Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

At the deeply indented bay mouth of Muroran Port leading to the Pacific, Daikoku Island stood like a stopper. The snow blanketed all of Hokkaido, raging sideways in a thick layer that stretched from the ground up to the clouds. The steamship Manjumaru, loaded with three thousand tons of coal in its belly, advanced through the raging storm toward Yokohama. The ship was now struggling to navigate past Daikoku Island. Beyond that island, enormous waves were crashing. The Manjumaru peered cautiously into the raging Pacific with its hull submerged up to the deck. And resolving itself, it plunged forward. The maximum speed she could muster with her full-term body was ordered from the bridge to the engine.

The weather along the North Sea Route during winter was always severely treacherous. A safe voyage—a pleasant voyage—such things were impossible along the northern coast during winter. The deck sailors of the Manjumaru battled spray from storm waves that crashed onto the deck with dynamite-like force as they washed it clean. From the hose’s tip gushed near-boiling water that froze within flowing five feet across the deck. The five sailors mustered every ounce of their strength to sweep away coal chunks before the hot water could freeze.

The Manjumaru ran with Hokkaido's mountains and plateaus spread out to starboard, gazing at them as it advanced. The snow veiled both ship and land with a pall. The tragic Hokkaido blizzard forced the mast to let out a mournful cry.

Stripped bare before all life’s perils, the coal dug from thousands of feet underground had risen to the surface by trampling over tens of thousands of miners. And now, upon the sea, it was being transported through the labor of sailors who—like the ship’s hull itself—were laying bare their entire bodies to those same raw dangers threatening life.

Fujiwara Rokuo entered the lamp room and was cleaning the lamps. He was a twenty-eight-year-old man of few words with a surly disposition. To such an extent that one might doubt whether he did any work at all, he seemed constitutionally averse to labor. His position was that of storekeeper.

The lamp room had been constructed miserably small between the sailors’ quarters and the stokers’ quarters, facing the bridge. Fujiwara wiped the lamp chimneys there while watching the sailors clean the deck. He had recently come to realize that both the bosun and the chief engineer held unfavorable views of him. “Even Stoki’s gotta help out during our deck work,” the Bosun had once said to all the sailors gathered for a meal. “This ain’t no 10,000-ton or 8,000-ton ship we’re talkin’ about.”

“Hmph. ‘Stoki’ means storekeeper,” he retorted. “A storekeeper’s job is plenty enough as long as they’re keeping watch over the warehouse.”

Ever since then, it seems even my fellow sailors haven't accepted me— Stoki thought gloomily.

II

The ship’s engine was running at full speed, but the wind and waves made it impossible to gain any headway. The ship had departed at dawn, yet by evening it still hadn’t cleared the Tsugaru Strait offshore.

That night, the officers' side held discussions about possibly turning back to Muroran, but it never came to execution.

As the blizzard grew increasingly violent, the sailors' labor began to take on a character markedly different from their ordinary work. The hull, submerged beyond its load line, offered substantial resistance, and every last storm wave crashed onto the deck. And the deck became a roiling sea. The water that flooded in showed no sign of draining quickly through the narrow scuppers. On the deck, lifelines were rigged to run over the hatches. Whenever they tried to cross the deck, it was no different from the open sea.

The waves trapped the ship between their mountainous peaks. As the valley-like trough advanced from the ship's head toward its hull, the next crest struck the bow. Our iron Manjumaru could no longer endure this torment and let out a death-rattle scream. With a creaking groan that shook its frame, the ship convulsed. When the trough reached the stern, the propeller spun uselessly in air. Rotating like an aircraft propeller, it roared like a beast matching the ship's girth in ferocity. From every unsecured shelf, objects came crashing down. The lamp leapt from its cup; the steering gear lost most of its power. Speed now dropped to barely three miles to prevent propeller cavitation, every effort focused on keeping the bow facing windward.

Both the engine room and the boiler room faced tremendous difficulties. The oil can required meticulous care to navigate the narrow gaps between machinery amid the violent pitching. The firemen before the boiler, gripping their shovels, strained to keep their footing. In the cookhouse directly above the boiler room, the cook had to divide the rice they usually cooked in one batch into about five separate batches; even when applying the same method to side dishes, they still couldn’t manage to prepare any soup.

The Koroppasu (coal carriers) could not avoid battering their heads until they were covered in lumps while working in the coal bunker. The sailors had to secure hatch covers (covers for the ship’s holds), fasten down their metal fittings, and tightly bind them with ropes passed over the top to prevent seawater from waves washing over the deck from flooding into the holds. It was dangerous work. And without this dangerous work, there was no way for the entire ship to escape peril. Like a spiteful horse bucking an unskilled rider, the ship’s hull violently thrashed its back. Each time it did so, like a ladle scooping water, the deck took in storm waves. The ropes became soaked and stiffened, causing immense difficulty and delays in handling. Yet it was work they had to complete. For hatches taking in water meant nothing less than—clear and simple—the sinking of the ship’s hull. Five sailors, the Bosun, Stoki, and the carpenter—eight people in all—were mobilized to accomplish this task.

Their bodies were pierced by the scalpel-like glint of the waves beneath a wind so cold it froze them where they stood. And that froze the less mobile parts solid.

The triple dangers—to the ship’s hull, to their own lives bound to that hull, and to their freezing flesh in that very moment—imparted to the sailors an astonishing, superhuman vigor akin to a fire compelling a bedridden old woman to haul a stone mortar outdoors. And the two bow hatches were fully secured. Two more hatches still remained toward the stern. And now, time pressed toward dinner. The sailors felt hunger. However, the sea too felt hunger and was trying to devour our Manjumaru.

The ship constantly struggled, the mast constantly screamed, and the rigging constantly shouted in terror. The bow’s hull clashed with the storm waves as if dueling them. At the stern, the propeller thrust its hands into the air. Nature and human strength clashed with their greatest might and all their wisdom.

III

At no time did the sailors find their identity as seamen more galling, their courage more fragile, and their spirits more sunken into despair than when humans and machinery worked in perfect coordination, battling nature with the ship as their unified bastion. And yet, despite every moment of extreme tension and vigilance, they could not help but lament their own fate.

Just as a bolt of lightning suddenly illuminates the pitch-black darkness with stark clarity, so too did they perceive—amid this grueling labor—the unequivocal reality of their status as wage laborers. However, it was exactly like the lightning. They had to immediately direct all their attention to that task. It was when the sailors, having finished with the bow, ascended to the saloon deck to reach the stern hatches. Ogura, the quartermaster who had been on the bridge, came leaping down from it with ferocious momentum while shouting something incomprehensible at the top of his lungs, raced across the saloon deck toward the stern, and then leapt down the ladder.

The sailors flinched. Not only that—the cook in the cookhouse, the mess boys, the chief engineer resting on his break, and the captain on the bridge—all watched Ogura’s leaping figure.

Ogura rushed to the stern. There, between the chain of the steam steering gear controlled from the bridge and its cover, the apprentice sailor lay face-down with his right side wedged in as though deliberately placed. Ogura thought to make it easier for him to escape, but he could not abandon the steering gear even for a moment—it was needed to keep the bow aligned.

There, all the sailors rushed over. Some attempted to pry the cover’s metal plate with a bar. Even during this time, though not as violently as at the bow deck, storm waves washed over this area three or four times. The combined strength of all the sailors and Ogura managed to pull the apprentice sailor out from between the chain and the cover. But the apprentice hung limp like a drowned corpse that had been dragged up, his eyes fixed vacantly in midair. He was immediately carried by two sailors and taken into his bedbug-infested nest in the bow, where the vibrations and roaring noise were most intense.

Removing the work clothes from him was the most urgent task. But it was also the greatest difficulty at the same time. It was frozen solid as if it were a sailcloth work garment. Fujiwara, who had followed them, drew the scalpel from his waist and skillfully sliced open the apprentice’s work clothes. And his nightclothes were laid over him.

Dark purple bruises had formed on the apprentice’s right hand and right lung area. And his left foot’s big toe had been crushed.

Because there was no stove, the sailors were bitterly cold. Everyone knew that leaving the apprentice as he was—with his injuries and hypothermia—would bring a swift end. There, Stoki and two sailors who had followed gathered every last blanket from each sailor’s berth and laid them over him. And then, just like that, they all rushed off to secure the stern hatch covers.

The stern hatches were secured with the same danger and difficulty as those of the bow. Snow clouds streaked sideways across a sky hanging low enough to touch. Dense snow clouds within them—as if snagging on the mast to tear through it—violently shook the mast. The horizon soared high above their heads one moment, then plunged deep beneath their feet the next. (The ship’s pitching moved the horizon in tandem.) The Apprentice’s fate—the apprentice sailor—now loomed behind all deck workers like a shark.

The stern section's hatches were sealed with the utmost precision. And the next one, sheltered by the engine room and the officers' quarters with the saloon deck above it, proved easier work compared to the three previous ones. Thereupon, Fujiwara returned to "the bow" (the forward section) to prepare the lamp. Before entering the lamp room, he first went into the sailors' quarters. The seventeen-year-old apprentice sailor, unable to endure the pain, wailed for his parents—"Mother! Father!"—and sobbed. And then he held his breath for a moment and sank into a deathlike silence. Fujiwara leaned against the endboard of the apprentice's berth and peered into his face. But he couldn't see it. The sailors' quarters, with not a single window opened, allowed only a pale light akin to a starlit night to creep in through the entrance. Moreover, the apprentice's berth was situated in the lower tier of a bunk bed, and since he had his back to the light, it was the darkest spot. Fujiwara took a candle from his own berth and placed it beside his pillow. He was as pale as white paint and as limp as a jellyfish.

Still, the Chief Engineer had not come to provide any treatment.

He comforted the Apprentice. And sure enough, the Chief Engineer would come lumbering over with his “ointment”—to those bastards, a single block mattered incomparably more than any worker—but “Don’t you worry, everyone’s here with you,” he said as he made his way to the lamp room.

The Manjumaru reached the waters off Shiriyazaki Lighthouse. The storm’s ferocity showed no sign of abating. The sailors pulled ropes across the deck and even up to the smokestack, redundantly securing the boats and sampans so sturdily—so sturdily that it would prove utterly useless if the ship were to sink—that they nearly burst with the effort, all to keep them from being blown away. And though this task held no threat from the waves, it was accompanied by the danger of falling into the sea due to the ship’s pitching, the wind, and—on top of it all—the lack of handrails. The boat deck was the highest part of the ship, serving as both the roof and ceiling of the officers’ quarters.

The sailors, holding a single rope, crawled face-up beneath the boats or leaned over the side—where only a single plank’s width separated them from a sheer drop to the sea—clutching the very boat they were now securing, bracing their feet against the hull as they knotted ropes while tilting perilously toward the waves. The Bosun—flushed as red as an octopus, his bald head gleaming—panicked, shouted, and fretted because the Captain was observing the work from the bridge right in front of him.

IV

As a gloomy twilight spread over the sea, the Shiriyazaki Lighthouse on the starboard side began to twinkle sentimentally. On a sea raging with ever-increasing fury, nothing stirred the human heart to sentimentality like gazing upon a lighthouse’s light. The surface of this sea raged and howled as if it intended to snatch our lives at any moment. And our home tumbled wildly from the heavens to the depths of the earth. There was no fire, not even a lamp. Yet over there, the lighthouse shone. That lighthouse stood firmly on land, and there was a family there. There was togetherness. There was a beloved child. There was a beloved wife. There would be a charcoal brazier there. An iron kettle would be sitting on it. There would be rice cakes pounded in preparation for New Year. A child would be begging for them. “It’s time for bed now.” “If you eat at night, you’ll get a tummy ache, you know?” “C’mon, bedtime,” the mother would say as she lifted her three-year-old child onto her lap. And then, as if unable to resist his adorableness, she would kiss the child’s cheek. And then, she would exchange glances with her husband and smile. “And I suppose there’ll be quite a lot of birds fallen tomorrow again.

“It’s raging so terribly out there.” “Even birds and ships can’t withstand this,” she’d say as she lifted the iron kettle from the charcoal brazier to make tea. Then, hiding it from the child, she would get a rice cracker from the father and say, “What a good boy you are. Here, have a treat,” before sneakily giving it to him.

Yet here we labored—under winds that froze flesh, waves sharp as scalpels, capitalists cold as snow, and a Captain cruel as ice. Why on earth did I ever become a sailor?

This was especially true for the lower-ranking sailors with families. Even under ordinary circumstances, they were unbearably drawn to their families, yet during the storm’s fury, their hearts were no different from those of prisoners sentenced to long terms—wasting away body and soul in yearning and worry for their kin. Truly, by now they were even pouring whale oil from both sides—for whale oil was only poured when the storm’s violence had not yet reached its peak.

The Shiriyazaki Lighthouse twinkled sentimentally. As dusk approached, darkness crept out like smoke from between wave troughs only to be scattered by storm waves’ white spray.

Helmsman Ogura was devoting every effort to keep the bow from shifting away from the wind direction. His eyes were mechanically fixed on the compass and the ship’s course.

And then, far off the port bow, a steamship appeared. "Ah! A steamship!" Ogura cried out unconsciously.

The Captain, the Chief Engineer, and everyone else gathered at the port side of the bridge and trained their telescopes. Some time before this, Nada Yoshio—a sailor who had been working beneath a sampan on the boat deck—had also noticed what Ogura had spotted and was now gazing out alone from under the sampan. On the bridge, thanks to the telescope, it became clear that the steamship was adrift in distress, flying a distress signal.

From the bridge, an immediate order for full speed was issued to the engine room. It was decided to attempt a rescue.

All crew members, upon seeing the shipwreck, knew at once that they would head to its rescue. And all crew members stood by on the boat deck.

Our brave Manjumaru—herself like a half-drowned man who had swallowed half his belly in water, her overloaded hull swollen like a body in its ninth month—turned her bow ever so slightly toward the target wreck. Exceedingly slight—that was the extent of it. But the ship lurched heavily. And before their eyes, despite the rudder not being turned, her bow began swinging wildly. And simultaneously, terrifying storm waves came crashing up as if trying to swallow the entire bow and stern.

Despite having just given the order, the Captain returned the bearing to its original position. In an extremely short time—less than five minutes—the ship nearly swung halfway around its course.

They had managed to draw somewhat closer to the shipwreck，but through tremendous effort，the ship had already returned her bow to its original position.

Since rescuing the shipwreck would mean planning to sink this ship along with it, the bow no longer changed its direction. However, the sister shipwreck carrying our pitiable brothers gradually came into our view, large and clear. If we continue on our current course, we will pass about four miles from her. Nada, having crawled out from under the sampan, still leaned desperately against the funnel, gazing intently while simultaneously grappling with the cold and something intangible. That ship would be swallowed by the terrifying storm waves—like foam frothing over a mad dog’s maw—and this twilight gloom. He found himself recalling the two times he’d been aboard sinking ships, his gaze piercing through the wreck before him.

That small steamship of about five hundred tons appeared to be a vessel that plied the Hokkaido coastal routes. From its smokestack now came no more smoke than that of a cigarette stub's last embers. The boiler must have flooded much earlier. Beneath its mast, sailcloth clung like a tattered rag drifted against a pier—likely some cover they had torn off and lashed there after the flooding. On deck, the frayed remnants flapped weakly like a washed diaper.

Even so, the crew members were nowhere to be seen—not on the bridge, not on the mast, not on the deck. Perhaps they had abandoned their lives while crossing the Tsugaru Strait, deserting their ship by lifeboat—or perhaps, in each cabin, their frozen bodies now collided and tumbled with the ship’s violent pitching, cursing and mourning the joyless fate they had endured in life as laborers. However, this intensification of the storm had not lasted all that long. Since the day before this ship’s departure had been the peak of its intensity, only two days and nights had passed. The crew might have gathered in a single room, sharing a final meager meal before parting.

“Ah, I’d been aboard sinking ships twice before. Once her belly was breached; another time it was a collision. Both happened in the Seto Inland Sea—once at spring’s end, once in midsummer. Both times I was saved. But in Hokkaido’s winter seas, there’d be no surviving. I can still remember screaming ‘Help me!’ as I jumped into the sea when we went down in the Inland Sea. The moment I cried out, every memory and sensation flooded my mind like some final accounting. And I thought, ‘To die at eighteen is still two years too soon.’ I didn’t know why it was two years too soon. But I knew clearly—two years too soon.”

Oh! If those people on that ship had died, they all must have died feeling just as I did. To die—no matter how old you get, it’s always two years too soon. I’d started thinking that way lately, but really—how many people must have died two years too soon? Even so, what a cold-hearted, brutal bastard this captain was. Though it was barely four or five miles away, he wouldn’t even try to witness its final moments. For his own pleasure, this captain would toss our lives to the sharks anytime. "I believe the time will come—I’ll fight that captain myself if I have to. For that sinking ship’s sake, and for all us sailors too," Nada brooded.

The shipwreck drew ever closer. Though the sun had set, twilight still lingered. The ship could have drawn much closer to the wreck at that moment. But our brave Manjumaru, despite the entire crew’s hopes, turned away coldly from her sister’s death at a single word from the Captain.

And then, a distress signal signaling that rescue was impossible was hoisted on this ship. Not to inform the other party, but to deceive the crew members and falsify the ship’s log.

In fact, at this time, the intensification of the storm had gradually begun to calm down.

The crew found the Captain’s valiant actions from an hour earlier suspicious.

That small, pitiable ship was tilted at over forty-five degrees—nearly fifty—and looked ready to sink at any moment. Not a soul could be seen anywhere. The deck had been swept clean by the storm’s fury, now reduced to ice frozen along its edges. The mast’s canvas—sailcloth torn from a hatch cover—clung limply to its frame. It stood as a monument to desolation: a ship without fire, a ship without people, a lifeless world abandoned to its fate. We all lined up on the Salon Deck and bid farewell to that vessel soon to share eternity with the waves. A frigid, black emptiness gnawed at every heart.

This would soon become our Manjumaru’s fate as well. When we lay collapsed and adrift in the ship’s hold—overcome by hunger and cold—a slightly larger vessel would pass by our side once more. We would know we needed to raise a signal. We would know we must inform others that people were freezing in those cabins. Yet no one would venture onto the deck. They couldn’t go out. They’d collapse halfway.

And when at last the final crew member crawled out onto the deck, the ship that had just sounded its whistle in passing would already be three miles beyond them, displaying the magnificent spectacle of a floating castle ablaze with light.

In this way, our Manjumaru passed by, sounding its whistle. Hearing that faint whistle—were there not brothers in that ship, that pitiful vessel shaped like a helpless abandoned pup—brothers now straining to rise, their frozen bodies making one last desperate effort?

The bell rang. It was dinner time.

The sailors entered the sailors’ quarters, the firemen entered the firemen’s quarters, each retreating to their own.

The shipwreck was left behind in the twilight gloom, amidst the frenzied storm waves, like a vessel of tragic fate from tales told in adventure novels.

Fujiwara hung a lamp at the stern and watched the abandoned ship recede, his heart burning with unbearable loneliness and indignation.

There must have been at least twenty crew members on that ship. They must have been supporting about the same number of families. Either all twenty froze to death inside or drowned after taking to the boats—in either case, there was no chance that ship’s crew could have survived. Those twenty men ended up leaving their families behind—wives and children abandoned by their husbands. And the shipowner who should have had the greatest stake in that vessel was likely drinking snow-viewing sake at his mansion right then. He’d be fretting over company stocks amassed through those twenty men’s unpaid labor the moment any telegram arrived. The bereaved families would probably receive condolence payments of about twenty yen each. And that shipowner—rather than mourning twenty lives—must have been gnashing his teeth with loan-shark persistence over the fate of that rotten derelict, a ship so decrepit it deserved to sink.

“To keep living, must humans inevitably lose human lives? Human sacrifices!” “We’re all human sacrifices!”

V

In the sailors’ quarters, the sailors were eating their dinner noisily, like puppies growling at each other as they ate.

By the injured apprentice’s side were Fujiwara and Nada. Nada’s bed was positioned in an L-shape next to the apprentice’s, so he ate his decent dinner on his own bed while bending his head. He was truly starving—literally to the point where “a hand would reach out from his throat.” The food that reached his stomach was digested immediately, surging through his blood vessels with a youthful vigor and vitality. He spoke to Fujiwara, who was sitting beside Nada at the apprentice’s feet, both of them stuffing their mouths with rice.

“Has the Chief Engineer come?”

“Not yet.” Fujiwara answered with a sulky face, as if it were Nada’s fault.

“Isn’t this grossly irresponsible? Leaving it unattended for three hours like this…” “It’s a matter of distance. The distance—theirs, you know.” Fujiwara spoke cryptically.

“Hahaha! I see. From the salon to the deck—you can’t make that in three hours.” Nada laughed, thinking it was a joke. “It’s the distance between the five senses and the nerve center, I tell you. “It’s about the same as the distance between your nose and mouth.”

The Storekeeper appeared to be extremely indignant. “Moreover, getting accustomed to such things and becoming desensitized—when it concerns our comrades, it’s all the more unacceptable.”

Fujiwara was known for his complicated way of speaking. He had a deeply ingrained tendency to use Chinese-derived terms—or as his comrades called them—that had seeped into his very bones. The meal had only just begun when the Chief Engineer came rushing in, having the boy carry the "first-aid kit" in "great haste."

The sailors stopped their meal. And they surrounded the apprentice sailor’s bed together with the Chief Engineer.

“Bosun! “It’s too damn dark to see anything! Bring candles!” “Five or six!” barked the Chief Engineer. And so, the candles were lit. Three hours after the Apprentice had begun lying there, his room was illuminated by lamplight for the first time. All he had brought aboard the ship were his own body, his discarded work clothes, and the early stages of baldness.”

He suffered terribly on land. His family was extremely poor, and he had eleven siblings. From a young age, he had been made to feel that he had to support himself.

He moaned hesitantly—“It huuurts…”—with pleading eyes, fearful of addressing the Chief Engineer directly despite such injuries. The Chief Engineer slathered Ichthammol haphazardly over the apprentice’s entire left side. He wished his duty would end even a minute sooner—that doctor-like tasks were his obligation grated on him—but since he earned his bread through them, it remained an unavoidable curse. He knew he too held this detestable job for bread’s sake, yet he ought to have recognized others sought bread under worse conditions—those called “surface scum.” Yet he drew distinctions between himself and the sailors just as sharply as the bourgeoisie did between themselves and him. “I am a gentleman, but they’re laborers,” or more precisely: “I’m human—they’re sailors.”

The Chief Engineer, while harboring boundless disgust, wanted to make the sailors see that his haphazard slathering of Ichthammol all over the Apprentice was not—contrary to appearing as mere negligence born of irritation—an act performed out of sheer annoyance. He performed only the formalities of what needed to be done and even schemed to extract gratitude from the sailors.

Kurokawa Tetsuo—this was the Chief Engineer. While slathering on the Ichthammol，Kurokawa considered that speaking wouldn’t hinder his work efficiency that much，nor would it make the job any dirtier or more difficult. And it would be good to demonstrate just how humanitarian he was even toward this bug-like apprentice. He thought.

“It’s bitterly cold outside—and utterly pitch black, isn’t it?” Kurokawa began. He said while applying Ichthammol to the Apprentice’s chest. “When the ship’s fully loaded, there’s truly no helping it,” answered the Bosun, bowing deferentially. As if, as if the cold, the darkness, the filth, and the cramped space were somehow the Bosun’s own fault. “Even you lot must find this unbearable.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Mate. She’s in good shape for a new ship,” answered the Bosun. “The cold and darkness didn’t start today—hell, we don’t even have a bath! And with all this, are we supposed to be treated like humans? Like humans?” Fujiwara shot from behind with a burning, venomous retort.

The Chief Engineer keenly felt the urgent need to change course.

“The Apprentice’s injuries turned out to be surprisingly light, didn’t they? I truly thought it was hopeless—he’s had a narrow escape, hasn’t he?” “That’s right—if he’d just croaked right away, his injuries would’ve been even lighter. No trouble at all then.” Fujiwara interjected again.

The sailors, driven by an inward curiosity about whether something might happen, waited for the "event" to occur. “Shut up! Stop your damn mouth!” The Chief Engineer finally exploded. “Shut up? “I’ll shut up. But you may value your own lives—yet you’ll never understand how precious a human life truly is.” “Heh.” Fujiwara climbed back up to his nest and lit a cigarette. He had explicitly challenged the Chief Engineer.

Whether the war would break out immediately, later, or in what form—this drove all the sailors to a state of extreme agitation.

Kurokawa Tetsuo, the Chief Engineer, acknowledged that his strategy had failed. And he realized this matter likely wouldn’t end here. He worried it might become a drawn-out incident. Above all, in this situation, that outcome would be utterly inconvenient for him. He concluded silence and swift treatment were best, so he hurried through it. Thus, the Ichthammol was slathered indiscriminately—whether over areas requiring application, wounds exposing raw red flesh, or spots still bleeding. Moreover, blackening the Apprentice’s entire left side—regardless of consequences—stood as the result of his three hours of careful deliberation.

And so, Chief Engineer Kurokawa Tetsuo carried out the program exactly as planned, devoid of any ulterior motive. Not out of any familial compassion nor human feeling, Yasui—the apprentice sailor—had Ichthammol slathered over his entire body merely as a token palliative. It was nothing more than an object for fulfilling an obligation.

Yasui moaned. “Mother! Mother!” he cried out, pleading for help. Each time he opened his eyes, he plunged into the pitch-black depths of despair.

He was being assailed by unbearable thirst and hunger, along with the pain in his body.

VI

When Yasui’s treatment was finished, the sailors once again sat down at the mess table. And usually, Yasui, as part of his duties as Apprentice, would handle meal preparations and cleanup; but today, Nada took it upon himself. “Yasui, don’t you want to eat something?” Nada asked the Apprentice.

“I’m so thirsty… and hungry… it’s unbearable,” he managed to reply. “Alright then, I’ll go get it now, so wait here.”

Nada asked the cook to give him some eggs.

“You think we can waste fancy stuff like eggs on you lot? Dumbass!” The scathing retort made Nada realize luxuries like eggs would never reach deck crew mouths. Yet without eggs, preparing liquid meals became impossible. “What if... The Apprentice can’t handle solid food. Isn’t there something he can eat lying down? Maybe just one can of milk—the kind they put in officers’ coffee?” Nada thought nourishment should’ve been the Chief Engineer’s medical responsibility. “But then again—‘what needs doing’ falls to us alone.” He steeled himself.

“Then go talk to the steward! If they’d just fork over one or two yen, it’s not like they couldn’t share some—but that’s just how those bastards are.” This cook was an unparalleled “villain” who had switched ships to join the deck crew—even accepting a pay cut—in order to embezzle their food expenses.

“This stinking bastard… Unbearable bastard,” Nada thought as he negotiated with the steward for one can of milk and ten eggs. “So it’s for the Apprentice, eh? Oh, sure—take it. Right then, grab about a loaf of bread. Soak it in milk and eggs—that’ll do. Here’s some sugar too… That enough? And how’s the Apprentice holding up?” The steward kindly took out those items from the warehouse and placed them into a basket.

“Thank you very much. We’ll pay you back from the deck crew later—could you lend it to us for now? We can’t settle it right away.” Nada was truly happy.

“Don’t mention it. Just take care of the kid—he’s still young.” “He’s got his whole life ahead of him.”

“Ah, well then, thank you.” Nada brought those things regardless and gave them to the Apprentice. He gulped it down like a starving wolf. That the Apprentice hadn’t lost his appetite struck Nada as tremendously heartening. While he was preparing Yasui’s meal, everyone else had already finished eating. Bowls and soy sauce bottles had been stowed in their proper places to keep them from tipping over. He then had to return to his own portion. The ship’s rolling was violent, but being fully loaded meant waves crashed over her even more fiercely than she pitched. Up in the sailors’ quarters overhead, whenever waves slammed against the anchor chain and slackened it even slightly, the hull creaked ominously like it might split open any moment.

Nada had grown so thoroughly accustomed to these circumstances, just like everyone else, that he managed to eat his second evening meal without difficulty.

He was packing his stomach while listening to the sailors’ “tobacco” talk. After the storm subsided, their conversations would inevitably grow somber. Even Mikami—who always defaulted to clowning around—tried tossing out an extreme topic or two about brothel women, but when this drew no response, he fell completely silent. Having nothing else to contribute, he appeared to resolve himself to crawl into his bunk and sleep soundly for thirty minutes.

