they're so bursting with energy it's a problem, they should go wrestle sumo on the playground—I won't tolerate having grasshoppers dumped in my bedding half-unconsciously!
With how things were going, even if someone got their neck grabbed in their sleep, they'd probably get pardoned for being half-unconscious.

I thought about speaking up like this, but if I were to say something, it’d have to be a grand, flowing speech that would shock everyone—otherwise, what’s the point? But here’s my problem: whenever I got angry and tried to speak, I always ended up stuck after two or three words.
In terms of character, both Tanuki and Red Shirt were far beneath me, but they were so damn eloquent that if I slipped up and said something careless, they’d twist my words—and that’d be just great.
I tried drafting a rough plan in my head, composing sentences within my mind.
Then I was surprised when Nodaiko, who had been sitting in front of me, suddenly stood up.
The nerve of Nodaiko to voice his opinion.
Nodaiko began in his usual ingratiating tone: “Truly, these grasshopper and shouting incidents constitute extraordinary affairs sufficient to make conscientious staff members secretly harbor apprehensions about our school’s future prospects. We who serve as faculty must at this juncture vigorously reflect upon ourselves and rectify the disciplinary standards throughout the entire institution.”
“Therefore, the views just expressed by our esteemed Principal and Vice Principal strike at the very heart of the matter with thoroughly pertinent insights, and I wholeheartedly concur through and through.”
“Therefore, I earnestly hope we may beseech your lenient disciplinary measures to the fullest extent possible,” he said.
What Nodaiko said had words but no meaning—he just kept parading out Sino-Japanese compounds until it became impossible to follow.
The only thing I understood was the words “I wholeheartedly concur through and through.”

I couldn’t make sense of what Nodaiko was saying, but for some reason it made me furious—so before I could even form a proper plan, I found myself on my feet.
“I am utterly opposed…” I declared, but the rest wouldn’t come out.
“...I detest such an absurd disciplinary measure,” I added, whereupon all the faculty members burst into laughter.
“The students are entirely at fault.
They’ve got to be made to apologize—or else it’ll become a habit.
Expelling them is perfectly acceptable.
How rude! Thinking I’m just some new teacher…” I said and sat down.
“Admittedly, the students are at fault,” said the natural history teacher seated to my right, “but imposing overly severe punishments may only provoke a backlash.”
“As the Vice Principal has said, I agree with the lenient approach,” he said timidly.
The Chinese classics teacher to my left stated his agreement with the lenient approach.
The history teacher also stated that he shared the Vice Principal’s view.
How infuriating. Most of them are Red Shirt’s faction.
If a bunch like this is what’s running the school, there’s no hope for it.
I had resolved on one of two options: either make the students apologize or resign. So if Red Shirt came out on top, I was prepared to go straight home and pack my things.
Anyway, there’s no way to subdue this lot with eloquence—and even if I could, I’ve no desire to keep associating with them indefinitely.
If I’m not at the school, who cares what happens?
If I say anything else, they’ll definitely laugh.
I pretended not to be about to say anything.

Then Mountain Storm, who had been listening silently until now, rose to his feet with a resolute air.
"That bastard’s about to voice support for Red Shirt again—fine, let’s fight then! Do as you please!" I thought, watching Mountain Storm rise—his voice boomed like glass panes rattling: "I categorically disagree with the Vice Principal and all other gentlemen’s opinions. For regardless of perspective, this incident can only be recognized as fifty boarding students contemptuously attempting to manipulate the newly arrived teacher through their actions."
"While the Vice Principal appears to attribute the root cause to the teacher’s personal character, I must say—with all due respect—that this constitutes a grave misstatement."
"The teacher was assigned night duty shortly after his arrival, at a time when less than twenty days had passed since he began interacting with the students."
"In this brief span of twenty days, there has been no opportunity for the students to evaluate your academic character."
"If there were legitimate reasons for them to deserve such contempt, then there might be grounds to consider leniency toward the students’ actions. However, to show leniency toward such frivolous students who mock a newly arrived teacher without any cause whatsoever would, I believe, compromise the school’s authority."
"The spirit of education lies not merely in imparting knowledge, but at the same time in fostering noble, honest, samurai-like vigor and eradicating vulgar, frivolous, and insolent misconduct."
"If one cites fear of backlash or escalation of disturbances as excuses for half-hearted measures—when will we ever eradicate this deplorable custom?"
"It is precisely to eradicate such deplorable customs that we serve at this school. If we are to overlook this, we might as well never have become teachers in the first place."
"For the aforementioned reasons, I deem it proper to subject all boarding students to severe punishment and furthermore have them publicly express their apologies before the teacher in question," he declared, thumping back into his seat.
Everyone remained silent and said nothing.
Red Shirt began wiping his pipe again.
I felt inexplicably overjoyed.
It was as though Mountain Storm had said everything I wanted to say in my stead.
Because I’m such a simple person, I completely forgot about our past quarrels and looked over at Mountain Storm—who had just sat down—with an expression of immense gratitude. But Mountain Storm was acting like he didn’t know me at all.

After a moment, Mountain Storm stood up again.
“I neglected to mention something earlier,” he declared.
“It appears the night-duty officer left their post to visit a hot spring that evening—an utterly unacceptable breach of duty.”
“For one entrusted with overseeing the entire school to exploit the absence of supervision and indulge in hot spring bathing constitutes serious misconduct.”
“As for the students’ role in this matter, I earnestly request that the Principal personally reprimand those responsible.”

What a strange guy—no sooner does he praise you than he digs up your mistakes.
I’d gone to the hot spring without a second thought, knowing previous night-duty officers had gone out and assuming it was standard practice—but hearing it laid out like that, I had to admit I’d messed up.
They had every right to call me out.
So I stood again and declared, “I did go to the hot spring during my night duty.”
“This was entirely my fault.”
“I apologize,” I said and sat down—prompting another round of laughter from everyone.
Every damn time I opened my mouth, they laughed.
Pathetic bastards.
You think any of you could own up to your mistakes this openly? You laugh ’cause you’re too spineless to try.

Then the Principal said that since there appeared to be no further opinions, he would determine disciplinary measures after due consideration.
Since I'm at it, I'll note the outcome: the boarding students were confined to quarters for a week and made to apologize before me.
Had they refused to apologize, I would've resigned on the spot; but precisely because they caved to my demands, it all blew up spectacularly.
I'll explain that later—for now, the Principal declared this a continuation of the meeting and made his next pronouncement:
"Students' conduct must be rectified through teachers' moral influence. As an initial measure, faculty shall refrain from frequenting dining establishments."
"Farewell gatherings may be exempted," he added, "but solitary visits to disreputable venues—soba shops or dumpling joints, for instance—" At this point, everyone laughed again.
Nodaiko shot Mountain Storm a glance and mouthed "tempura," but Mountain Storm paid him no mind.
Serves him right.

My brain must be defective, because I couldn't make heads or tails of what Tanuki was saying. If middle school teachers can't do their jobs just for visiting soba shops and dumpling shops, then a glutton like me would never stand a chance.
If that's how it is, then fine—they should've specified from the start that they wanted someone who hates soba and dumplings when hiring.
They hand down appointments without a word, then issue these damn decrees about not eating soba or dumplings—it's a major blow for someone like me with no other diversions.
Then Red Shirt butted in again.
"After all, middle school teachers are positioned among the upper echelons of society; they should not pursue mere material pleasures."
"Indulging in such things will inevitably exert a corrupting influence on one's character."
"However, since they are human beings, without some form of amusement, they cannot possibly endure living in a rural area with such limited space."
"Therefore, one must pursue high-minded spiritual amusements—activities such as going fishing, reading literary works, composing new-style poetry or haiku..."

If I kept sitting there listening quietly, they'd just keep spouting whatever self-important drivel they pleased.
If going out to sea to fish for fertilizer counts as spiritual amusement, or pretending Gorky's some Russian literary scholar, or having your regular geisha stand under a pine tree, or watching frogs leap into old ponds—then stuffing your face with tempura and gulping down dumplings is spiritual amusement too!
Instead of handing out these half-baked amusements, they should just go do Red Shirt's laundry.
I got so furious I blurted out, “Is meeting Madonna one of your precious spiritual amusements too?”
This time, nobody laughed.
They all pulled strange faces and started eyeing each other.
Red Shirt himself hung his head like he’d been gut-punched.
Take that.
That shut his mouth.
The only one I felt bad for was Pale Gourd—when I said that, his already pallid face went even whiter.

Seven

I cleared out of the boarding house that very night.
When I returned to pack my belongings, the landlady said, “Was there some inconvenience? Had you told me what displeased you, I would have reformed my ways.”
What a shocker!
Why must the world be packed full of such muddle-headed creatures?
Couldn’t tell whether she wanted me gone or wanted me to stay.
Downright mad.
Brawling with the likes of her would shame an Edo native’s name, so I fetched a rickshaw and made myself scarce.

I had indeed left, but had no idea where to go. When the rickshaw driver asked, "Where to, sir?" I told him, "Just follow me quietly—you'll see soon enough," and strode briskly ahead. I considered returning to Yamashiroya, but since I'd just have to move out again anyway, it seemed too much trouble. As I walked on like this, I figured I'd eventually spot a boarding house or some signboard. If I found one, I'd declare it my heaven-ordained lodging. Wandering through quiet neighborhoods that looked pleasant enough to live in, I eventually reached Kaji-machi. This being a district of samurai residences without boarding houses, I thought of turning back toward livelier areas—when a brilliant idea struck me. Pale Gourd, whom I respected deeply, lived in this town. As a local maintaining an ancestral estate, he surely knew the area well. If I asked him, he might recommend a decent boarding house. Since he'd once come to greet me and knew the layout, I wouldn't need to search around aimlessly.

Guessing this must be his place, I called out "Excuse me" twice. An elderly woman around fifty emerged from the back holding an old-fashioned paper lantern. While I don't dislike young women, seeing old folks always gives me this nostalgic feeling—probably because Kiyo's spirit keeps possessing every granny I meet. This had to be Pale Gourd's mother. Though dignified in her reserve, she bore his unmistakable resemblance.

Just as she began inviting me in, I cut in to request speaking with the master himself. When Pale Gourd appeared at the entrance, I explained my situation and asked if he knew any suitable places.

"That must be quite trying for you," he said after a moment's thought. "There's an elderly couple named Hagino living alone in the back street. Some time ago, they mentioned wanting to rent out their spare room if they could find a reliable tenant."

Though unsure if it was still available, he kindly offered to take me there himself.

From that night onward, I became a boarder at Hagino’s house.
What shocked me was that when I vacated my room at Ikagin, Nodaiko had already moved in the very next day—cool as you please—and taken over the space I’d been staying in.
Even I was astonished by this.
The world is full of swindlers; perhaps they’re all just deceiving each other.
I’d had enough.

If that's how society worked, I figured I had to match its level—otherwise I couldn't keep up. If you couldn't even get three square meals without skimming off pickpockets' takings, then staying alive became a real puzzle once things reached that point. But then again, with this healthy body of mine, hanging myself would've disgraced my ancestors and looked bad besides. When I thought about it, instead of going to some physics school and learning useless skills like math, I should've used that six hundred yen to start a milk shop. Then Kiyo wouldn't have had to leave my side, and I could've lived without worrying about her from afar. When we'd been together, I hadn't realized it, but coming out to the countryside made me see Kiyo really was a good person. You could search all Japan and hardly find a woman with such a kind disposition. She'd caught a slight cold when I left—I wondered how she was doing now. She must've been thrilled when she got that letter I sent earlier. Still, a reply should've come by now—I spent two or three days doing nothing but turning these thoughts over in my head.

Because it weighed on my mind, I would sometimes ask the landlady if any letters had come from Tokyo, but each time I asked, she would look apologetic and say nothing had arrived.
The couple here, unlike those at Ikagin, were both refined, owing to their samurai lineage.
The old man would belt out these weird chants in a strange voice every night, which was a bit much, but unlike at Ikagin, they didn’t come barging in offering tea all the time, so it was a huge relief.
The old woman would sometimes come to my room and talk about various things.
“Why didn’t you bring your wife along with you when you came here, you know?” she would ask.
“Do I look like I have a wife?”
“Pitiful as it may seem, I’m still only twenty-four,” I said, to which she retorted: “But you being twenty-four makes it all the more natural you’d have a wife, you know!” She then launched into rebuttals, citing half a dozen examples—someone from such-and-such place who married at twenty, another person from somewhere who had two children by twenty-two—until I was thoroughly overwhelmed.
“In that case, I’ll get myself a wife at twenty-four too—could you arrange that for me?” I asked, mimicking her country dialect, whereupon the old woman earnestly inquired, “Is that truly so?”

“Honest to goodness—I’m just dyin’ to get myself a wife!”

“That’s how it goes, you know,” she said. “When you’re young, everyone’s like that.”
I was too flustered to reply.

“But you must already have a wife back home, you know.”
“I’ve had my eye on you this whole time, I have.”

“Sharp eye you’ve got there,” I said. “How’d you figure that out?”

“How come… well…”
“Ain’t you been pining away every day waitin’ for word from Tokyo? No letters comin’? That’s how I know, you know.”

“Well, color me surprised! That’s some sharp eye you’ve got there!”
“I hit the nail on the head, didn’t I, you know?”

“Well… maybe you did hit the mark.”
“Maybe you did hit the mark.”

“But girls these days aren’t like they were in the olden times—you can’t let your guard down, you know. Best keep your wits about you, you hear?”

“What’s this? Is my wife in Tokyo having an affair or something?”

“No, your wife is certainly…”

“Well, that’s a relief. Then what exactly should I be careful about?”

“Yours is certain—yours is certain but—”

“Where exactly is there someone unreliable?”

“There are quite a few around here. Mr. Teacher, do you know that Miss Tōyama, you know?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“Still not familiar with her, you know? Around these parts, she’d be the finest beauty for you, you know. She’s such a beauty that all the schoolteachers go around calling her ‘Madonna this, Madonna that,’ you know. You still haven’t heard about that, you know?”

“Hmm, Madonna?”
“I thought it was a geisha’s name.”

“No, you see. When they say ‘Madonna,’ it’s a Chinese word for a beautiful woman, you know.”

“That might be the case,” I said. “I’m shocked!”

“Most likely, the art teacher bestowed that name, you know.”

“Was it Noda who gave her that name?”

“No, it was that Mr. Yoshikawa who gave her that name, you know.”
“So this Madonna’s unreliable?”
“That Madonna’s an unreliable Madonna through and through, you know.”

“Troublesome business. Women who get nicknames have never been decent since ancient times.”
“That might be true.”

“It’s the honest truth, you know. There were terrifying women back then too—like Demon O-Matsu and Concubine O-Hyaku.”

“Is Madonna one of those types too?”

“That Madonna, you see—why, that would be Mr. Koga—the one who arranged for you to stay here, you know—the one she was promised to marry, you know—”

“Well, that’s strange,” I said.
I never would’ve thought Pale Gourd was the kind of man to have such romantic luck.
People really aren’t what they appear.
I should watch myself.

“But last year, her father passed away—up until then, they had money and bank stocks, everything was going smooth—but after that, their circumstances took a turn for the worse—in short, Mr. Koga was too kind for his own good and got swindled, you know.”
“Then with all this delaying the bridal procession, that Vice Principal came and insisted he wanted her hand in marriage no matter what, you know.”

“That Red Shirt?”
"He's a terrible man."
I’d always suspected there was more to that shirt than met the eye.
“And then?”

“When he had someone propose on his behalf, the Tōyamas felt obliged to Mr. Koga and couldn’t give an immediate answer—they just said something noncommittal like ‘We’ll consider it,’ you know.”
“Then Red Shirt started hanging around the Tōyamas’ place looking for openings, until finally he charmed his way into the young lady’s favor, you know.”
“Red Shirt may be Red Shirt, but that young lady’s no saint either—the whole town’s talking about them, you know.”
“To agree to marry Mr. Koga and then try switching over to some university graduate who comes along—why, even today’s gods wouldn’t stand for that, you know.”

“That’s completely inexcusable, you know.”
“Not even today’s deities would forgive this—let alone tomorrow’s or the day after’s. No matter how much time passes, there’s no way this will ever be settled, you know.”

“So feeling sorry for Mr. Koga, when his friend Mr. Horota went to the vice principal’s office to lodge a complaint, Red Shirt said, ‘I have no intention of taking someone who’s already promised.’”
“‘If the engagement were broken off, I might take her,’ he said, ‘but as things stand now, I’m merely associating with the Tōyama family—there’s nothing particularly wrong with associating with them that Mr. Koga should mind.’ So Mr. Horota apparently had no choice but to back down.”
“Red Shirt and Mr. Horota haven’t been getting along since then, they say, you know.”

“You certainly know all sorts of things.”
“How do you know such detailed things?”
“I’m downright impressed.”

“It’s a small town—word gets around about everything.”

They knew too much—it was downright troublesome. Given how things were going, they might even have known about my tempura and dumplings. What a troublesome situation. But thanks to all this, I not only came to understand what Madonna meant but also grasped the relationship between Mountain Storm and Red Shirt—it proved highly educational. The only trouble was not being able to tell which one was the villain. For someone simple like me, unless things were sorted into black and white, I couldn’t tell which side to support.

“Between Red Shirt and Mountain Storm—which one’s the better person?”

“What’s this ‘Mountain Storm’ you’re talking about, you know?”

“Mountain Storm is Horota’s nickname.”

“Well now, Mr. Horota does seem stronger when it comes to brute force, but Mr. Red Shirt being a university graduate means he’s got real capability, you know. And while Red Shirt might be kinder in manner, they say Horota’s got better standing with the students, you know.”

“So which one’s better then?”
“Well now, I suppose the one with the fatter paycheck’s better, you know.”

Since there was no point in asking further this way, I gave up.

A couple of days later when I returned from school, the old woman greeted me with a beaming face. “Welcome back at last! It finally arrived,” she said, bringing out a letter and telling me to take my time reading it before leaving. Picking it up, I saw it was from Kiyo. Two or three forwarding labels were attached—upon closer inspection, it had been routed from Yamashiroya to Ikagin before reaching Hagino’s place. What’s more, it had apparently stayed at Yamashiroya for about a week. Typical inn—probably thought even letters needed lodging. Opening it revealed an absurdly long letter.

“After receiving Young Master’s letter,” it began, “I meant to reply straightaway but caught a cold and lay bedridden for a week—my deepest apologies. Being no fine lady skilled in letters, even this poor scrawl took great effort. Considered asking my nephew to write it, but felt I must face you properly myself. Drafted once then made a clean copy—two days for the final version, four for the draft itself. Hard though it may be to read, I wrote with all my heart—please see it through.”

Hard to read indeed. Not just the awful handwriting—mostly hiragana made it impossible to tell where sentences began or ended. Normally I’d refuse five yen to decipher such drivel, but this time I plowed through start to finish. Having finished yet still lost, I started over from the top.

The room had dimmed, making it harder than before, so I finally went out to the veranda edge and sat down to read properly. An early autumn wind stirred banana leaves, brushing against bare skin before snatching at the half-read letter. By the end, over four shaku of paper rustled faintly—letting go might’ve sent it clear to the hedge across the garden. Couldn’t be bothered either way.

Young Master has a straightforward temperament like split bamboo, but I worry his temper flares too fiercely.—Don’t go carelessly giving people nicknames—that’s how you make enemies. If you must give one, write only to Kiyo about it.—They say country folk are ill-natured, so take care not to land yourself in trouble.
The climate here is even more unpredictable than Tokyo’s, so you mustn’t catch a chill and fall ill.
Young Master’s letters are far too brief—I can hardly grasp how you’re faring—so next time, write one at least half as long as this. Giving five yen as a tip to the inn is all well and good, but won’t that leave you in a pinch later? Out in the countryside, money’s your only real ally—you must economize as much as possible to avoid trouble in emergencies. In case you’re short on pocket money, I’m sending ten yen by money order. The fifty yen you gave me earlier—I’ve deposited it at the post office for when you return to Tokyo and need funds to set up a proper household. Even after deducting this ten yen, there’s still forty yen left—you needn’t worry.
Women sure are meticulous.

As I sat on the veranda edge waving Kiyo’s letter while deep in thought, the sliding door rattled open and the old woman from Hagino brought in my dinner.
“Still reading that letter, are you?”
“It’s an important one—letting the wind take a look… letting it take a look,” I replied incoherently before sitting down at the meal.
Tonight’s dish was simmered sweet potatoes again.
This boarding house was more polite and refined than Ikagin’s place, but the food remained dreadful.
Sweet potatoes yesterday, sweet potatoes the day before—sweet potatoes tonight too.
I’d declared myself a sweet potato lover, but being force-fed them daily would be the death of me.
Far from mocking Pale Gourd, I’d soon become the Sweet Potato Pale Gourd Teacher myself.
If this were Kiyo’s doing, she’d have served tuna sashimi or grilled fish cakes by now—but these penny-pinching minor samurai couldn’t be helped.
However I thought about it, things wouldn’t work unless Kiyo were here.
If I ended up staying long at this school, I’d summon her from Tokyo.
No tempura soba, no dumplings—just boarding-house sweet potatoes until we turned yellow? Educators had it rough.
Even Zen monks ate better than this.—I devoured the potatoes, cracked two raw eggs against a teacup rim, and barely scraped by.
How could anyone teach twenty-one weekly classes without proper nutrition—even from raw eggs?

Today I was late going to the bathhouse because of Kiyo’s letter. However, skipping even a single day of my daily routine felt unpleasant. Thinking to take the train, I came to the station with that red towel slung over my shoulder, but it had departed two or three minutes earlier, so I had to wait awhile. Sitting on the bench puffing my Shikishima cigarette, Pale Gourd happened to come along. Having heard what was said earlier, I felt all the more sorry for him. He always carried himself small like some transient between heaven and earth—pitiable enough ordinarily—but tonight went beyond mere pity into calamity. No sooner had I thought how I’d double his salary if I could, let him marry Madonna tomorrow and send him to Tokyo for a month’s leisure, than I offered my seat with forced cheer: “Bath-bound? Here, take this spot!” Yet Pale Gourd only made apologetic gestures, muttering “No need to trouble yourself,” and kept standing there—whether from politeness or something else. “You’ll have to wait—you’ll tire yourself standing,” I urged again. Truth was, I wanted him seated beside me so badly it pained me. “Then I’ll impose,” he finally relented.

In this world there are insolent types like Field Drum who stick their noses where unneeded. There are those like Mountain Storm who act as if Japan would collapse without them. Then you get ones like Red Shirt fancying himself some cosmetics-and-dandyism wholesaler. And Tanuki who might as well declare “Education incarnate in a frock coat—that’s me!” All preen according to their station, but never have I seen anyone as meek as this Pale Gourd—present yet absent as a hostage puppet. That Madonna would abandon such a decent man for Red Shirt—she must be quite the airhead. Red Shirt could try a dozen times over and never make half so fine a husband.

“Aren’t you feeling unwell somewhere?”
“You look rather exhausted…”
“No, I don’t have any particular chronic illness…”

“That’s good to hear. When your health fails, you’re no good as a person.”

“You seem quite robust.”

“Yeah, even skinny as I am, I don’t get sick. Can’t stand being sick.”

Pale Gourd gave a faint snicker at my words.

Just then, a young woman's lively laughter rang out at the entrance. When I absentmindedly turned to look, there was a notable figure approaching. A fair-skinned beauty with stylishly coiffed hair and tall stature stood alongside a woman in her mid-forties before the ticket window. I'm no good at describing beauties, so I can't say much, but she was undoubtedly beautiful. It felt like holding a crystal bead warmed by perfume in the palm of my hand. The older woman was shorter in stature. However, their faces were so alike they must have been mother and daughter. The moment I thought, "Ah, here she comes," I completely forgot about Pale Gourd and found myself staring only at the young woman. Then Pale Gourd suddenly stood up from beside me and started making his way toward them, which took me by surprise. Isn't that Madonna? I wondered. The three exchanged brief greetings before the ticket window. They were too far away for me to catch their words.

When I looked at the station clock, there were only five minutes until departure. Wishing the train would hurry up now that my conversation partner was gone, I grew impatient waiting when another person came rushing into the station. It was Red Shirt. He wore a flimsy-looking kimono with a crepe obi tied sloppily around it, dangling his usual gold chain as always. That gold chain is a fake. Red Shirt probably thought nobody knew, showing it off like that, but I knew all about it. He rushed in looking around restlessly, then bowed courteously to the three people talking before the ticket window and exchanged a few words before suddenly turning my way. Walking over with his trademark cat-footed stride, he said, "Ah, you're headed to the baths too? I hurried here worried I might miss the train, but there's still three or four minutes left." Doubting the station clock's accuracy, he pulled out his gold watch and mentioned a two-minute difference before sitting down beside me. The young woman never looked back, resting her chin on her cane while staring straight ahead. The older woman occasionally glanced at Red Shirt, but the young one kept her face turned away. This had to be Madonna at last.

Before long, a shrill whistle blew, and the train arrived.
The gathered crowd streamed aboard in a disorderly fashion, each vying to be first.
Red Shirt dove into the first-class carriage of car number one.
Riding first-class wasn’t anything to boast about—from Sumida, first-class cost five sen and second-class three sen, so the distinction between upper and lower was a mere two-sen difference.
Even someone like me going all out for first class and clutching a white ticket made sense.
Country folks being stingy, even a mere two-sen difference seemed to trouble them greatly, so they usually rode second-class.
Following Red Shirt, Madonna and Madonna’s mother slipped into first-class.
Pale Gourd was a man who rode second-class as mechanically as a printing press.
He stood at the entrance to the second-class carriage, appearing to hesitate for some reason, but the moment he saw my face, he resolutely plunged inside.
At that moment, I felt so sorry for him that I couldn’t bear to leave him alone, so I immediately followed Pale Gourd into the same carriage.
There should be no issue with riding second-class using a first-class ticket.

Upon arriving at the hot spring, I went down from the third floor in my yukata to the baths and ran into Pale Gourd again.
I'm not much of a talker when things get heated in meetings, but since I'm usually pretty chatty, I tried to strike up conversation with him in the tub.
He looked downright pitiful.
I figured it was my duty as an Edo native to offer some comfort in times like these.
But Pale Gourd wouldn't play ball properly.
No matter what I said, he'd just grunt noncommittally or give half-hearted replies until I finally threw in the towel and made my excuses.

In the baths, I didn't encounter Red Shirt. After all, there were numerous baths—even if we'd arrived on the same train, meeting in the same one wasn't guaranteed. I didn't find this particularly strange. When I stepped out of the bathhouse, there was a fine moon overhead. Willows lined both sides of the town's streets, their branches casting rounded shadows on the road below. I decided to take a short walk. Heading north to the town's edge, I found a large gate on my left with a temple at its end and brothels flanking both sides. A brothel within temple grounds—now that was an unprecedented sight. Though tempted to enter, I kept walking, fearing another lecture from Tanuki at the next faculty meeting. Beside the gate stood that single-story house with latticed windows and black curtains where I'd botched eating dumplings earlier. Lanterns marked "Sweet Bean Soup" and "Zōni" hung nearby, their light glowing against a willow trunk by the eaves. My stomach growled at the sight, but I resisted and walked on.