The “deck”—though not shaped for tatami flooring—had enough space to lay about six tatami mats’ worth of area. Two-tiered beds were built into it, arranged to accommodate five sailors, one deck cook, and the storekeeper (excluding the bosun, carpenter, and helmsman). At its center stood a fixed table and bench. And on the “deck,” everything was crammed to the absolute limit. Even when the mess table was hoisted up along the pillar standing in the center of the room after use, it remained packed to the brim. And the tool storage area occupied the pointed part of the bow, passing beneath that mess table.

Even though our Manjumaru had a well-established reputation for bearing an uncanny resemblance to a flat fan, it was still evident from this vantage that the ship’s bow section retained a somewhat pointed shape.

And because all the windows were tightly sealed in double layers and even the iron door leading to the deck was securely shut, the air completely stopped circulating. And this ship’s cabin, like the inside of a drum, had its hull’s iron plates—which should have been as tough as skin—thundering unbearably under the assault of storm waves.

During that time, the Apprentice cried out about the pain of his injuries to his parents on land. Even the sailors—men whose nerves were as sturdy as wooden clappers—could not help but grow somber under such conditions. Yet they had never liked dwelling in somberness. That was because it dragged them into the most trivial role in this world. That was because, though they were always assigned the most trivial roles, reality forced this truth upon them with cruel clarity. No one likes being trampled upon and looked down upon. Our sailors too, whenever they grew somber, would naturally come to realize that this was the case. And yet by sailors’ very nature, they should never tolerate bastards who “komiyaru” them—a sailor’s term meaning to extract surplus labor—but in their inability to act on this instinct, each time they grew somber, they sank into dejection, then self-destruction.

They knew they were human beings. And they knew they were being driven into a life unbecoming of human beings. And they constantly pondered how they could escape these unfit lives into ones worthy of human beings, all while keeping watch for the opportunity. And they, unable to consolidate these thoughts or seize opportunities, found that their initial plan—"to earn money through this dangerous work for just a brief time, saving up small capital"—had instead aged them on raging waves and turned them into worn-down axles.

That evening, Fujiwara, Nada, and Ogura—the three who had gathered by the Apprentice’s bedside—were all deeply somber.

7 “Why the hell are we treated like thieving cats and bullied like this?” Fujiwara spat out with a sigh. Coming down from his momentary agitation, he must have recalled his earlier encounter with the Chief Engineer over the Apprentice’s condition that evening—and been struck by an ominous premonition. “Well, that’s ’cause we are thieving cats,” Ogura answered cheerfully. He was a good-natured, honest man who always went out of his way to keep others from losing heart.

“Why is that?” Fujiwara asked meekly.

“Even if only two out of ten cats are thieving cats, the whole group gets branded as thieves.” “And you—if eight out of ten were like that, the whole lot would naturally be a thieving cat gang.”

Ogura answered. “Then were we born as thieving cats from the very start?”

“Most of us are, yeah.” “In other words, even if we were thieving cats, that’s not something we could’ve known.” “So you mean…” Fujiwara asked Ogura. “So, basically.” “From our owner’s perspective, we’re nothing but useless thieving cats.” “See, they’re watching us like we’re just waiting to steal from the master—no moment of negligence or opening left unguarded.” “So that’s why the masters treat us like thieving strays.” “It’s not just how they treat us—they see us as actual thieving strays or, more accurately, castrated draft horses.” “So from the masters’—the capitalists’—perspective, the only way is for us to be done with exactly as they please.” “So if the shipowners think ‘The sailors’ll work better without lunch,’ they’ll take our midday meal away. And since the Muroran-Yokohama run’s supposed to take three days, our rations get strictly three days’ worth—no more.” “If we’re wrecked or delayed—they’ll claim it’s due to our usual negligence—and since their losses would outweigh ours anyway, they’ll refuse any further loading. And that gets called perfectly right.” Ogura said with utmost seriousness, as calmly as if delivering a sermon.

“Hmm… So does that mean we’ve got to adapt to their way of thinking too?” Fujiwara asked Ogura. “There’s no need for us to adapt, of course.” “But it’s a fact that there are those who do merely adapt.” “I believe capitalists likely think that their own physical constitutions and those of workers are entirely different.” “Then, what does that make us?” Fujiwara asked.

“So that’s why we need to develop our own ‘consciousness’,” Ogura continued. “Capitalists and their puppet lackeys have mass-produced ready-made official ideologies like factory goods—we must stop seeing those as the only real ideologies and clearly recognize that we’ve got our own ways of thinking and acting.” He spoke as if mentally flipping through dictionary pages. “But how do we think about it? How do we come to know it?” Fujiwara pressed on relentlessly.

“That’s far too difficult a problem. “I’ve been struggling with that myself,” Ogura answered. “Ogura, there’s that saying humans created—‘Man is the paragon of animals.’ “So here’s the thing. “Have those in the most suffering, impoverished, and wretched class—or especially those poor, cursed unfortunates—ever truly been the paragon of animals since ancient times?” “I sometimes wonder.” “Didn’t the slave look at his master’s dog and think, ‘I want to become that dog’?” “Didn’t someone cling to the window of a cruel prison and think, ‘I want to become a swallow’?” “Didn’t the samurai ordered to commit seppuku due to trivial conventions and systems think, ‘I want to become a monkey’?” “Didn’t the beggar child think, ‘I want to become a pig’?” “Ogura.” “I do believe we’ll get there eventually, but as things stand now, I don’t think humans are any paragon of animals or anything of the sort.” Fujiwara lit a cigarette.

“Well… I think so too. I’ve even thought about becoming a shark myself,” Nada blurted out abruptly, speaking up for the first time.

“Whether humans are the paragon of all things or not—I do believe we’re human.” “But as for humans being the paragon of animals—well, I must say I’d never really questioned it in that way until now—but I’ve always thought humans are clever animals, at any rate.” “Despite their wisdom, they’re creatures who pour their strength into trivialities and take pride in doing pointless things that even the lowliest animals wouldn’t bother with—that’s what humans are.” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

This was Ogura’s view of humanity.

“Let’s stop clinging to this notion of humans being the paragon of all creatures.” “But truly—humans too just writhe across the earth to eat and procreate like any other animal.” Fujiwara said this mournfully, as if lamenting humanity itself.

“So just because they’re active solely for eating and breeding—that’s what you call writhing?” This time Ogura became the sarcastic interrogator.

“Well, I suppose so,” Fujiwara said with a slight bitter smile. “But you see—isn’t it the bourgeoisie who writhe for something beyond that? For loan-shark sensuality or perverse desires—denying others food and reproduction while they squirm!” Ogura erupted in raucous laughter before suddenly cutting himself short as if noticing something mid-thought, his eyes darting toward the Apprentice. “Yasui—does it hurt?” Nada asked the boy.

“Yes… It hurts so much, so much… I can’t understand why others aren’t in pain…” he answered.

“This is tough…” “Since we’re at sea… Well, they probably can’t do anything about it, so you’ll just have to endure it, huh?” “Once we reach Yokohama, you can be admitted to the hospital,” Nada consoled. “But it can’t be done.” “The Apprentice hasn’t been officially hired yet.” “This is undoubtedly the Captain’s failure.” “If we press this point, I think we can certainly claim dismissal allowances and injury compensation.” Fujiwara said this. “Even if you haven’t been officially hired, you can still be admitted to the hospital.” “There’s no way they’d refuse to admit someone with injuries this severe.” “And what possible connection could there be between being officially hired and getting injured?”

Nada snapped at Fujiwara as though the latter were refusing hospitalization.

The sailors Mikami and Nishizawa, the bosun, the carpenter, and the cook were already in their bunks, snoring loudly. Indeed, when there was nothing particularly exciting happening, they would feel extremely drowsy after meals. They were so sleepy they couldn’t keep their eyes open. Just as a young child dozes off while eating dinner, just as soldiers sleepwalk through days of forced marches, so too were they gripped by that same all-consuming drowsiness. However, these three were in no position to get even ten or twenty minutes of deep sleep after the meal. Now, they needed to exchange their opinions regarding the fact that the Apprentice had been put to work without being officially hired.

“That’s all clearly written in the seaman’s ledger.” “There’s no room for debate here,” said Storekeeper Fujiwara. (In fact, that was indeed recorded in the seaman’s ledger.) And under no circumstances was the Captain permitted to neglect this duty. Legally and in practice, this had to be—and should have been—the case.Yet when it was not done,matters would almost never proceed as they ideally should. In short,both in theory and practice humans must be equally happy—yet a portion of humanity finds equality itself troublesome. “Our own luxury is all that matters. For they claimed that the very thrill of exploitation was life’s purpose—so much so that even plain truths became obscured—and thus,in the Apprentice’s case too though ostensibly advantaged he existed as a ‘worker’:one element nullifying collective benefit and rights. Therefore it would prove difficult to expect straightforward mathematical results. Instead they would see legal or chamber-of-commerce-style outcomes)—so concluded the three after discussion.

“Therefore, we’ve got to fight this,” Fujiwara said.

At that moment, the Quartermaster descended from the bridge. And then he shouted from the entrance to the bosun’s room.

“Deploy the Deep Sea Let (deep-sea measuring device) now!” he barked, then came to the sailors’ quarters and roared “Standby!” at the top of his lungs from the very center of the room.

VIII

Everyone had assumed they would get the night off given how grueling their daytime labor had been. Though the storm had somewhat abated in fury, raging waves still crashed onto the bow deck with each surge. Every time a wave struck, the entrance to the stokers' and sailors' quarters transformed into a torrential waterfall cascading from the upper deck, forcing them to repeatedly slam shut its heavy iron door. Moreover, from sealing both the Washi Deck and hatches since morning, the sailors had soaked through most of their work clothes. (Nada and Mikami had drenched every scrap of their clothing twice—their entire outfits soaked through a second time.) Consequently, all their work clothes had now been scrubbed clean and hung out to dry on the boiler room's handrails.

The sailors had to go retrieve their work clothes from the boiler room immediately upon waking—whether in just a loincloth, completely naked, or still in their sleepwear. But naked, they couldn’t endure the cold during the journey. Nada knew his work clothes had only just been dried, so even up in the boiler room, they would still be damp. Therefore, he had resolved to work wearing a raincoat over just a loincloth. However, Ogura offered to provide him with one work garment. As a result, he obtained a pair of overalls as stiff as an oil painting canvas. On them, patterns resembling Futurist paintings had been thickly painted across every inch with oil paint, leaving the surface rough and stiff.

“Even so, I bought it in London,” Ogura said. “Must’ve been some foreign beggar’s castoffs. Perfect fit for me,” he said. The sailors all took their standby positions. Then they headed toward the stern.

The darkness enveloped the sea in every direction—horizontal and vertical. The darkness seemed to bind, constrict, drag down, and topple all things with its invisible force. It bundled all things together and constricted their very cores. The wind battered the waves, slammed against the mast, tore through the rigging, and howled. The sea growled long, deep, and low from its unknowable depths.

Our Manjumaru, with its lone hand, continued clawing futilely at the void as it labored onward. The speedometer at the stern showed three miles. The sailors took grease from the warehouse, smeared it on rags, and gripped them in their hands. Then the Bosun, holding a lamp, illuminated the Letto machine. From the stern came the Second Engineer—the very man Nada had long wished to blast a hole roughly an inch across and two inches deep into the left side of his occiput.

The glass tube was inserted into the sinker. And the spring was released. Pulling the wire like a kite string, the Letto machine clattered from the stern and charged into the raging pitch-black darkness—into the churning waves that spewed white foam as if trying to bite.

The highest part of the deck was extremely narrow. Therefore, when waves engulfed the rear hatch deck, we felt a desolate anxiety as though clinging to a plank torn from the ship itself. The cold pierced our thinly clothed skin with knife-like sharpness and pain. The spray was incessant, making all of us cower.

When the speed at which Letto pulled its line slackened, it was stopped by the handle, and the length of the wire was measured there. Once they finished reading it, they had to wind up the sinker using two handles. That was the sailors’ work. Since it was a deep-sea measuring device and moreover, because the ship was underway, the sinker reached the seabed while being dragged diagonally. When lengths of wire—100 meters, 200 meters—were called out, we cringed not at the depth of the sea, but at the difficulty of hauling it up.

The sinker was extremely light in itself. Yet the ship’s forward motion and wave resistance made that small weight feel heavier still—like a hooked fish that seems many times its true mass until hauled ashore. And because the hand-cranked winch was built so small, each rotation could only wind the wire a tiny distance—starting at two inches, then about three at best. Before it reached the axle, the two sailors had to coat the wire with grease. Since applying it each time proved impossible, they ended up gripping the wire through grease-smeared rags.

Winding it was back-breaking work. At the same time, applying the grease was bitterly cold. And for all of them, the most excruciating aspects were the freezing cold and their overwhelming sleepiness. The cold was utterly severe. It had frozen their raincoats stiff and crackling. Their skin hurt all over. Their teeth wouldn't stop chattering. Their bodies were growing numb. And then sleep assaulted the sailors even more fiercely. Just as every instant of wage labor could be divided into necessary labor and surplus labor, so too did every instant assail them with cold and sleepiness - stimuli that seemed fundamentally opposed.

Against the cold, they shook their bodies more than necessary. Against sleepiness, their knee joints wobbled, rendering their work ineffective. And so they found themselves trapped in a futile back-and-forth with each other. It was a sight that looked nothing like half-hearted joking—if anything, quite the opposite. Sekimētsu constantly shouted and berated them. For Sekimētsu, the sailors behaving this way truly hindered work efficiency—and worse, it felt like mockery directed at him. The sailors ended up hearing Sekimētsu’s shouting, the storm waves’ roaring, the propeller’s rumble, and the rigging’s tearing sounds all jumbled together chaotically. And still, bound by necessity, they repeated those two reflexive motions.

Sekimētsu planned to deliberately add an extra task each time he shouted. “I’ll make these bastards keep winding until tomorrow morning!” he growled, his rage hardening into resolve. The sinker had resisted for a long time but finally surfaced. They took out the glass tube from the sinker, inserted a replacement, and thoroughly coated the entrance with grease. The moment the glass tube settled into the sinker, Sekimētsu barked, “Reel ’er in!” The Bosun took the spring. The sinker and wire flew off like a thrown stone.

The sailors had to repeat this task over and over. It was unbearable. But they had to endure; there was no other way. The sailors repeated it eight times. It was longer than eight days of sailing, longer than eight days of detention. In that time, they spent four and a half hours. They became utterly exhausted, like soaked wheat gluten.

Sekimētsu withdrew his resolution to work through the night—for his own sake. He too was now like soaked wheat gluten.

The sailor burrowed into the nest where bedbugs waited in weary anticipation at a quarter to one in the morning. There, sleep slept.

IX

Embracing everything into dreams, the night deepened. The night itself was acceptable enough, but the ship’s outer cabins were far worse than what lace-finishing home workers in 1860s Britain—Marx—had been allotted: a mere sixty-seven to one hundred cubic feet of air per person. We would fall into a deathlike sleep until dawn, and upon waking from that deathlike slumber to open the sealed hatch and let fresh air into the room, instead of thinking *Ah, I’ve awoken*, we’d find ourselves marveling, *I can’t believe I’ve come back to life*.

In stormy conditions, despite the ozone being especially thick, we slept teetering on the brink of suffocation. Because of this, our entire bodies had grown dull and heavy throughout the night. And the idea that sleep could restore our energy was utterly inconceivable.

It was only after we opened the door-like lid of the sailors’ quarters—that canned space—that we finally regained a sense of being human. ――This has no direct bearing on the main narrative, but among those aboard at this time―Fujiwara, Nada, Ogura, Nishizawa, Daiku, and Yasui―all were tuberculosis patients. And this air pollution, stemming from this fact, dared to produce a contradiction: manufacturing lung-diseased men upon the open sea.―― The result of there being living beings inside a canned space was something anyone could clearly imagine. Yet when that lid was opened, it found immense salvation through the clean air outside.

While they slept for five hours, the sea calmed. The sea surface, once jagged as the Alps, now undulated like the Yamanashi Plateau. The clouds that had snagged and clung to the mast now ascended high into the sky above.

Like the calm after a seizure, she advanced quietly and obediently.

The day they’d departed Muroran had been a Sunday, and since their work—extraordinarily grueling labor at that—had prevented them from taking their day off then, the ruffians discussed while clenching toothpicks between their teeth whether they should go ask Tombo to let them take today’s Monday as their postponed Sunday rest.

“That’s only proper—it goes without saying. Just shut up and take the day off,” Fujiwara asserted combatively.

“This business of begging and pleading each and every time is too much trouble—not to mention how whoever goes to negotiate ends up looking like the villain. Why don’t we make it permanent? Something formal like ‘When Sunday falls on departure or arrival days, the following day shall be designated an official holiday.’ Get that properly agreed on beforehand, and we wouldn’t have to fumble through this mess every single time, right?” Nada proposed.

“You don’t need to do all that—it’s not like this happens every time. Why not just ask for today?” the Bosun placated.

Poor Bosun! He was aging, had many children, found life hard, and had an ailing wife; so everyone resolved to obey this timid, bald old man.

The Bosun hurriedly washed his face and went straight to the Chief Engineer to make the request. The ship rode the great swells, gliding smoothly through the water. To starboard, the northern Honshu mountains stretched all the way to the coast, their majestic forms gleaming pure white. A desolate realm of rock and snow. There existed scarcely any safe harbors here where we might take shelter. The scenery evoked either a sparsely inhabited forest wilderness or some primordial grassland. While awaiting the Bosun's reply, the sailors climbed to the deck - some gazing wistfully at land, others staring fixedly at the sea that had tormented them yesterday.

The wind was not as cold today as it had been yesterday. Because they were under the influence of the Kuroshio Current, when they went up to the deck, they did not feel pain akin to a scalpel tearing the flesh of their cheeks. The sailors, each according to their own preferences, were immersed in fantasies about what they would do and what they would eat once they reached Yokohama. On the deck, they believed that if only they could reach land, all pleasures awaited them there. They unconsciously believed that they were bound, treated as slaves, stripped of freedom, and exploited for their labor because the sea lay between land and deck. It was just like a prisoner confined in a jail believing that beyond the tall red brick walls lay absolute freedom. There, they could do exactly as they pleased. To them, that place was nothing short of heaven itself. Yet beyond the prison walls there lingered not a trace of the freedom he had envisioned, just as the liberty and happiness imagined upon the deck proved utterly absent from dry land. They experienced that each time they went ashore. And on land, they wanted to slam their wallets against the ground, tear off those ill-fitting soiled garments they wore, and rip away the calloused skin of their hands—rough as the soles of their feet from labor. Those very things, despite the sailors having finally set foot on the land they had so ardently yearned for, drove freedom and happiness away from them.

Workers come to realize that it is utterly impossible for freedom, happiness, or humanity to be granted to them while earning wages—or for them to attain these things themselves. As long as this era persists where man devours man just as he devours beef, workers must remain conscious that their lives lie beneath the yoke. The sailors felt such things. No sooner would they think this than they’d flip to “What’s the use of me sweating it out alone? Even monks visit brothels! We’re treated as human dregs!”—and thus they’d end up accepting the very roles and spheres of life that society forced upon them.

Even on land, they get better wages than this—so why is my pay so meager here at sea? Couldn’t I go ashore and work on land? I probably couldn’t work at all. There’d be no way to earn a living. And thus they convinced themselves this was simply how the world worked—a law as fixed as any natural order.

The Bosun returned from Tombo and conveyed that he would "grant them a holiday today in particular."

This report was accepted without any criticism and welcomed by everyone.

“Making fools of us with this ‘especially,’ are they?!” they shouted with feigned delight, and everyone rushed toward their beds without even knowing why they did so. And so they would mostly sleep through this coveted, begrudgingly granted holiday. Truly, as was ever their custom, this time too every last one of them no sooner burrowed into their nests than they fell asleep. The sailors, whose sole urgent craving lay in sleep, laid bare through that fact alone just how overworked and exploited they were.

10

Breakfast was at eight o'clock. Nada had to handle cooking between his duties because the apprentice sailor was injured. Since there were about two hours to spare, he used that time to burrow into his own bed. When eight o’clock came, he was awakened by the cook. He carried a large miso soup pot and a serving bowl from the cookhouse, hung them against a pillar, and placed them on the table—just as the officers ate. Then, after completing all preparations, he bellowed, “Meal’s ready!”

For the apprentice sailor, he served miso soup as he had done the previous night and was the first to start breakfast. It was an utterly delicious meal. The miso soup was also delicious. The takuan pickles were also delicious… While Nada was eating, everyone else also woke up, rubbing their sleepy eyes repeatedly, and started on the meal.

The ship's meals were delicious. They were devoured in great quantities. As for taste, they were truly the most unpalatable thing imaginable. Whether it was the miso soup or the takuan pickles, when tasted for flavor alone, they had none. Yet to the sailors, this was nothing short of delicious. They devoured it so voraciously that one marveled they could eat so much. The Storekeeper had remarked to Nada that psychological factors greatly contributed to why the sailors ate such unpalatable food in such quantities. Following the Storekeeper's reasoning, this was how it went.

Sailors were regularly provided with food. They were subjected to at least four hours of labor before each meal. They were sufficiently hungry. When the time came, they rushed to the dining table. On the dining table, portioned side dishes were laid out one plate each. To eat even somewhat adequately, there was nothing but takuan pickles. They were always desperately eager for the next meal. This was not merely because their hunger made them anticipate it; another crucial reason lay in how the arrival of the next meal gave them reassurance that they had completed that day’s labor—and in how they were granted some time afterward. Under these psychological effects, once they had finished their long-awaited meal, they would immediately begin waiting for the next one, gagging and belching all the while. They also could not snack between meals. When it came to meals, they could not possibly consume more than the amount of food served there. Moreover, there was no way to obtain other dishes at sea. They were exactly like prisoners who, their digestive systems ruined by meager rations, lamented their unbearable hunger and waited in anxious anticipation for the next meal.

The reason the sailors waited so eagerly for their meals and devoured them was that this was the sole means of living they engaged in for themselves (which also served to reproduce labor for the capitalists). When there was no work one did for oneself, if there existed even a single matter that was for oneself alone, then it had to be treated with utmost seriousness by anyone. When it came to the matter of bread, this had to be all the more true.

In reality, they ate their meals—seasoned with imagination beyond what was actually prepared. When boiled potatoes seasoned with salt were served, they would call them "sweet chestnut paste." And it was truly as delicious as sweet chestnut paste. On ships engaged in foreign routes, such conditions would never exist; yet psychologically, it remained the same. However, on the Manjumaru, this was taken to extremes. On the Manjumaru, the shipowner seemed to think of the deck crew as pigs he was raising.

“In such a state, it’s a fact that anyone would want to stuff themselves up to the throat—if only from sheer anxiety.” This was the Storekeeper’s proletarian philosophy. In fact, the Storekeeper was underhanded; acting as a third party and having prepared his own stance in advance, one could not help but feel that his observations and criticisms hit the mark when he surveyed the situation.

The meal concluded just as Fujiwara had sardonically observed. The one who burrowed back into his bed like a dog the moment it ended was Mikami. Nishizawa lit a cigarette and began recounting one of his signature tales—a romantic episode from his days working at the spinning mill near Okaya in Shinshu. His storytelling was truly masterful. He narrated everything with such creative embellishment that even a professional raconteur might not have matched his flair. And the more skillfully he spun his yarns, the more the newcomers marveled while the old-timers made their escape.

Now, neither Fujiwara nor Nada could escape. It was because there was no one else who would take on Nishizawa’s romantic tales. Fujiwara, resolved to endure it, recklessly puffed on his cigarette.

Just as Nishizawa’s tale entered its climactic peak and was about to conclude, Fujiwara spoke.

“Your storytelling is masterful. And thoroughly entertaining. Though I imagine it’d be even more compelling if you told a purely true story just once.” “Ahahaha! You’ve outdone me in sarcasm. Truth be told, I’d like to share an authentic tale myself—but these days, I can’t distinguish where truth ends and fabrication begins.” He laughed with disarming cheer.

“You are truly a jewel among proletarian artists—absolutely,” Fujiwara declared with complete sincerity.

“If it were just rifles, I could hold my ground, but once you start rolling out tanks, Fujiwara-kun, retreat’s my only option.” “Hah! Hahaha”

Nishizawa, too, climbed onto his bed and rolled into it.

“What do you think—everyone’s fallen asleep, huh? There’s that song: ‘Sleep is the only rest for the wise, while fools toil awake in this fleeting world.’ Guess we’ve all gotten wise now,” Nada remarked as he retrieved a book from his bunk and began reading by the canned goods hatch.

Fujiwara sat alone in the dark room for some time, occasionally brightening the glow of his cigarette as he was deep in thought. Then he discarded his cigarette and stood up.

“Nada-kun, you’re quite the dedicated reader. What’s that book called? Navigation studies?” “Well, I borrowed it from a friend, but it’s so damn hard I can’t make heads or tails of it.” “Let me see that. Heh—Marx’s Collected Works, Volume I Part II? Or Capital? Well now, isn’t this a socialist book?” Fujiwara himself had very much wanted to read that book as well, but it had been too expensive, and he hadn’t been able to purchase it until now. He flipped through the pages and asked, “Is it any good?”

“Is it interesting or not? Useful or not? I have absolutely no idea.” “I can’t understand it.” “Here and there, I get these parts that make sense—like they’re lit up by a searchlight.” “Those parts, see—they’re examples cited to explain the main argument in the text.” “I can understand those examples.” “And they’re terribly interesting.” “Rather than interesting… it’s more like our own circumstances are described in greater detail than we ourselves know.” “But outside of those examples, I don’t understand a damn thing.” Nada answered honestly.

“Let me read it too, okay?” Fujiwara requested. “Ah, sure—go ahead and read it. There are three more volumes after this one anyway.”

“I used to enjoy reading books too. I read quite a lot back then,” he said, sitting down on the wooden bench beside Nada. He was a brusque man who didn’t regard others as human. And he seemed to dislike speaking more than necessary. “You really are quite the book lover,” Nada agreed with Fujiwara. “And what kind of books did you like to read?”

“Well, I...” “I devoured every last boring book there was.” “I read everything—even a book called *Self-Taught Abacus* without any intention of learning it, *Don Quixote*, Watanabe Kazan’s works, divination manuals, elementary geography, history, ethics—anything with printed words I could get my hands on,” Fujiwara began speaking with a torrential force, as if a riverbank had burst its levees.

Fujiwara, leaping abruptly from his usual taciturn, unemotional, stone-like personality into that of a passionate, incendiary orator, began recounting his life story to Nada.

Fujiwara, leaping abruptly from his usual taciturn, unemotional, stone-like personality into that of a passionate, incendiary orator, began recounting his life story to Nada.

“The fact I developed this ambition to have someone hear my life story stems entirely from pointless sentimentalism. “Such matters inevitably leave both speaker and listener sinking into a strange melancholy afterward. “And the speaker thinks, ‘I shouldn’t have spoken of such things—what a pathetic complainer I am,’ while also thinking, ‘Ah, I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up making that man talk.’ “‘This story might become some harmful obstacle in my future life’—he’s bound to think that. “Yet it’s precisely those consequence-laden stories that, through some trigger, give people an impulse they can’t resist acting on. “Stories that later seem trivial don’t provide that kind of excitement—the sort that drives someone to speak no matter what once triggered. “Today, starting from talking about how I used to read books indiscriminately, I couldn’t hold back anymore. “To such an extent did my ‘book-reading’ seem to fill me with absurdity. “The fact I’d ‘read books’ apparently made people feel as if I were ‘reading a book’ whether waking, sleeping, or speaking. “In other words, I read nothing but dry, unreadable books.”

And so I thoroughly wrecked my mind. Looking back now, I hadn’t understood the essential requirements of reading back then—things like what to read. At times I would spend half a day at the library reading nothing but the catalog. And in the end, I came to realize that reading books gave me nothing. Now when I look back, I understand I had no real life in those days. Life back then—I was like smoke drifting aimlessly, an arrogant student with no roots in the earth. Having realized the futility of reading and become aware of my hollow mind, I resolved to obtain real life. I came to understand that real life wasn’t about graduating school, securing a monthly salary with that diploma, and relying on family support for anything beyond that scope. I came to think real life was something that burned. I came to consider it as something that consumes itself in flames, something explosive. I was educated with my parents’ money. That doesn’t mean I was truly living. To keep living, I had to make use of myself. I’ll make a living with my own two hands! And so I resolved. Every morning after that, I left my lodgings with a lunchbox, deposited my books at a friend’s place, and made the rounds of factories. Then I entered Factory A as a lathe apprentice.

Factory life was excruciatingly harsh. Compared to student days, it felt like wallowing in a ditch of misery. From dawn till dusk, even my fellow workers glared at me—the apprentice—with open hostility. Nothing ever went right. Now it seems trivial, but I’m still appalled at how often they’d order me—“Go beg grain from the foreman!”—leaving me scrambling through humiliation and frantic errands endlessly repeated across the compound’s frozen yards and warehouses already etched with coal dust into my muscles’ memory like some cursed tattoo of servitude... I’d started believing real life didn’t exist here either... Yet this place held something student life never had—a raw intensity burning through every action... An earnestness bordering on desperation... And beneath it all—in every worker’s heart—lay thick banks of snow-heavy clouds brooding with unspoken gloom... Even greenest youths muttered complaints through gritted teeth... They all knew their lives were wretched... I agreed completely... So we’d dream of better living... This existence—this couldn’t stand...

We had completely figured out what was wrong with this life—this part was wrong here，that part was wrong there．So there we’d be—glaring at the lathe fourteen，sixteen hours a day—thinking about a better life，adjusting this section here，tweaking that section there．Even my comrades were thinking about it—though only to a greater or lesser extent．

"I sought a good life for all humanity—'There lies my life,' I suddenly thought as I engaged the lathe and sat down. From then on, instead of reading books, I began scrutinizing our own lives. I glared at myself as if I were my own mortal enemy. After arriving at the factory at five, I went to relieve myself countless times. How many of those were truly necessary? The rest were simply because I wanted to change locations. How many steps to reach the warehouse? How many seconds did it take? Why did the foreman reprimand me for walking that distance slowly? Was he a worker himself or something else? Starting from such idiotic trivialities to countless other matters—these thoughts hounded my mind relentlessly."

And then came a time when I felt ashamed of my days as a student. From then on, my personality underwent a complete transformation. Until then, I had been someone with a disposition that made me loved by almost everyone. And I was an approachable young man. But as I began to curse my student days, I also began to curse my time as a factory worker. In other words, just as I became caught up in this amorphous thought—"We factory workers have been supporting this shameful student version of myself, and we'll have to keep supporting him"—that was when I became acquainted with a certain factory worker.

“Do you know why humans have to work to eat?” he said. I remained silent for a while. Then, “Do you know why those who don’t work get to live in luxury, huh?” he said again.

“Humans are suffering,” I said.

“That’s right.” “For one person, a thousand must suffer; for ten people, ten thousand must suffer!” he said. I understood.

That laborer was named Shirasu. And then I began associating with that man—this Shirasu was an utterly remarkable man of unyielding will, who hammered his emotions into rationality through intellect, possessed fiery revolutionary ideas, and carried them out with such calm composure that to an outside observer, it seemed as routine as us eating a meal. At Factory A, everyone respected that man.

At the company, they tried every means possible to dismiss that man. And it seemed Shirasu had fully sensed this as well. His eyes gleamed sharply as he almost never spoke with his superiors. When they saw him, his superiors too seemed to deliberately avoid him. From morning until shift’s end, he clung to his lathe, working earnestly. Strangely, he neither increased nor decreased his efficiency. He always worked diligently, yet his efficiency stayed slightly below average. Even the foreman couldn’t fault his craftsmanship. There was a rumor he’d graduated university alongside Factory A’s Chief Engineer. Yet Shirasu had never actually attended school. But he’d apparently taught himself to an astonishing degree. Unlike me, he knew exactly what to read. He had a clear purpose in seeking knowledge. Moreover, Shirasu had four prior convictions. During each imprisonment, he’d reportedly studied foreign languages too. He looked about thirty but was actually twenty-six. Both capitalists and workers noticed him—from opposing standpoints with differing meanings. It was a grimy, dim six-mat room. Shirasu rented it. And there he began cooking for himself.

After he had been doing so for a while, that six-mat room no longer had a single night when five or six workers didn’t gather.

12

Fujiwara spoke earnestly. He was moved and seemed happily enraptured by his own story, as if Shirasu were right before him and he were speaking to him. He, having spoken this far, lit his favorite cigarette and inhaled deeply and sharply, letting the smoke permeate every corner of his lungs.

Nada listened intently. During pauses in Fujiwara’s story, he began suspecting this “Shirasu” might actually be Fujiwara’s former name. Though Shirasu was being narrated by Fujiwara himself, he resembled Fujiwara far too closely. But that hardly mattered. “Hmm—ironworkers are reliable folk,” Nada remarked with feeling. “Workers will become the masters—peace and happiness secured through workers’ own hands.” The Storekeeper spoke these words with visible relief.

“And then, what happened to that man?” asked Nada, fiddling with the book. “Shirasu would open his six-mat room—dimly lit or rather nearly pitch-dark—at night. Daytime would have worked too, but during the day everyone was out working. Yet among them, there were some who came during the day with lunchboxes to read books—he kept it open. Even as faces changed, five or six always gathered, sometimes swelling to fifteen or sixteen. And there, all sorts of discussions were exchanged. I too attended those gatherings every night.”

In his room, or at those gatherings, Shirasu would become gentle and approachable, as if he were a completely different person from the Shirasu at the factory. At first, everyone found it strange. When someone said, “Shirasu has two entirely separate versions of himself—one at the factory and another at home,” he responded like this. “That’s not just me.” “Aren’t you the same? You as a machine’s accessory, you for your wife’s sake, you as a slave, you as your own master—every last worker must carry these two personalities within them.” “You too—compare your face and feelings when you’re working as a machine’s spare part to how you look and feel right now, as a man for your wife and children. You can’t even grasp how much more dear and human this version of you is.” “Can’t see what’s right under your nose! Ha ha ha ha!” All those present there also laughed in unison. His explanations softened people like a masseur’s hands and dispelled their doubts.

And always, these sorts of jokes would kick off the conversation, until inevitably the question arose: Why were workers nothing more than appendages to machinery? To this, Mr. Shirasu would provide an explanation—slowly and clearly—when no one else could respond. In this way, the workers who gathered there came to grasp—one or two at a time—how to analyze their own situations before returning home.

Even during all this, Shirasu was constantly being tailed, put under surveillance, or summoned by the police. And those who gathered there gradually came to understand that their nightly meetings themselves were the reason for this.

Before long, even those of us who constantly gathered there began to occasionally come under the watchful eye of the police. We didn’t understand why this was happening. Yet when young workers were lectured by the police about this and that, they came to harbor intense resentment—a position that only inflamed such feelings. They had listened innocently until then. But once officers began visiting their homes and appearing at their factory, they started listening in earnest. And gradually, they ceased fearing the police altogether.

“Why is it wrong for us to study what we ourselves are?”—after undergoing this baptism by police provocation, the young workers came to harbor a kind of proletarian conviction. And at last, these youths provoked by the police became a proper “vanguard of the proletarian army,” and through further trials imposed upon them, they came to live by a firm belief that neither prison nor gallows were things to fear. And then, when that happened, what awaited them there was a trap that the very whip lashing their backsides had prepared and lain in wait. At last, they had no choice but to collide with prison walls in reality.

It was autumn of a certain year.

N City, where Factory A was located, endured the storm that had struck all of Japan. The scale of destruction ranked among the worst suffered by any of Japan's cities. The wind raged, the rain lashed sideways, rendering umbrellas useless. Roof tiles tore through the air, barring all from venturing into town. Coastal districts flooded up to their eaves. As waters withdrew, countless houses lay shattered in their wake. A ship lay beached along the shore, resembling those model vessels displayed before toy shops. Even in drainage zones, elementary schools crumbled. Homes collapsed. Citizens found themselves trapped—unable to flee outdoors. Equally unable to remain indoors.

The workers of Factory A, too, could not escape this natural disaster. Not only that, but due to the areas where they lived, they suffered the calamity to an even greater extent. They chose cheap rent in order to receive little and support many. That area was a coastal lowland. A worker from Factory A who shared a room with Shirasu was made to fully endure the briny harshness of the floodwaters. His house was flooded two feet above the floor. Just as the tatami mats were about to be submerged by the turbid tidewater, his wife, reaching precisely that critical moment, gave birth to their child in accordance with physiological laws. Beside that childbed lay his gout-afflicted elderly mother, who for over twelve years had been lying down wherever she could.

With the same impartial precision as the sun that waits for none, the murky tidewater kept rising. A scream tore through the air. Someone collapsed unconscious. A wail pierced upward. This worker put his newborn in a basin. He shoved his bedridden mother deep into the closet's top shelf. Then crammed his wife in front of her. Afterward, the man himself wiped the infant with rags - discharging his paternal duty. The facts were brutally plain: even this minimal act meant unavoidable expenses. How could he pay for his mother's medicine? His wife's recovery? The baby's needs? The midwife's fee? He couldn't. The same Factory A that had fed his family now lay beyond reach - he couldn't even report for work. Tatami mats lay waterlogged. Beneath the floorboards might've swum fish. Toilet filth and well water stewed together uncleaned.

If this man had been even slightly sensitive from being unable to endure hardship or poverty, we thought, it would have seemed almost sensible of him to hang himself. However, this man endured. We later learned that this man endured—no, he was infuriatingly patient. And that’s what we were thinking. But what do you suppose? He felt absolutely nothing.

He seemed to feel nothing at all toward this appalling reality. All he needed was a little money. That would solve everything. "You see, when humans remain in misery for too long, it seems they lose all sensitivity." "Even these comrades too can be seen as an example of that." "When humans are conditioned to their suffering—even though there’s no need for it—what do you think that means?" "Just as horses lose their reproductive drive when castrated, humans—bound, forced into a mold, and stripped of freedom like castrated horses—lose their sensitivity." "Without knowing what kind of slaves they are, they work thinking that working will make things easier." "The workers have all had their sensitivity paralyzed." "The more the workers work, the more their surplus labor is exploited by the very capital that oppresses them, thereby increasing that capital."

These castrated comrades, who had become exactly like horses, went to the company two or three days later. "I would like to receive my *Sekizenkai* savings fund, due to these circumstances," he tediously explained the facts with pure objectivity—to himself now, it seemed he could only view his own situation objectively—laying out every detail.

This *Sekizenkai*, you see, forced workers to save five percent of their wages every month. Then, depending on their fortunes and misfortunes, they would have a fixed amount of that money 'granted' to them by the company along with some subsidy. Once a year, they would hold a sports day with this money and give out a single envelope of cash (fifty sen) as drinking money. The system that shifted the Factory Act's responsibilities onto the workers' shoulders—that was precisely what this *Sekizenkai* was. From that *Sekizenkai* fund, this man requested they give him his savings.

Of course, that request was flatly rejected on the spot, and he only received two yen from the *Sekizenkai* as a consolation payment. However, the man said that with two yen, the matter couldn’t be settled. He took the matter to Shirasu, asking if something couldn’t be done.

“In that case, you should just take your savings fund." "The savings fund is the workers’ own money, isn’t it?" “You should just take that.” With this logic—“The *Sekizenkai* will probably handle their side somehow”—Shirasu went to the office accompanied by the man who looked like a gnarled tree stump. A man named Gomei from engineering—his name as peculiar as a botched halo—faced them and asked what they wanted. This pitiful man, who had crammed his mother, wife, and baby into the closet, began recounting every detail “objectively” as if reliving the ordeal: why seawater rose above the threshold; how filthy water first gurgled up between tatami mats; how he’d managed to stuff all three into the closet. He omitted nothing.

His account was not at all the kind that should have provoked irritation. However, its length, repetition, and lack of closure forced everyone to endure boredom; moreover, there existed the problematic flaw that within his account, the issue at hand and the narrative's central focus had imperceptibly diverged.

“So, what’s your point?” Gomei asked the man. “Huh, so…” the pitiful man parroted back. And with that, he found himself at a complete loss for words. He already felt he had stated his request within his previous account—and that he had repeated it over and over again. He wore an expression that said there was nothing more he could possibly say.

13

“Given these miserable circumstances,” Shirasu interjected on his behalf, “he requests repayment of his savings fund—the portion of his labor wages that was set aside.” “Were you asked to come here?” Gomei inquired with a look suggesting *this* was the preliminary matter demanding resolution. “Yes.”

“Is that so?” Gomei now asked the man. “Huh…” the man replied ambiguously.

“That matter regarding the repayment of your savings fund isn’t such a critical prerequisite issue—the problem should be perfectly straightforward.” “The company has forcibly set aside a portion of the amount paid to the workers for their sold labor power—for the workers’ sake.” “For the workers to ask for that amount back—doesn’t that require not even a moment’s thought?” Shirasu pressed on. “Well, no one’s saying we won’t pay—but what procedure are you planning to use?”

“Isn’t it just a matter of writing a payment slip?” “So you’re saying you want to resign,” said the mean-spirited personnel clerk Gomei. “Resignation?!” “Who said anything about resigning? And when?” Shirasu began growing agitated, his voice rising incrementally. “However, according to company regulations, the savings fund is paid out upon resignation.” “Therefore, those who receive their savings fund will simultaneously be disbursed their remaining wages as well,” declared that swine, settling his buttocks with undue composure.

“Of course,” Shirasu cut in. He spoke in that solemn tone he used whenever steeling himself for action. “It’s only natural for workers’ savings funds to be paid alongside wages upon resignation—this is explicitly stated in the Factory Act.” “But this money can’t be deducted under any circumstances, even if the company suffers losses.” “If funds remained with the company post-resignation, wouldn’t that constitute embezzlement? To claim receiving this last-paid money equals resignation? How dare you spew such sophistry as personnel clerk!” “Your arguments and attitude created this precedent of never returning workers’ own money, however desperate their need.” “How many have you fired over trivial withdrawals using this logic?” “If seizing this savings fund were as vital as tearing out a man’s canines—if lives hung in the balance—I’d fight through our own means or via Factory Act litigation.”

As Shirasu spoke in that grave tone of his—as if driving a drill between his ribs straight toward the heart—Gomei, who had initially acted with insufferable arrogance and bluster, seemed to grow frightened by the end. “However, I have not yet said to dismiss you or demand your resignation.” “But that’s merely unprecedented—I’ve only stated that this has been our customary practice until now,” he said, oiling his shameless, thick-skinned face.

“If it’s a bad precedent, then why not break it?” “Then why not smash these outdated corrupt practices?” “If we adhered to all precedents, humans would still be living by eating human flesh.” “Humans are still eating human flesh—and for that to cease, all outdated corrupt practices must be smashed.” “To exploit and plunder workers even within bounds that the law itself guarantees—this is undeniably a form of anthropophagy,” Shirasu drove his point deeper like a drill.

“No, it’s troublesome if you get agitated like this.” “If these are such pitiable circumstances, we’ll proceed with the payment. But since this is entirely unprecedented, I must consult the executives first—is immediate processing truly necessary?” Gomei said to Shirasu. “Hey now—do you need it right this instant?” he asked the wretched human stump. “Of course immediately.” “It’s already three days overdue today—we’re behind schedule here,” Shirasu answered curtly, anticipating the stump would panic and blunder some reply.

“Then I’ll go discuss it. Wait here for a while,” said Gomei, the personnel clerk, as he left—his hair hacked unevenly by clippers, making him look like a mangy dog. After keeping them waiting endlessly, Gomei returned and thrust forward a scrap of paper, “Write the amount here. We’ll deduct it from your wages over three months to replenish your savings fund—so bear that in mind,” he had the audacity to declare.

“What the hell, you mangy dog!” Shirasu suddenly shouted and started to swing up the chair that was there, but the human stump stopped him. “Oh, thank you ever so much. As long as we get through this now, I’ll definitely return it in three months without fail,” he said, pulling Shirasu back with one hand while bowing politely to Gomei. “Well, you see—once we’ve managed this current situation, we’ll work until we’re black again,” he said to Shirasu.

After that incident, Shirasu came to be intensely detested by the company. And Shirasu’s dismissal progressed from being a matter for the clerical staff to an issue for the executives.

After that house-flooding incident, I, Shirasu, and many other comrades attempted N City’s first large-scale counterattack against Factory A—only for all of us to fall spectacularly at the front lines. To make matters worse, I, Shirasu, and four more comrades ended up passing through the red brick walls of prison because of that dispute. It must have been around the end of September. The workers of Factory A, following the stump flooding incident and after Shirasu exposed the complete absence of accounting reports for the Sekizenkai’s savings fund—while citing surface-level reasons such as numerous regulatory violations, including breaches of the factory’s assistance rules and the employment of underage laborers—began probing what stratagems might be brewing among the capitalist class. N City was a region known for its self-centeredness. Because of this, even the labor disputes took on a local flavor. However, we were dragged off by the police immediately after the first day’s demonstration and sent straight to the detention center, so we remained completely ignorant of how the dispute progressed. But on the day after we were detained by the police, a thousand brothers from Factory A marched through torrential rain to stage a demonstration at the police station. While they sent delegates to demand an explanation for our arrest, the worker army harmonized with revolutionary songs in the rain. At that moment, we five inside couldn’t help but join in singing those anthems. And that evening, Suzuki-kun, who had led that day’s demonstration, was dragged in barefoot.

We followed the prescribed path—from the police to the prosecutor’s office, from the prosecutor’s office to the detention center, and through the preliminary hearing. And so, the five first-time offenders sent there came to realize—just as they had learned that the police were not to be feared—that [＊＊＊＊] should not be [regarded as such] either. That dispute laid the permanent foundation for establishing the proletarian movement in N City. And when they had served their sentences, the comrades parted ways and scattered to other cities. And I alone have ended up becoming a sailor like this. I often wonder where Shirasu is active now. Lately, I’ve begun to realize that the struggles aboard a ship are entirely different in nature from those on land. We must wage constant struggle until we can completely reform the status of workers who grow enough rice for a hundred yet starve themselves, weave enough cloth for a thousand yet freeze, and erect grand buildings only to collapse from exhaustion. And that time will surely come. There is no law that says we shall not welcome the good that is rightfully due to come. “We will welcome it until it comes.”

Stoki took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “Mr. Nada, did my story leave a bad taste in your mouth? You must be sick of it by now.” “No, it was interesting. I want to hear about the prison you all experienced.” “Prison! Prison stories are monotonous. Just the pain of monotony and futility. In society, our lives are exploited so busily there’s no time to tend to them—toss into stagnant ditches—but in prison, all we do is stare fixedly at them.”

Fujiwara quietly went out onto the deck.

“Well then, I’d better go prepare lunch,” said Nada, heading out to the cook’s room.

On the deck, Fujiwara leaned against the bulwark, gazing at the desolate northern Honshu landscape.

14

Our Manjumaru had traveled a three-day voyage and was supposed to temporarily anchor off Yokohama Port around 11 PM that night. The ship passed by Katsuura offshore. It passed by Uraga offshore. Before long, Yokohama Port’s bright lights would begin to appear.

Yokohama was the bosom of the sailors and stokers.

The hearts of the crew members, worn thin from waiting, resembled those of prisoners on the eve of their release. The waves of Tokyo Bay rose high as they merged with lingering swells from the Pacific. Just as toadlets emerge in such numbers on country roads after the rainy season that one cannot walk without crushing them, there should have been countless sailing ships and fishing boats—yet not a single one remained. Only the lighthouses of Kannonzaki, Uraga, Yokosuka, and other lights flickered as if in pain. The smell of the storm drifted through the darkness. A band of straggling clouds chased desperately at full speed.

Even so, the ship no longer swayed like a drunkard. Gazing at Honmoku Lighthouse and the harbor entrance markers ahead, our Manjumaru temporarily anchored off Yokohama Port until the morning quarantine. With a roar like that of a monstrous growl, matching the weight and size of three thousand tons, the anchor was cast. The ship ceased its swaying.

Everything fell silent all at once. All excitement and tension subsided at once.

“Everything is tomorrow. Tomorrow holds all happiness and liberation,” everyone felt relieved.

The sailors had been standing on the forecastle deck, but as soon as the anchor was cast, they began retreating to their respective quarters. Before Nada at the front had fully descended the gangway, the bosun bellowed. “Hey! We’re launching the sampan now!” The sailors were struck by these words as if hit by powerful radio waves. They all felt the same fear and pity as trembling maidens and their parents who dread being marked by the white-feathered arrow—sacrifices to the guardian deity from The Tale of Iwami’s Bravery (whose true form was a baboon). This was an inevitable occurrence whenever they reached Yokohama at night. And again, the Captain would order them to arrive after dark whether they liked it or not. Only when scheduled for morning arrival did they enter port properly. In all other cases, she was forced to idle either off Inubōsaki or Katsuura to ensure nighttime docking.

Throughout all ages, baboons had chosen the night to emerge. And the regrettable thing was that Iwami Jūtarō was not aboard our Manjumaru. At eleven o'clock, the sampan had to be lowered into those perilous raging waves. Two rowers had to be seized from among the sailors. The ones upon whom the white-feathered arrow fell were Mikami, forged on bonito boats, and Ogura, the helmsman. Mikami was of low intelligence. Ogura was quiet. Unlike in The Tale of Iwami’s Bravery, the white-feathered arrow would customarily fall upon these two.

The two rowers had to brave the violation of the sampan ban—a prohibition issued by the Port Affairs Office barring all small boats from harbor transit due to the violent storm—to “secretly” deliver the Captain across over one ri (four kilometers) of pitch-black sea to Nihon Wharf.

The Captain was to go ashore in "secret" and return to his home. And according to procedure, he would return to the ship via launch in 'secret' the next morning, then make an 'official' entry into port. Those troublesome and dangerous procedures—for one man’s sake, entirely unrelated to them—were exposing two more human lives to peril. Through this "secret" adventure, the Captain could become a person in his household for ten hours—or even as few as eight.

The Captain was preparing in his cabin. He strictly compartmentalized the ideology he reserved for his family from all other ideologies pertaining to this ship. Before his "secret" landing, he would transform from Captain into human—but only within the vessel's internal sphere. He was wholly occupied by thoughts of his wife, his children—everything. Particularly regarding his wife, he burned with jealousy.

He stuffed various things into the trunk. And then took them out again. And then he sighed.

“What’s taking so long with the sampan preparations?! “Isn’t this obvious? It’s not like it’s your first or second time! Tch!” But he still restrained himself from pressing them further. Then he surveyed his room.

It was the cleanest, most spacious, most elaborate, and most convenient room in the ship. But for him, it was the inside of a beer crate. It was not at all pleasant. It was like a dried-out rush mat, making his nerves dusty and muddled.

The boy brought coffee.

“Still not ready? Call the Bosun!” he ordered the boy. And he grew angry at the boy as well. “Tch! Bringing me this flat, stale coffee—those bastards don’t even know how to store coffee properly.” He moistened his throat with scalding coffee. Quietly and sneakily, I have to return home. I have to send the automobile back some distance from the house where it won’t be noticed, and then… The Captain was constantly burning with jealousy toward his wife. And at every port of call, he would visit brothels, intending to demonstrate that he, too, did not love his wife all that much. At those places, he would often end up sharing a woman with a sailor!

It was an utterly amusing, farcical scene—but now, the sampan was being prepared.

15 The sailors attached two men to the No. 3 winch at the stern. Two men were assigned to each rope on the boat deck. Nada boarded the sampan. This was to maneuver it to the gangway. The poor donkey had to go back into the engine room and send steam to the winch. The stokers too had to stand by at the furnace mouth. The cable was gradually paid out. Had they been lowering it onto a flat surface, they could have simply released the hooks from the sampan when the cable slackened—the boat would have settled neatly in place. But lowering it into waves—especially ones heaving violently as they were that night—proved extremely difficult. If they released one hook when the sampan rose to a wave’s crest, it would dangle like a hooked salmon in the next instant. Lowering it all the way to a wave’s trough was impossible. The hooks would detach. If they didn’t detach, either its bow or fragile belly would smash against the ship’s broadside and shatter.

The two sailors handling the ropes on the boat deck, and Nada in the sampan—firmly gripping the hook to keep it from coming loose—were all literally "giving their all." The waves writhed along the ship’s hull like swimming snakes, heaving with about three ken between crest and trough. Now, the sampan rode on the slope of a wave. Nada unhooked the stern hook. And at that moment, he bellowed, “Strike, strike, let go!” It meant “Extend, extend, let it strike!” The ropes that had been serving like umbilical cords connecting the main ship to the sampan were now detached on one side, and both were fully extended. Nada was immediately able to skillfully unhook the rope at the bow as well. And now, the sampan became a small boat completely independent from the main ship. At the same time, the sampan was already swept over ten ken away. And it rolled and tumbled like adzuki beans being sorted in a tray.

Nada inserted the oar. The ship sat there heavily, like a jet-black boulder. The small boat upon the waves tumbled frantically. He felt desolate. He pushed the oar with every ounce of strength. When he tried to swing around the ship's stern, the sampan stubbornly refused to turn its bow either way. Like a panicked pup fleeing headlong, it fought against him, trying to be swept recklessly by the wind. Yet through his total bodily exertion—as if his efforts seeped out through sweat drenching every inch of him—he finally turned the sampan's bow windward. Still, it kept threatening to be blown sideways.

By the time he moored the sampan to the gangway, his entire body was drenched in sweat as if scrubbed clean. The wind carving through waves sharp as a knife blew pleasantly against his cheek. He immediately went out onto the deck and wiped his sweat. Everyone had returned to the deck, listlessly offering a word or two of criticism about the Captain's return. Mikami and Ogura had wrapped their entire bodies in raincoats and stood fully prepared.

“Hey, let’s go!” shouted the duty quartermaster from the bridge. “We’re countin’ on ya. “Good luck out there,” said those remaining to the two as they saw them off to the gangway. The two boatmen had to endure twice the danger as the Captain for his personal errand. The Captain was led by the apprentice to the gangway entrance. The apprentice held the trunk—which he’d been stuffing things into and pulling them out of—as if it were some precious treasure, handling it with exaggerated care.

The Captain, burning with jealousy, boarded the sampan like Caesar, a Roman triumphal general. Everyone except the Captain was weighed down by hearts as heavy and dull as lead. The sampan's mooring rope was untied. And immediately, it was swept away. In the pitch-black darkness, a small lantern was faintly visible. From nearby, the voices of Ogura and Mikami could be heard chanting "Heave-ho, heave-ho."

The sailors returned to the deck. Once they had delivered the Captain, they were permitted to sleep until the sampan returned. Yet no one spoke; they lined up on the benches and sat in a daze, as though spellbound by a fox. Through overwork, the sailors had been unresistingly lulled into trance. And there remained nothing but deathlike weariness. Like lifers stripped of all hope, they moved habitually and mechanically. They hung limp as shattered limbs.

When someone’s nerves momentarily sharpened, a swarm of unpleasant stimuli that had lain in wait would creep over them with a tingling itch. It was all petty things lying in wait—like lice bites or mosquitoes whining maddeningly by their ears—trivial yet unbearably irritating matters that made them want to scream. Moreover, the entire structure of this cabin and the uniform, fundamental sensation they were all made to harbor bore a striking resemblance to prisoners gnawed by weariness—who likewise stared blankly at a high window, numbly feeling their ingrained fatigue and numbness.

The sailors did not think of this as “labor.” They knew that whether they slept or woke, they were wage laborers. But they couldn’t keep a firm grip on that awareness in their consciousness at all times. Particularly because their workplace was a ship, they tended to feel as though they were living in a single household. They often inadvertently ended up convincing themselves that the unjust labor imposed upon them—the unpaid labor—was simply their “duty.”

“We all share the same rice pot,” the sailors thought, and endured. And that very mindset turned their fellow crewmates—the mates—into the supreme, most powerful whip. They found that no matter what other methods they tried, whenever those “scrawny nags” sulked and resisted, all they had to do was give them one lash from that ready whip, and everything was settled.