Wanting dumplings I couldn't eat felt pitiful enough.
But having your own fiancée's heart stolen must be pitiful beyond measure.
Thinking of Pale Gourd made dumplings seem trivial—I couldn't complain even if I fasted three days.
Nothing in this world proves as unreliable as people.
That face makes you doubt they'd ever act so heartless—yet beauty turns cruel while a man swollen like waterlogged winter melon becomes the noble gentleman. You can never lower your guard.
Mountain Storm I'd thought straightforward supposedly incited students.
The same ones who incite students then pressure the principal for punishments.
Red Shirt—that thoroughly unpleasant sort—surprises by offering me considerate advice from afar one moment, sweet-talking Madonna the next, then claims Pale Gourd won't marry unless they break engagement.
Just when Ikagin finds some pretext to drive me out, Nodaiko replaces him—utterly unreliable through and through.
Writing this to Kiyo would surely shock her.
She'd likely say monsters congregate here because it lies beyond Hakone.

By nature I’ve always been easygoing, managing to scrape by without letting anything trouble me until now. But since coming here, in less than a month’s time, I’d suddenly started viewing the world as a perilous place.
Though I hadn’t encountered any truly momentous events, I felt as if I’d aged five or six years.
Best to cut my losses quick and return to Tokyo, I thought—mulling over this and that until I found myself crossing the stone bridge onto the embankment of the Nosen River.
Calling it a river gives it airs—in truth it was just a six-foot-wide trickle that would lead you to Aioi Village if you followed its bank for half a mile.
The village had its Kannon statue.

When I looked back at the hot spring town, red lights were shining in the moonlight.
The drumming was undoubtedly coming from the pleasure quarters.
The river’s current was shallow but swift, its waters glittering restlessly like neurotic energy.
As I strolled along the embankment, when I thought I’d walked about three blocks, figures came into view up ahead.
When I peered through the moonlight, there were two silhouettes.
They might be youths who had come to the hot spring and were heading back to the village.
Yet considering that, they weren’t singing any songs.
It was surprisingly quiet.

As I kept walking, it became apparent that I was walking faster—the two shadow figures gradually grew larger.
One appeared to be a woman.
When the man heard my footsteps closing within about eighteen meters, he suddenly turned around.
The moonlight shone from behind.
At that moment, observing his demeanor, I thought What’s this?
The man and woman resumed walking as before.
Having a plan in mind, I suddenly broke into a full sprint.
The pair remained oblivious, continuing their leisurely pace.
Now their voices carried as clearly as if held in one’s palm.
The embankment being roughly six feet wide meant three could barely walk abreast.
Effortlessly catching up from behind, I brushed past the man’s sleeve—stepping two paces ahead before pivoting on my heel to stare into his face.
Moonlight struck me head-on, mercilessly illuminating everything from my buzz-cut scalp down to my jawline.
The man gasped softly before turning aside—no sooner urging “Let’s go back” to the woman than they retreated toward the hot spring town.

Was Red Shirt being thick-skinned enough to try bluffing his way through, or was he too spineless to own up? I wondered.
But cramped and troubled as I was, I wasn’t the only one.

VIII

From when Red Shirt persuaded me to go fishing until our return, I began suspecting Mountain Storm.
When he told me to leave my boarding house over some made-up pretext, I became convinced he was truly unscrupulous.
Yet at the faculty meeting, he unexpectedly delivered a lengthy argument advocating strict punishment for students—which made me tilt my head in confusion.
When Hagino’s old woman told me Mountain Storm had negotiated with Red Shirt on Pale Gourd’s behalf, I clapped my hands in admiration.
Given these contradictions, I wavered—maybe Mountain Storm wasn’t the villain after all, but Red Shirt who was crooked. Perhaps he’d artfully planted these half-baked suspicions through roundabout means. Then I saw him strolling along the Nosen River embankment with Madonna in tow—from that moment, I concluded Red Shirt was an outright fraud.
Whether fraud or something else entirely matters little—he’s no good man regardless.
A man of two faces—front and back entirely different.
People must stand straight as bamboo to be reliable.
Straightforward folk feel refreshed even when quarreling.
Someone like Red Shirt—flaunting his gentleness, kindness, nobility, and amber pipe—couldn’t be trusted; I reckoned you couldn’t even properly fight him.
Even if we fought, it’d never be a clean bout like Ekōin sumo matches.
By that measure, Mountain Storm—who’d stirred up the staff room over one sen five rin—was far more human.
When he glared at me during the meeting with those bulging golden-pot eyes, I’d thought him detestable—but reflecting later, even that beat Red Shirt’s saccharine purring.
Truth be told, after that meeting ended, I nearly tried reconciling—but when I ventured a few words, the bastard didn’t reply and just kept glaring. So I got angry too and left things as they were.

Ever since then, Mountain Storm hadn't spoken to me.
The one sen five rin I'd tossed back onto the desk still sat there.
It sat there covered in dust.
I certainly couldn't reach out for it; Mountain Storm absolutely wouldn't take it back.
This one sen five rin coin had become a wall between us—I wanted to speak but couldn't, and Mountain Storm remained stubbornly silent.
The one sen five rin coin had cursed both Mountain Storm and me.
Eventually, going to school and seeing the one sen five rin became unbearable.

While Mountain Storm and I remained estranged, Red Shirt and I kept up our usual interactions as if nothing had changed. The very next day after our encounter at Nosen River, Red Shirt sidled up to me the moment I entered school, chattering away—"How's your new boarding house?" and "Shall we go fishing for Russian literary figures again?"—all in that sickeningly sweet tone of his.

Feeling spiteful, I shot back: "We met twice last night, didn't we?"

"Yes—at the station," he replied without missing a beat. "Do you always wander about so late?"

When I pressed harder—"And on the Nosen River embankment too!"—he turned those glassy eyes on me and said: "No, I went straight home after my bath."

"No need to hide it—I saw you plain as day."

What a liar. If this fraud could be a middle school vice principal, I might as well run Tokyo Imperial University myself.

From that moment, my distrust of Red Shirt hardened into certainty. Here I was exchanging words with this snake while giving silent treatment to Mountain Storm—the one decent man in this whole rotten town. The world works in damned peculiar ways.

One day, Red Shirt said he had something to discuss and asked me to come to his place. Though reluctant, I skipped my hot spring visit and set out around four o'clock.
Red Shirt lived alone but, being Vice Principal, had long vacated his boarding house for a residence with an imposing entrance.
The rent was nine yen fifty sen.
If country living meant such houses for nine-fifty, I thought I might splurge to bring Kiyo from Tokyo through that very entrance.
When I announced myself, Red Shirt's younger brother came to receive me.
This brother was my algebra and arithmetic student at school—dreadfully inept at both.
Yet despite being an outsider, he out-cunned even native provincials.

When I met Red Shirt and inquired about his business with me‚ he was puffing on his usual amber pipe filled with acrid tobacco when he said:
“Since your arrival‚ academic results have improved markedly compared to your predecessor’s tenure—even our principal rejoices at having secured such an excellent individual‚ so please maintain your diligent efforts accordingly‚ given our institutional trust.”

“Huh‚ really? If you mean working harder than I already do—can’t manage that—”

“What you’re doing now is sufficient.”
“Just don’t forget the matter we discussed earlier—that’s all I ask.”

“Are you saying that taking care of the boarding house is something dangerous?”

“If you put it so bluntly, it becomes rather meaningless—but very well—I believe you grasp the underlying principle well enough.”
“So if you continue to devote yourself as you are now, the school is certainly taking notice. Once circumstances permit a bit more, I believe your compensation may improve somewhat.”

“Huh, my salary? I don’t give a damn about salaries—but sure, more money’s better if it comes.”

“Well fortunately, there’s going to be a transfer this time—though naturally I can’t confirm anything until consulting the Principal—we might manage some flexibility from that salary line. I’ll try arranging it with him.”

“Much obliged. Who’s getting transferred?”

“Since it’ll be announced soon anyway—it’s Mr. Koga.”

“But Mr. Koga is from here, isn’t he?”

“He is indeed from here, but due to certain circumstances—partly at his own request.”

“Where’s he going?”

“To Nobeoka in Hyūga—given the remoteness of the area, his salary will be raised by one grade.”

“Is someone coming to replace him?”

“The replacement has more or less been settled.”
“Through that replacement’s situation, we can make arrangements regarding your compensation.”

“I see, that’s fine.”
“But don’t force an increase if it’s troublesome.”

“In any case, I intend to speak with the Principal.”
“Now the Principal seems to share this view, but going forward, we may have to ask you to take on considerably more responsibilities. I’d like you to prepare yourself accordingly from now on.”

“Does that mean even more hours than now?”

“No, your hours may decrease compared to now—”

“Fewer hours and more work? That’s odd.”

“It may sound odd at first—it’s difficult to state clearly at the moment—but essentially, it means we may need you to shoulder more significant responsibilities.”

I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
If we’re talking about responsibilities more significant than my current ones—that would be the math department head position—but since Mountain Storm holds that post and that lackey shows no sign of resigning...
Moreover, given that he has the students’ trust, transferring or dismissing him would hardly be wise for the school.
Red Shirt’s explanations were always vague.
Even without grasping his meaning, we finished our discussion.
After some casual conversation—about holding a farewell party for Pale Gourd, asking whether I drank alcohol, and declaring that Mr. Pale Gourd was a gentleman and a likable person—Red Shirt went on at length about various matters.
Finally, he changed the subject and asked, “Do you compose haiku?” Thinking this was getting too much, I said, “I don’t do haiku,” bid him a hasty goodbye, and made my way back.
Haiku was for Bashō or barbershop masters.
How could a math teacher endure having his well bucket snatched by morning glories?

I returned home and sank into deep thought.
The world sure has its share of unfathomable men.
To abandon a hometown complete with house and estate—not to mention a school where you lack for nothing—just because you grew tired of it, then go chasing hardship in some godforsaken foreign land?
If it were someplace with trams running through the capital, that'd be one thing—but Nobeoka in Hyūga? What kind of backwater is that?
Even I—who'd come to this perfectly decent port town—wanted out within a month.
Nobeoka's not just in the mountains—it's buried so deep in the mountains they practically need mining equipment to reach it!
According to Red Shirt, you disembark from the ship, ride a carriage for a whole day to Miyazaki, then another full day's ride from there before arriving.
Just hearing the name makes it sound like the edge of civilization.
I bet monkeys outnumber people there two to one.
Even a saintly pushover like Pale Gourd wouldn't want monkey company—what a rotten twist of fate!

Just then, as always, the old woman came bringing dinner.
"Is it potatoes again today?" I asked.
"No, today it's tofu, I tell you," she replied.
Either way, they were about the same.

"Granny, I hear Mr. Koga is going to Hyūga."

"It's truly a pity indeed."

"Even if it's pitiable, if he's going willingly, there's no helping it."

"Who'd go there willingly?"

"Who'd go there willingly? It's the man himself."
"Isn't Mr. Koga going there by his own cruel twist of fate?"

“That’s completely off the mark—you’re thinking of Kangorō, I tell you!”
“Kangorō, you say? But Red Shirt just said that.”
“If that’s Kangorō’s doing, then Red Shirt’s nothing but a liar and a blowhard!”
“What the Vice Principal says is reasonable enough, but Mr. Koga not going is also reasonable enough, I tell you.”
“Then both sides are reasonable, you say.”
“How very fair-minded of you, Granny.”
“What’s the actual reason here?”
“This morning, Koga’s mother came to see me, and I explained the circumstances bit by bit, I tell you.”

“What circumstances did you explain?”

“Since his father passed away over there, things haven’t turned out as prosperous as we hoped, I tell you. His mother went to ask the Principal—he’s been working there four years now—saying, ‘Please, could you give us just a little more each month?’ she did.”

“I see.”

“The Principal said kindly, ‘Well, I’ll give it some thought.’”
“So his mother felt reassured, waiting with bated breath for the salary increase notice to come any day now—this month or next—when the Principal told Koga to come see him. He went, only to hear, ‘I’m afraid school funds are insufficient—we can’t raise your salary.’”
“But there’s an open position in Nobeoka—if you go there, you’ll get five yen extra each month. Thinking this would suit your wishes just fine, they’ve arranged the transfer procedures, so you should go,’ he was told apparently.”

“So it’s not a consultation—it’s an order, isn’t it?”

“Well...
“Mr. Koga would rather stay here even at his current salary than go elsewhere for more.”
"He pleaded that he had his house here and his mother to care for, but the Principal said they’d already settled on it and they’ve found someone to replace Mr. Koga, so there’s nothing to be done about it."

“Making fools of strange people isn’t amusing at all.
“So Mr. Koga has no intention of going, does he?”
“That’s why I thought it was strange.”
“Even if they raised it by five yen or so, there’s hardly any blockhead who’d go off to some mountain backwater to play nursemaid to monkeys.”

“Blockhead? You’re talking about yourself, Sensei? I tell you.”

“Whatever—it’s all Red Shirt’s scheme.
“That’s a rotten move.”
“That’s outright fraud!”
“So they want to raise my salary? How could that possibly be acceptable?”
“Even if they offer to raise it, who do they think would accept that?”

“Is your salary going to increase then, Sensei? I tell you.”

“They’re offering to raise it, but I’ve decided to refuse.”

“Why would you refuse, I tell you?”

“I refuse everything.
“Granny, that Red Shirt is an idiot, I tell you.”
“He’s a coward, I tell you.”

“Even if they’re cowardly, if they raise your salary, it’s better to accept it quietly, I tell you. When you’re young, things often make your blood boil—but when you look back in old age, you’ll regret not having shown just a little more patience. It’s only natural you’ll regret suffering such a loss because you acted in anger—listen to what Granny says, and when Mr. Red Shirt offers to raise your salary, just say ‘Thank you’ and accept it properly.”

“You don’t need to stick your nose in where it’s not wanted just because you’re old. Whether my salary goes up or down, it’s my salary.”