One by one, they began to crawl into their bunks. After all, the sampan that had taken the Captain ashore wouldn’t return until two-thirty or three at the earliest. In this storm, it might never return. The Captain really longed for home too much! “Aah, I’ve come to hate being human,” groaned Nishizawa from his nest at the far end. “How’d you like to be a stud horse?” Nada shot back, and just like that, everything was swallowed up into death-like weariness. The Captain had returned to his house, but the injured apprentice leader lay in a box as if packed away, groaning in pain.

16

The sampan that had left the main ship encountered a voyage even more treacherous than what the main ship itself had experienced. The harbor entrance appeared deceptively close. Yet despite Ogura and Mikami’s skillful arms, it showed no sign of nearing the harbor. The Captain was beside himself with impatience. “That light over there must be my house,” he had been thinking for about twenty minutes after boarding. However, no matter how much time passed, the harbor entrance did not draw any closer. Yet despite the pitch darkness, even he could hear the oar’s creak and the two men’s labored breathing piercing through the ferocious wind’s roar.

The sampan was pushed at the stern by Mikami—his arms honed on bonito boats off Sendai—while Ogura pressed against the side with arms forged on the Oki Islands in the Sea of Japan. Yet both men had intuitively sensed the difficulty the moment they left the main ship. Even when they swung the oar like a cracking whip, the sampan—caught in the current surging from the harbor entrance—made no progress. Thus they resolved to use the countercurrent to reach the harbor entrance. There, they turned the bow toward Honmoku. The sampan advanced. Yet it advanced as if crossing a torrent. About thirty minutes after leaving the main ship, they wiped sweat from their brows with one hand and scanned the darkness to locate where it lay.

The main ship appeared black and small in the direction of the harbor entrance.

They realized they were being swept away. However, they could not exert more than the maximum strength they possessed. Moreover, they had exerted their full strength for thirty minutes. When they realized they could not overcome the current and wind, they sharply lowered their efficiency. And they pushed just enough to avoid drifting, never turning the bow sideways again. All things held their breath and shut their eyes. At that moment, in that impenetrable darkness where nothing could be seen, even for them—men whose nerves had become like those of life prisoners, their fates sealed to rot within prison walls—the desperate struggle against the waves and current was an endurance beyond bearing.

Above all, this sensation—that everything arose solely from the selfishness of the Captain, who sat dazedly in the darkness occasionally barking nothing but “Can’t you do it properly?”—had, as if implanted by the darkness itself, taken root in their chests before they knew it. Now, the two rowers abandoned their focus on the oar and began circling the thought—*Why must we suffer like this?*—directed at this creature who called himself Captain, this inscrutable, ambiguous, shadowy figure sitting in the sampan.

It was a pitch-black darkness where no one could see, hear, or sense anything. There, the storm and roaring tide devoured every scream in a single gulp. There was a torrent capable of washing away everything. There were sharks that would devour humans down to the bone.

“And he’s just one man. Moreover, even if that bastard has arms with the strength of five men, I’ve got arms that could take down five of him without breaking a sweat! And yet…”

Like a wolf deliberately circling its prey yet reluctant to strike, Mikami prowled around that thought. Ogura sniffed at a similar notion from another angle. There was hunger. There was disease. There were disabilities. There were injuries. And all these became roads leading to death. He was being driven down this path by the bourgeoisie alongside countless other workers. Those giving chase were few. Though those being pursued outnumbered them thousands upon tens of thousands of times over, among these multitudes of laborers not one comrade existed who would bare fangs and turn to face what pursued them. Workers were slugs encountering salt. They’d dissolve without resistance. A single worker—such a man couldn’t be found even once among ten, nor among a hundred thousand. And precisely because of this, humans could be exploited through mass production. Humans couldn’t die for themselves. Humans were creatures that craved commands. Under orders, all might perish—yet left to themselves, not one could properly end their own life. Had there not been hundreds of thousands who died because one man lived? Hadn’t humanity’s entire history been dyed crimson with blood and inscribed in flesh through these unwelcome—or all too welcome—weaknesses of human nature? When reading slavery’s chronicles, before raging at masters’ tyranny—did people not first lament slaves’ ignorance and passivity?

Will we wage laborers, like slaves and serfs, not make our descendants clench their fists? Is this something that cannot be altered by human strength or the power of will? Just as I have wept upon seeing human history, I am now appending history that will make me weep again. I have been able to exist as an obstacle within such tainted history until now. And even now, I can. But it is precisely when that becomes impossible that great consequences arise—consequences that defile human history. But history built with blood and flesh—the greater its sacrifices, the more beautiful the flowers that bloom. I will follow the path history takes and push the oar of that history.

“Hey! The sampan’s getting swept away more and more—what the hell’s goin’ on?”

“Captain! “It’s ebb tide—no matter how hard we push, it’s useless.” “If we head to the port entrance, we’ll just get swept away again.” “Better to wait for flood tide instead.”

Mikami used rough words, as if he were still lingering ominously near his prey. “Don’t talk nonsense! It’ll be dawn before we know it—push harder!” “Why don’t you try doing it yourself? Our arms can’t take any more of this.” Mikami snapped with finality.

“What?!” “You refuse to do it?! Fine!” “You’ll remember me!”

The Captain also had no choice. If he started a fight on this pitch-dark sea, he was certain to lose. He decided to wait until tomorrow.

“What?!” “Remember me?” “You bastard!” “What’re you... Don’t you know today’s storm’s got the sampan stuck, you bastard? Knocking you into the sea would be nothing, you damn fool!” Mikami had stopped rowing.

Mikami was said to be of low intelligence. He was prone to all sorts of impulsive actions. The Captain knew it. So he had shrunk back sullenly. The Captain knew full well that if he were to engage with such madness and actually get knocked into this dark sea, that would be his absolute end.

“Mikami, there’s no need to get so angry. Look, once we reach shore, I’ll make sure you’re satisfied—just stop being angry and work hard for me, eh?” “Once we land, you’ll ‘make me understand,’ huh? Alright then.” Sendai began pushing the oar again with heavy resignation.

Ogura found it absurd. "He'll see when we land!" That bastard Mikami will understand when his head gets chopped off, you fool! Just when things were getting interesting, he had to end it with that 'you'll understand' nonsense. Hmph. So this is what they call "workers." Anyone can be cleanly deceived with just one word. This is exactly why human history remains eternally frustrating and infuriating. Ah, I see—I see everything clearly now.

However, it truly was a treacherous "voyage." The sea was roaring right beneath their feet. It snarled. And its body shook violently.

Mikami and Ogura were merely working mechanically, just as they had through most of their lives. Yet they had become terribly worn down—what you might call “burned out.” Since they weren’t getting proper nutrition, their bodies began to burn out like machines running dry of oil. They—especially Ogura, whose stamina paled next to Mikami’s—started feeling heat radiating through their shoulders, backs, and thighs. Along with this came an overwhelming weariness and fading strength. They resigned themselves with a bitter “To hell with it—whatever happens, happens.”

The Captain could no longer simply crush matters domineeringly and high-handedly now. Of course, that trusty pistol had been left aboard the main ship. Because of this, his cowardice had somewhat grown, but ultimately, he stood utterly alone. The power—bestowed upon him—and the foundation that allowed it to be wielded violently were now completely stripped away.

"Power determines everything. The people are now gaining power with terrifying momentum. Whether power is exercised rightly, exercised wrongly, exercised exploitatively, or exercised cooperatively—it is upon this that humanity divides into happiness or misery, cruelty or peace."

Ogura witnessed the comedy of the Captain—who held supreme authority over both public and private matters aboard the ship—being forced to cower under Mikami’s roar within mere minutes, all because he had left behind every violent prop of his power, while Mikami’s arms were five times thicker. And there, he saw the true nature of power exposed.

"Even if we each possess power individually, all our defeats fester in the fact that it remains unorganized and untrained!" Ogura found that thoughts kept welling up one after another from the intriguing clash of these individual outcrops. "But in the Manjumaru's current state, can we truly organize the workers' individual power? Among our comrades lies eruptions of sudden, impulsive violence between comrades. (The next eight characters are illegible) hangs over us. We're wounded by sufficiently organized violence above us—and still that's not enough—we even wield our own violence to wound ourselves."

The small sampan drifted through the perilous sea in the darkness, utterly defying the Captain's status and power as it spun round and round like some cruel joke, barely managing to stay afloat in one spot. The Captain had drawn his head into his shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell. Though swaddled in layers far superior in both quality and quantity to Ogura and Mikami combined, he trembled uncontrollably from the cold. His face remained flushed from Mikami's earlier words, every muscle tensed in nervous anticipation. And all the while, he seethed over the interminable length of this accursed tide.

To him, the fact that Mikami had insulted him even for a single second was something that should be punished throughout Mikami’s entire life, and Ogura, who had been silently pushing the oar beside him, should be equally guilty by the mere fact of having heard that insult. And he resolved that during their anchorage in Yokohama, he must make those bastards realize exactly what they were.

Still, they don’t know their place—utter scum. Workers these days are either impertinent or insolent—or else they’re nothing but good-for-nothing scum you can’t do a thing with. There’s not a single obedient bastard among them. Punishing each of those bastards one by one was an unbearably tedious task. The reason workers have become this impertinent is that the laws coddle them far too much. What’s needed first is to enact labor legislation like they had in Britain from the fifteenth to nineteenth centuries—branding their foreheads. Whip them. Cut off half their ears. Make them lifelong slaves, put iron collars around their necks.

The Captain found Mikami infuriating beyond endurance. That was an unthinkable state of affairs. It was beyond imagination. “Those slave-equivalent wretches dare say ‘This is an exceedingly disagreeable phenomenon.’ Such things must be eradicated. No—the law remains utterly deficient!”

The Captain resolved to torment Mikami with an unusual dismissal method.

17

The tide now reached the peak of ebb.

The Manjumaru’s sampan too began approaching the port with Mikami and Ogura’s economical speed.

The sampan that had been lowered at eleven o’clock had remained in one place until twelve-thirty, as if sucked into the pitch-black darkness. It would take at least an hour to reach Nihonbashi Wharf. Ogura was calculating. “We’ll arrive at 1:30, then return to the ship by 3:00, hoist the sampan by 3:30, and from four o’clock, I’ll be on watch. Tch! Damn it! “It’d be smarter to just collapse and sleep right here and now, damn it!”

Mikami was, at this moment, formulating an extremely naive yet practical—and imaginary—outlandish plan. And this plan—one that contained vengeful meaning—was such that if the Captain would just "understand," he could avoid carrying it out, but if the Captain tried to deceive him, he was prepared to proceed with it regardless.

Mikami thought as follows. The Captain undoubtedly intended to send him to a brothel. After all, the Captain knew he went whoring every time he went ashore—and tonight, since he’d spoken like that, he’d surely say “Tie up the sampan, stay overnight, and come back in the morning—well,” then hand over ten yen. So since Ogura definitely wouldn’t go whoring, he’d dump him in some inn and then… He carelessly laughed.

“If he tries to ditch me and go off… I’ll make damn sure he pays,” Mikami snarled, his eyes blazing a terrifying glare into the darkness. Mikami—whether you called it deviant sexuality or insatiable lust—possessed such that his robust physique matched an equally formidable sexual appetite; subjected to the sexually oppressive conditions of sailor life, he would scour for every opportunity like a drowning man grasping at straws, seizing them with desperate intensity. He remained popular aboard ship both as a man of crude education and as an innovator of bizarre carnal exploits.

Had he been able to curb that persistence even slightly, his popularity might have acquired a somewhat deeper significance—but no matter how one looked at it, everyone was worn down by his relentlessness. And this characteristic of his was most fully displayed when he visited the brothel district.

Nishizawa often went out carousing with Mikami—but this was only because no matter how much Nishizawa tried to escape or hide, Mikami would inevitably follow after him. And Mikami would lie prone in front of Nishizawa’s cabin, eavesdropping on every word of his nighttime stories. It was something whose purpose no one could fathom. But Nishizawa would say, “The night I went out with you...” He’d recount it like this: “So I asked the woman I was with, ‘How’d you end up a whore? Must be some sob story.’ But that damn whore said, ‘My pa was a dirt-poor farmer. Three bad harvests straight—couldn’t pay the landlord’s rice tax no more. Suffered till we broke, then sold myself to settle our debt.’” “And then,” he’d add, “the bitch starts sniffling—‘Ain’t nothing crueler than duty in this world.’”

This story was better received by the listeners than Mikami’s direct, explicit tales concerning only himself. Despite Nishizawa’s frantic efforts to derail the conversation, the sailors egged Mikami on and made him recount every last bit of his pillow talk. “So then, when I wondered what that lecherous bastard Nishizawa would say—‘Oh, there’s truly nothing more painful than duty.’” “And it’s only us poor folks who keep up with that damn duty.” “We stay poor ’cause we’re stuck upholding duty.” “My family’s poor too, and I’ve got a sister about your age.” “That sister of mine’s also stuck in this damn trade, just like you. She and I send money back to our folks in Shinshu.” “Through letters from my sister, I know full well what a harsh life you all are leading.” “Just hold out until the new year, okay?” “‘And whatever you do, don’t lose your temper or anything, okay?’ he goes.” “Bastard!” “Makin’ a fool of me! Then that woman starts sobbin’, sayin’, ‘There’s no one as understandin’ and kind as you.’” “I feel like you’re my brother,” she said while doing something—I couldn’t hear the rest—but then that bastard Nishizawa goes and says, “I can’t help but see you as my sister too.” “After that, their talk turned to hushed whispers I couldn’t catch, so I wet my finger with spit, poked a hole in the shoji screen, and peeked through.” “And then you,” he said, and with a description so graphic that even Nishizawa couldn’t bear it—rendered without restraint through the lens of Mikami’s singular mind—he recreated the scene right there. “And finally,” he added, “turns out this guy’s got so many sisters workin’ as whores all over the damn place.” “And how the hell can that bastard do such things with a woman he feels is like a sister?” “What a lecherous bastard he is!” Mikami added. And in this regard, what Mikami said was the truth.

Our brothers had endured countless hardships before becoming sailors. And Ogura had resolved to shoulder an entire village’s fate. Geographically and socially—the sea being the lowest place—the “human dregs” that had drifted there seemed burdened with all of society’s curses.

Visiting brothels was said to be a common practice among sailors. Society uniformly believed that lower-ranking sailors squandered their entire income for this very reason. And that was, in many cases, a fact. But so what? They too did not want to visit brothels. They needed lovers. But in this society, who would ever associate with “sea brutes” wearing gaping shoes, grease-stained work clothes, hands calloused like their heels—men who had no money despite all this! When they might vanish into sea foam, when they might have a hand torn off, when they might be sent on an ocean route—what “daughter” would willingly keep company with these crude “sea brutes”?

The bourgeoisie put their own daughters on display in dance halls; they sucked the daughters of the proletariat into factories encircled by brick walls higher than those of prisons; and from among these, they turned the finest into their playthings called “mistresses.”

The bourgeois scum possessed an instinctive desire to turn people—all human beings except themselves—into literal “beasts of burden” wage slaves. And the workers, while still alive, were carried by a screw conveyor into a “meat grinder” driven by a motor of tens of thousands of horsepower. Thus, wage slaves had their hopes and efforts to remain human utterly crushed to the end, only to be discarded by the roadside of bourgeois culture like inorganic matter or some such. And that had been planned to become a single stone block within the concrete meant to make the bourgeois road permanent, forever forming part of that road.

But now that plan would no longer proceed as intended! The fact that we lacked education was certainly the fault of those who had plundered educational opportunities from us—but even if we made them take responsibility, what good would that do the working class? Now we ourselves would educate ourselves. Now we were fired up to do everything with our own hands and show them. We would teach ourselves, guide ourselves, create our ideals, devise our tactics, establish our morals, and build a society shared by all humanity. All of those things—we would do them ourselves. And we were all those who worked with sweat upon our brows!

18 The sampan skidded. The captain was cold, and the two men arrived at the Japanese wharf drenched in sweat.

The captain leaped. The trunk was also thrown up. Ogura secured the mooring rope to the wharf. And both of them leaped onto that floating wharf. The Captain’s authority was not yet sufficiently backed. The Captain took out his gold pocket watch from his pocket, struck a mechanical match, and learned that it was now 1:40. He could get home by car in fifteen minutes; he would be back by two o’clock. So he had to quickly send these “unreliable rascals” back to the main ship.

He grabbed two fifty-sen silver coins from his pocket, confirmed there were indeed two of them, and handed them to Ogura. “Go get some soba or something and come right back!” “Don’t be late.” With that, he picked up the trunk and began walking briskly.

“Captain!” Mikami shouted involuntarily.

The Captain was startled. He was so startled he nearly dropped the trunk. And without even a moment to think, Mikami stood blocking the Captain’s path.

“What’s wrong? “The hell should I know?” Mikami snarled.

Ogura quietly watched the unfolding scene without a word. “I know what needs doing here. Things don’t get settled till they’ve started. But they ain’t even started yet!” “I gave Ogura the money—use that to eat and get back!”

The Captain was thinking that remaining on the wharf severely disadvantaged him.—I can’t even run if I wanted to—

Mikami stood silently blocking the Captain’s path but eventually stepped aside.

The Captain started walking with a sigh of relief. Mikami suddenly stepped in front of him again, blocking his path. Something’s going to happen this time—both the Captain and Ogura instinctively felt. Mikami was the strongest on the Manjumaru. Even when his buboes were about to burst, he was a man who could calmly handle the workload of two men. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?” Mikami growled.

“Oh, right, right,” said the Captain, thrusting his hand into his pocket again. And rustling frantically, he grabbed out two more fifty-sen silver coins. “I’d completely forgotten.” “You’re still forgetting!” Mikami snapped, pressing in. The Captain stood there trembling violently, still clutching two fifty-sen coins in his hand. He just wanted to get home quickly... Tch! “How much do you want?” Finally unable to maintain his deception any longer, the Captain asked.

“Ten yen,” Mikami answered. “Ten yen!” The Captain was completely shocked. Even though parting with two yen had been a considerable splurge for him. Mikami was demanding ten yen. “Can’t that wait until tomorrow?”

The Captain knew that tomorrow would resolve everything. Mikami had said, “Tomorrow is tomorrow,” but within him raged a fury that could not be vented merely by what had escaped his lips—an anger that now exploded throughout his entire body. “If we go back tonight, we’ll freeze to death on the way!” he bellowed as if swinging a hammer down onto the Captain’s head. “You get to go home and sleep with your old lady! We’ll freeze to death on the way back! Look at this sweat!”

Though it was too dark to see clearly, the two men were soaked through—outside by sea spray, inside by sweat—with not a dry spot left on their clothes or skin. They had felt from the very beginning that returning as they were would be impossible. Not only their raincoats, but even their work clothes were frozen stiff. The Captain felt an intense attachment to the ten yen, but more than that, he ultimately opted to prioritize his life. He took a ten-yen note from his inner pocket and handed it to Mikami. He started to say something but caught himself and fell silent.

And then, he left the wharf just like that and went to the rickshaw stand office. He then started to call the police but stopped again. If I make the call tonight, I won’t be able to go home and sleep. Moreover, I’m not supposed to go ashore tonight. Even if that deception gets exposed, no matter—tonight, I’m going home!

The rickshaw stand office also served as an automobile shop. The Captain flew home by automobile through the night sky. And, having completely forgotten the plan he had along the way, he ended up driving the automobile right up to his own house. He became a man with a warm family. His wife had convinced herself that the reason for his lateness was that ruffian Mikami, one of the sailors, had done it on purpose, and what’s more, he had extorted twelve yen from her husband. Because of this, her husband had been in momentary danger. She had convinced herself that whenever her husband left the house, it was as though he were being abandoned forlornly into a den of robbery and murder. And yet, she had always heard her husband say until now, I hold the highest position on the ship—I can even have any sailor trussed up if I want. So on the ship, I’m like what you’d call a king on land! I can use the sailors as freely as my own limbs. And without me, that great steamship can’t move an inch. However, on the Manjumaru, he was a king—she had heard him say. And now, he must be both. On the ship, the only proper human being must be my husband. The rest must be scoundrels, she thought.

The two of them lay in bed talking until dawn broke.

19

Mikami and Ogura, looking like drenched dogs that had just clambered out of the water, made their way to the sampan hut. There, the lumpen proletarians who worked as sampan pushers were packed into a tiny house like lice, swarming densely. In that place, there was neither day nor night. All who gathered there seemed as though they had been lying there since time immemorial and would continue to do so into the infinite future. They had never once retreated from the pinnacle of every vice, self-destruction, and starvation.

Just as even a dying dog has fleas and mites clinging to it, around these starving men swarmed hungry peddlers selling daifuku rice cakes and tomoe-shaped pastries almost ceaselessly. That night, even those night stalls were nowhere to be seen. Mikami and Ogura had to search for an inn or an eatery to escape the freezing cold and hunger. They felt they could no longer endure the cold or the hunger. Based on their familiarity with the area, they had a rough idea of where to find eateries that stayed open late into the night or even operated around the clock.

That was either in the vicinity of the coast where they were now wandering or, if not, near the red-light district.

They came out onto the main street. And when they had walked fifteen or sixteen ken, they found that distinctive port-town eateries in that alley were still open. The two men immediately entered. The port town eateries were accustomed to both their bizarre appearance and their frozen, soaked state. Fortunately, they were able to take off their thoroughly soaked boots and dry their clothes in a room there. A maid of about twenty-seven or twenty-eight immediately lit the hibachi and brought it over.

“What happened? Just now—at this hour? Did you just dock now!” “Isn’t that right?” “Oh my!” “You’re completely soaked through, aren’t you?” “It’s because you’re young, ohoho.” “Take those off and dry them. Here, I’ll bring you some clothes—you’re staying the night, aren’t you?” “Of course you are.” “Ohohohoho.”

She spoke as though out of pure kindness. Then she went downstairs. She seemed likely to bring even a padded kimono. Mikami was of course delighted. He naturally intended to stay. Ogura couldn’t very well return alone either. Moreover, he had to consider how to handle Mikami’s incident that night. By morning, the Captain would surely issue a disciplinary disembarkation order against Mikami—barring him from ships for a year or maybe three. And that wasn’t all—if things went badly, he might even face extortion charges. Ogura needed to sort out his thoughts on these matters. But above all, being utterly soaked and starving was unbearable. So the two turned their minds toward getting food.

“Miss, sorry to trouble you so late, but if possible, we’d like sukiyaki.” “Because it’s cold—we won’t get warm without sukiyaki, you see,” Ogura ordered.

“Yes, I can do it. For your sake, I’ll make sure of it. “Ohohohoho, what about sake?” she asked, still standing. “Bring the sake.” Mikami responded. “Ohohohoho, everything’s included, of course—naturally,” she sang out as she went downstairs to place their order. The two men changed into padded kimonos and hung all the clothes they had been wearing on a pillar.

They longed for people. They especially longed for women. Whatever their motives might have been, the only women who would speak kind words to them on this earth—if they were even alive—were their mothers or sisters. But they had either completely lost them, never known them at all, or left them far behind. Gentle women! To them, it was a jewel more precious than anything else. Women pitifully frail, oppressed throughout all history! The oppressed women—those whom they had no need to rebel against, those who must be protected even by them—shared a fate strikingly similar to that of the laboring class, itself oppressed and tormented.

They longed for women. And that longing was limited to prostitutes and streetwalkers. Between the weakest class among women and the most oppressed class among men, there existed—unlike when the bourgeois dealt with those groups—a certain common ground of mutual understanding. They were comrades-in-arms who shared a common enemy. Even if their relationship was reduced to buying and selling on the surface, the faint remnants of humanity left within them could still find opportunities to pull it back into something human. And they were both proletariat.

How sorrowful must be a single tear falling into a heart grown coarse and desolate. The woman soon brought beef arranged on a dish. And right after her, another young maid of about twenty-two or twenty-three entered carrying a heated sake decanter. The presence of women and alcohol sent Mikami into raptures. He drank alone and incessantly. He served the women as well. They drank a little as well.

“Why aren’t you drinking at all?” asked the younger one, leaning against Ogura. “I’m eating instead, aren’t I?” “But we’re having some too, you know.” “You should drink a little—that’s what men do, right?” She had apparently seen how overly serious Ogura was, eating nothing but meat, and thought to cheer him up a bit.

“However, I can’t drink alcohol. “It’s not very sailor-like, is it? “But I still can’t drink. “I guess you could say I hate bugs,” Ogura remarked as he picked at the meat and green onions, his mind fixated on the sampan still tied up with its hawser and the unresolved matter between Mikami and the Captain. And he did not notice that Mikami, even as he kept teasing the women and harassing them with his usual perverse antics, was occasionally casting probing glances his way.

Mikami did want to hear Ogura’s opinion regarding the incident with the Captain—but more than that, he refused to stray even a step from this joy, this pleasure that an adventurer who had long abandoned everything in its pursuit might have reveled in as if striking gold. A joy superficial by nature—indeed assuredly superficial—one that might nauseate ordinary land-dwellers considering the women’s appearance, attitudes, and all attendant circumstances. In truth, had there been a woman who truly loved Mikami, he would have done anything for her without hesitation. He had been separated from his living mother by death almost immediately after birth, growing up not only ignorant of human love but unaware even that children were nourished with milk. From earliest childhood, he had gone to the seashore to assist fishermen. By age five, he had earned his own keep. Instead of attending elementary school, he ventured into the Pacific on a bonito boat. Seeing people in “Western clothes” working aboard a mountain-like ship offshore, he abandoned the bonito boat to become a steamship sailor, thinking: “I want to wear Western clothes and work too.” He was a man never truly loved by anyone. So warped was he that one might believe none could ever love Mikami sincerely. Yet not a moment passed without him thinking: “If only someone would show me true kindness.” Thus, whenever he heard Nishizawa had been loved by a prostitute, he would learn her name and on the next voyage stealthily investigate what “love” might be. None knew this secret of Mikami’s heart. Thus he was labeled both sexual deviant and primal pilgrim seeking true “love.” Realizing he could never inspire sincere love in others, he became a Joker himself.

Mikami stole glances at Ogura while drinking and seized the middle-aged woman to play crude jokes. But Ogura kept eating silently. The woman assigned to Ogura found no opening to connect and grew flustered. After Mikami stood to use the restroom and his accompanying woman followed to guide him, the young woman beside Ogura leaned against his knee and asked, “Why’re you so quiet? Something wrong? “The other one’s all lively like that, aren’t they? Or you sleepy already?” she pressed against Ogura.

“That man is a pitiable one,” Ogura replied. “I’m concerned about him.” “Why is he pitiable? If it were me, I’d say you’re the pitiable one,” the woman murmured pensively. “Just because someone appears cheerful doesn’t mean they’re free from hardships. That act comes from unbearable loneliness. And he carries his own burdens.” Ogura tried to imply she needn’t force herself to cheer him up. “I too bear a hardship on his account.”

“My!” “You’re such a young old man.” “You’re younger than him, aren’t you?” “And yet you worry about him like he’s your own son. But you’re a good person, aren’t you?” she said, growing gradually more serious while still maintaining a tone of teasing.

“What’s wrong? The restroom trip is taking awfully long, isn’t it?” Ogura asked the woman.

“Oh my!” The woman feigned surprise. “They’ve already gone to bed, and you still haven’t been to the restroom.”

“I wonder what time it is now.” “It’s three o’clock—dawn will break soon.” “Let’s rest now. Okay?” “But I must return to the ship with that man before night ends...” Ogura said with visible unease. “Why? Do you find me unpleasant?” “If so, I could have someone else take my place.” “Don’t say such things.” “I implore you.” The woman grew utterly distressed, convinced Ogura disliked her and was being willfully difficult.

“Listen.” “Don’t get the wrong idea.” “I don’t dislike you one bit.” “It’s just… the Captain ordered us back to the ship by tonight—so we’ve got no choice but to head back.” “And on the ship—everyone’s caught in this storm too. They must be waiting for us considerately.” “I couldn’t care less about the Captain’s orders, but our comrades on board—it’d be pitiful to make them stay up all night.” “So I want to return with that man before daybreak, but…”

“Well then, if that’s the case, I’ll go ask him for you.” “What are you going to do?” “But hasn’t the storm calmed down much?” “It’s dangerous, isn’t it?” she said as she slid open the shoji screen and stepped out. As she closed it, she glanced back and said, “Please wait a moment,” then headed toward Mikami. “The proletariat shares common emotions,” Ogura thought, suddenly feeling sentimental. He decided that when the woman returned, he would give her a passionate kiss.

Before long, the woman returned. And then, sitting timidly beside Ogura, “Hey, that Mr. Mikami—you’re Mr. Ogura, right? Mr. Ogura—Mr. Mikami says he’s really sorry to drag you into this, but there’s no way he can go back tonight. Even tomorrow, he says he doesn’t know if it’ll be possible.” “He said, ‘I’m sorry, but please wait until tomorrow morning no matter what,’ and then just went to sleep.”

“Ah, that’s fine.” “Then I guess I’ll stay over.” “Listen.” “I don’t dislike you in the least.” “I want to hug you and kiss you so much.” “But you see, there’s someone who loves me just as much as I love them.” “So I’ll sleep alone, but if it’s inconvenient at the counter, let’s lay out two futons and sleep side by side.” “And as a bedtime story, let’s hear about your real lover,” Ogura said with a lonely, pitying laugh.

“Oh!” The woman, who had stood up to lay out the futon, suddenly collapsed onto Ogura’s lap. And then she broke down sobbing. Ogura was startled. “What’s wrong? “Look, if the counter’s really that inconvenient, I don’t mind staying together at all, so stop crying. Okay?” Ogura tried to wake the woman. The woman did not wake up. And she still continued to cry. “Stop it, okay? “Stop crying now.” “I don’t know what painful circumstances you’re in—but I won’t understand unless you tell me.” “If there’s something worth crying over, you could discuss it with someone close—and telling me might not be a bad way to distract yourself.” “I probably can’t be much help, but if there’s anything I can do, I will do it—so don’t just keep crying; try talking about it. Okay? I have to go back early tomorrow morning.” “The ship will be anchored for another two or three days—maybe four or five—so I can come every day, okay?” “Come on, go ahead and lay out the futon,” Ogura said as he lifted her up from his lap.

“Yes, I’ll lay out the futon now. Just wait a moment, okay? I’ll tidy up first.” Pressing a handkerchief to her eyes with a lonely look, she began tidying the scattered food around them. Ogura also helped her shift the charcoal braziers and such to the side.

20

The futon was laid out there. It was a single one. The pillow too was only a single male one. "What's wrong? Why did you start crying?" Ogura asked sympathetically as he burrowed into the futon.

“As for me…” “Since coming to this house, meeting someone like you has been a first for me.” “At first, I also thought of you as a ‘customer’,” she said bashfully, sitting modestly before the brazier by the pillow like a young maiden might. “But as we talked and listened and observed each other, you didn’t seem like a sailor anymore.” “I thought this.” “This person must have come here by mistake.” “That’s right, isn’t it?” “You really came here thinking this was just a place to eat beef sukiyaki, didn’t you?” “Don’t you think it’s shameful for us to appear before someone like you?” “Only when the other party is a beast can we become beasts too.” “We curse everything—absolutely everything. As for gods and buddhas, I cursed them long ago and keep them far from my side.” “But you see—someone like you, who came to this house seeking something other than our flesh with the honest heart of a young master—you could never understand our feelings.”

“We never see people like you,” she said. “Women in prison see men far, far more often than we ever see someone like you. You see, all men are beasts.” “Yes, men are absolute beasts,” she continued. “I can state that definitively. But you see… That’s not men’s fault either. That’s you see, the fault of the gods and buddhas. That’s right, isn’t it? You see, they create humans themselves, decide what’s good and what’s bad themselves, and then shove their own creations into the very pit of sin they made—like trapping them in a snare—and that’s the fault of the gods and buddhas. So what I fear isn’t gods and buddhas.”

“Then what are you afraid of?” Ogura was unbearably sleepy, but the woman’s unusual words stirred his excitement, keeping him awake. “I’m cold, so may I come close to you? Okay? It’s just to get close, okay? That’s all.”

Even as she spoke, the woman entered Ogura’s futon without untying her obi. And curling up small like a golden beetle in the corner of the futon, “We can’t find anyone we can truly love from the heart.” “Do you also think our being selective in the first place is wrong? It’s not bad for us to have some discernment, is it? Even flawed discernment still exists—so we can’t love anyone sincerely from the heart. But that doesn’t mean there are no men in this world worthy of our love. Such men do exist. Yes, they do exist. And what’s truly infuriating—utterly maddening—is how presumptuous it all is. Those men we’d want to love earnestly with all our hearts? Without exception, they’re complete fools. Fools and dimwits, utterly vacant. And such men never realize we love them. What’s more, that man himself is quite the fool. Women like us act indifferent—as if declaring we can only love men professionally. Truly, there’s never been any cure for fools since ancient times.”

She spoke rapidly, fervently, and hurriedly—as if single-handedly trying to extinguish a small fire—her fever-driven gaze fixed upward at the ceiling like a sleepwalker’s, her wide-open eyes staring as though peering into the interior of her own skull. And yet, her body remained motionless there as if riveted in place. Ogura understood her words clearly. And he knew full well that he—an affected fool—was being thoroughly lambasted. But even so—“What an astute woman,” he thought—now that his drowsiness had been completely stripped away, his exhausted consciousness was dragged about and torn to shreds by the shifting currents of her words.

“And you see—though such absurdities shouldn’t exist—we too are fools.” “Why do you think that is?” “You see, we invariably fall only for fools.” “That fool, you see—invariably, they only come fluttering in by mistake, like a bewildered sparrow.” “Ohohohoho! Now, Mr. Ogura—you think yourself an intelligent, well-mannered man—a rare steadfast and virtuous sailor, and what’s more, someone actually *beneficial to humanity*—don’t you?” “Now, isn’t that right?” “That’s right, that’s right. I can even understand things about you that you yourself don’t know.” “So, just listen.” “But you see, Mr. Ogura.” “You’re even worse than Mr. Mikami—still just a useless good-for-nothing!” “Understand.” “In this world, you see, there are so many people who make no effort whatsoever to improve this filthy society—instead striving only to make it worse and more rotten—yet still consider themselves utterly blameless, virtuous human beings.” “You wear your hat properly, walk stiffly with meticulousness, never swindle even a single sen from others, give beggars exactly one sen—no more, no less—and when it comes to women, you know only your wife, whom you’ve dried out as uninterestingly as a household rag. Oh, and since youth, you’ve never visited brothels—instead, Mr. Ogura reads navigation manuals, isn’t that right?” “And you’re scheming to obtain a senior maritime officer’s license, aren’t you?” “You’re studying for it, aren’t you?” “You are.” “Listen, it’s fine—to study like you do, striving to climb those stairs.” “But you see, that staircase—it’s a staircase to ruin.” “Understand.” “Even if you manage to climb it, that staircase itself is fated for ruin—and as long as it exists, countless people will be lost in the foundation supporting it. That’s what a staircase to ruin is.”

“That staircase is the root of all this.” “Now, Mr. Ogura.” “In truth—is it good that living humans suffer eternally for a phantom staircase that doesn’t even exist?” “You should understand that.” “You’ve never once torn those scorching eyes away from that staircase.” “That is something you must comprehend.” “You yourself are foremost among the unfortunate—me, everyone else, and even you.” “Fine then! You study relentlessly and playact as a proper do-gooder—all to multiply those countless unfortunate souls!” “Ohohohoho! I’ve finally made you into a complete fool, haven’t I?” “Forgive me.” “But truly—you are a complete fool.” “Ohohohohoho!” The woman’s laughter churned like a ship’s screw shaft at full throttle.

“Ah, that’s the truth!” Ogura blurted out.

“I was hiding behind society’s grand banner of order while trying to satisfy nothing but my own self-interest.” “That’s absolutely true.”

“There—you’ve confessed!” "You—" “You’ll become some lowly captain, bully someone like Mikami, then let yourself be tormented by some senile old fool in a car spouting nonsense?” “Stop it.” “Stop spitting into the air only to have it land back on your face.” “But when you become captain, a truly pure maiden will fall for you.” “And every time the ship docks, she’ll beg you for a diamond ring as a ‘symbol of love’—Ohohohoho!” “That’ll bring you such happiness.” “Someone like me—well, I’m just a prostitute. So what? Mr. Ogura, you’re the type who prefers a proper courtesan over some streetwalker, aren’t you? Ohohoho!” “But you just said, ‘There’s a woman who loves me as much as I love her,’ didn’t you?” “I—I—I have love that’s second to none, but I’m an ex-convict.” “Ohohohoho!” “People in this world—when they realize the iron chains binding them also bind others—find relief, as if their own shackles grow lighter.” “That’s the chain of slave morality.” “They’re chains of convention.” “But you see, Mr. Ogura.” “That’s not how it is for me.”

“I wouldn’t even dream of such a thing—but for instance, even if I wanted to love you, since I’m just a prostitute, you’d say I have no right to, wouldn’t you?” “No—well yes! Just hush!” She hastily interrupted him, though Ogura hadn’t even tried to speak.

“I don’t even have the right to ask you to let me love you.” “But you see, Mr. Ogura—I could never stand egoists who chase phantom staircases, no matter how much they beg me to.” “That’s the way of life spineless people envision.” “That is a far more shameful, depraved, and wicked method than us engaging in this disgraceful trade.”

“But you see, Mr. Ogura—if you weren’t like that—if you were a proper person who didn’t acknowledge any staircases—I would—I would confess that I’ve met someone like you for the first time. And then—if you were the strongest ally of the weak in all the world—I would want to love you. But you know… why am I such a fool? You had someone good, didn’t you? I—I—even I, Mr. Ogura… Unlike you taking senior maritime exams to become captain—not through exams or petitions—I was thrown into this trade by force. You understand what I’m saying—Ohohohoho! What I’m saying is—even if I’m in this trade, I intend for that to be none of my concern. The fact that you’re a sailor and I’m doing such filthy work—they’re the same in nature. And you see—I’m the one who’s actually shouldering the painful parts that deserve far more respect than they get. Do you understand? To live—humans must endure any pain. To survive, people will cling to even the quickest ways to die.”

“Someone like me will end up dying after being forced to do nothing but the exact opposite of what I truly wanted my entire life. Not a single thing ever goes the way I want it to. At first, I thought you were just another customer. Then I thought you were some sheltered young master. Next, I thought you were a truly understanding, gentle person. And now—well—what should I say? You’re... my father. The one who gave birth to me—my real father I’ve never known—Ohohohoho... My father...”

21

That night was utterly demon-ridden. It was an oppressive, tormenting, alluring night—as if a branding iron were searing human nerves. It was a night where extreme joy and endless suffering blended together into a viscous, inseparable mass.

That night branded memories upon both Mikami and Ogura—memories so unbearable to look back upon. One might have thought it should be a night that would never end throughout eternity. So momentous was that night for the two of them.

In a person’s lifetime there exist momentous events that overturn all their circumstances with a single blow; within society there exist great upheavals that profoundly disturb its entire fabric. And yet these events unfailingly occur by night or day while nights dawn into mornings unrelatedly—inevitably instilling in those confronting them both individually and collectively an absurd wondrous disquiet. Among them stand those compelled to think “Ah—though something so momentous befell me—look now—the night has ended.”

Mikami and Ogura each awoke at six in the morning with such feelings. Both of them had swollen eyes.

The night ended. And so，with the major incident still unresolved，it carried over into dawn. That act of carrying through the night had thickened the facts a thousandfold. One night—five hours—sampan mooring—sailors’ sleep—it was nothing significant. It was an utterly ordinary，trivial matter.

However, when the stage of that [conflict] was narrowed from society down to the *Manjumaru*, the problem grew gravely significant. Be that as it may, even if Ogura had forgotten about the "staircase," he thought it best to resolve everything once they returned to the ship. However, Mikami thought that was a foolish approach. There lay the difference between Mikami and Ogura.

The two men left the house. And as they walked back along the coast toward where the sampan was moored, they discussed how to conclude the incident. “I ain’t goin’ back,” Mikami had been insisting. “But if we don’t go back, we won’t know how things stand.” This was Ogura’s way of putting it. “I don’t need to know how things stand.” “We should flog that sampan or pawn it and get the hell out of here.” Mikami voiced his plan for the first time.

“But that’s a real problem, I tell you.” “I’ve got my seaman’s book deposited and my luggage too—that’s a real problem.” Ogura was utterly at a loss. He’d even sunk ships twice while taking exams for his captain’s license, gaining the necessary credentials through such hands-on experience. They were all entered in the seaman’s book.

“So even though I’ve been saying goodbye this whole time, you’re the one who keeps dawdling and following me around! You go hire a sampan and get back. And then, just say that Mikami stole the sampan or whatever and leave it at that, why don’t you? I’m selling this and getting out of here. I don’t want any luggage or seaman’s book or whatever. Hurry up and get back, you!” Mikami spun around in the opposite direction and began walking back toward the pier. Ogura also unconsciously followed suit.

“But it’s not like you’re the only one at fault here—the Captain was being unreasonable from the start. So even if you go back, nothing will come of it.” “You should go back.”

Ogura repeatedly urged Mikami to adopt a peaceful approach.

“Everything’s pissing me off.” “If I go back, it’ll be right when we’re about to sail.” “Till then, I’ll lay low and watch how things play out.”

Having said this, he strode off resolutely.

Ogura followed after Mikami in a daze, moving unthinkingly as though still caught in a dream.

Mikami came to the pier and nimbly leapt aboard the ship’s sampan that had been moored there the previous night. As Ogura moved to board, Mikami waved his hand and said, “Tell everyone I’ll come back on this”—he pointed at the sampan—“just before we set sail. Got it?” “Right?” he added, giving the pier a mighty shove and pushing off.

Ogura stood as if in a daze. Mikami, putting all his might into his muscular arms that looked strong enough to take on five men, passed under the bridge and disappeared from view. "Indeed, Mikami couldn't go back," he thought. "He'd threatened the Captain—and then I told him to return—yet he stayed over last night. What a fool I'd been! Mikami was bound to get beaten up regardless of whether there was reason or not." Mikami had gone off after formulating his own brand of plan—to pawn the sampan. But no matter how comical that method might have been, it was far better than him trudging back to the ship. "Knowing full well," he reflected, "there was no sense in him sticking his head into that trap." Ogura stood there bewildered, like a country bumpkin who had forgotten where he was going. His role had taken on an indescribably strange, absurdly comical, and utterly mysterious quality.

"He came on the ship’s sampan, and now I had to hire a sampan to get back! What on earth had happened? And this responsibility lay with Mikami and me. What the hell was going to happen? To hell with it! If I went back and checked, things would work out somehow."

He hired a sampan and asked to be taken to the Manjumaru.

“When’d the Manju get in?” asked a brother crawling out from the lice-infested shack. “Late last night.” He answered.

“Wasn’t the sampan moored here this morning the Manju’s?” asked the boatman. “These guys know. Heh, they should know.” “It’s seven o’clock already.” “But was last night’s affair truly something I experienced, or… It was all so strange.” Ogura was thinking about the woman from last night. She was wise and a “pure” woman.

二二

Ogura returned to the Manjumaru. The duty quartermaster, upon climbing up the ladder, immediately grabbed Ogura.

“What’s the matter?” “I was worried sick last night—kept wonderin’ if you’d been swept overboard.” “And what about the sampan? Did it get smashed after all?” Those who’d stayed aboard knew nothing of what had happened. On such a storm-battered night—when even regular sampans stayed moored—the sailors had assumed Mikami and Ogura couldn’t return because they’d lost the ship’s boat, fretting over it all night long. “If I say we collided with the bridge after dropping off the Captain—though that tub wasn’t half rotten—they won’t catch on unless Mikami shows up or that boatman blabs,” Ogura thought rapidly. “But then where’d Mikami go? No point hiding it—better spill everything.” "If this backfires, we’ll face it when it comes," he decided in a flash.

“It wasn’t wrecked at all. Things took a strange turn, and now I’m in a real bind.” Ogura truly felt keenly—now, regarding that matter—that he had to speak up: this wasn’t an issue that could be resolved as easily as he’d imagined. It was utterly vexing.

“What happened? What the hell—and where’s Mikami?” “Mikami should’ve come back on the sampan this morning.” Ogura resolved not to mention Mikami’s utterly implausible plan—to either sell off the sampan or pawn it. “Don’t give me that crap. No one’s coming back.” “In that case, let’s go out on deck and I’ll explain all the details properly. A bit of trouble has come up. The Captain and Mikami had a quarrel. I’ll explain that out on deck now. Is everyone here, I wonder?” Ogura said this and, having already descended the gangway to the deck, ran off.

On deck, everyone from the Bosun to the ship’s carpenter and the sailors made all preparations to be ready for entering port at any moment and were waiting for the Captain’s return. But even more than that, they were waiting impatiently for news of Mikami and Ogura.

“I’m really sorry! I’m back!” Ogura came dashing in there while shouting.

“What’s Mikami trying to pull?” “So the bastard went whoring after all!” “Did he make it back on the sampan?” “Slick operator, ain’t he?”

The first words of what each person had thought and imagined came flying at him all at once around his ears with a thunderous roar, like coal plummeting from the pier into the ship’s hold.

Ogura summarized the events—starting from last night’s perilous voyage, to the Captain’s attitude, to Mikami’s actions—explaining how they had stayed at an inn (he did not mention it was a disreputable one) to dry their frozen clothes and wait until morning for them to thaw, and how Mikami had silently left the inn ahead of him, telling the inn staff he would return first via the ship’s sampan. When he hurriedly rushed out and came to the pier, Mikami was already nowhere to be seen. He briefly yet concisely explained matters such as what measures the Captain might take and that he would certainly not let things stand as they were.

The sailors listened in silence. Moreover, not only did they not worry as much as Ogura about Mikami having left ahead and still not returning, but they actually found it rather satisfying. They even joked sarcastically, “It would’ve been more fun if he’d just escaped on the ship itself.” Not a single person brought forth an opinion suggesting “This is what should be done” regarding the matter. Everyone, having heard this unusual and bizarre tale, ended up satisfied with both the story and the incident.

Ogura keenly felt here once again that he had overlooked matters too simplistically, and that now he alone had been made solely responsible.

Ogura was an extremely kind-hearted yet weak-willed young man—what people would call calm and level-headed. Because of this, he had always followed a policy of avoiding trouble. For this conflict-averse man to be swept into the vortex of a whirlwind incident proved unbearable. He completely lost his bearings—what to do, who he even was, how he should handle things—none of it made any sense to him. Though no one had ever confided in him before, it had become an ironclad rule that whenever someone's most critical secret grew too unwieldy to handle alone, everyone—despite Fujiwara never appearing particularly close to anyone—would bring their troubles to him for consultation. Following this precedent, Ogura too resolved to seek Fujiwara's counsel.

Fujiwara had withdrawn from the conversation he had been dominating and now sat silently in a corner listening to accounts of the incident. He was smoking so furiously that tar seeped from the cigarette's filter.

“Fujiwara.” “What do you think we should do?” Ogura asked as he sat down facing him. “I don’t know all the details yet,” he replied, “but from what I understand, neither you nor Mikami bear any responsibility.” “Do you really think so? But Mikami practically forced that ten-yen loan.” “And he didn’t return last night—today he’s taken off somewhere with the sampan.” “Now I’m terrified all responsibility will land on me—though of course I am partly responsible.” “What should I do? Maybe I should go apologize to the Captain as soon as he returns?”

Ogura was at a loss. He would have been far more willing—even relieved—to strip naked and leap into the sea that very moment if ordered to do so, provided it settled the matter. He was terrified of remaining suspended in this unresolved state—that "a problem of such magnitude still hadn't been resolved." He thought that if this issue were to drag on for one or two months in a state where "it would surface someday, though no one knew when," it might have been far easier for him to shoulder everything—morally, legally (if such concepts applied), and materially—by taking full responsibility for both his own actions and Mikami's as a single burden.

"I can’t help but feel this has been dragging on for three years straight." Ogura, like a woman seized by hysteria, found himself unable to think of anything beyond the sampan affair. "Should I go apologize to the Captain?" "That’s one approach." "But you—what exactly do you intend to apologize for?" "For neglecting an apprentice he never even hired while sneaking ashore himself at night?" "For sailing right past that shipwreck without batting an eye?" "If there’s cause for apology and matters requiring it, by all means apologize." "But apologizing without cause will either parade your own righteousness or amount to mere groveling." "There’s no need for such panic." "Consider the matter calmly from beginning to end." "Setting aside who’s right or wrong—shouldn’t we immediately see where justice lies?" "Sneaking ashore under night’s cover without port authority approval, landing before quarantine—even on the calmest evening, these remain undeniably wrong." "So procedurally speaking, he should start by apologizing for that."

Fujiwara had a completely different way of looking at things than I did. But that too was one way of looking at it. It was a rather crude way of looking at things, but it was the truthful one. I wonder. Really—would it truly be all right to do what’s right? And so Ogura still had not been able to reach a decision.

"What Fujiwara said has something in common with what that woman said last night," Ogura suddenly thought. That woman was a jewel! But this was no time for that—though come to think of it, hadn't she called him "more of a freeloader than Mikami"? And she'd been absolutely right. What about him? He couldn't even sort out his own affairs, while Mikami had handled everything decisively alone. Within him festered this bourgeois transactional mentality that betrayed his own mind and wagged its tail. That's what was ruining him—why couldn't he act as his mind commanded like Fujiwara advised? Ah, he truly was nothing but a slug! He attributed the working class's misery to lack of resolve and sacrifice, yet he himself stood foremost among those failures. He'd discovered within himself the archetypal coward who betrays the proletariat. Before directing ideological outrage outward, he must first sacrifice this shameful self—this cowardly, opportunistic, traitorous egoist serving as capitalism's lackey. He must abandon the delusion that becoming a bourgeois steward could save his village. What needed saving wasn't just his village, but everything on this earth.

Ogura thought with such vigor—as if he might leap at any bourgeois he came across—but this remained utterly impossible for him. He was still an opportunist. Even if everything rotted away, so long as it stayed round, that meant "reassurance."

Due to his indecisive character, Ogura was nothing more than a wooden puppet—utterly incapable of fulfilling any role in the progression of this incident.

The insult Mikami gave the Captain was turned by the Captain into a form of revenge against all lower-ranking crew members.

And this matter triggered the aforementioned strike.

Bourgeois lackeys vs. the proletariat! On the ship, the bourgeois never revealed themselves to the laborers in their role as employers.

A few

Mikami pushed the sampan out once as far as off Kanagawa but turned back and entered Horikawa. When he went out off Kanagawa, he used a sheath knife to scrape off *Manjumaru*, which had been painted on the sampan.

He moored the sampan at the docking spot of Boren—his regular lodging in Okina-machi—where sampans were tied. And then, he lumbered up to that Boren called Kobayashi.

The Boren Owner had gone out to sea to take his chances, using as boatman a sailor staying there rent-free in pursuit of opportunities aboard his sole basket-like property—the sampan—and was away.

The woman was there. She was a former prostitute with a dark complexion reminiscent of a female impersonator from amateur rural kabuki—gaunt-and-spindly like a withered pumpkin flower. To put it simply, she was "Sanma" Auntie. This auntie was there.

This auntie was not the old man’s wife. She was the wife of a sailor who had boarded a ship through the old man’s help, was now working on a foreign vessel, and about four years prior from Hamburg had sent a letter stating he would return soon along with two hundred yen.

While the wife kept waiting, thinking he’d return any moment now—any moment—the two hundred yen and a year vanished without a trace. So, starting about three years prior, as a widow, she had come to this Boren Owner’s place to cook meals and had been lying in wait for her husband’s return.

“Oh! Mikami-san!” “What’s wrong? When did you arrive?”

The auntie saw Mikami lumbering into view and placed her half-smoked long pipe before the oblong brazier before turning sharply toward the entrance and speaking.

“Is the old man out chasing opportunities?” Mikami asked bluntly. “Yes, same as ever—in a hurry?” “Or can you take your time?” the auntie asked. “No rush—mind if I come up?” he said, though he’d already stepped up and settled on the zabuton cushion before the long brazier, “letting himself in.” He began briskly puffing tobacco through the auntie’s long pipe. “It’s been quite some time, Mikami-san. “You haven’t stayed away this long from over there, have you? “You’ll get scolded otherwise.”

“Shinkane-cho? The old man’s running late again this voyage too, eh?” “How many now?” “Eleven crewmen—year-end’s coming, no jobs openin’ up, nowhere to bunk—the old man’s proper flustered,” she said, making a circle with her finger. Eleven sailors were resting there now. “Auntie—your old man still not back?” Mikami asked.

“He hasn’t come back yet.” “Probably went and got himself some red-haired, blue-eyed wife over there.” “Keep that cheating act up and you’ll regret it big time. Ha ha ha ha!” “If only there was anyone to cheat with in the first place.” “Ho ho ho ho ho!”

“Since I’ve disembarked, I’ll be staying here again for a while. I’m counting on you—got it? I’ll head out for a bit—when the old man comes back, tell him that.” As Mikami was putting on his shoes, “And your luggage? The storage locker? The old man’s been short on cash lately—if you don’t put in at least ten or fifteen yen upfront, it won’t fly. You get that, right?” Auntie pressed firmly. She meant he absolutely couldn’t stay unless he paid a deposit of ten or fifteen yen.

“Don’t worry about it. Even saying that much is pure tactlessness. Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh!” Mikami headed out to the street.

He went to a nearby pawnshop. That was his regular pawnshop. “Welcome back—it’s been a while. What have you brought today?” the owner asked. “Well, here’s the thing.” “I can’t bring the item here, but I want to borrow money using the sampan as collateral for two days.” “I need to repay cash to the Bosun who lent it to me, but I’m short now.” “The ship—the ×× Maru—is docked, so the sampan’s moored there.” “So I want to borrow against it for two days.” “I don’t care how high the interest is.” “What do you think?” “Could you go take a look?” “It’s tied up there but…” Mikami had planned this since before boarding the sampan last night. And he had complete faith in that plan.

“Using a sampan as collateral is a bit problematic, you see.” “It won’t fit into the storehouse, you see.” “And with it being a ship’s sampan, that makes it all the more impossible to handle.” “Well, if you had some other item instead, perhaps...” The owner flatly refused.

Mikami was stunned. He stood shocked. Never before had he devised any scheme as thoroughly and over such prolonged preparation as this current endeavor. This plan had been brewing since their mooring in Muroran. Everything had unfolded precisely according to his design up to seizing control of the sampan. Yet at this final stage, to have such an insignificant obstacle thwart him—this reality left him dumbfounded. "But this shop clearly has no experience handling sampans," it suddenly struck him.

“Goodbye.” He dashed out from there. Now he walked more hurriedly than before. As he walked, he found it absurd that despite this being such a busy wharf, not a single sampan shop had opened for business. "Even shoes have secondhand night stalls set up—" He was utterly disappointed.

He spent the entire day being refused by every possible pawnshop and rejected by every boat rental shop until he became utterly consumed by wretchedness.

"The sampan can't be sold—no use rushing it—but maybe I can unload it on the old man." Like a dog kicked from all sides, body and spirit worn to shreds, he'd fixed his sights on the Boren Owner. He harbored no despair.

He opened the front door of the Boren around 11 PM.

The old man was awake. He watched sharply as he entered. Mikami sat down in front of the rectangular brazier and lit a cigarette. It was a six-tatami room. In one corner, two crew members were sleeping.

The old man remained silent for a while, smoking a cigarette as well.

“Old man. “I got off the ship today. Also, I’ll be relying on you for a while.” Mikami broached the subject.

“I got off.” “So you’re planning to get on another ship again?” The old man responded strangely.

When a sailor disembarked and stayed at the Boren, resting there while looking for work until boarding the next ship was their only path. “Ah, I’ve had enough of the Manjumaru. This time, it’s gonna be a real ocean voyage.”

But something felt off—the old man was acting suspicious. Maybe he’d gone to the Manjumaru today? But I figured it’d be better to keep playing dumb until I could pull it off.

“I see. An ocean voyage might be good.” “But for an ocean voyage, you need a spotless record.” “Let me see your logbook—I’ll keep it safe.”

A masterful verbal dagger struck true at Mikami’s heart.

“Ah! The seaman’s logbook!” Mikami exclaimed in surprise, slapping his knee. “I left it on the ship!” “You can’t be joking,” retorted the Boren Owner. “Mikami, I went to the Manjumaru today and heard everything. Enough already—you even stole the damned sampan! What the hell were you planning to do with that thing?” “Yeah? To hell with this!” Mikami shot back. “Screw it all! The sampan’s tied up, I tell you.” “Where?” “Right where your own sampan’s moored.”