The old woman silently withdrew.
The old man sang a noh chant in a carefree voice.
Noh chanting must be a technique where they take passages that make sense when read, apply needlessly complicated melodies, and deliberately render them incomprehensible.
I couldn’t fathom the old man’s mind, groaning over such things every night without ever tiring of it.
I had bigger problems than noh chanting.
They offered to raise my salary—not that I particularly wanted it—but thinking it wasteful to leave unearned money untouched, I agreed. But how could they be so heartless as to forcibly transfer a man who didn’t want to go, just to pocket a cut from his salary?
Even though the man himself said staying put would be fine, what kind of scheme was this to demote him all the way to Nobeoka?
Even the Provisional Vice-Governor of Dazaifu had settled near Hakata.
Even Kawai Matagoro had settled in Sagara, hadn’t he?
Anyway, I wouldn’t feel satisfied until I went to Red Shirt’s place and turned him down properly.

I put on my Kogura hakama and went out again.
When I planted myself at the grand entrance and made my request, that same younger brother came out to answer the door.
He looked at my face with an expression that said, 'You're back again?'
If there was business, I'd come two or even three times.
Even in the dead of night, I might have come knocking to rouse you.
Did you take me for someone who came groveling to the Vice Principal?
Even so, I came to return this because my salary wasn't coming in.

When the younger brother said he had a guest and I insisted I just needed a quick word at the entrance, he pulled me inside. At my feet lay flimsy straw-mat clogs with forward-tilted wooden bases—the kind only a showman would wear. From deeper within came a shrill voice bellowing “Banzai!” I knew instantly—the guest was Nodaiko. Who else would screech like that and sport such theatrical footwear?

After a moment, Red Shirt emerged holding a lamp. “Do come in—it’s only Mr. Yoshikawa here,” he urged with false warmth. “Here’s fine,” I said curtly. His face glowed like Kintaro’s legendary ruddy cheeks—he’d clearly been drinking with that clown Nodaiko.

“Earlier when you said you’d raise my salary, I’ve changed my mind and come to turn it down.”

Red Shirt held the lamp forward and peered at my face from deeper inside, but caught off guard, he seemed unable to respond and stood frozen. Whether he found it suspicious that a single person in all the world had suddenly appeared to refuse a salary increase, or whether he was dumbfounded that—even if refusing—someone who’d just left would immediately return instead of waiting, or perhaps some mix of both, he remained planted there with a peculiar look on his face.

“At that time, I consented because we understood Mr. Koga was transferring voluntarily...”

“Mr. Koga’s transfer is only half voluntary.”

“That’s incorrect—he wishes to remain here.”
“He wants to stay in his hometown even at his original salary.”

“Did you hear that from Mr. Koga?”

“I didn’t hear that from the man himself.”

“Then who did you hear it from?”

“The old woman at my boarding house heard it from Mr. Koga’s mother and told me about it today.”

“So, it was the old woman at the boarding house who said that, did she?”

“Well, yes.”

“With all due respect, that’s slightly off the mark. If what you say is true, then it sounds like we should trust the old woman at the boarding house’s words but not the Vice Principal’s—would it be incorrect to interpret it that way?”

I was in a bit of a bind. A literary scholar was indeed an impressive thing after all. He fixated on trivial points and kept pressing in with relentless persistence. I was often told by my old man that I was too rash and no good, no good at all—and sure enough, I did seem a bit hasty. Upon hearing the old woman’s story, I’d had a realization and rushed out—but in truth, I hadn’t met with Pale Gourd or even his mother to hear the full details. So when faced with this literary scholar-style cutting attack, it was a bit hard to counter.

Though his reasoning was hard to counter head-on, I had already passed judgment in my heart, declaring Red Shirt unworthy of trust. The old woman at the boarding house might be a stingy miser, but she wasn’t a liar—she didn’t have two faces like Red Shirt. I had no choice but to answer like this:

“What you say might be true—but in any case, I must decline the raise.”

“That only makes it more absurd,” he said. “It seemed you came all this way because you found a reason that made accepting the raise unbearable—yet even after my explanation removed that reason, you still refuse it. I find that rather perplexing.”

“You might not understand.”
“Anyway, I refuse.”

“If you’re so adamant in your refusal, I won’t force the matter. But to flip-flop like this within mere hours without any particular reason—it will damage your credibility in the future.”

“I don’t care if it does.”

“That cannot be—for humans, nothing matters more than trust.”
“Even conceding one step further—suppose the boarding house proprietor...”
“Not proprietor—an old woman.”

“Either way, it’s of no consequence. Even if we take as fact what the old woman at your boarding house told you, your salary increase isn’t something obtained by cutting into Mr. Koga’s earnings. Mr. Koga will be going to Nobeoka. A replacement will come. The replacement will come at a somewhat lower salary than Mr. Koga’s. Since that surplus is being redirected to you, you needn’t feel sorry for anyone. Mr. Koga will receive a promotion in Nobeoka surpassing his current standing. The replacement is coming at a lower salary as per the initial arrangement. If you were to accept the raise, I can’t imagine a more convenient arrangement. If you refuse, so be it—but won’t you reconsider once more at home?”

My head wasn't particularly clever, so ordinarily, when faced with such skillful rhetoric, I'd think "Oh, right then," apologize for being wrong, and retreat—but tonight was different.
From the moment I first arrived here, Red Shirt had never sat right with me.
There was a time I reconsidered—thinking he resembled a kind woman—but since that kindness proved insincere, the backlash left me thoroughly disgusted.
So no matter how logically fortified the arguments became, no matter how grandly they tried to corner me with Vice Principal tactics—none of it mattered.
A smooth talker isn't necessarily good.
Being out-argued doesn't make one evil.
On the surface, Red Shirt's position seemed perfectly reasonable—but no impeccable logic could make me admire him deep down.
If money, power, or arguments could buy hearts, moneylenders, cops, and professors would be everyone's favorites.
How could a middle school vice principal's logic sway me?
People act on likes and dislikes.
Not logic.

“What you say makes perfect sense, but I’ve taken a dislike to the raise, so I’ll be refusing.”
“Thinking about it more won’t change anything.”
“Goodbye,” I declared curtly and strode out through the gate.

Overhead, the Milky Way arched in a single band.

Nine

On the morning of Pale Gourd’s farewell party, when I arrived at school, Mountain Storm suddenly said, “That Ika-gin fellow came by earlier—he’s troubled by your violent behavior and begged me to tell you to move out.” Taking him at his word, I passed it on to you as instructed—but upon later investigation, that scoundrel turned out to be a fraud who often peddled forged signatures with counterfeit seals, so everything he said about you must’ve been utter nonsense.
“He’d planned to make a business out of selling you hanging scrolls and antiques,” he continued, “but since you wouldn’t bite and there was no profit to be had, he cooked up that lie to save face.”
“Since I didn’t know that man’s true nature,” he added with a deep bow, “I must beg your forgiveness for my grave discourtesy,” offering a lengthy apology.

Without saying a word, I took the one sen five rin from Mountain Storm’s desk and put it into my frog-mouthed purse.
Mountain Storm asked skeptically, “You’re taking that back?” so I explained: “Yeah—I didn’t like being treated by you, so I meant to return it no matter what. But after thinking it over, I figured it’s better to let you treat me after all, so I’m taking it back.”
Mountain Storm let out a booming “Ahahaha!” and asked, “Then why didn’t you take it sooner?”
“Truth is, I kept meaning to take it, but something felt off, so I left it alone.”
“Lately, coming to school and seeing that one sen five rin had become so unbearable I could hardly stand it,” I said, to which you retorted, “You’re one hell of a sore loser,” so I shot back, “And you’re one hell of a stubborn mule.”

After that, such an exchange arose between the two of them.

“Where the hell are you from?”

“I’m an Edokko.”

“Hmm, an Edokko, eh? No wonder you’re such a sore loser.”

“Where the hell are you from?”

“I’m from Aizu.”

“So you’re from Aizu—that explains the stubbornness. Are you going to today’s farewell party?”

“Of course I’m going—what about you?”

“Of course I’m going.”
“When Mr. Koga leaves, I’m thinking of going all the way to the shore to see him off.”

“The farewell party’s going to be a blast—you’ve got to come see for yourself.”
“Today I plan to drink like there’s no tomorrow!”

“Go ahead and drink yourself silly.”
“I’ll leave right after I’ve had some food.”
“Anyone who drinks booze is an idiot.”

“You’re the type to pick a fight at the drop of a hat.”
“Well, you sure live up to the rash reputation of an Edokko.”

“Whatever. Before the farewell party, stop by my place—I’ve got something to discuss.”

Mountain Storm stopped by my boarding house as promised.
Ever since that time, I'd felt unbearably sorry whenever I saw Pale Gourd's face—but now that his farewell day had finally arrived, he struck me as so pitiful I started wishing I could go in his place instead, if such a thing were possible.
So I wanted to make some grand speech at the farewell party to give him a proper send-off, but with my rough-edged way of talking, there was no way I could manage it. That's why I got the idea to enlist Mountain Storm—with his booming voice—to deliver the sharpest blow to Red Shirt's guts, which is exactly why I'd gone out of my way to summon him.

I started with the Madonna incident as my opening argument, but Mountain Storm naturally knew more about it than I did.
When I mentioned the Serikawa embankment story and called him an idiot, Mountain Storm retorted, “You call everyone you meet an idiot.”
“Didn’t you call me a fool at school today?”
“If I’m a fool, then Red Shirt isn’t one.”
“I’m nothing like Red Shirt,” I insisted.
“Well if you say Red Shirt’s a spineless dimwit,” Mountain Storm boomed in agreement, “maybe he is.”
Mountain Storm was strong enough physically, but when it came to words, he knew far fewer characters than I did.
People from Aizu—they’re all like this, I suppose.

Then when I told him about the salary incident and what Red Shirt had said about promoting me more heavily in the future, Mountain Storm snorted through his nose and said, “So they’re planning to dismiss me, then.” When I said, “They plan to dismiss you,” and asked, “Do you think you’ll be dismissed?” he declared boldly, “Who’d let that happen? If they try to dismiss me, I’ll make sure Red Shirt gets dismissed too!” When I pressed him further, asking how he planned to get them both dismissed together, he answered that he hadn’t thought that far yet. Yamaarashi seemed strong, but he didn’t appear to have much wisdom. When I told him that I had refused the raise, Mountain Storm was delighted and praised me, saying, “That’s an Edokko for you—impressive!”

When I asked why he hadn’t campaigned for Pale Gourd to stay if he was so against leaving, he said that by the time he’d heard Pale Gourd’s side of things, the decision was already final—he’d gone to the principal twice and Red Shirt once to argue the case, but there was nothing to be done.
That’s also a problem because Koga is too much of a good person.
When Red Shirt made his proposal, he should have either flatly refused or bought time by saying he’d consider it—but instead, he was bamboozled by that silver tongue and agreed on the spot. That’s why even after his mother pleaded with them later, and even when he tried negotiating himself, it was no use at all—something he deeply regretted.

When I said this whole affair was clearly Red Shirt’s scheme to exile Pale Gourd and claim Madonna for himself, there could be no doubt about it. That bastard wore an innocent face while committing his misdeeds, always having an escape route prepared whenever someone spoke up—a true villain through and through. With a scoundrel like that, I declared, only a fist of iron would do any good, rolling up my sleeves to show off my knotty arms. Seizing the moment, I asked, “Your arms look strong—do you practice jujutsu or something?” The general flexed his biceps and told me to give them a squeeze. When I prodded them with my fingertips, they felt exactly like the pumice stones at a public bathhouse.

I was so impressed that I said, "With arms like that, you could send five or six Red Shirts flying at once," to which he replied, "Naturally," flexing and unflexing his bent arm as his muscles swirled beneath the skin like eddies in a stream.
It was downright impressive.
According to Mountain Storm’s demonstration, if you twisted two strands of hemp rope together around his bulging muscles and bent his arm with full force, they’d snap clean through.
When I said even I could do better than hemp rope, he shot back, “The hell you could! Try it if you think you’re man enough!”
If it didn’t snap, I’d lose face—so I kept my hands to myself.

“Hey, what do you say—after drinking our fill at tonight’s farewell party, we go beat up Red Shirt and Nodaiko?” I suggested half-jokingly. Mountain Storm thought for a moment but said, “Let’s hold off on that for tonight.”
When I asked why, he added what sounded like a sensible reason: “Because it’d be too cruel to Koga tonight—and besides, if we’re going to beat them up anyway, we’ve got to catch them in the act of wrongdoing first. Otherwise, we’ll be the ones at fault.”
Even Mountain Storm seemed to have more sense than I did.

Then give a speech and praise Mr. Koga to high heaven—if I do it, it'll just come out in my flippant Edokko way and lack any weight. So when I showed up at the appointed spot, this surge of bile suddenly rose up and a big ball lodged itself in my throat, making me unable to speak—when I said I'd leave it to you, you asked if this was some strange illness and whether I couldn't talk in front of people at all, wondering if it bothered me. To which I replied it didn't bother me one bit.

While all this was going on, the time came, so I went to the venue together with Yamaarashi.
The venue was called Kachintei, said to be the top-class restaurant in town, though I had never once set foot inside.
They said it was originally a chief retainer’s estate that had been purchased and converted into a restaurant—judging by its appearance alone, it certainly had an imposing structure.
Turning a chief retainer’s residence into a restaurant struck me as akin to altering a battle surcoat into an undergarment.

By the time we arrived, most attendees had already gathered, forming two or three clusters in the fifty-tatami hall.
Given its size spanning fifty mats, the tokonoma alcove was impressively large.
The fifteen-tatami alcove I’d occupied at Yamashiroya paled in comparison.
When I measured it with my eyes, it stretched two ken wide.
On the right side stood a ceramic vase with red patterning, its mouth stuffed with a large pine branch.
I couldn’t fathom why they’d stuck a pine branch there—though given it wouldn’t shed even after months, I supposed it saved them money on replacements.
I asked the natural history teacher where that Seto ware was made, to which he replied, “That isn’t Seto ware—it’s Imari.”
When I countered that Imari was still Seto ware by definition, he merely chuckled—“Heh heh heh.”
Later inquiries revealed pottery was called Seto ware specifically when produced in Seto.
Being an Edokko through and through, I’d assumed all ceramics were generically termed Seto ware.
In the alcove’s center hung a large scroll bearing twenty-eight characters each the size of my face.
The calligraphy was downright atrocious.
Finding it irredeemably ugly, I asked the Chinese Classics teacher why they’d display such wretched work so prominently—he informed me it was by a famed calligrapher named Kaiya.
Kaiya or not, I still thought it was dreadful.

Before long, Clerk Kawamura requested that everyone please take their seats, so I sat down in a spot with a pillar that was convenient for leaning against.
In front of Kaiya’s hanging scroll, Tanuki took his seat in haori and hakama formal wear, while Red Shirt similarly positioned himself in haori and hakama to the left.
On the right side designated for the guest of honor sat Pale Gourd in Japanese attire.
Since I wore Western clothes and found formal sitting posture constricting, I immediately crossed my legs.
The swarthy physical education teacher beside me maintained perfect seiza posture.
As befitted a physical education instructor, his training showed through.
Soon meal trays appeared.
Sake decanters lined up.
The organizer rose to deliver a brief opening address.
Then Tanuki stood.
Red Shirt stood.
All three gave farewell speeches that seemed rehearsed—extolling Pale Gourd as an exemplary teacher and fine man while expressing profound regret over his departure both institutionally and personally, yet concluding nothing could be done since he’d earnestly requested transfer for personal reasons.
They threw this farewell party spouting such lies without an ounce of shame.
Red Shirt outdid them all in praising Pale Gourd.
He even declared losing this dear friend constituted a great personal misfortune.
What’s more he delivered this with such plausible sincerity—that gentle voice turned gentler still—that any first-time listener would’ve been thoroughly deceived.
Madonna must’ve fallen for this same act.
As Red Shirt continued his eulogy across from me,Yamaarashi caught my eye with a lightning-quick glance.
In response I crooked my index finger into a hook shape and flashed it back.

Unable to wait for Red Shirt to return to his seat, Yamaarashi abruptly stood up, and I was so delighted that I instinctively clapped my hands—pah-pah-pah.
When Tanuki and everyone else turned to look at me, I felt somewhat uneasy.
Just as I wondered what Mountain Storm would say, he began: “While the principal—and particularly the vice principal—have expressed profound regret over Mr. Koga’s transfer, I hold a somewhat contrary opinion and earnestly hope Mr. Koga will depart this place at the earliest opportunity.”
“Nobeoka is a remote area that may lack material conveniences compared to here.”
“However, I hear its customs remain remarkably pure—a place where all faculty and students alike carry the straightforward spirit of antiquity.”
“I firmly believe you’ll find no Westernized frauds there scattering insincere flattery or ensnaring gentlemen with handsome faces—so a man of your gentle character will undoubtedly be welcomed by all.”
“I heartily celebrate this transfer for Mr. Koga.”
“Lastly, when you assume your post in Nobeoka, I hope you’ll select a virtuous lady of that land—one fit to be a gentleman’s partner—and establish a harmonious household posthaste, thereby shaming that faithless hussy into mortification through sheer fact.”
With two loud “Ahem” coughs, he sat down.
I considered clapping again but refrained, disliking how everyone would stare.
When Yamaarashi settled, it was now Mr. Pale Gourd’s turn to rise.
The teacher rose with excessive formality, walked to the room’s farthest seat, and bowed deeply before declaring: “Regarding my relocation to Kyushu due to personal circumstances—I am profoundly moved by this grand farewell gathering you esteemed teachers have arranged. To receive these farewell addresses from the principal, vice principal, and others fills me with deepest gratitude.”
“Though departing for distant lands, I humbly beg your continued patronage as before.”
He coughed hoarsely and returned to his seat.
The depths of Mr. Pale Gourd’s good nature defied comprehension.
Here he was politely thanking the very principal and vice principal who’d mocked him.
If this were mere obligation—but his tone and expression suggested genuine gratitude.
To receive such sincere thanks from a saint should have shamed them into blushing—yet Tanuki and Red Shirt merely listened with feigned solemnity.

Once the speeches ended, slurping noises began here and there.
I copied them and tried the soup, but it was terrible.
The appetizer had kamaboko, but it looked like a botched chikuwa - murky black.
Sashimi was served too, with slices so thick you might as well be gnawing raw tuna.
Yet the folks around me kept munching away like it was delicious.
They probably never tasted proper Edo-style cooking before.

Once the heated sake bottles began circulating frequently, the surroundings suddenly became lively.
Nodaiko respectfully approached the Principal and received a cup.
What a jerk.

Mr. Pale Gourd was exchanging cups in turn and appeared intent on making a full round.
That must have been quite an ordeal.
When Pale Gourd came before me and, straightening the pleats of his hakama, requested that we exchange a cup, I too sat formally in my constricting trousers and offered him one.
“It’s a shame that after I went to the trouble of coming, we have to part so soon.
When will you be departing? I insist on seeing you off at the harbor,” I said.
To this Pale Gourd replied, “No, please—there’s no need to trouble yourself when you’re so busy.”
No matter what Pale Gourd said, I intended to take the day off from school to see him off.

About an hour later, the gathering became quite disorderly.
People began slurring their words—"C'mon, one more drink... Hey I told you to drink..."—and one or two such characters emerged.
Having grown bored, I went to the restroom and was gazing at the old-fashioned garden under starlight when Yamaarashi arrived.
"How about that speech earlier? Pretty good, right?" he said, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
When I protested that while I fully agreed, there was one part I didn’t like, he asked where my objection lay.

“You said there’d be no Westernized frauds in Nobeoka using pretty faces to trap people...”

“Yeah.”

“Just ‘Westernized dandy’ doesn’t do him justice.”

“Then what should I call him?”

“A Westernized dandy, a fraudster, a swindler, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a huckster, a flying squirrel of a man, a police snitch—hell, call him a mutt that barks like any other dog!”

“I can’t twist my tongue around all that.
“You’re quite the wordsmith.”
“You’ve got an arsenal of fancy words.”
“So why can’t you string ’em together in speeches?”

“What do you mean? These are insults I’ve been saving up for fights—keeping them in reserve just in case.”
“When it comes to formal speeches, those words don’t come out.”

“Is that so? But they pour right out when you’re on a roll!”
“Do it again!”

“As many times as you like! —A Westernized dandy, a fraudster, a swindler…” he began again when the veranda clattered noisily, and two people came staggering out.

“You two—that’s terrible! Trying to run away? —I won’t let you escape while I’m here! —Drink up! —Swindlers? —Hilarious! Swindlers are hilarious! —Come on, drink!”

They began forcefully dragging Mountain Storm and me away.
In truth, these two had come to use the restroom, but being drunk, they must have forgotten their purpose and were instead dragging us along.
Drunks must invent urgent business right before their eyes and immediately forget what came before.

“Come now, gentlemen—we’ve dragged the fraudsters here! Let’s make them drink!”
“Let’s get these fraudsters so drunk they’ll cry ‘uncle!’”
“You can’t run away!”

They pressed me—not even trying to escape—against the wall. When I looked around, not a single tray remained with decent dishes left. Some had polished off their own portions cleanly and ventured five or six ken down the line to scavenge more. The Principal was nowhere to be seen—he must have slipped away at some point.

“Is the banquet room this way?”
Three or four geishas entered.
I was a bit startled, but since I was pinned against the wall, I stayed still and just watched.
Then Red Shirt—who until then had been leaning against the pillar, proudly clenching his usual amber pipe—suddenly stood up and started to leave the banquet room.
One of the geishas coming from the opposite direction smiled and greeted him as they passed each other.
She was the youngest and prettiest of them all.
I couldn’t hear clearly from where I was, but she seemed to have said something like “Good evening.”
Red Shirt left with a feigned look of ignorance and never reappeared.
He had probably chased after the Principal and gone home.

When the geishas arrived, the banquet room suddenly became lively, growing so boisterous you’d think everyone had raised a battle cry of welcome. Some fellow was snatching up who knows how many things. Their voices roared so loud it sounded like iaijutsu practice. Over here, they threw punches. Their arms swung wildly to shouts of “Hup! Ha!”—far more skillfully than Dark’s marionette troupe ever could. In the far corner, someone shook a sake bottle and yelled, “Time to pour!” only to correct himself with “Sake! Sake!” instead. The noise and chaos became unbearable. Amid it all, only Pale Gourd sat idle, head bowed in thought. They held this farewell party for my sake—but surely not out of regret over my transfer. It was just an excuse for them to drink and revel. A way to leave me sitting idle in misery. If this was their idea of a send-off, I’d have been better off without it.

After a while, they all began singing something in rough, booming voices.
A geisha came up to me holding a shamisen and said, "You there—sing something!" I told her I wouldn't sing and snapped back, "You sing instead!" Without any fancy accompaniment of gold or drums, she launched into "The Lost Child Santaro" with a thumping rhythm—donk-donk, clinkety-clank!
"If I could go around drumming and meet whoever I want," she sang in one breath between beats, "why, even someone like me would grab gold and drums—donk-donk, clinkety-clank!—and pound my way right to that person!" Then she added with a sigh, "Oh, what a chore!"
"If it's such a chore," I shot back, "you should've picked an easier job."

Then, before I knew it, Nodaiko had come and sat beside us. "Little Bell," he said in his usual storyteller-like manner, "you meet the person you wanted to see, only for him to leave right away—what a dreadful shame!"
“I don’t know,” the geisha retorted curtly.
Nodaiko paid no heed and launched into an imitation of gidayu-style chanting in a grating voice: “…”
When the geisha slapped Nodaiko’s knee with her palm and said, “Get on with it!”, he laughed in delight.
This geisha was the one who had greeted Red Shirt.
To be slapped by a geisha and laugh—Nodaiko really was a simpleton.
“Little Bell, since I’m going to dance the Kii Country, play a tune for me,” Nodaiko said.
Nodaiko was still intent on dancing even after this.

Over yonder, the old Chinese studies teacher grimaced with his toothless mouth and managed to get through up to "I can’t hear you, Denbei-san. Between you and me..." without incident—but then what? he asked the geisha. Old men have such terrible memories. Someone caught the natural history teacher and said, "I’ve managed to get him here lately—shall I try playing?" Now listen up—! He began: a topknot adorned with flowers and moons, a modern head sporting a white ribbon, riding a bicycle, playing the violin—all while chattering away in broken English and singing "I am glad to seeyou." The natural history teacher nodded approvingly. "How amusing! It even includes English!"

Mountain Storm bellowed at the top of his lungs, calling out "Geisha! Geisha!" and commanded them to play the shamisen since I would be performing a sword dance.
The geishas were so startled by his brutish voice that they didn't respond.
Mountain Storm charged ahead regardless, grabbed a walking stick, and marched to the center with a booming declaration of "Traversing a Thousand Peaks Through Misty Summits," launching into his secret solo performance.
Just then, Nodaiko—having completed his Kii Country dance, finished his Kappore routine, and concluded his Shelf Daruma act—stripped naked save for a fundoshi loincloth, wedged a palm-fiber broom under his arm, and began marching around the banquet hall shouting, "The Sino-Japanese negotiations have collapsed...!"
He looked utterly deranged.

I had been feeling unbearably sorry for Pale Gourd, who sat there in obvious discomfort without even removing his hakama, but I thought that even if this was his own farewell party, there was no need for him to endure watching a naked fundoshi dance while still dressed in haori and hakama. So I went over and suggested we leave: “Mr. Koga, let’s go home.”

But Pale Gourd said, “Since today’s farewell party is for me, it would be rude to leave first. Please don’t hold back,” showing no sign of moving.

“Why care? If it’s a farewell party, let them do it properly—look at that spectacle.”

“It’s a madhouse.”

I urged him—“Come on, let’s go”—pushing despite his reluctance, but as we neared the exit, Nodaiko came swinging a broom and cried, “How cruel of Master to leave first!”

“The Sino-Japanese negotiations!”

He blocked our path with the broom sideways.

I’d been seething with rage, so when he mentioned negotiations, I suddenly cracked my fist against Nodaiko’s skull.

For two seconds he stood dazed. Oh, this was terrible.

“How humiliating to be struck!”

“To think you’d strike this Yoshikawa… I’m in awe.”

“The Sino-Japanese negotiations reach their climax!” he rambled as Mountain Storm noticed the commotion, abandoned his sword dance, rushed over, seized Nodaiko’s neck, and yanked him back.

“Sino-Japanese… hurts!”

“It hurts!”

As he thrashed—“This is too rough!”—a twist sent him thudding down.

I don’t know what happened after.

I parted with Pale Gourd midway and got home past eleven.

Ten

The school was closed for the victory celebration.
As there was to be a ceremony at the parade ground, Tanuki had to lead the students and attend.
I, as one of the staff members, would tag along as well.
When we entered town, it was covered in Hinomaru flags, dazzlingly so.
Since the school had as many as eight hundred students, the gymnastics teacher arranged them into ranks with small gaps between each group—then staff members inserted themselves into those gaps as supervisors.
The setup was exceedingly ingenious, but in practice, it was exceedingly bungling.
The students were kids to begin with—cheeky brats who thought breaking rules upheld their honor—so what good would having staff members tagging along do?
Without orders, they belted out military songs on their own, then let out pointless “Waa!” battle cries—like ronin parading through town.
When not singing or shouting, they chattered noisily about something.
They could’ve walked quietly, but since Japanese are born mouths-first, no scolding would make them listen.
Their chatter wasn’t idle—they badmouthed teachers, which was low-class.
I’d made them apologize over the night duty incident and thought that settled things.
But reality proved completely different.
To borrow the landlady’s words—a proper Kankurō of a blunder.
Their apology wasn’t from genuine remorse.
They’d just bowed formally on Tanuki’s orders.
Like merchants bowing while scheming, students apologized but kept misbehaving.
On reflection, maybe the whole world’s made of such students.
Taking apologies at face value makes you an honest fool.
Assume apologies are insincere and forgiveness superficial—you’ll be fine.