“Why’d you row that goddamn nuisance here at a snail’s pace?” “Gonna sell it off!”

“You think there’s buyers?” “If it’s for sale, there oughta be buyers, shouldn’t there?”

The old man had decided he was "done" having "serious" talks with Mikami. "But even so, to be stuck dealing with this bastard—" His business was going under. “You’re no good in Yokohama anymore—why not try headin’ to Kobe or somewhere on that sampan of yours, huh?” “I’ll wait ’til Manjumaru comes back, I tell you. “At the shore.” “The seaman’s logbook’s mine, I tell you.” “I hear the captain of the Manjumaru said he’s gonna throw you in prison.”

“But the Captain won’t do that. Before they throw me in prison, that bastard’ll be tossed into the sea!” “You went and threatened the Captain, didn’t you? ‘I’ll toss you into the sea!’ You’ve done something outrageous, haven’t you? But everyone outside was thrilled. ‘Say what you will about Mikami—when it’s time to act, there’s nobody who can do what he does!’ they said. But you gotta be careful for a while—best stay outta Yokohama for some time, I tell ya. How ’bout headin’ to Kobe or Nagasaki or somethin’?”

“Old man, will you get the seaman’s logbook for me?”

"I could fetch that for you, but I won't hand it over. I've got records at my place way better than that one—take those instead." Mikami took another man's logbook, became another man himself, and went to Kobe. The sampan was kept by the Boren Owner, who resolved to return it when the Manju made port.

The hiring of seamen was an entirely cumbersome process. Under exceedingly rigorous procedures, they were regulated with utmost strictness—and there were scarcely any other laborers so exploited as them. For example, Mikami had been working on steamships for five years and had only just reached a monthly salary of eighteen yen. It was absurd. Absolutely! Moreover, in contrast to that, their lives were thrown out into the open!

24

The Manjumaru took three boilers bound for the Hokkaido Manshū Coal Mine into its cavernous hold during the voyage from Yokohama to Muroran. That was an exceedingly time-consuming and troublesome loading process. But in Yokohama, there were plenty of stevedores accustomed to this kind of cargo handling. Therefore, the sailors also felt secure and helped with the work. Moreover, since the Chief Mate also knew about these matters, he didn’t get particularly worked up either.

Because it was an unusual cargo that served to relieve their boredom and break the monotony, by the time they had finished loading it, the sailors felt as though they had accomplished something rather enjoyable.

From Yokohama to Muroran, the Manjumaru appeared three times larger in hull size than when it had traveled from Muroran to Yokohama. This was because, having no cargo, it sailed along with nearly its entire red belly exposed, churning through the waves with its screw. Consequently, the distance from the deck to the water’s surface had grown considerably greater. The seawater pump on deck had become like an air pump, doing nothing but hiss incessantly.

In this situation, the latrine cleaner Nada found his task made a hundred times more difficult. He would either go all the way to the freshwater pump to draw water—a method he couldn’t use much since it would cause an uproar if discovered—or tie a rope to an oil drum and haul it up from the sea. This was truly a miserable task. It seemed that a mere oil drum’s worth of water shouldn’t have been so heavy, shouldn’t have taken so endlessly long to haul up halfway. If he neglected to flush water through the latrine even once in the evening due to the sheer hassle of hauling it up, the pipe would become packed with frozen feces. On days when it froze solid, Nada would literally be "grabbing shit"—on ships, encountering a clog was called "grabbing shit."

The pipe—an iron tube approximately one foot in diameter—would freeze such that the sewage tank solidified entirely in its frozen form. When it froze, Nada would first go down to the engine room to fetch boiling water. The distance from engine room to deck—and above all, that grueling climb up and down to the boiler room—was excruciating. What made it worse was hauling up an oil drum brimming with scalding water on a rope, taking care not to spill a drop—for any leakage would scald the stokers below. He had to climb that slippery iron ladder coated in grease. This required meticulous caution and full preparation. He performed this task—carrying a bucket down, climbing back up without slipping or spilling—sweating as though in midsummer’s peak heat, then immediately shifting to frozen latrine work upon exiting the boiler room.

He used boiling water and a bamboo pole, wielding both chemical reactions and physical force to blast away his comrades' stubbornly frozen waste. Before dousing it with boiling water, he would first apply vigorous physical force using a bamboo broom handle—*physical force* being a term borrowed from the Second Mate's lexicon—and then, when gaps began forming between fecal molecules, he'd pour the scalding water—never dribbling it out cautiously at this stage, but resolutely—dump it all at once.

Instantly, an intense stench rose along with the steam, as if the lid of fuming nitric acid had been opened. And this steam, much like fuming nitric acid, made even its smoke appear yellow. And amidst this billowing steam and stench, if there came a thunderous roar, it was proof that the waste began to flow out. If, unfortunately, the sound did not occur, Nada would have to repeat the same process several times.

As soon as Nada poured the boiling water into the waste pot, he threw down the pole and bucket there and went to the side to observe the activity of the scupper spewing out filth. That was a filthy job. And it was an unpleasant, difficult job. That was just as unpleasant an affair as us squatting over a toilet. That also meant that when everything gushed out vigorously—just as when we squat over a toilet—it signified our bowels being cleansed, and it was a pleasant affair.

Nada watched the cascade of filth splattering out from the scupper toward the Pacific’s surging waves and thought this was truly a thrill no one but a latrine cleaner could ever experience. "I’m refreshed now, and everyone else gets refreshed too," he mused. Nada went to the boiler room to wash and dry his clothes.

And as he washed those soiled clothes, he thought: “If gods exist at all, they ought to dwell in cesspits.” “Because if there were gods or buddhas, how could they possibly monopolize those vast spacious places for themselves alone when the humans they supposedly love are living in pigsties or beneath temple floors and shrine eaves? If such gods and buddhas existed, they would be deities that must be vanquished by Iwami Jūtarō—never genuine ones. Even humans—who should rank below gods and buddhas—are now declaring, ‘Until all have bread, none may hold sweets!’ If that’s the case, then gods truly belong in cesspits!”

According to Nada, gods were terrifying and had to burrow into filthy places. "I saw god in the latrine. I’ve never seen it anywhere else," Nada would insist anytime, anywhere. "And that god wears work clothes just like mine, always cleaning the latrine before I do! That was a laborer. It had taken the form of a laborer who received no wages!" "And if god isn’t a laborer and isn’t in the latrine either, there’s no way I could drag myself ashore to go searching around temples and shrines. What takes real bread from humans and tries to deceive them by offering spiritual bread that can’t be eaten or fill their stomachs isn’t a god. That’s the bourgeois or their relatives."

This was Nada’s conception of religion.

“If that god received a monthly wage of eight yen each, he’d be none other than Mr. Nada himself.” “The unfortunate thing is—there’s just one difference—and that’s a problem.” Fujiwara laughed as he said this.

On the ship, it could be said there was not a single person who believed in religion. Only the Bosun and the Ship’s Carpenter would pull out the Kotohira Daimyojin from the drawer under their berths and make use of it—but solely during riots. They habitually reasoned that if those things could be of even the slightest use, they must make use of them or it would be “a loss.” Only a single plank separates us from hell. People—sailors in particular—might have felt the urge to depend on some superhuman “gods or buddhas,” yet they could not bring themselves to believe in such utterly absurd things. Religion was now either utterly worthless or had been professionalized through theology and scriptures that obfuscated its true nature with ambiguity and sophistry. Religion now barely sustained its life only by becoming a usurer’s henchman or a murderer’s accomplice, even serving as their legal defender.

The story had strayed into an utterly absurd digression.

25

The *Manjumaru* was scheduled to swiftly complete cargo handling in Muroran, fully paint the ship’s masts and other parts while anchored there, and return to Yokohama for New Year’s celebrations. And according to this plan, if they executed all tasks at maximum speed with smooth progress, they would barely reach Yokohama on New Year’s Eve.

For these reasons, our fan-like *Manjumaru*, its pig-like body sweating profusely, strained at its full speed of nine knots. And due to this tremendous velocity, the hull shuddered forward with self-induced vibrations like those of Pacific Line’s Emuroshia at full throttle. The reason our *Manjumaru* swayed at a mere nine knots lay in her cavernous structure—from deck to bottom in every direction she gaped hollow and pillarless, engineered to devour maximum coal. She resembled nothing so much as the hollow interior of a soccer ball.

Winter in Hokkaido brought relentless fog. Foghorns sounded by steamships, cannon-like fog signals fired from lighthouses. The *Manjumaru*, resembling a football that had rolled into the sea and now blinded by the fog, should by all means have reduced its speed of nine knots even further. However, when considering New Year’s, the Captain could not afford to reduce the ship’s speed from this point onward. Instead, he sounded the foghorn incessantly and recklessly.

It resembled a distant dog’s howl—as if heralding the precursor to some calamity. The timbre was one that could not help but instill in its listeners something akin to a foreboding premonition. Even the same steam whistle—the departure whistle sounded lonesome, while the arrival whistle rang out vigorous and triumphant. Even the same steam whistle, when it was a foghorn, drew people into an ominous, unsettling, and somehow restless mood. The Captain himself, who was pulling the strings, kept pulling them one after another as if chased by that very sound. The foghorn grew ever deeper, and just as the fog stole the scenery from people, so too did it steal light and calm from their hearts.

Even with precise nautical charts and a compass, and even though the sea was as vast as minnows swimming in a lake, the inability to see ahead was deeply unsettling. To the sailors especially, it seemed as though they were running blindly and recklessly—like a blind man shouldering his cane, literally groping their way forward.

Nishizawa and Nada Yoshio had gone up to the bridge and were observing Ogura’s helm control. Just as a car driver constantly turns their steering wheel, the steamship’s helm was ceaselessly rotated and adjusted while fixed on the compass ahead. Even nine knots—its influence on the psychology of the Captain, who governed this entire ship under his authority—was by no means a sluggish pace when he ascended this bridge where nothing but ocean waves stretched into view and this single vessel lay entirely under his command. This small, fan-like ship was also great to him. Especially when the fog grew thick, the Captain could even envision this two-thousand-ton ship as twenty thousand tons. This was because the entire ship had been blurred into indistinct outlines by the fog, allowing his imagination to expand it.

In the darkness, knowing no one was watching—just as anyone might suddenly puff themselves up and strut about like a police chief for two steps—the *Manjumaru* appeared to sail with the pretentious air of a grand vessel.

But even so, it was perplexing. Daikoku Island, which blocks Muroran Port, should have been there by now according to the time, compass, and nautical chart. Yet in reality, neither Daikoku Island’s lighthouse nor its fog signal could be seen or heard. Our Manjumaru was proceeding at full speed of nine knots, with the Captain himself standing on the bridge commanding Ogura at the helm. Nada and Nishizawa each earnestly observed and mentally studied how to steer the ship and maintain its course.

They found it utterly bewildering—this ship racing frantically through the impenetrable fog with nothing but a compass and nautical chart to guide it. The *Manjumaru*, ceaselessly sounding its mournful howl of a distant dog, thus pressed onward. Above the fog, the darkness of night began to spill its ink. Everything grew dim, like the final vestiges of sight in someone about to go blind.

Suddenly, everyone standing on the bridge—from the Captain down to Nada—leapt up in alarm. A massive warship with terrifying speed fired its main guns and, with that roar, came charging straight toward the bow of the pitiful *Manjumaru*. It was an utterly sudden situation. “Hard-a-port!” the Captain shouted as he leapt up before Ogura, who was operating the helm. That voice resounded desperately across the bridge.

The signal device to the engine room commanded “FULL SPEED GO ASTERN,” ordering full reverse, and clang clang clang clang rang out piercingly. Everyone on the bridge—starting with the Captain and including Ogura—steeled themselves for a collision.

Nada Yoshio and Nishizawa somehow couldn’t make sense of it at all.

All of this unfolded in a breathless instant. And then, the ship swung sharply. Nada, Nishizawa, and even the Captain staggered so violently—despite their experience—that they nearly lost their footing. And the mountain-like monster—which Nada and Nishizawa had thought was a warship—that had seemed on the verge of collision vanished to port at full speed, swift as wind. Then from the monster came boom after boom of thunderous cannon fire.

Our *Manjumaru*, like a pitiful little puppy, now stood frozen. In other words, she had lost her nerve. She frantically sounded her emergency whistle, called for help, and threw her anchor there. The monster that had so startled the *Manjumaru*—a warship-like entity with fearsome speed—was in fact Daikoku Island, as motionless as though a hundred years were but a day; its cannons had been fog signals. Our *Manjumaru* had charged headlong at nine knots until twenty ken away, aiming straight for Daikoku Island’s rocky base.

That was close.

When the anchor dropped, they all involuntarily sighed in relief. At Daikoku Island’s lighthouse, they had spotted a ship charging recklessly and brazenly toward them, triggering a frantic barrage of danger signals. Fortunately, this outlaw abandoned its reckless charge at the last moment.

The *Manjumaru*, as if declaring “It’s dangerous to move,” dropped anchor there and spent the night like a blind person frozen in place. It was a night of bizarre extremity. Both the ship and the senior officers were restless. Only those on deck were able to sleep soundly through the night.

26

The next morning, the Manjumaru found itself beneath a crystalline expanse illuminated by snow. She had thrust her neck into an exceedingly dangerous place.

The sailors found themselves facing snow-covered rocks resembling an eagle’s talons on Daikoku Island—so close they could almost reach out and touch them—while to their left, they spotted a reef that dyed the entire sea black like a demon’s eye.

She entered Muroran Port at dawn on tiptoe, as if ashamed to have her unsightly form seen, feigning nonchalance.

She should have immediately pulled alongside the trestle bridge for coal loading, but since she had to remain offshore until the boiler’s cargo was unloaded, she dropped anchor—the very one she’d just weighed—near the center of Muroran Bay, feigning nonchalance. The launch of the North Sea Coal Mine Company, to which the Manjumaru belonged, came swiftly and energetically. The stern and deck sampans were also rowed up by a boatman who looked like a prisoner, wearing a thick coat made from a red blanket. The offshore vendor’s daughter also came aboard early.

The sailors returned to the deck to have breakfast before preparing for the boiler unloading. On the dining table were rice, miso soup, and takuan pickles laid out. At one end of the bench sat the offshore vendor’s daughter—a petty trader who came aboard to sell snacks and daily necessities—her boxes stacked with fruit and cheap sweets, waiting for when she could open them. Sailors, no matter how much they loved their drink, were equally fond of sweets. It was the same as when prisoners eating sweet bean buns in place of lunch would see a guard passing by with one and think that guard must be the happiest person in the world simply for being able to eat a sweet bean bun. In prison and aboard ship, sweets were more precious than diamonds.

Nada devoted his entire income to the offshore vendor. He was not one to indulge in sailors' conventional vices, yet he squandered his very existence on sweets. He was desperately poor—eight yen a month. Yet despite this, he simply couldn't stop himself from eating about thirty kintsuba. However, his finances refused to permit such consumption. He always wished the offshore vendor would just stop coming altogether. Yet on days when she didn't appear, he grew listless. Truly, he had "squandered his very existence on sweets."

Even in this situation, he quietly took out an envelope from his shelf, and upon seeing a single 50-sen coin gleaming inside, felt an overwhelming temptation toward the sweets box.

"I really do need work clothes and a pair of shoes," he thought. He had only two sets of work clothes and no shoes, wearing rubber-soled tabi socks frozen stiff even in the coldest weather—all because he devoted his entire income to patronizing the sweets vendor. Using the cutoffs from the Bosun’s rubber boots, he wore only the shin portions as makeshift gaiters. To understand how little he spent—or could spend—on anything besides sweets, one needed only look at his head. It had grown as long and become as utterly filthy as a tattered dusting brush. The Bosun, troubled by this, had specifically lent him one yen for a haircut—it was the Bosun’s money, with its twenty percent monthly interest, that he’d borrowed when the sweets vendor came. The Bosun never lent him money for sweets, but Nada had claimed it was for a haircut—and with that, he’d gone and devoured all the kintsuba at once.

He had found a god in the latrine but complained that the sweets box harbored a god of poverty. "But when New Year comes, that'll sort itself out—no use fretting over it," he told himself. While making excuses internally, he approached the sweets box belonging to the offshore vendor's daughter. "How about it—got any decent sweets here?" "They're all tasty morsels, y'know." The sweets vendor's daughter answered in thick Tohoku dialect.

Nada took each type of delicious-looking sweet and ate them one by one. Each time he did this, he kept careful mental calculations. He had wanted kintsuba golden cakes, but the offshore vendor hadn't brought any. In Muroran, only Tōyōken—the town's premier confectioner—produced those. He would march straight into that Cake Hall wearing his shabby outfit without hesitation. Before he even felt satisfied from eating, Nada had already consumed his entire fifty-sen allowance. With no alternative but to borrow more funds, he resigned himself to waiting until Ogura returned.

For Nada, sweets occupied the pinnacle of all desires. If Mikami was present, the Offshore Vendor’s Daughter would be pitifully bullied under the united front of the Bosun, the Ship’s Carpenter, and Mikami himself. She had steeled herself for this, wearing double-layered undergarments as she came aboard to earn her bread through offshore vending.

She was pitifully ugly. She was a woman so appallingly ugly that describing her was a wretched endeavor. She appeared to be around twenty-three or twenty-four years old. For her, having been born a woman was nothing but a misfortune. She let her hair grow out, and when she faced the mirror to tie it, it seemed she must have cursed nature. The offshore vendor who came to the ship’s stokehold with her was utterly unlike her. Though she was about the same age as her, she was a northern beauty.

She was subjected to humiliating mockery from the sailors—particularly the Bosun and Ship’s Carpenter, who reviled her with brutal directness, bluntly stating she resembled an “Indian monkey” so utterly unsuited that they tormented her with shameful ridicule. Even so, she joined in, giggling shrilly as she resisted and teased them, forgetting even her overturned sweets box in the midst of her business.

They were roughhousing like puppies, tumbling about on the dimly lit deck. Nada had heard that she sold not only sweets but her very body, yet just imagining such a thing seemed impossible. She appeared to possess none of the charms a woman could offer a man. She was uglier than the filthy men. And yet, as the rumors had said, she did indeed offer things other than sweets—something Nada only came to understand much later. That was the Bosun’s room.

Doesn’t this resemble spiders in a single bottle, killing each other?

But on that day, none of those things happened at all. Her sweets were plucked one by two by the sailors who had finished their meals.

The Bosun and the Ship’s Carpenter did not forget—at least ritually—to shove her into Nada’s bunk. Next to Nada’s bunk, the Apprentice—weakened and emaciated from his injury—still moaned in pain.

Nada bought the Apprentice two sticks of Korean candy. The Apprentice wept tears of joy.

Illness, injury, even death—these came to be disregarded by people exhausted by life and inured to pain. People worn down by life were filled with suffering scarcely different from illness or injury even in their soundest state. That humans were brought to such a condition—for whose sake, for what purpose, why people must endure such torment—was not a matter to be debated here. What merits note is how this Offshore Vendor’s Daughter later came to live with the ship’s cook—four years after these events were recorded—to set up a household for just two weeks. Two weeks later she was sold off as a barmaid for the cook’s sake and sent to the Yubari Coal Mines, while the cook sold their household goods, became a live-in husband at some widow’s home, transformed himself into an offshore vendor, loaded his boat with daily necessities and sweets, and began supplying them to the main ship—though all this happened much later.

When the sailors finished their meals, the Bosun went to the Chief Engineer's quarters to inquire about the work sequence. The Chief Engineer ordered them to prepare the boilers in preparation for the crane's arrival. The Bosun returned topside and barked, "We're removing the hatch covers now!"

Thereupon, the sailors went out to the deck.

27 With everyone from the storekeeper to the Bosun and Ship’s Carpenter having gone out topside, the only ones left were Apprentice Yasui—who had been pointlessly writhing in agony for over a week in his bunk within a near-darkened room (truly a darkened room)—along with the old sampan operator and that offshore vendor’s daughter. The offshore vendor’s daughter was sitting on the edge of Nada’s bunk. The sampan boatman sat down in front of the stove, and everyone remained silent.

On the outer deck, the sounds of beams striking the deck and winches turning resounded through the entire ship like a great drum. The Apprentice lay utterly bored, managing a body that barely obeyed him. “Miss… could you spare me some sweets?” He spoke in a voice worn thin, barely more than a whisper.

“Oh! You startled me. Someone’s here—right here!” she exclaimed, leaping up to peer into the Apprentice’s darkened room. There lay the Apprentice. “Oh—it’s the Apprentice! You startled me, you know.” She brought her sweets box and spread it out before him. The Apprentice bought them for thirty sen. Then he devoured them voraciously. “Boatman! I want to go ashore today—please take me.” The Apprentice called out to the boatman.

“Sure thing—off to buy yourself a whore?”

The boatman was a good-natured, fiftyish old man with a remarkably large frame. “Nah—I got injured, so I’m going to the hospital.”

He thought that this time, he would surely be able to go to the hospital.

The Apprentice thought. "The fact that I got injured—everyone must have forgotten about it by now. The fact that I got injured must be utterly trivial to everyone else. But that seems too heartless. Especially since my leg has festered and is unbearably painful. I must ask the Captain today—no matter what—to have me admitted to the hospital. If I don’t take care of my own body, who else will? I’ll have the Boatman carry me there. I realized that from now on, I have to do absolutely everything myself."

“Boatman, is there a good hospital in Muroran?” The Apprentice asked. “Oh, there’s a good one—Muroran Hospital up in Yamate Heights.” “How far is it from the pier?” “Hmm… ’bout a kilometer an’ half.” Then there was no way one person could carry me that distance. But they’d need a sled here or something—not likely—so if the Captain didn’t take it serious-like, I’d surely die on this voyage.

“The municipal hospital, you mean?” The Apprentice asked. “It’s not municipal, but it’s public.” The Boatman answered.

“But how did you end up getting injured in the first place?” he asked. “You see, it was during that previous voyage. “From the very day we departed Muroran, there was already a terrible storm. “During that voyage, I got caught between the rudder mechanism’s chain and cover.” The Apprentice began recounting the events of that time here for the first time.

“That day, I went to Tomo Warehouse to retrieve cabbages. “The boss out front told me to fetch them, you see.” “So I put three cabbages into a basket and was walking across the deck toward the cook’s room when the ship suddenly tilted, and I braced my left foot down with all my might.” “Well, you see—unfortunately, the deck was frozen solid, so I slipped and ended up getting caught in the chain.” “At that moment, the rudder mechanism clattered into motion, so I got caught in the chain and ended up with half my body inside the cover.” “And since I was dragged facedown, my chest was apparently slammed hard against the deck.” “I was dazed and unconscious, so I only knew my leg had been crushed and badly injured—but even after being rescued, I never imagined my chest and hands would hurt this much.” “But even if my leg heals completely, when I think I’ll still have to limp to walk, I just don’t know what to do.” “See, I ain’t got nothin’ but my body to rely on—if I end up limpin’, I can’t pull carts no more. No money for schoolin’ neither. Back home, there’s still eight kids left, and even if my tenant farmer dad and ma work themselves black in the fields, they still can’t make ends meet—had to send the little ones out as nursemaids.” “So I thought I’d earn even a little to send home—heard the pay was good, so I signed up on a ship, and this is how it ends up.” “I’ve completely lost all idea of how I’m supposed to go on from here.” “Even when you’re dirt poor like this, havin’ your pa and ma around still makes you feel braver somehow,” he said, his eyes welling up.

Even this youth, who made his living by selling his labor power, now felt a vague yet deep-seated resentment over how this very labor power he sought to sell had been severely impaired. After his injury, he had only had Ichthammol applied two or three times and changed the gauze on his leg himself a couple of times. Due to the pain from his wound, he had become extremely emaciated. He had been driven by that pain to exhaust his nerves completely.

When the sailors went out to work and no one remained on deck, he would let out the cries of pain he had been holding back until now. He screamed whatever came to mind. And he listened desperately to his own voice. The pain in his leg had grown increasingly severe five or six hours after the injury. He thrashed his body—limp as a sodden rag and utterly exhausted—so violently that he nearly tumbled from his bunk onto the deck. He screamed like a madman. And even he himself had a sharply clear awareness of the pain, but because he had concentrated all his nerves solely on that aspect, he remained dimly aware of his own thrashing and screams.

When the sailors returned and saw him in such agony, they had no choice but to console him, saying, “If you thrash around too much, it’ll only make your wound worse. Keep still.” The sailors all felt a shared sense of intense aversion toward the Apprentice’s injury. It was not because his injury had been his own fault. Nor was it because he was the one who had been injured. It was because the sailors felt precisely the same emotion that the Apprentice did—he who had utterly exhausted his nerves over his injury, cursing himself, cursing the world, until at last he even cursed his own foot in despair. The sailors, whether conscious of it or not, could not help but searingly feel their own fate—wailing, screaming, thrashing about—there in every moment: morning and night, during meals and sleep, as if branded by a red-hot iron. There was no escaping it.

The sailors were cast into gloom by the Apprentice’s injury as though it were their own. And they were made irritable as though it were their own injury. They were trying to escape it, rushing frantically. Their cold, indifferent attitude stemmed from their dulled nerves, their being "accustomed" to such things, and their desire to escape having their own fate thrust so clearly before them.

Nada had cut an oil can into two parts to fashion a bedpan and placed it in the corner where his and the Apprentice’s sleeping boxes formed an inverted L-shape. When no one was around to see, Yasui relieved himself into the bedpan. The effort he exerted at that time was truly immense. After relieving himself, he would fall into a state resembling unconsciousness from fatigue and pain. He was seized by the hallucination that everything was happening for the second time. It was exactly as if viewing things through cloudy calcite—everything appeared blurred and double. He felt that both the history stretching back to the distant past and even the fleeting thoughts he had just conceived were occurring for the second time. He tried to retrace where he had experienced and where he had thought that first instance. And there lay his previous life. The ceaselessly impoverished life of a starving, cold tenant farmer’s child unfolded before him in a dual form. Memories of summer vacations from his elementary school days jumbled together with his current state of lying injured in bed. “Just like this is my second time,” he vaguely thought about his injury. “At that time, even though everyone else was resting, I alone went out with my father to weed the rice paddies, I remember.” “At times when I should have rested, I remember weeding in the scalding water of the rice paddies.” “I was not born with time to rest.” “But that time, I got injured, didn’t I?” “And then I rested, didn’t I?” Then, his pitiful, exhausted consciousness dragged him back from weeding rice paddies during summer vacation to the frigid Manjumaru. And once more he had to writhe and moan in agony.

He felt it at the peak of that pain. "To have to experience such pain so vividly—how utterly cruel it is." Yet he found himself feeling something incomprehensible—that it would be better to suffer even greater pain if only it could be duller. But despite there being no need, deliberately subjecting him to such prolonged suffering clearly stemmed from the Captain’s cruelty.

The ship had a budget for injury and illness expenses provided by the company upon formal request. But it would have been more accurate to call that budget an allowance for senior crew members’ family medical costs or their special income. And from these very expenditures, injuries in such cases were “curtailed” by the Captain’s discretion.

In all matters aboard the ship, only the Captain knew everything—just as a Sultan alone holds knowledge within the halls of a Turkish mosque. Something less complete was known to the senior crew members. And the workers did not even know how much the company paid for their food expenses. If those who exploited attempted to do so, the fact that the exploited knew "something"—even something as trivial as two plus two equaling four—would make it difficult for the exploiters to find anything worse than that. In other words, it was best if they knew nothing at all. If they know things, they’ll argue too much—it’s a nuisance! Thus, these surface-dwelling “scoundrels” remained completely ignorant of everything. They even had their handbooks confiscated by the office. And their seals along with them. Thus, they were turned into “scoundrels.”

In that place, those who plundered everything being gentlemen differed not one whit from eighteenth-century British gentlemen. And those plundered were always scoundrels! Indeed, those plundered were always scoundrels! Between plunderers and plundered—gentlemen and scoundrels—the conflict knew no end! How it must have infuriated the Apprentice—being unable to even assert his right to exist! Though hospitals with their rows of tiled roofs stood ready to treat human suffering, he had simply returned by ship from Yokohama unchanged. This was likely because the Captain had “forgotten” what he’d heard from the Chief Engineer about his own Apprentice’s injury. Or perhaps it stemmed from refusing to consider hospitalizing such a wretch—let alone recognizing any need for the injury to “heal properly.” And that was assuredly the case.

That was certainly how it should be. Because it was a matter of differing "class" and "status." And this was because "class" and "status" severed human from human far more harshly than they separated human from ape. Thus, the Apprentice’s injury left the sailors with an indelibly grim impression—one that clung like a cataract clouding their vision, no matter how much they tried to wipe it away. And like a needle hidden in a futon, it pricked these scoundrels with sharp jabs from time to time. Nor would that needle rest until its unbearable pain finally made the "scoundrels" leap up.

The Apprentice, for the sake of his own life—which was more precious to him than anything—resolved that today was the day he would negotiate, whether the other party was the Captain or anyone else. And he decided that he should consult Fujiwara.

28 Meanwhile, the sailors removed the hatch covers and detached the beams to unload the boiler. They climbed down along the scaffolding attached inside the mast and descended into the Damburu. It had been securely packed. While removing it, the sailors recalled how tedious it had been—the difficult work of firmly securing it in place and rigging it to be pulled from various directions to prevent it from rolling around wildly during the voyage. The removal was done with incomparable ease compared to the installation.

The crane, its monstrous frame now visible from the direction of Muroran Station’s engine shed, was being dragged reluctantly by the launch as it approached the Manjumaru. On the square floating platform were installed an iron arm—possessing both the strength and framework to hoist objects weighing twenty-five tons—and a winch; like a poppy seed-sized ant dragging a beetle or some such creature, the little steamer strained to pull it closer, inching forward with great effort.

On the ship’s side, the boiler had been released from all its restraints so that it could be hoisted at any time. Now it could only wait for the great arm to pull it free from that prison. The crane approached. Then extended its massive arm smoothly over the ship’s hatch. A wire rope hung down. At its tip was a hook as thick as a man’s arm. The hook itself defied movement by a single person. Compounding this, Muroran lacked stevedores experienced in such cargo handling. Though the enormous hook dangled ready to catch anything below, the stevedores merely fumbled about.

The sailors also assisted with the cargo handling. But in any case, the foothold was on the boiler's round painted surface. On top of being supremely slippery, the wire rope binding it was as thick as a man's arm. If they fumbled, they would inevitably be flung aside by the wire. Moreover, the hook was a brute that couldn't be budged by a single person. Therefore, the work was exceedingly difficult. However, the time the Captain had allocated for this boiler unloading was extremely short. The Chief Engineer was also aware of this. It went without saying that the Chief too had wanted to spend New Year's in Yokohama. Therefore, he too was hurrying with the boiler. Thus pressured from two fronts to hurry the boiler, the stevedores were not only few in number but also less experienced than those in Yokohama. The work made little progress. The Chief Engineer placed one foot on the hatch and,

“Pull that wire! Not like that! From that side to this side!” “Bosun, hook that wire over there and pull! Look, the shackle’s come loose!” “No good!” “Bosun! You idiot!” “Wrong!” “There! Hook it on—heave-ho! Tsk, it’s come off again!” “Strike! Strike!” He turned bright red and bellowed like an auctioneer. Despite his mounting impatience, the boiler showed no sign of catching on the crane’s hook. The Chief Engineer, as though trying to hook the wire with his voice itself, gradually raised his volume louder and louder. Then, as if the hook’s oversized nature were somehow the Bosun and sailors’ fault, he began reviling them with filthy curses.

The gentlemanly manager revealed his true metal. “Carpenter! Why are you heading to the corner? Pull out that wire! Bosun! What the hell are you doing, spinning around like a damned top?! Spinning won’t lift that boiler! Where do you think you’re going? Look at you, you idiot!” He was openly ridiculing the Bosun’s stupidity. Just as the Bosun, seen from above, seemed only to circle the boiler aimlessly, the Chief Engineer did nothing but circle the Bosun himself—forcing him to fully grasp his own idiocy.

The Bosun panicked. He no longer knew where to begin.

Fujiwara climbed up onto the boiler and waited for the hook to reach a state where it would naturally catch on. And he grew even angrier at how the spineless Bosun and Carpenter were being cursed as “worthless scum” by the Chief Engineer—as usual.

“You bastards are truly idiots! “Even slaves aren’t that servile! “You pigs, squeezing twenty percent monthly interest out of the sailors! “Go on, say something to me, you Chief Engineer bastard! “I’ll make you regret this, you usurer’s errand boy!”

He stood rigidly atop the boiler, like a bolt about to come loose.

The hook smoothly descended between him and Nada, who stood facing each other. Nada lifted the wire's hook eye, thick as a man's arm. It was a weight impossible to sustain even for a second. Fujiwara used his body weight to sway the hook toward the hook eye Nada held. It shifted precisely into place but fell short of fully engaging.

It didn’t work! It didn’t catch. “What’s wrong with you, idiot! Why aren’t you hooking it?!” “Moron!” “Quit it!” The Chief Engineer hurled abuse directly at the Storekeeper. “Nada! Get down! “The Chief Engineer ordered us to stop.”

With that, Fujiwara slid down the wire from the boiler and jumped off. Nada followed.

“What’s wrong, Storekeeper? Where do you think you’re going?!” “Damn you!” The Chief Engineer was acting completely deranged.

Fujiwara went down and called Nishizawa to a place out of sight from the deck.

“Can you keep working like that—being called an idiot and ordered to stop?” “Huh?” “Let’s quit! Why don’t we just get off without even docking at the pier? This is ridiculous!” “We ain’t slaves!” Fujiwara shot a piercing glare at the Bosun.

“Stop! Stop! Honestly, we could abandon this junk heap of a ship anytime, I tell you.” Nishizawa also agreed. “A strike, eh? Well, that’s something we’ve just got to do.” Nada also agreed. The Chief Engineer, up on the deck, panicked as if he’d choked on a rice cake. The Bosun below turned pale as if about to have a fit. And he rushed over to where the Storekeeper was.

“Storekeeper，what’s wrong? Did something upset you?” The Bosun asked timidly，as though another Chief Engineer had materialized before him. “You don’t seem the least bit angry，Bosun.” “We just stopped working because we were ordered to stop by the Chief Engineer—that’s all there is to it.” “And we’ve decided to quit assisting with cargo handling.” “There are stevedores from shore who came specifically for that purpose.” “Besides，we can’t work properly when treated like that in front of them.” Fujiwara replied.

“Don’t say such things—please! We’ll sort everything out later! Just snap out of it and get back to work! What does it matter if I’m nothing but a beast? Come on—Storekeeper, do it!” The Bosun had known they called him a beast. Yet the relationship between Bosun and Chief Engineer differed entirely from that between the sailors and Chief Engineer.

In the former existed the relationship between usurer and clerk; in the latter, that of usurer versus laborer. "It's not like we've got any choice in doing or not doing—we're just following orders by stopping, plain and simple. And you've been told plenty yourself since earlier to make us quit, haven't you? If we don't stop now, you'll catch hell for it later." For the Bosun, either way, it had become a clamorous nuisance of a matter down the line.

The Bosun, smoothly stroking his bald head, desperately pleaded—first with the Storekeeper, then Nishizawa, then Nada—to return to work.

On the deck, the Chief Engineer turned pale. He realized things were going badly. But there was nothing he could do.

On the crane side, they waited with their sleeves rolled up, ready to hoist at any moment with just a single signal from the Chief Engineer. On the deck, the stevedores—who had been restlessly pacing about due to the Chief Engineer’s shouting, though it was none of their concern—suddenly grew dazed when the sailors descended from atop the boiler.

29 The Chief Engineer shouted from the deck, “Bosun!” The Bosun, growing increasingly flustered, suddenly began frantically stroking his bald head and pleaded: “He’s shouting! I’m begging you—just hoist this one boiler! We can settle everything afterward—look, he’s yelling again! Please, Storekeeper, Nishizawa—hey—Nada, please!” Even as he kept up this chatter, he would dash to the mast ladder each time the Chief Engineer called out, only to come running back again: “Right? Hey, you’ll do it, right? Right? Hey, I’m counting on you!”

“We only stopped because we were ordered to by the Chief Engineer—that’s all there is to it.” “Even if the Bosun tells us to do it, we just can’t go through with it.” The Storekeeper held firm. “This is truly a problem, damn it! “Please—I need to go up now because Mr. Chief Engineer is calling me. Just handle things while I’m gone, okay?” “Listen.” “Think you’re helping me.” “Right?”

The Bosun, undersized and dressed like a traveling performer's joker, climbed up the ladder fixed to the mast.

The three sailors had sat down there. They knew their power was immense. They were just three sailors. Moreover, it was simply because they had descended from the boiler without a word. Yet that alone kept this boiler idle, left that crane waiting uselessly, made the stevedores stand watching idly, delayed the ship's departure, and forced the Chief Engineer to turn pale. And all this stemmed from the simple act of temporarily halting their labor! This demonstrated how society's entire foundation depends on workers' labor! Yet though utterly fundamental, this remains the one fact we're never told!

The sailors felt that way and lit their cigarettes.

Fujiwara said to Nishizawa and Nada, “This is still nothing. We can’t escalate to a strike over such trivial grounds. This is just workers’ convulsive spasm. If strikes erupt impulsively without planning, they’ll inevitably fail. Though depending on circumstances, even this might become the spark for a real strike. A three-member strike force—that’d be unprecedented in history, no?”

“But we’ve got to rebel against the Captain, Chief Engineer, and Bosun at every chance we get,” “The Captain and Chief Engineer collude—they receive our food allowance from the company at the end of each month, then have the Bosun lend it back to us at twenty percent monthly interest!” “See? If you don’t take on debt, your wages don’t rise and your reputation suffers!” “Haven’t those brainless bastards been getting raises one after another for six months now?” “They only raise our salaries to collect interest on our debts.” “That’s why they encourage us to visit brothels.” “With debt comes twenty percent profit for them—plus they keep our heads down and stop us from leaving.” “That’s why someone like you stays stuck as Storekeeper forever.” “And why Nada-kun here always gets promoted slower than me.” Nishizawa used their own circumstances as examples in his argument.

Truly, thanks to his astonishing efforts in self-study, Fujiwara was far more knowledgeable about social matters and general academic common sense than even school-educated captains. Ogura learned English, mathematics, and other subjects from Fujiwara. He studied with the intention of taking the senior maritime officer examination. Ogura was also bright; in just over a year, he worked his way up to National Leader Volume 5 and advanced through higher-level algebra. And he came to know that whether it was the Captain or the Chief, they had not attained their positions due to intellectual acumen. But Ogura sought to escape overwork, subjugation, and humiliation by elevating his position. And in the end, it was only after he exhausted every effort—only after being reduced to a broken man—that he came to understand how even saving himself alone was an insurmountable impossibility. He deeply loathed oppression, but instead of risking his life to resist it, he schemed to cling to the walls of power and hide himself—and for this, the sailors called him a coward.

The Bosun came down from the deck. He approached where the three were smoking and said the Chief Engineer had been furious enough to order their immediate disembarkation, but that he had barely managed to persuade him otherwise. He urged them to start cargo handling after finishing their smoke—otherwise, the Chief Engineer was ready to fetch replacements from Boren right away. Fujiwara knew that in seamen's case, Boren had systematically mobilized an industrial reserve army, and that strike-breaking occurred routinely under murky circumstances. He also knew this could happen here. Thus he recognized returning to work was the prudent course.

“Then tell the Chief Engineer we’ll work after a smoke,” said the Bosun. When the Storekeeper readily agreed, the elated Bosun climbed back up to the deck. Fujiwara told Nishizawa and Nada: “The situation’s entirely unfavorable—we must wait for our moment. With so few of us, seizing the right opportunity comes first for total victory.” “That time isn’t now.” “So to wait and show our strength then, we’d better endure this now.” He then discussed various points, emphasizing this was no serious matter yet.

“But this is actually good timing—it’s right before New Year’s, when we might just barely make it back to Yokohama.” “All the conditions are lined up—winter being the only drawback.” “The Apprentice Leader got injured without even being properly hired, and if we’re content to be nothing but draft horses or slaves, fine—but more than that, I doubt there’s a single soul in Muroran taking time off right now,” Nada pressed his case for immediate action.

“So we have to work now, don’t we? Right now, since it’s unclear whether there are any workers resting in Muroran, we’ve no choice but to work for now. Instead, when we go ashore tonight, we can check whether there are any idlers resting there. And if there turn out to be none, we can refuse to move the ship when departure time comes. Even if they tried summoning sailors by telegram all the way to Yokohama, it’d take at least four or five days no matter how fast they acted. What’s more, it’s New Year’s. The very start of the New Year, you see? Plus, we need to see how they handle the Apprentice Leader today. If they provide absolutely no medical aid from the ship, I think we’ll have to circulate a manifesto to the engine room crew and make this an issue for the whole vessel.”

"The problem is that Mikami’s issue remains unresolved." "The Captain’s side will likely use that as a pretext, don’t you think?" "In short, truly, our power can manifest all its potential only when we acutely feel every slave-like condition and their beastly slaughtering ways get exposed." "Whether that moment won’t come for ages or arrives tomorrow morning—it’s something we must watch for unblinkingly. You see?" "That’s why I say it’s better to wait until their brutality shows itself even more nakedly than now—until it’s crystal clear they’re damaging our lives without a shred of regard, direct or indirect." Fujiwara laid out its essence and strategy with meticulous logic.

The Bosun came down. Once the group consultation reached a decision, Fujiwara and Nada took up their posts atop the boiler while Nishizawa went to his position in the ship's hold. The boiler was longer than the hatch opening, making the work extremely difficult. However, by that evening they managed to successfully and safely unload all three boilers.

Now then, after that, the Manshumaru had to position its hatch opening beneath the coal hopper of the elevated pier.

30

As soon as the boilers were loaded onto the lighter, our Manshumaru began weighing anchor to bring itself alongside the elevated pier.

When they began weighing the anchor, the outer compartment vibrated so violently that one anxiously wondered whether everything inside might come rattling loose. The rumbling reverberated throughout. The Apprentice Leader plugged his ears in a manner that suggested he feared his frayed nerves might snap.

When the lid at the center of the sailors' quarters was removed, the space beneath became a box (chain locker) for housing the anchor chain. When all of the chain had been fully let out, that space measured approximately six shaku in width, six shaku five sun in length, and ten shaku in height. There were two such lockers lined up side by side. The chain being wound above would pass through a hole in the deck and feed into this box. Inside this box, Nada had to methodically arrange each link of chain in order. If he failed to do this, the chain would pile up beneath the hole and jam.

Nada lowered a lantern into the box's sloshing interior. He had to hook the iron rod's bent tip onto the descending chain and arrange it methodically. The work demanded haste; it strained muscles in cramped quarters—wet and slippery, dark yet thick with oily smoke, breath-stifling. When the hook slipped from the chain, he'd heave his elbow against the rear wall to thrust himself clear. As chains piled up around him, he wedged himself precariously among them to avoid being crushed. This was work to sicken anyone enduring it just once per voyage. Yet here he was doing it for the second time since yesterday morning.

With a dark expression, Nada descended into the chain locker. He truly felt as though he were descending into hell each time he entered it.

He had heard a tragic story about the chain locker—one that would well up from his memory each time he entered it, threatening him.

It was the 1910s.

In Singapore, a British colony, three-story red-brick tenement houses stretched for over two chō on both sides of Malay Street and Banda Street. These tenements were all occupied by Japanese prostitutes. In both number and scale, they far surpassed the red-light districts of our nation’s major cities like Yokohama and Kobe. At that time, most sailors were thugs—true hoodlums, gamblers driven off land who had turned to the sea. And as for those called captains—many were dubious characters who colluded with these sailors to transport stowaway women on a large scale to distant ports like Singapore, Hong Kong, or even Antwerp. The fares were exorbitant, with food expenses borne by the women’s handlers, and nothing could have been more convenient than carrying stowaway women to satisfy the sailors’ most pressing urges during long voyages.

The stowaway women had to endure any and all conditions. The pitiful women had to endure conditions so severe they nearly suffocated to death in the forepeak; they had to endure five days and nights in beer crates, in an indescribable state, brought to the brink of half-death. The relationship between the chain locker and them reached the height of atrocity. This was because the Captain and Bosun had conspired to hide the stowaway women inside the chain locker. The chain locker went unused from departure until port arrival; on its chains within that dark chamber, they had spread mats and slept. They would land in Singapore to be sold into its brothels. Every night, stokers and sailors would open the chain locker's lid for them. They rejoiced like prisoners granted exercise time and came to the sailors' quarters as thanks for being released—[eleven characters illegible].

For them too, this voyage must have been ** far more than beer crates or the forepeak. The sailors continued their lighthearted voyage while they longed to set foot on steady ground even a day sooner. However, the Bosun—who hadn’t forgotten to move the stowaway women to the forepeak when entering Hong Kong—through some miscalculation became too ecstatic in vital Singapore and ended up forgetting to remove them from the chain locker.

At that point, the situation deteriorated all at once during the anchoring. Entangled with fragments of matting and grappling together—each fragment of chain, each piece of human flesh, each shard of bone—they tore apart, crushed, and scattered the thirteen stowaway women from the chain hole: some into empty air, others into the sea along with the chains. The Bosun, ship’s carpenter, sailors, and chief mates lined up on the bow deck were drenched from head to toe in a rain of gore. For Nada, the chain locker’s grim history made that arduous labor all the more unpleasant, detestable, and unbearable. The mere thought of it made entering the chain locker more detestable to him than anything else. And each link of the incoming chain felt as though it were targeting him, lunging straight at him.

Physically, of course, but also mentally, he felt utterly exhausted; when he emerged from the chain locker, he looked like someone who had narrowly escaped drowning. His work clothes were caked all over with seabed clay, and his hands and face were stained with it, making him look as though smeared with greasepaint. His face was earth-colored from the violent exertion. His heart was leaping wildly and uncontrollably. His head ached, his vision swam, and he would typically collapse onto the deck or wherever nearby for some time.

If someone had not entered this chain locker, the ship could not have moved. Nada, his heart threatening to burst with strain, couldn’t help dwelling on how much he gave and how little he received. "We suffer to death in this wretched state, yet the one who lives it up owning ten villas he doesn’t even live in—he’s the one who owns this ship!"

Thus, the Manjumaru was able to come alongside the pier. On the pier, coal mined by underground miners from the Yubari Coal Mine was loaded into numerous coal cars, which came to the hopper on the ship, discharged their loads, and returned. The work of the station workers and stevedores on the elevated pier—jutting out into the sea at a height of dozens of *ken*—must have been bitterly cold beyond description. It was the season when people should have been warming themselves by stoves, consuming warm coffee and warm meat. And many workers had to labor, each confronting danger face-to-face, freezing, starving, and wandering in order to produce that. And so, all things proceeded auspiciously as ordained. The dawn of a peaceful new year—one awaited over countless generations—was due to arrive within ten days; and blessedly, provided the calendar held true, arrive it would.

Thus did the bourgeois bastards hold their New Year’s banquet. A second party was to be held.

But we must not jump ahead in the story to such a point.

31 When they discharged the boiler, the sailors who had just eaten immediately ascended to the bow deck and commenced mooring alongside the pier. The Apprentice had asked Fujiwara during the meal, “Could you please ask the Captain to have me sent to the hospital tonight? I can’t endure this any longer.”

“Sure.” “But you see—since we’re at the pier now—I think it’s better to wait until after we’ve docked.” “And first off, even if all that doesn’t matter, they say there’s a proper procedure. I’ll talk to the Bosun once, have him make the initial approach, then I’ll go along when it’s time to settle things. That’s the way to go.” “Well, whatever happens—it must be agonizing—but hold out until tonight.” “This time I’m prepared to do that too,” Fujiwara readily agreed. The Apprentice was overjoyed.

The pier, the horseshoe-shaped town, the mountains behind it, and the plateau—all were beautifully and meticulously blanketed in thick snow, while the Hokkaido wind that whipped across the snow’s surface was piercingly, numbingly cold.

The Manjumaru arrived at the pier. The pier’s funnel thrust its long beak-like spout into the ship’s hatch. From then on, instead of white snow, black coal fell. The sailors, from the Captain down to the stokers and deckhands, were each busy preparing to free themselves from that swaying vessel that bound them completely. The Captain, without fail during their stays in Muroran, stayed at a hot spring town called Noboribetsu located slightly inland from Muroran. There, in place of his wife and children, was his mistress.

Generally speaking, whether Hokkaido had many beauties remained uncertain, but occasionally we did encounter striking ones there. We could even find women in the brothels on snow-buried mountainsides—their complexions so pale they seemed drained of color, their features of extraordinary elegance. It made for a desolate scene. To the sailors, it was an unmanageable dreamlike mood. Thus for those seamen, it became nothing more than an instinctive carnal contrast—a thing set against their reality.

He was hurrying his preparations while scowling at the train timetable to go there again tonight.

As the Captain was attempting to "elegantly" insert the diamond pin into his necktie，the Boy in pure white attire knocked on the door to the captain’s cabin． “What?!” The Captain shouted． “The Bosun and Storekeeper said they wished to see you and were waiting in the salon．” “If it’s business，tell them to speak to the Chief Mate，” he said． He continued adjusting the pin’s placement． The Boy conveyed this message to the Bosun and Storekeeper who had been waiting in the salon．

“Just as the Bosun began to speak to the Storekeeper—” “We have to see him no matter what! Tell him again we insist on meeting!” The Storekeeper restrained the Bosun and addressed the Boy. “What’s this really about?” the Boy asked the Storekeeper. “If he’d just meet us briefly to talk, that’s all we need.” Fujiwara replied casually. “The old man’s rushing off to Noboribetsu.”

“But we’ve got even more urgent business here. I need you to make this quick.”

The Boy knocked on the door to the captain’s cabin once more.

“They insist on seeing you.”

“No! “I don’t have time!” The Captain had been gazing at himself in the mirror but clicked his tongue in irritation. “Those pests are a nuisance—go ask them what their business is.” Those damn idiots, he added in his thoughts—your whole lot’s fate ends in Yokohama. The replacement Bosun had already reached Yokohama, yet these damn idiots—the Captain felt almost inclined to mock the maggots for their stupidity.

“It seems they are requesting that the Apprentice be sent to Muroran Public Hospital for treatment of his injury.” “Apprentice! Tell them that’s out of the question.” “What on earth is this about the Apprentice’s injury? Ridiculous!” “Can such a thing be covered from the ship’s expenses?” “Preposterous.” “Enough with your jokes! You should know better than to bring this up now!” “Of all times—at a moment when your very necks are on the line!” “And now’s the very moment to go ashore—you good-for-nothing scum!” The Captain, now being told of the Apprentice’s injury, had finally brought himself to recall it. And that would require treatment. But—but of course that couldn’t possibly apply in such a situation! he thought.

When on earth had that even happened? Shouldn't they have dealt with that in Yokohama? Bringing it up now was just looking to pick a fight! However, this was his misunderstanding. In Yokohama, they hadn't had time to speak with the Captain, and moreover, since the Chief Engineer had insisted on consulting him first, the matter had fallen through there. The Captain was headed to the hot springs of Noboribetsu to meet her—she was a truly beautiful young woman. And she was a natural being, like a white birch, like a clear mountain stream redolent of the mountains—utterly without artifice. With all his strength and passion devoted to reminiscing about and anticipating tightly embracing her—a natural being like a white birch, like a clear mountain stream redolent of the mountains—there had been simply no room left in his mind for the bloody, filthy, real-world problem of the Apprentice.

“If you absolutely need that, then it’s a matter for the Chief Engineer to handle properly!”

The Captain inserted his leg into his trousers—which clung tightly in a single layer like a paint tube after its contents had been squeezed out—.

“In all of Hokkaido, there’s nothing quite like this—it’s positively invigorating.” “The sharp creases in my trousers—” He slightly tested moving his leg forward. “Perfect.” And thus, the trial run of his trousers was complete. Like an eighteen-year-old boy in his haste, he made the ring he would give her sparkle on his little finger as he emerged onto the salon deck in an impeccably neat, captainly outfit and posture that was the very picture of ideal command.

There, despite the cold, stood the Storekeeper and the Bosun, waiting for him to emerge. He stopped in his tracks, startled. The Bosun—grabbed like a petty thief, shrinking back repeatedly as he was held and encouraged by the Storekeeper—had been waiting there. But what on earth was he supposed to say?! He had nothing to say. The one injured was the apprentice, not him—the pitiful old man with a wife and children. "Where could I possibly go if I were thrown off this ship?" Either a bridge or a graveyard—that’s all that’s left for me. Here I am working not for myself but for my children and wife, yet I… The Storekeeper’s really making things difficult for me. "The apprentice’s injury and me—what in the world… Sure, there’s a connection, but once the Captain’s said no… And first off, I’m freezing and can’t take it anymore."

The Bosun gazed at the Storekeeper’s face with desperate urgency, as though in supplication, then hastily saluted the Captain.

The Captain tried to slip past them in silence and began moving toward the gangway. The Storekeeper jabbed the Bosun sharply. The Bosun blinked rapidly, his mouth clamped tightly shut. A single second's delay would have been intolerable. The Storekeeper's second fist then slammed into the Bosun's flank. Simultaneously, "Captain," rumbled a thick, low voice from the Storekeeper's mouth—a voice heavy with suppressed force.

And the Storekeeper, leaving the Bosun after striking him, planted himself directly in front of the Captain, who was now attempting to descend.

“Captain! Do you know apprentice sailor Yasui Noboru was injured? He’s asking to be sent to the hospital today.” “What of it?” the Captain said, surveying the Storekeeper from the crown of his head down to his toenails. “Is there some shore leave prohibition in effect? If not, he could go to the hospital today or tomorrow! Then why the hell are you blocking my way here?” The Captain measured the Storekeeper’s stature with the same exacting rigor as conducting midnight depth soundings during a storm—repeating it endlessly with a fervor and coolness so infuriating it made his temples throb.

Fujiwara stood before the Captain, stamping down every ounce of his fury and indignation beneath his firmly planted feet.

“But shouldn’t compensation for injuries be paid from the ship?” “Moreover, someone who’s injured their leg and lies bedridden can’t possibly walk through this snow.” “Please cover the rickshaw fare and examination fee.” “And also…”

The Captain exploded. “‘Should’ we pay injury compensation from the ship?” “What do you mean ‘should’?!” “‘Should’?!” “If you’re going to spout such impertinent, arrogant nonsense, then do whatever the hell you want! I don’t have time to deal with the likes of you! Fool!” The Captain shouted, then descended to the pier without another word. Fujiwara kept stamping down the fuse of his temper beneath his feet. He hurled a booming laugh at the Captain’s retreating back.

The Captain leaped onto the pier. Coins jingled in his pocket. He was furious, but pressed onward. "I’ll settle this tomorrow," he muttered to himself, disappearing into the darkness of the pier.

After a short while, he shifted into a run at nearly full speed. Somehow, he couldn’t shake the feeling that a scalpel was poised to glint toward his heart. Lately, something felt off. Mikami—Fujiwara—this was becoming a dangerous pattern. He looked back—looked back again and again like a fox—as the pier stretched black and utterly dark behind him. The ship’s anchor light flickered coldly and mournfully in the distance.

The pier soon came to an end, and he emerged onto the coast. Snow was piled over two feet deep. Along the coast lay a snow path trampled as deeply as a small ditch. The town of Muroran peered out from ash-gray snow like ruins. Will-o’-the-wisp town lights shimmered in harbor waters. Wind howled curses as it stabbed through waves. He flipped up his coat collar, wound his scarf to his ears, and raced full-tilt toward the station. The station plunged deep into Muroran’s heart near a horseshoe’s curve— a desolate terminal stop. It crouched in coastal lowlands while above, the red-light district’s lamps blazed unnaturally bright.

It was a cruel, desolate nature. In the face of this, people were compelled to cling to one another, to feel that they must warm each other and help each other.

Somehow, it made people grow more affectionate. The Captain pushed away the Storekeeper and sailors, drawn instead to Noboribetsu. There, he could briefly escape nature's cruelty! The Storekeeper hurled a howling laugh at the Captain, then spun sharply around and marched back toward the bow. The Bosun trailed after him, shoulders slumped.

On deck, the Ship’s Carpenter had completed all preparations and was waiting for the Bosun to arrive, while the sailors had grown utterly weary waiting for Fujiwara to return.