If they truly intended to make someone apologize, they had to beat them down until genuine regret took root.

When I took my place between the student groups, voices kept taunting "Tempura" and "Dumplings." With so many of them packed together, pinpointing the culprits proved impossible. Even if caught, they'd deny everything—claiming the teacher was hearing things through neurasthenic paranoia. This petty malice had festered here since feudal times; no amount of lecturing could uproot it. A year in this town might force even someone upright like me to adopt their ways.

Letting them smear my reputation with slippery tricks they could wriggle out of? Unthinkable. They were human—so was I. Students towered over me despite being mere kids. Retribution became a duty. Yet conventional methods backfired spectacularly—they'd spin elaborate defenses if accused, painting themselves righteous before attacking my faults. Since retaliation started it all, defending myself required exposing their misdeeds first—an impossible standard. The public always saw me as the instigator.

What a raw deal! Letting them run wild would only breed arrogance—bad for society at large. No choice remained but mirroring their tactics: strike back in ways they couldn't pin down or counter. This path doomed even an Edoite like me—yet after a year of abuse, human nature demanded I become what I despised to survive.

I must return to Tokyo as soon as possible and be with Kiyo.
To stay in this provincial town was no different than having come here to wallow in corruption.
Even delivering newspapers would have been better than wallowing in corruption to this extent here.

Thinking this—no, wait—as I followed along, the vanguard suddenly erupted into commotion.
At the same moment, the procession ground to an abrupt halt.
Finding this strange, I shifted the column rightward and looked ahead to see them jammed at the corner where Ōtemachi dead-ended into Yakushichō—a scrum of bodies shoving and being shoved in stalemate.
When I asked the gymnastics teacher—who had crept up from the front in hushed tones—what was happening, he said there’d been a clash between the middle school and normal school at the bend.

It was said that middle schools and normal schools got along like dogs and monkeys in every prefecture.
I couldn't tell why, but their dispositions simply didn't mesh.
At every provocation they'd start brawling.
Likely they did it to kill time in this cramped backwater town.
Being partial to fights myself, I dashed toward the commotion half out of curiosity.
Up front they kept hollering nonstop - "Who do these local-tax paupers think they are? Back off!"
From behind came booming shouts of "Push! Push!"
I wove through obstructive students and was nearly at the corner when - "Advance!"
No sooner had that shrill command pierced the air than the normal school contingent began marching in lockstep.
Though fiercely contested, the clash ended with the middle school conceding ground.
By official standing, they say the normal school held superior rank.

The victory ceremony was exceedingly simple.
The Brigade Commander read an address, the Governor read an address, and the attendees shouted "Banzai!"
That was all.
Since the entertainment was scheduled for afternoon, I returned to my boarding house and finally started drafting the reply to Kiyo that had been weighing on me.
She had specifically asked for more details this time, so I needed to write as thoroughly as possible.
But when I actually took up the writing paper, though there was much to write about, I found myself at a loss for where to begin.
Should I describe that incident? Too tedious.
Should I recount this episode? Too dull.
I searched for something that would flow effortlessly and entertain Kiyo without requiring laborious effort—but nothing seemed to fit her specifications.
I ground ink, moistened my brush, glared at the scroll—glared at the scroll, moistened my brush, ground more ink—and after repeating these motions identically several times over, I finally shut the inkstone lid in resignation.
Writing letters was pure torment.
It would be far simpler just to go back to Tokyo and speak with her directly.
While I understood Kiyo's anxiety all too well, composing a letter exactly to her specifications felt more grueling than enduring a three-week fast.

I tossed aside my brush and scroll paper, flopped down using my elbow as a pillow to gaze at the garden, but Kiyo still weighed on my mind. At that moment, it occurred to me: Even having come all this way, if I kept worrying about Kiyo's well-being, my sincerity was bound to reach her. As long as it got through, there was no need to write a letter. If I didn't write, she'd probably think I was living peacefully. Letters should only be sent when there's a death, an illness, or some incident—that was the proper way to do things.

The garden was a flat space of about thirty square meters, with no particular plants to speak of.
There was a single citrus tree, so tall it could serve as a landmark from outside the wall.
Whenever I returned home, I would gaze at this citrus tree.
For those who had never left Tokyo, a place where citrus trees grew was quite a rare sight.
Those green fruits would gradually ripen and turn yellow; it must surely be a beautiful sight.
Even then, some had already begun to change color.
When I asked the old woman, she said they were exceptionally juicy and delicious citrus fruits.
When they ripened, she said I should eat plenty, so I decided to have a little each day.
In another three weeks, they should be fully edible.
Surely there was no way I'd have to leave here within three weeks.

While I was thinking about the citrus tree, Mountain Storm happened to come by to talk.
“Since today’s the victory celebration, I thought I’d treat you to a feast—brought some beef,” he said, dragging out a bamboo-leaf package from his sleeve and tossing it into the center of the room.
Given that I’d been stuck at my boarding house eating nothing but potatoes and tofu, and was barred from visiting soba shops or dumpling joints, this seemed like a godsend. I promptly borrowed a pot and sugar from the old woman and got to cooking.

Mountain Storm asked me while stuffing his face with beef, "Do you know Red Shirt’s been cozying up to geishas?" I shot back, "Course I do—wasn’t one of ’em at Pale Gourd’s farewell party?" He gave an impressed grunt: "Took me ages to catch on, but you’re quick on the uptake!"

"That bastard’s always yammering about ‘moral fiber’ and ‘cultured pastimes,’ then slinks off to diddle geishas behind everyone’s back—hypocritical swine."
"And get this—he’s fine letting others carouse, but when *I* step foot in a soba joint or dumpling shop? Claims it ‘undermines discipline’ and gets the Principal breathing down my neck!"

“Hmm, according to that bastard’s logic, keeping geishas must count as intellectual recreation while tempura and dumplings are just physical indulgence.”
“If it’s intellectual recreation, he ought to flaunt it openly.”
“What’s with his ridiculous act?”
“When a regular geisha shows up, he sneaks out of his seat to escape—I can’t stand how he keeps deceiving everyone.”
“And when people call him out, he dodges with nonsense about ‘knowing nothing’ or rambles about Russian literature and haiku being cousins to new-style poetry.”
“That spineless worm’s no man at all!”
“He’s practically the reincarnation of some spoiled palace attendant!”
“For all we know, his old man might’ve been a Yushima rentboy.”

“What’s this about a male prostitute from Yushima?”

“Well, whatever—it’s just not manly.—You there! That part’s still raw in the middle!”
“Eat that and you’ll be crawling with tapeworms!”

“Oh, right. It’ll do.”
“So Red Shirt’s been sneaking off to Kakuiya in the hot spring town to meet geishas behind everyone’s back.”

“Kakuiya—that inn?”

“Inn and restaurant.”
“To really take that bastard down, we’ve gotta catch him bringing a geisha there and corner him on the spot.”

“Corner him? You mean stake the place out?”

“Yeah, there’s an inn called Masuya in front of Kakuiya. We’ll rent the front second floor, poke a hole in the shoji screen, and keep watch from there.”

“You think he’ll come while we’re watching?”

“He’ll come. One night won’t cut it anyway. We’ll have to keep this up for two weeks straight.”

“That’ll be exhausting.”
“I once stayed up all night for a week nursing my old man when he was dying—left me dazed and completely worn out afterward.”

“A little physical fatigue doesn’t bother me.”
“If we leave that scoundrel unchecked, it’ll harm Japan itself. I’ll execute divine justice in heaven’s stead!”

“Splendid!”
“If that’s settled, I’ll back you up.”
“So we’re starting surveillance tonight?”

“Haven’t secured Masuya yet—tonight’s impossible.”

“So when do you plan to start?”

“I’ll do it soon. Once I give you the signal, back me up.”

“Fine—I’ll back you up anytime. I’m no good at scheming, but when it comes to a fight, I’m quick on my feet.”

While I was deep in discussion with Mountain Storm about our plan to take down Red Shirt, the old woman from the boarding house came out and said, “There’s a student from the school here to see Mr. Horota, y’know.”

“He went to your house first,” she continued, kneeling at the threshold as she waited for a reply, “but since you were out, he figured you must be here and tracked you down.”

Mountain Storm went to the entrance with a “Is that so?” but soon returned and announced, “A student’s come to invite us to see the sideshows at the victory celebration.”

He urged me eagerly: “Today they’ve brought a whole troupe all the way from Kōchi to perform some special dance—it’s a rare sight! You should come along too!”

I’d seen plenty of dances back in Tokyo. Every year at the Hachiman Festival, stalls would come through the neighborhood—I knew the Shiokumi dance and all the rest by heart. Some idiotic Tosa dance held no appeal for me, but since Mountain Storm had gone to the trouble of inviting me, I ended up stepping out through the gate.

When I saw who’d come to fetch Mountain Storm, it turned out to be Red Shirt’s younger brother. What an odd choice of messenger.

Upon entering the venue, countless long banners—planted here and there like those at Ekōin Temple’s sumo tournaments or Honmonji Temple’s Oeshiki ceremonies—rose into view. To these had been added what seemed like every national flag in existence, strung from rope to rope and cable to cable, until the vast sky overhead appeared more bustling than ever before.
A makeshift stage was set up in the eastern corner, where they were going to perform what they called a certain Kochi dance.
About fifty meters to the right of the stage was a reed screen enclosure displaying ikebana arrangements.
People were admiring them with great interest, but they were utterly worthless.
If they were so delighted to bend grasses and bamboo like that, they might as well have bragged about having a hunchbacked dandy or a lame husband.

In the direction opposite the stage, fireworks were being launched incessantly.
From within the fireworks, balloons emerged.
The balloons had "Long Live the Empire" written on them.
A balloon floated lightly over Tenshu no Matsu and fell into the barracks.
Next came a sharp *pop* as a black dumpling-shaped object shot up through the autumn sky. It burst right above my head with a *crack*, blue smoke unfurling like umbrella ribs before drifting lazily into the air.
Another balloon went up.
This time, one dyed red with white that read "Long Live the Army and Navy" swayed in the wind and flew from the hot spring town toward Aioi Village.
It probably landed in the precincts of Kannon’s temple or something.

During the ceremony, it hadn’t been so crowded, but this time there was a huge turnout. The place swarmed with so many people that I marveled at how such a rural area could hold this many. There weren’t many clever-looking faces among them, but their sheer numbers were nothing to scoff at. Soon after, the much-touted Kochi dance began. I’d assumed that when they said “dance,” it would be something like the Fujima school’s performances—a huge mistake.

About ten men each, wearing stern headbands tied at the back and stiff hakama trousers, stood arranged in three rows on the stage—and I was astonished to see all thirty of them carrying unsheathed blades. The spacing between front and back rows was barely one shaku five sun (roughly 45 centimeters), with left-right intervals no wider. Only a single figure stood apart at the stage’s edge. This outcast wore hakama but had skipped the headband; instead of a blade, he’d slung a drum across his chest—the same kind used in Daikagura performances. Soon he began emitting relaxed “iyaa” and “haaa” sounds, chanting an odd melody while beating the drum with rhythmic *thump-thump* strikes. The tune was an unprecedented monstrosity. If you imagined it as Mikawa Manzai spliced with Fudarakuya chants, you wouldn’t be far off.

The song dragged on languidly like summer mizuame syrup, but the intermittent thump-thumps marking its phrases kept some semblance of rhythm despite the sprawl. In perfect sync with these beats, thirty naked blades flashed—their movements so unnervingly swift that merely watching made my spine tingle. With living bodies packed less than half a meter apart on all sides, each brandishing razor-edged steel in identical motions, their timing needed flawless precision lest comrades wound each other mid-performance. Simply swinging blades forward or upward would've been dangerous enough, but then all thirty would stamp feet in unison to pivot sideways. They spun full circles. They dropped into crouches. A neighbor's blade arriving one second early meant your nose might get severed. A delayed swing could decapitate the dancer beside you. Though the swords moved freely, their arcs were confined within imaginary forty-five-centimeter cubes while matching direction and speed with every surrounding blade. This spectacle left me awestruck—no Shiokumi dance from Tokyo or Sekinoto routine could compare. When I asked locals later, they explained such synchronization required immense skill honed through rigorous practice. The most demanding role fell to Bokobon-kun of the Manzai troupe, they said—every footfall, wrist flick, and hip tilt from all thirty dancers hinged entirely on his drum rhythms. To bystanders, this conductor seemed utterly carefree as he chanted "iyaa" and "haaa" between drumbeats, yet paradoxically bore the heaviest responsibility of all—a burden far more grueling than his relaxed demeanor suggested.

As Mountain Storm and I watched this dance with such absorbed admiration that we had no eyes for anything else, a thunderous roar suddenly erupted about fifty meters away. The crowd, which until then had been peacefully viewing the various attractions, began to surge like a wave, swaying left and right.
No sooner had shouts of "Fight! Fight!" erupted than Red Shirt's younger brother came slipping through people's sleeves, urgently reporting, "Sir, another fight! The middle schoolers are retaliating for this morning—they've just started battling those normal school bastards again! Come quickly!" Before vanishing back into the human tide.

Mountain Storm muttered, “That troublesome brat’s at it again? They should know when to quit!” and began darting through the crowd, weaving past fleeing spectators.
Since he couldn’t just stand by and watch, he probably intended to quell it.
I certainly had no intention of running away.
I stepped on Mountain Storm’s heels and immediately raced after him to the scene.
The fight was now at its peak.
The normal school students numbered around fifty or sixty, while the middle school contingent was indeed about thirty percent larger.
The normal school students wore uniforms, while the middle schoolers had mostly changed into Japanese clothes after the ceremony, making it easy to distinguish friend from foe.
However, since they were all tangled up—grappling and disentangling as they fought—there was no way to tell where or how to start pulling them apart.
Mountain Storm looked troubled as he watched the chaotic scene for a while, but once things had come to this, there was no helping it.
“If the police come, it’ll be trouble.”
He looked at me and said he’d jump in to break it up, so without replying, I suddenly leaped into the fiercest part of the brawl.
“Stop it! Stop it!”
“If you keep up this violence, it’ll disgrace the school!”
I shouted “Stop this!” at the top of my lungs and tried to break through what seemed to be the boundary line between the enemy and our side, but it didn’t go nearly as smoothly as I’d hoped.
When I had advanced a couple of meters, I could neither move forward nor retreat.
In front of me, a fairly large normal school student was grappling with a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old middle school student.
When I shouted “Stop!” and grabbed the normal school student’s shoulder to forcibly pull them apart, someone—I don’t know who—swept my legs out from under me.
I was taken by surprise and lost my grip; releasing the shoulder, I fell sideways.
Someone in hard-soled shoes stepped on my back.
With both hands and knees planted firmly, when I sprang up from below, the guy who had been on top tumbled off to the right.

When I got up and looked, about three ken ahead, Mountain Storm’s large figure was caught between the students, being jostled back and forth as he shouted, “Stop it! Stop this fight!”—but his efforts were futile.
“Hey, it’s hopeless!” I yelled, but they didn’t hear me—no response.

A stone whizzed through the air and struck my cheekbone—and no sooner had I registered that than someone behind me whacked my back with a stick.
“They’re teachers! Get them!” voices shouted.
There were two teachers.
The big one and the small one.
“Throw stones!”
Voices roared, “Throw stones!”
“How dare you spout such insolence, you country bumpkin!” I barked, suddenly slapping the head of a normal school student nearby.
Another stone came whizzing.
This time it grazed my buzz-cut scalp and flew off behind me.
I couldn’t see what had become of Mountain Storm.
No helping it now.
I’d gone in to stop the fight—but after getting knocked around and pelted with stones, did they think I’d slink away like some coward? Not a chance!
Who the hell did they think I was?
Even small-framed, I was a brawler bred in Tokyo’s mean streets—swinging wildly and taking hits until shouts of “Cops! Run!” erupted.
The suffocating tangle of bodies suddenly loosened, enemies and allies scattering at once.
Country bumpkins sure knew how to retreat.
They pulled it off smoother than Kuropatkin himself.

When I looked to see what had become of Mountain Storm, there he was, his crested single-layer haori torn to shreds, wiping his nose in the distance. He had apparently been struck on the bridge of the nose and was bleeding profusely. His nose had swollen up, turned bright red, and looked utterly unsightly. My splashed-pattern lined kimono was covered in mud, but it didn’t suffer as much damage as Mountain Storm’s haori. However, my cheek was stinging unbearably. Mountain Storm informed me that he was bleeding quite a lot.

Fifteen or sixteen police officers arrived, but since the students had retreated in the opposite direction, the only ones caught were me and Mountain Storm.
We gave our names and explained everything from start to finish, but were told to come to the police station anyway. So we went there, recounted the entire incident before the chief, and returned to our boarding house.

Eleven

When I woke up the next day, my whole body ached unbearably.
I hadn’t been in a fight for so long that my body would retaliate like this.

As I lay in bed thinking this was nothing to boast about, the landlady brought the Shikoku Newspaper and placed it by my pillow.
Truth be told, I had no wish to read it, but what self-respecting man would let such trifles defeat him? Forcing myself onto my stomach, I opened to page two while still lying down—and gaped in shock.
Yesterday's fight was reported in full.
While the fight itself being reported didn't surprise me, the article stated that a certain Horota—a middle school teacher—and some insolent newcomer recently arrived from Tokyo had not only incited this disturbance by manipulating docile students, but had also directed those students at the scene while wantonly assaulting normal school trainees themselves. What followed was this editorial note:
The middle schools of our prefecture have long been admired nationwide for their virtuous and gentle character, but now that two frivolous youths have damaged our institution's privileged standing and brought disgrace upon the entire city, we must rise resolutely to demand accountability.
We trust that before we are compelled to act ourselves, the authorities will impose appropriate disciplinary measures upon these ruffians, ensuring they never again set foot in educational circles.
They'd even added black dots beneath every character, as though branding each word with searing censure.
"Eat shit!" I roared from bed, heaving upright.
Strangely enough, though my joints had been screaming with pain moments before, they turned weightless as forgotten memories the instant I sprang up.

I crumpled the newspaper and hurled it into the garden, but even that didn’t satisfy me, so I went out of my way to carry it to the outhouse and discard it there.
Newspapers are nothing but reckless liars.
If you ask what in this world spins the biggest lies, there’s no liar like the newspapers.
They’ve gone and listed all the things I should’ve said myself.
And what’s this about some insolent so-and-so recently transferred from Tokyo?
Does a person named ‘So-and-So’ even exist in this world?
Just think about it.
Even someone like me has a proper surname and given name.
If you want to see a family tree, I’ll make every single ancestor from Tada no Mitsunaka onward bow before you!
When I washed my face, my cheek suddenly started hurting.
When I told the old woman to give me a mirror, she asked, “Did you see this morning’s paper?”
“I read it and then took it to the outhouse to discard it there,” I replied.
When I snapped, “If you want it, go fetch it yourself,” she retreated in surprise.
When I looked at my face in the mirror, the wounds were the same as yesterday.
This is still an important face of mine. To have wounds inflicted on it and then be called some insolent so-and-so—that’s more than enough.

If they claimed I skipped school because today’s newspaper had cowed me, it’d be a lifelong disgrace—so I showed up first thing after eating. Every single person who came out looked at my face and laughed. What’s so damn funny? It’s not like you bastards sculpted this face yourselves. Before long, Nodaiko appeared and sneered, “My, what a heroic display yesterday—such an honorable injury, *is it*?”—probably thinking this was payback for when I’d decked him at the farewell party. I shot back: “Shut your trap and go suck on paintbrushes!” He simpered, “Oh dear, how fearsome!” then added, “But it must hurt terribly, *no*?” I snapped, “Whether it hurts or not, it’s *my* face—since when do I need your pity?” After I barked this, he slunk back to his seat across the room, kept eyeing my face, and started whispering to the history teacher next to him while snickering.

Then Mountain Storm showed up.
As for Mountain Storm’s nose—it had swollen into a purple hue and looked ready to ooze pus if prodded.
Perhaps out of vanity—or so I thought—his face had taken a far worse beating than mine.
Mountain Storm and I shared desks side by side as close colleagues; worse yet our stations faced directly across from the room’s entrance—rotten luck indeed.
Two battered faces huddled together.
Whenever boredom struck—and it struck often—their eyes inevitably drifted our way.
They mouthed platitudes like “What an ordeal!” while plainly thinking “Those fools.”
No other explanation fit their stifled whispers and smirks.

When I entered the classroom, the students welcomed me with applause.
There were two or three voices shouting, “Long live the Teacher!”
I couldn’t tell whether they were cheering me or mocking me.
While Mountain Storm and I had become such centers of attention, Red Shirt alone approached us as usual and said, “What an extraordinary misfortune this has been.”
“I feel deeply sorry for you both.”
“I’ve already discussed the newspaper article with the principal and initiated procedures to demand a correction, so you needn’t worry.”
“Since my younger brother went to fetch Mr. Horota, this regrettable incident occurred—for which I must profoundly apologize.”
He kept spouting these half-hearted apologies—“I intend to spare no effort in resolving this matter”—and concluded with a stiff “please don’t take offense.”
The principal emerged from his office during third period and remarked, “The newspaper has published something most inconvenient.”
He looked vaguely concerned, as if hoping matters wouldn’t escalate.
I have no worries—if they try dismissing me, I’ll just hand in my resignation first.
But withdrawing when I’d done nothing wrong would only embolden those lying hacks at the paper further. No—the proper course was to force their retraction and stubbornly cling to my post.
On my way back, I considered storming into the newspaper office myself, but since they claimed the school had already started retraction procedures, I let it drop.

Mountain Storm and I timed our approach to catch the principal and vice principal between engagements and gave them a truthful account of events.
The principal and vice principal agreed this was likely the case, concluding that the newspaper held a grudge against the school and had deliberately published such an article.
Red Shirt was going around the waiting room one by one, explaining away our actions.
In particular, he was going around claiming that his own younger brother having lured Mountain Storm out was somehow his fault.
They all said that it was entirely the newspaper’s fault—"Outrageous! What a terrible ordeal for both of you."

On our way back, Mountain Storm warned me, “You mark my words—Red Shirt reeks. If you don’t watch out, he’ll finish you off.” When I retorted, “He’s always stunk—it’s not like he turned rotten overnight,” he explained, “Still don’t see it? Yesterday he deliberately lured us out to drag us into that brawl—all part of his scheme.” “I see. Hadn’t realized it went that deep,” I admitted. Mountain Storm might look rough, but I had to respect him as wiser than myself.

“He stirred up that fight, then immediately pulled strings with the newspaper to plant that article.”
“The man’s a born swindler!”

“Even the newspaper is Red Shirt’s doing?”
“That’s shocking.”
“But would the newspaper really listen to what Red Shirt says so easily?”

“They don’t need to listen.”
“If there are friends at the newspaper, it’s no trouble at all.”

“He has friends there?”

“He doesn’t need any.”
“He tells lies, passes them off as facts, and they’ll write it up straight away.”

“That’s despicable.”
“If this really is Red Shirt’s scheme, we might get dismissed over this incident.”

“If things go badly, we might get taken down.”

“Then I’ll hand in my resignation tomorrow and head straight back to Tokyo.”
“I don’t want to stick around relying on such a lowly place.”

“Even if you submit your resignation, Red Shirt won’t be troubled.”

“That’s true too. What could we do to trouble him?”

“When that villain does something, he goes to great lengths to ensure no evidence surfaces—none at all—so refuting him is tough.”

“What a pain.”
“So we’re being framed, then.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Is there no divine justice?”

“Well, let’s wait two or three more days to see how things develop.”
“Then when it truly comes down to it, we’ll have no choice but to catch him at the hot spring town and pin him down.”

“So we’re handling the fight incident as just a fight incident?”

“That’s right.”
“We’ll pin down their weak spot on our end.”

“That’ll do.”
“Since I’m no good at scheming, I’ll leave everything to you.”
“When push comes to shove, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mountain Storm and I parted ways there. If Red Shirt had truly done everything exactly as Mountain Storm had deduced, he was an utterly vile man. This wasn't someone you could ever beat through wit alone. Physical force would have to settle it in the end. No wonder wars never stopped raging across the world. When it came down to it, even between individuals, might made right.

The next day, I waited impatiently for the newspaper to arrive. When I opened it, there was no correction—not even a retraction in sight.
When I went to the school and pressed Tanuki about it, he said they would probably issue it tomorrow or so.
When the next day came, a small retraction appeared in 6-point type.
However, the newspaper had naturally made no corrections.
When I pressed the principal again, he replied there was no further procedure beyond that.
The Principal had a Tanuki-like face and was strangely decked out in a frock coat, but he was surprisingly powerless.
They couldn’t even make a single provincial newspaper that had published false articles apologize.
I was so furious that I declared I’d go alone to confront the editor-in-chief myself, but he objected: “That won’t do—if you negotiate, they’ll only write more slander.”
“In short,” he continued, “whether what’s written in the newspaper is false or true—ultimately, there’s nothing one can do about it.”
He added a priest-like sermonizing admonition that there was nothing to do but give up.
If newspapers were such things, it would be to our benefit to crush them as soon as possible.
It was only today, through Tanuki’s explanation, that I came to understand how being written about in the newspaper and being bitten by a mud turtle were much the same.

About three days later, one afternoon, Mountain Storm came storming in indignantly and declared that the time had finally come—he intended to carry out the plan we’d discussed. “Alright then, I’ll join in too,” I said, and immediately enlisted myself in the conspiratorial band.
However, Mountain Storm tilted his head and suggested that I should stay out.
When I asked why, he inquired whether I had been summoned by the Principal and told to submit my resignation, so I said no, I hadn’t.
“And you?”
When I asked in return, he said that today in the principal’s office, he had been told, “Though it is truly regrettable, due to unavoidable circumstances, we must settle the matter.”

“There’s no such verdict.”
“Tanuki’s been pounding his belly drum too much—his stomach’s turned upside down.”
“Didn’t you and I go to the victory celebration together, see Kōchi’s glittering dance together, and jump in together to stop that fight?”
“If they’re going to demand resignation letters, they should demand them fairly from both sides!”
“Why on earth can’t a backwater school grasp basic logic?”
“This is infuriating!”

“That’s Red Shirt’s handiwork.”
“Red Shirt and I are people who, given our past clashes, simply can’t coexist—but they think leaving you as you are won’t cause any harm.”

“There’s no way I can coexist with Red Shirt either! Thinking I won’t cause any harm—how arrogant!”

“You’re too simple-minded—they believe they can keep you around and manipulate you however they please.”

“That’s even worse! Who’d ever agree to coexist with him?”

“Moreover, since Koga left earlier, his replacement still hasn’t arrived due to some complications.”
“And if they dismiss both you and me simultaneously, there’ll be holes in the students’ timetables that’ll disrupt classes.”

“So they’re planning to wedge me in as a temporary stopgap, huh? Damn bastards! Who’d be fool enough to swallow that bait?”

The next day, I went to the school, entered the principal’s office, and began negotiations.

“Why aren’t you telling me to submit my resignation?”

“Huh?” Tanuki stared dumbfounded.

“Is there some rule that says you can demand Horota’s resignation but not mine?”

“That’s due to the school’s circumstances…”

“That arrangement is just plain wrong.”
“If I don’t have to submit mine, then Horota doesn’t need to submit his either.”

“I’m afraid I cannot explain that matter—while it cannot be helped if Mr. Horota departs, I do not recognize any necessity for you to submit a resignation.”

So this was Tanuki for you—spouting nothing but evasive nonsense and yet acting completely unruffled.
Since there was nothing I could do,

“Then I’ll submit my resignation too.”
“You may think forcing only Mr. Horota to resign while I calmly remain is acceptable, but I cannot commit such a heartless act.”

“That would be problematic. If Horota leaves and you leave too, the school’s mathematics classes will become completely unable to continue…”

“Even if they can’t continue, that’s none of my concern.”

“You mustn’t speak so selfishly—you must show some consideration for the school’s circumstances. Moreover, if you resign before even a month has passed since your arrival, it will affect your future career record—you ought to consider that as well.”

“Do I care about my career record? Loyalty matters more than some record!”

“That’s perfectly reasonable—every single point you make is perfectly valid. But I ask that you show some consideration for my side as well.”
“If you insist on resigning, I will accept your resignation, but I ask that you continue working until a replacement is found.”
“In any case, please reconsider once more within yourself.”

To reconsider? There was no way to fix such a clear-as-day reason, but seeing Tanuki turn pale then red like some pitiful creature, I decided to back down for now under the guise of reconsidering.
I didn't utter a single word to Red Shirt.
If I was going to settle the score anyway, better to lump them all together and thrash them soundly.

When I told Mountain Storm how my negotiation with Tanuki went, he probably figured it was just as he’d expected.
Since Mountain Storm had said keeping the resignation letters as they were until the time came would cause no problems, I did exactly what he told me.
Given that Yamaarashi seemed smarter than me anyway, I resolved to follow his advice on everything.

Mountain Storm finally submitted his resignation, bid farewell to the entire staff, and went down to Hama no Minatoya; but then, making sure no one would notice, he doubled back and hid himself on the second floor of Sakuraya in the hot spring town, where he bored a hole in the shoji screen and peered out.
The only one who knew about this was probably me.
If Red Shirt sneaked in, it'd definitely be at night.
Moreover, since there were students and others around in the early evening, it was definitely set for at least after nine o'clock.
For the first two nights, I kept watch until around eleven o'clock, but there was no sign of Red Shirt.
On the third day, I kept watch from nine to ten-thirty, but it was still no use.
There was nothing as foolish as trudging home in the dead of night after repeated failures.
After four or five days, our old woman began to worry a bit and advised me, "Even with a proper household here, you ought to quit your night outings, you hear?"
This wasn't that kind of night outing.
This was a night outing to carry out divine punishment in heaven's stead.
Even so, after going there for a whole week and seeing no results, I was getting sick of it.
I'm an impatient sort—when I get enthusiastic about something, I'll work through the night, but on the flip side, nothing I do ever lasts long.
Even we of the Divine Punishment squad couldn't help growing weary.
On the sixth day, I became somewhat fed up, and by the seventh day, I was already thinking of taking a break.
In contrast, Mountain Storm was stubborn.
From dusk until past twelve, he pressed his eye against the shoji screen, staring intently beneath Kado-ya's round gas lamp.
When I went over, he showed me all sorts of statistics—how many guests there were that day, how many were staying overnight, how many women—and I was astonished.
When I'd say, "Doesn't look like he's coming," he'd respond with a "Hmm... he should definitely come," occasionally crossing his arms and sighing.
Poor Mountain Storm—if Red Shirt didn't come there even once, he'd never be able to carry out divine punishment in his lifetime.

On the eighth day, I left the boarding house around seven, first took a leisurely bath, then bought eight eggs in town.
This was my strategy to counter the boarding house landlady’s grilling.
I placed four eggs into each sleeve, slung the usual red hand towel over my shoulder, and climbed Sakuraya Inn’s steep stairs with hands tucked in my sleeves. When I slid open the shoji to Mountain Storm’s room, his face—like that of the deity Idaten—suddenly lit up as he exclaimed, “Hey! This looks promising!”
Until last night, he’d seemed gloomy enough that even I found it depressing to watch from the sidelines. But seeing his expression now, I too felt suddenly elated and cried “Splendid!” before hearing a word of explanation.

“Tonight around seven-thirty, that geisha called Suzume entered Kado-ya.”

“With Red Shirt?”

“No.”

“Then that’s no use.”

“The geishas came as a pair—it does look promising.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because a crafty fox like him might send the geishas ahead and sneak in afterward.”

“That might be the case. It must be past nine already.”

“It’s about nine-twelve now,” he said, pulling a nickel watch from his obi and checking it. “Hey, put out the lamp—two shaved heads showing on the shoji would look suspicious.”
“The fox’ll get suspicious right away.”

I gave a quick puff and extinguished the standing lamp on the desk.
The shoji screens alone were faintly bright under the starlight.
The moon had not yet risen.
Mountain Storm and I pressed our faces hard against the shoji screens and held our breath.
With a clang, the grandfather clock struck nine-thirty.

“Hey, you think he’ll come?”
“If he doesn’t come tonight, I’m done with this.”

“I’ll keep at it as long as the money holds out.”

“How much money have you got?”

“As of today, I’ve paid five yen and sixty sen for eight days.”
“I settle up every night so we can rush out whenever needed.”

“That’s efficient of you.”
“The inn must be wondering what’s going on.”
“The inn’s fine, but I can’t let my guard down—that’s the problem.”
“But you must be taking naps instead.”
“I do take naps, but not being able to go out makes it unbearably stifling.”
“Carrying out divine punishment is such a pain. If this heavenly net with its wide meshes ends up letting him slip through, then all this would’ve been for nothing.”

“No, he’ll definitely come tonight. —Look there! Look!” he whispered urgently, and I couldn’t help but startle. A man wearing a black hat passed by into the darkness, gazing up at Kado-ya’s gas lamp from below. That wasn’t him. Hmm? Before long, the office clock unceremoniously struck ten. It seemed tonight would finally be another bust.

The town grew quite quiet.

The drum from the pleasure quarters could be heard as clearly as if one could reach out and touch it.
The moon calmly showed its face from behind the hot spring mountain.
The street was bright.
Then, voices began to be heard from below.
Since we couldn’t stick our heads out the window, we couldn’t make out their figures, but they seemed to be gradually drawing closer.
There was a clang-clang of wooden clogs being dragged.
When I squinted my eyes, they came close enough that I could just barely make out two shadowy figures.

“We’re all clear now. We’ve driven away the nuisance.”
It was unmistakably Nodaiko’s voice.
“He’s all bluster with no plan—there’s just no helping it.” This was Red Shirt.
“That man’s practically a walking hothead.”
“That hotheaded fool—as dashing Botchan, he’s got his charms.”
“Refusing a raise, talking about resigning—that fellow’s definitely got a screw loose.”
I opened the window, jumped down from the second floor, and nearly gave in to the urge to beat them senseless, but somehow managed to hold back.
The two laughed uproariously, ducked under the gas lamp, and entered Kado-ya.

“Hey”

“Hey.”
“They’re here!”
“They finally came.”

“Now I can finally relax.”

“Nodaiko, that bastard! He had the gall to call me a ‘reckless young master’!”

“The ‘nuisance’ they mentioned—that’s me.”
“The nerve!”

Mountain Storm and I had to intercept the two on their way back. However, there was no telling when they would emerge. Mountain Storm went downstairs and asked them to keep things ready in case he needed to go out on business during the night. Looking back now, it's surprising the inn staff agreed to that. Under normal circumstances, they would have been mistaken for thieves.

Waiting for Red Shirt to arrive was grueling, but sitting still waiting for him to come out was even worse. I couldn't sleep, and constantly straining to watch through the gap in the shoji screen was agonizing. My mind simply wouldn't settle—I had never endured such torment in my life. I proposed that we storm into Kado-ya right then to catch them in the act, but Mountain Storm dismissed my suggestion with a single word. Even if we barged in right then, they'd just call us ruffians and stop us halfway. If we explained our reason and asked to meet him, they would either claim he wasn't there or usher us into a separate room. Even if we assumed we could barge in carelessly, there was no way to know which of the dozens of rooms they were in; Mountain Storm said there was no other plan but to wait for them to come out, however tedious it might be—so with great effort, we finally endured until five in the morning.

The moment we saw the two figures emerge from Kado-ya, Mountain Storm and I immediately began tailing them.
Since the first train hadn’t arrived yet, both of them had to walk all the way to the castle town.
Once we left the hot spring town, there was a cedar-lined path about a block long, with rice fields stretching out on both sides.
After passing through that, here and there were thatched-roof houses, and we came out onto an embankment that ran straight through the fields to the castle town.
Once we were out of town, it wouldn’t matter where we caught up to them, but if possible, we wanted to nab them in the cedar grove where there were no houses—so we followed them while staying out of sight.
Once out of town, we suddenly broke into a sprint and closed in from behind like a gale.
We told them to wait as they turned around in surprise at what was coming and placed our hands on their shoulders.
Nodaiko looked flustered and about to flee, so I circled around to the front and blocked his path.

“Why does someone holding the Vice Principal’s position stay at Kado-ya?” Mountain Storm challenged immediately.

“Is there any regulation forbidding the Vice Principal from staying at Kado-ya?” Red Shirt maintained his courteous diction.
His face had turned slightly pale.

“You who preach propriety—who forbid teachers from even entering soba shops or dumpling shops as ‘improper’—why hole up at an inn with geishas?”
Nodaiko kept edging backward to escape, so I blocked his path and roared, “What’s this about a ‘reckless Edo brat’?!” He shamelessly protested: “N-no! I didn’t mean you! Not at all!”
That’s when I noticed—I’d been clutching both sleeves tight.
Chasing them earlier, the eggs in my sleeves kept swinging annoyingly, so I’d gripped them all the way here.
I suddenly plunged hands into sleeves, yanked out two eggs, and yelled “Take this!” as I smashed them into Nodaiko’s face.
The eggs burst with a splat—yolk oozing from his nose-tip.
Nodaiko yelped in shock, plopping onto his rear while crying for help.
I’d bought those eggs to eat—never meant to hurl them.
But frustration overwhelmed me—they flew before I knew it.
Yet seeing Nodaiko’s undignified collapse made me realize my success. “Bastard! Bastard!” I screamed, pelting his now-yellow face with the six remaining eggs.

While I was hurling eggs, Yamaarashi and Red Shirt were still locked in their argument.

“Do you have any proof that I stayed at an inn with geishas?”

“I’m telling you this because I saw your regular geisha enter Kado-ya in the evening.”
“You think you can weasel your way out of this?!”

“There’s no need for obfuscation.”
“I stayed with Mr. Yoshikawa—just the two of us.”
“Whether geishas come in the evening or not is none of my concern.”

“Shut up!” Mountain Storm threw a punch.
Red Shirt staggered but exclaimed, “This is violence! An outrage! To resort to brute force without even distinguishing right from wrong is sheer lawlessness!”
“Lawlessness suits me just fine!” he snarled, delivering another punch. “A scoundrel like you won’t talk unless I beat it out of you!” he growled, pummeling him repeatedly.
At the same time, I gave Nodaiko a thorough thrashing.
In the end, both of them crouched at the base of the cedars—whether they couldn’t move or their vision swam too dizzily to attempt escape, they made no effort to flee.

“Had enough? If not, I’ll keep thrashing you!” With thwack after thwack from both of us landing blows, they finally gasped, “We’ve had enough!”
“You had enough too?” I barked at Nodaiko. “Of course I’ve had enough,” he whimpered.

“You’re scoundrels,” Mountain Storm growled, “so we’re meting out divine punishment like this.”
“Let this be a lesson—straighten up from now on.”
“No matter how silver-tongued your excuses get, justice won’t abide it!” When Mountain Storm roared this, both men stayed mute.
Perhaps their jaws were too battered to speak.

“I won’t run or hide.
“I’ll be at Minatoya Inn in Hama until five tonight.”
“If you’ve got business to settle,” declared Mountain Storm, “send a police officer or whoever!” So I added, “I won’t run or hide either.”
“Since I’ll be waiting at the same place as Horota, go ahead and report us to the police if you want!” I said, and the two of us strode off.

I returned to the boarding house a little before seven o'clock.
When I entered my room and immediately began packing, the old woman was startled and asked, "What on earth are you doing?"
I told her I was going to Tokyo to bring back a wife, settled the bill, boarded the train to Hama, and upon arriving at Minatoya, found Mountain Storm asleep on the second floor.
I immediately set out to write my resignation letter, but not knowing how to phrase it properly, ended up writing something like "I hereby resign due to personal circumstances and will return to Tokyo; kindly acknowledge this notice" and mailed it to the principal.

The steamship was to depart at six o'clock in the evening.
Mountain Storm and I were exhausted and fell soundly asleep; when we woke up, it was two o'clock in the afternoon.
When I asked the maid whether any police officers had come, she replied that they hadn't.

“Neither Red Shirt nor Nodaiko filed a complaint,” the two laughed heartily.

That night, Mountain Storm and I left that tainted place behind.
The farther the ship drew from shore, the lighter my spirits grew.
When we arrived directly at Shinbashi from Kobe to Tokyo, I finally felt like I'd returned to the real world.

I parted ways with Mountain Storm then and there, and to this day I've had no chance to meet him again.

I had forgotten to talk about Kiyo.
When I arrived in Tokyo and, without even going to my boarding house, barged in on Kiyo with my suitcase still in hand, saying "Kiyo, I'm back!", she cried, "Oh, Young Master! You've come back so soon!" with tears streaming down her face.
I was so overjoyed that I declared I wouldn't go back to the countryside anymore and would set up a home in Tokyo with Kiyo.

After that, through someone’s connections, I became a technician at the City Streetcar. My monthly salary was twenty-five yen, and the rent was six yen. Kiyo seemed perfectly content even without a house with a proper entryway, but sadly, she caught pneumonia and passed away this February. The day before she died, she called me and said, “Young Master, for my salvation in the afterlife, when I die, please bury me at your family temple.” She said she would be waiting joyfully in her grave for the Young Master’s visits. Therefore, Kiyo’s grave is at Kohinata’s Yōgen-ji Temple.

(Meiji 39, April)