Fujiwara entered the front area. He slumped down onto the bench in front of the dining table. “How did it go?” they all asked.

“It’s no good! Next is the Chief Engineer,” he answered. If he had had the money for the Apprentice to receive an examination and treatment, he would never have gone to negotiate with the Chief Engineer again. The outcome was all too clearly apparent to him. However, if he could not take the Apprentice to receive treatment at his own expense, he had no choice but to exhaust every possible means; and this was also the sole remaining method that could save him while simultaneously holding the Apprentice back from despair—if only temporarily.

“Since we don’t know how things will go with the Chief Engineer either, if that doesn’t work out, let’s agree to pool our money openly. Doing that is practically giving the shipowner a freebie, but at this point, there’s no other way.” “And I’m certain the Chief won’t come through either.” “When the Captain refuses, it’s a foregone conclusion that I’ll have to take responsibility.” “So could you all collect about two yen per person? We’ll have the Bosun handle it.” “Those who don’t have the money now can get the Bosun to cover them temporarily. Let’s settle on that. Alright—I’ll go see the Chief, so please handle this.”

He left. After he had left and some time had passed, Nada asked the Bosun to lend him five yen. He set aside two yen for the Apprentice and tucked three yen into his pocket. Then he made his way across the deck to the Chief Engineer’s cabin and tried to eavesdrop on Fujiwara’s negotiation. But the Chief Engineer’s cabin remained firmly locked, with no trace of anyone inside. He circled around the salon deck. Yet nothing stirred there—no activity, no presence.

Nada—Then where did Fujiwara go?—wondered as he returned to the deck. Fujiwara had already returned and was reporting to the sailors that the Chief Engineer had gone ashore via sampan from the sea even before the Captain.

There, a discussion about what to do regarding the Apprentice was conducted between the sailors and four helmsmen.

32 As a result of their discussion—since someone had raised concerns about hospital visits at night being inconvenient—they concluded daytime would indeed be preferable. They decided to go tomorrow morning. Though no mere formality, they settled on having Fujiwara and Nada—involved from the incident's outset—accompany them to the hospital. If five sailors, four helmsmen, and one carpenter each contributed two yen, that made twenty yen total. Should hospitalization prove necessary while "the ship" refused coverage under such circumstances, they'd cover it openly. In return, those ship bastards had better brace themselves—so they resolved.

Yasui lay in his filthy, dark, cold bunk, wincing intermittently from his wound's throbbing pain as he desperately listened to the discussion unfolding around him. When he heard that despite Fujiwara's tremendous efforts everything had been postponed until tomorrow, his head—which he'd managed to lift slightly with fragile hope—sank back heavily onto the thin mattress. His sole consolation—the prospect of reaching the hospital tonight—had evaporated into nothingness. Pitch-black despair engulfed him as he realized he must endure yet another identical night of agony in this accursed ship's cabin.

But nothing could be done—the circumstances were exactly as he had heard. All that had happened was that he was made to listen, over and over in meticulous detail, to how even his very life held no value whatsoever to the people of the “ship.” And he realized his life had held almost no worth from the moment he was born—it had grown much like maggots spawned merely to swell large. His entire existence—eighteen brief years, though fourteen or fifteen undeniably substantial—had never once escaped feeling terribly cramped whenever his survival intersected with others’ during the sharing of bread. Now, alongside his wound’s throbbing pain, this truth struck him with piercing harshness.

Why does such a condition exist—one so unbearable it makes one think, “I wish I’d never been born,” or in reality drives a person to starvation or suicide, forcing them to acutely feel, “I’d be better off dead”? And must that condition persist eternally?

Is it that—just as the Earth is round—there exists one class who take medicine for the “disease” of not being hungry, and another class who die due to the “health” of being unable to eat, and this stands as an inescapable fact? Time had planted seeds; those seeds had sprouted; in some places they already bore fruit. But one must not stray onto side paths. This truth stood all too nakedly evident. After all—this remained one of the tasks commanded to those healthy-bodied people who could not eat: in other words, to the workers.

Fujiwara sat down beside the Apprentice’s bunk and told him about the day’s events. He explained the various details and developments, then said:

“The working class only realizes their lives are endangered by capitalist production when it becomes as starkly evident as in your case—but that realization comes too late.” “To be a wage worker means your life is already being exploited.” “That’s precisely why even the Factory Act stipulates minimum compensation for lost lives—if this system is built on exploiting labor power, which is to say human vitality itself, then no matter what form this life-draining takes, the bourgeoisie have no reason to be shocked.” “Your life may be eternally precious to you, but to the bourgeoisie, it’s only useful while it can be exploited!” “The industrial reserve army is limitless!” “We’re all trapped in these circumstances now—every last one of us.” “And here we are snapping at each other’s throats.” “What madness!” “We must choose the path of survival.” “Just as your immediate survival depends on seeing a doctor, the working class must now charge headlong down the path of collective survival—as a class!”

It was less that he was speaking to the Apprentice and more that he was muttering to himself—so much so that it would have been more accurate to call it a soliloquy.

Nada, Nishizawa, Ogura, and others had not yet gone ashore and were listening to his story together. Among the sailors, Nada, and among the quartermasters, Ogura were on duty tonight. Among Nada, Ogura, Nishizawa, and Fujiwara—the four of them—only Nishizawa drank alcohol; the remaining three preferred sweets over liquor. Especially when it came to Nada—as mentioned before—he was someone who would practically ruin himself for sweets. “Why don’t we all go to Tōyōken, have some tea, and talk things over?” said Fujiwara. Feeling sorry that they had waited for him—the reader, having seen the captain’s example, would know just how agonizing it was to delay going ashore for so long—he invited everyone to a confectionery shop.

“Alright.” Nada clutched the three yen in his pocket—a debt that would be docked from his wages by month’s end with twenty percent interest—and shouted.

They all set out together. As they were about to leave, Nada said to the Apprentice. “I’ll be right back.” “I’ll buy some sweets. Wait for me, okay?” “And tomorrow morning, we’re going to the hospital!” “I’ll be right back, okay?” He chased after the three, scrambling down the gangplank toward the pier like a monkey and leaping off. Nishizawa and the three were waiting for him at the bottom of the gangplank.

It was a cold night. The sailors, in their inadequate cold-weather gear, were all trembling violently. The only ones who had overcoats were Fujiwara and Ogura. They had bought them at some secondhand store. Fujiwara’s was so small it might as well have been an oversized jacket, and Ogura’s hung as loosely as a one-to sack stuffed with three sho of rice. They walked in a single line along the horseshoe-shaped coast, proceeding in silence. Their teeth ached. The wind pierced through their cheeks, severely irritating the nerves of their teeth. The sailors were thinking that because they were poor, they had to suffer more than necessary.

"If only I had one new knitted shirt," Nada imagined how warm it would be as he clenched his fist with all his might inside the stiff, grime-caked pocket of his oil-stained trousers, then relaxed it. Nishizawa wore a sweater in place of an overcoat. It was a so-called "thick" cotton garment. "These merchants pull off some awful tricks." Of course, he had thought it wiser not to boast too much about having paid one yen and twenty sen for it at a night stall.

And so, beneath their woefully inadequate cold-weather gear, each of them existed within a state of extreme cold, loneliness, desolation—in short, though words failed to capture it—yes, a condition that forced upon them, whether they willed it or not, contemplation of “death”: namely, proletariat versus cold! Through this instinctual loneliness—proletariat versus cold—the four hurried onward, driven by thoughts of warm tea and sweets awaiting them on the bright second floor of a confectionery shop along the port town’s desolate streets.

To the left lay a railway cutting along the mountainside that curved around from the station, followed by an elevated line—both running parallel to where the *Manju* was moored. The piled coal had been completely blanketed with snow. Here and there stood police-box-like structures serving as both laborers’ tea houses and supervisors’ outposts that had been conspicuously “placed”. They passed through coal’s treacherous border with sea, through valleys formed by mountains of coal, crossed the railway tracks leading to Yūbari Coal Mine, and emerged onto Muroran’s streets. The town felt desolate even at midday—as lonely as night. Though disoriented, walking up the pier’s right side opposite Muroran Steel Works along the bleak main road brought them to a three-tiered street splitting into upper, middle, and lower levels, each lined with houses clinging parallel to the mountainside. On that middle tier stood Tōyōken—a shop so startlingly “cultural” in its architecture and “cultural” in its confections that its discovery shocked them. Fifteen or sixteen splendid glass cases filled the spacious floor: one side displayed Christmas-style pies and assorted fresh Western pastries; opposite shelves held Tokyo-style steamed sweets—chestnut buns, golden bean cakes, deer-patterned confections. Removing their shoes at the entrance, they climbed stairs to a second-floor hall divided into two rooms. The left side contained a large table with chairs arranged around it. The right room was a six-tatami Japanese-style space.

The sailors crammed their oil-stained group into the room with the table. Yet Tōyōken was not surprised, for Nada always came in that state and invariably spent around two yen before leaving.

A white cloth covered the table. Rubbing it hard with their fingers would turn it black. No matter how thoroughly they scrubbed their hands with soap and pumice beforehand! They took precautions. The young attendant brought golden bean cakes, chestnut buns, and tea. They fell upon the food like famine victims. Even among them, Nada drew astonished looks from his comrades. Yet their craving for these things was no different from prisoners hungering for sweets—tens, no, thousands of times more than jewels—beyond all comparison.

When something is taken from humans, what has been taken immediately becomes their most urgent demand and desperate longing. Deprive them of light, and light becomes essential; take away air, and air becomes vital—activity, sound, pleasures: these remain secondary until seized away, but the instant they are taken, all transform into primal needs. Those stripped of freedom come to consider it more precious than life itself.

The sweets came with small silver forks in place of toothpicks. The teacups came with silver spoons. While taking care not to soil these utensils, they promptly emptied the first plate and ordered the second.

*** Their craving for sweets had been somewhat satiated. Thereupon, they ordered sweets to take back to the Apprentice. Then they discussed how to protest against both the Company’s stance regarding the Apprentice’s injury and the Captain’s reckless behavior—which inevitably provoked incidents like those involving Mikami—and that if they were to negotiate these matters, they had to have their working hours clearly defined and wages increased somewhat, as their current pay fell completely outside market rates.—This was during the Great European War era, when coal filled even the sailors’ sleeping quarters, making the steamship company’s profits enormous. ——And even if Sundays or holidays were taken over by departures or arrivals, nullifying our days off, we demanded those days be carried over to the next day. These were matters that absolutely had to be settled—matters they were being forced to confront. Then Nishizawa broached the question among them: when should they begin negotiations?

“The question is whether we should negotiate with the Chief Engineer or take it directly to the Captain from the very start,” said Ogura.

“Of course, that must be our first and final negotiation with the Captain who holds decision-making authority,” Fujiwara answered. “If we declare this to be our first and final negotiation as you say, what happens if they refuse?” Ogura had been apprehensive about that very point. If negotiations were to break down and it came to something like a union strike, I would clearly face being blacklisted from boarding ships. Then I’ll lose all qualifications to obtain a higher-ranking seaman’s license! He was in a difficult position. If he did not become a higher-ranking seaman and secure a slightly better income, the entire remote village in the mountains of San'indō would have no choice but to freeze to death from the cold and starve under the persecution of ruthless nature and cruel exploitation.

His village was a sparsely populated, rugged, frigid hamlet on the northern side of the Chūgoku Mountain Range that divides the San'yōdō and San'indō routes—a place that seemed to lean against a rock where one might sit, with dwarf bamboo at its back. The villagers relied on forest products for their livelihood. However, those forests had become national forests. Thus, the villagers were forced to choose one of two paths: either go to prison or starve. The mountain path in Ogura’s birthplace—unclear whether it was a village trail or a mountain stream—continued toward the prison. This village, comprised of just three households, had its household heads taken from each home to prison. From the village, thirteen boys—the youngest being six and the oldest sixteen—left behind their godforsaken home, as desolate as a shrine abandoned by the gods, and set out into the world to save their homeland teetering on the brink of destruction. And so, instead of sending money back to their village, they had come only to have their labor exploited from it.

If he were to participate in this and the plan were to fail, he would not only lose his standing as a higher-ranking seaman—a position he had devoted three years of his full effort to advance toward—but even have his professional life stripped away from him as a lower-ranking seaman. He had felt the same way when he and Mikami had pushed the sampan. Deep anguish and questions about life enveloped him like a spider’s web. “That will lead to a struggle.” “Since we have no weapons, we’ll likely resort to simply banding together and doing nothing.” “In that case, the ship will terminate our employment and blacklist us from boarding.” “Depending on how things go, the path from the pier might lead straight to prison.” Fujiwara answered.

“Wouldn’t that mean ruin for our lives? No—not just ours—it would drag down the fates of the old folks and children behind us too.” “When I think of my hometown, I feel I could endure any hardship.” Ogura gave voice to the thoughts rising through tears in his pitiful, wretched heart.

“That’s right! When you’ve mustered the utmost ‘endurance’ you can bear, you’ll slaughter your comrades with all your strength and end up stealing their bread!” Fujiwara’s face had grown almost cruelly impassive. Only his eyes blazed like fire. “I don’t see it that way. If I lose my job now, you’ve no idea how they’ll grieve back home. That’s not all—my family would starve!” Ogura’s voice rose with emotion. The anguished memory of leaving his village surfaced through tears in his mind.

“I sympathize! Workers are almost all driven down into positions where they cannot strike! Every organization has us straitjacketed! And even if our heads are cut off, we can’t even strike! We suffer more intensely than new recruits who maintain a rigid at-attention posture, unable to break their stance even when punched or kicked! The capitalist system forces every last worker into a straitjacket—a leather garment used on violent prisoners in jails that, when worn, renders the body immobile and causes excruciating pain—and clamps handcuffs and leg irons on them!” Fujiwara’s eyes alone blazed even more fiercely. But his face, in contrast, gradually lost its color and grew pale.

“But Ogura, whichever way you look at it, you can’t avoid being tied to someone’s death. The Apprentice Leader came seeking his bread and threw himself into mortal danger—like a fish swallowing a baited hook.” “That’s where the problem lies—‘now’.” “This manifested itself in the Apprentice Leader’s case, but becoming a sailor just to get bread is no different from a fish swallowing a baited hook!” “It is a uniform, unchanging fate for all of us.” “For us, there is no bait anywhere except rice cakes attached to hooks.” “You’ve been on sinking ships twice before, haven’t you? If you had died then, how much would your family have grieved?” “If you hadn’t been saved by someone then, you would have had to impose that grief upon your family—isn’t that right?” “That’s what happens because wherever you go, the bait has hooks attached.”

“But Ogura，I understand what you’re saying.” “We either live like draft horses or starve to death.” “Until that day truly comes—when we startle even ourselves with this great power we possess—we must die in vain.”

The single cup of tea they could only drink when going ashore seemed to agitate them. Fujiwara kept speaking as if driven by his own thoughts, even while sharing this perception. "I understand now, Fujiwara! We're better off advancing gradually than trying to leap all at once. Rather than becoming bourgeois alone, it's better to fall as a proletarian warrior—even unsuccessfully. I grasp that completely. And I've always respected you all. But I lack that courage! That resolve! That conviction! In short—I'm a coward! I am! A damned coward! But this time—I'll act! I'll try! Let's rouse even the four quartermasters. I feel I've finally understood." Ogura picked up one of the remaining sweets with an expression suggesting he'd shaken off some heavy burden.

“So,” Nishizawa interjected. “Who’s going to confront the Captain?” With the same feeling as when one speaks precisely because they cannot remain completely silent, he spat out similar words in that manner. “Since we can’t possibly stand up against them, we’ll have to rely on Stoki after all.” “Then, let’s draft our demands tonight, have everyone affix their seals, and submit them to the Captain!” Nada said.

“Fine.” Everyone agreed. “But when will that be done?” “I think choosing that moment will simply mean determining victory or defeat through timing—especially since the Captain is hurrying to return.” “New Year’s is right before us too.” “Because once our tasks here conclude, even if we try to demonstrate our strength then—that’s futile.” Fujiwara proposed this as a tactician. “But as I said earlier—what countermeasures will we take when our demands are rejected?” Ogura heard this. He resolved himself: “If we begin this, I too must see it through to the bitter end.”

“This is a crucial matter we must all decide together—to ensure the strike reflects everyone’s collective will.” “Merely submitting demands means nothing. When they’re rejected, we’ll have options—work stoppages, slowdowns, or abandoning ship.” “We can’t just disembark here, so of course we’re ready to march naked into this snow if forced. But we’ll save abandoning ship as our last resort. On less critical days, we’ll slack off, but when there’s work we absolutely can’t neglect—that’s when we halt operations completely.” “I believe this is the most effective approach.” Their leader was Fujiwara—a veteran of real combat!

“So where exactly are we supposed to discuss these matters?” Nishizawa asked.

“If all the Quartermasters agree, why don’t we do it in the Quartermasters’ room?” said Ogura.

"That's fine," and with that, headquarters designated the helmsman's room—not even large enough for three tatami mats—as their primary meeting location. If the Quartermasters wouldn't join them, they decided "outside would do."

"So when the hell are we doing this?" Nada pressed again.

“When do you think would be good?” Fujiwara countered. “The best time is when everyone thinks it’s best.”

“I say we do it when we set sail. If we screw around during departure, those wires and hawsers won’t come loose from the pier for starters.” “Heh heh heh heh heh,” Nishizawa felt as though he’d started a battle.

“Well… Should we take the demand letter to the bridge just as we’re about to set sail?” Ogura said. “Should we present it as ‘Please approve this. It’s all perfectly reasonable’?”

“That’s not it,” Nishizawa cut in. “We thrust the demand letter right in that bastard’s face. ‘See this? Huh? Stamp your seal on it! If you don’t, you won’t make Yokohama for New Year’s!’ How damn satisfying would it be to take that high-handed approach?” “When we set sail—that’s the time,” Nada said. “First off, I’m not setting foot in the Chain Locker.” He had come to clearly recognize that his grueling task—an indispensable operation when departing—could never be skipped. “We need to make them realize they’re dead wrong to treat us like wage thieves.” For the first time, he felt a luminous pride and confidence as both a human being and a worker—pride in joining a noble, sacrificial cause of such magnitude.

"But even if this gets approved, you’d better think hard about how this isn’t our final victory and be as cautious as possible—otherwise we’ll be in trouble. For instance, even if our demands are approved—if we let our guard down afterward and end up having one person forced off the ship each voyage—then within two or three voyages, the others will be exploited just as before, and we’ll end up suffering losses ourselves. The dispute is certainly important at that moment too, but managing the aftermath is even more crucial."

Fujiwara recalled his bitter experiences. “Even if you go to the trouble of cleaning up nicely, if you don’t use a dustpan to take it all away and just leave it piled in a corner, the dust will soon fly out and make things even dirtier than before.” “Especially when you consider our remaining comrades, I don’t think we can afford reckless methods like Mikami’s.” Fujiwara said while mentally mapping out the entire program. “And what are we going to do about the Bosun and Kamune—that dialect term for carpenter?” Nada feared that the Bosun and the Ship’s Carpenter might become traitors. They were like Japanese white-eyes hatched in a cage. They were like children born within their own prison, refusing to leave it. They were so assimilated into the ship that they absolutely could not earn their bread outside of it. For example, they had been turned into screw nails about as thick as a human. They were embedded in some part of the ship as if forgotten. And they were important screw nails. Therefore, they were left there as they were until they rusted. When they rusted, they had to be replaced with new ones.

By their very nature as screw nails, they had to be viewed as things rusted into the ship’s hull.

“Unless there’s some extraordinary exception, there’s no way those bastards would declare war against the Captain,” the Storekeeper added.

“Of course that’s how it is—even tonight, the Bosun and Carpenter were called by the Chief Meats to Daikokurō and are drinking there.” “Of course those bastards are screw nails!” “But it’s better if those bastards don’t come back—we won’t have any hindrance that way.” “Tonight’s the day they calculate the loan interest.”

Nishizawa had been nimbly spying. “We pool one-fifth of our monthly income each to have those bastards buy geisha services and keep them drinking, don’t we?” Nada said.

“Well then,” Fujiwara said. “I’ll draft the demand letter. Once that’s finalized, we’ll have it neatly copied, stamped with seals, and then submit it.” “Until then—absolute secrecy of course—but I’ll leave it to you, Ogura, to persuade the Quartermaster while keeping the contents under wraps.” “Well—does that settle it? Was there anything else we needed to account for?” He lightly tapped his head and thought.

“That settles it, then.” Nishizawa answered. “Though I’d say Nada-kun here’s short on sweets, and I’m lacking booze and women.” He threw his head back and laughed. The guffaw shattered the silence—that heavy stillness where even the air seemed frozen in desolation—and reverberated through the street.

"Nada—you think you can manage that much?" Fujiwara asked while standing. "That's enough now." "Though naturally we could eat if we ate—" "The finances won't permit it." "Ha ha ha ha!" he laughed.

The four of them went outside. Nishizawa said, “I’m gonna go tease around and grab a drink,” then headed up the slope toward the red-light district. The three of them walked together toward the ship in a horseshoe formation, carrying with them a sense that this place might as well have been a foreign town. The apprentice was delighted to receive sweets from Nada. The three of them, kept awake by the tea, huddled near the apprentice as they tossed coal into the stove and reminisced about the tragic tale of how the former Bosun had been cast aside in Naoetsu.

34

That might not be something I should write about here and now. However, it would be better to write it. What in the world is the Captain? That may form part of the answer.

It was the end of summer and the beginning of autumn. A time when sweltering days alternated with nights chilled beyond comfort. The Manjumaru too found itself under Captain Yoshitake's supervisory grip—he who amounted to nothing more than a rusted screw nail fused to the ship's bridge—as it endured its routine exploitation. This incident occurred during one such coal run from Otaru to Naoetsu.

The ship was approaching off Sakata Port, Akita, around 1 PM. They were caught in a frenzied evening squall that felt as if they’d been struck by a sudden waterfall or smashed through an ice bag. At that moment, a canopy had been set up on the bow deck. Buffeted by the wind, it appeared from the bridge as though both it and the deck might be torn away at any moment. The Captain was thrown into a complete panic. And he immediately ordered them to remove it. At that moment, in the sweltering heat before the evening squall, everyone on deck lay naked, dozing after lunch. At that moment, the Quartermaster came rushing in and relayed the order to take down the awning.

Nada, Mikami, Fujiwara, Nishizawa, and the others were full of vigor and did not particularly “fear” the Captain, so they rushed out wearing nothing but their loincloths. Mikami and Nada charged out completely naked. That made for a good makeshift bath on a ship without one. However, with the wind raging so fiercely, the work was exceedingly dangerous. If they were careless, they would be caught by the awning’s force and hurled into the sea. Even so, for the young sailors, that act of running about completely naked was “exhilarating.” In the end, they finished the task naked, even while growing somewhat cold.

What a strange captain! Because the Bosun hadn’t immediately rushed out naked, he severely reprimanded him!

Truly, this was an unforeseen negative outcome that the sailors had brought upon themselves. As for the sailors—this wasn't some fishing boat—the Captain must have considered it an affront for them to work completely naked right before his very eyes. But as for removing the awning, he must have been in a hurry again. So they had intended to take advantage of such moments to make the bastard bow before our mark right under his nose. However, that evening, the Bosun was given such a severe dressing-down by the Captain that it felt like his screws were coming loose. "'If you carry on like that, you'll be useless in an emergency—might as well be a damn hindrance,' he said."

The Bosun was deeply discouraged by this. The sailors too felt somewhat abashed by their own reckless actions that had backfired. But this did not become an issue, and they arrived at Naoetsu. Naoetsu's early autumn! It was entirely a desolate landscape characteristic of the Sea of Japan. Even under normal circumstances, sailors—already yearning for human connection—gazed longingly at Naoetsu's shores, a land they seldom visited, set against a lonely yet inviting natural scene. However, the troublesome fact was that Naoetsu’s sea was extremely shallow, and to make matters worse, whenever a slight wind blew, the coastline formed a long sweeping curve that forced the steamship to weigh anchor and hastily flee toward Sado.

Take refuge in Sado! That too suited the sailors just fine. There too lay unfamiliar towns with unfamiliar customs. The Manjumaru itself had no pressing need to weigh anchor and flee, but three or four days of maddeningly ambiguous waiting dragged on—days when the coal barges couldn’t approach through the waves. At this, even the Captain lost his temper, let alone everyone else. Yet for all that, our Manjumaru couldn’t simply shamble off to Sado for woman-chasing antics like some delinquent youths.

Just then, Sunday arrived. The Captain—mocking Naoetsu’s useless barges—announced to all stokers and sailors that those off duty could lower the boat and sampan for practice: an unprecedented plan since the ship’s maiden voyage. Thus, the deck crew was assigned to the sampan and the engine crew to the cutter. The moment this plan was announced, the Bosun, the Carpenter, and Mikami swiftly hatched a covert scheme. Their plan was to row the sampan ashore with all their might, conduct “educational research” at Naoetsu’s brothels, and return by dawn. To prevent dawdling that might let undesirables like Fujiwara, Ogura, or Nada board, they coaxed their cronies—the Stoker Chief and Nambutō (No.2 Oilman)—into commandeering the sampan. This was a naively amusing stratagem. They were convinced it would earn universal acclaim.

From offshore, the town of Naoetsu appeared as a place where pine trees here and there revealed their upper halves from the sandy beach, while the town itself remained almost entirely hidden from view. That fiercely stirred human curiosity—the kind that only grows stronger when something is concealed. Moreover, someone had once been to Naoetsu. “The prostitutes here all run their own establishments, I tell ya!” “And they all have their own houses! They take you to their own houses! There’s ones who seem like amateurs, and others who outshine even geisha, I tell ya!” “And they all act like total amateurs through and through, I tell ya!” “It’s just like returning to your own home, I tell ya!” “They’re the best in Japan, I tell ya!” “Truly, any guy who doesn’t know about the brothel-going here ain’t fit to call himself a sailor, I tell ya!”

That had everyone terribly excited. Married prostitutes! Amateur prostitutes! The sailors, starved for human connection, had been sent into a frenzy. Wasn’t that just like the mood of a vibrant brocade print? That stimulated their curiosity to a frightening extent. Amateur prostitutes! Prostitutes with their own houses! It was truly unique. This stimulant manifested its terrifying power. The sampan was lowered immediately.

They lowered it with great commotion. It descended effortlessly to the sea surface. And Mikami, as if mocking the fishermen of Naoetsu, rowed effortlessly toward the shore. In the order of Bosun, Namban, Nambutō, and the Carpenter, they climbed down the rope and boarded. Two sculls were set up. Mikami and the Carpenter pushed them. Rowing through wave peaks and troughs, now visible, now hidden, they pressed onward.

And then, just like that, they vanished from sight, their destination unknown. The cutter was lowered afterward. And with even the Third Mate and Chief Engineer aboard, they genuinely practiced their rowing technique. “The sampan—” said the Chief Engineer, standing atop the cutter and scanning the surroundings, but it was nowhere to be seen. The cutter was hauled up.

And night fell. The sampan of course did not return. Had the sampan crew taken the Captain with them, such a problem would never have arisen—but there he remained aboard the ship.

The Captain flew into a rage like a hornet’s nest that had been struck down! Like a husband who had discovered his wife’s infidelity, the Captain did not sleep a wink that night. And because of this, the Boy couldn’t sleep either. For the Captain kept leaping from his bed and bellowing, “Hasn’t the Bosun returned yet? Bring him to me the moment he comes back—understand?” or “Is that sampan still out of sight?” while incessantly ringing his bell.

“It’s just like a madhouse!” “This orderly can’t take it anymore!” The Boy grumbled while vigorously scratching his back. From the Captain’s perspective, his pride had been wounded, his sense of superiority betrayed, his privileges trampled—and though even he had still been exercising restraint, their act of brothel-going constituted nothing less than outright mockery. In days past, such an act would have been deemed “a crime worthy of death”! He would occasionally leap up from his bed and bellow at the Boy. He would leap up as if scalding water had been poured on his foot. And each time he leapt up, he would resolve to make his retaliation against those bastards even more brutal.

Bosun, Nanban, and the others had "outmaneuvered" him. The act of going to visit prostitutes in Naoetsu—women who each maintained their own independent houses—so overwhelmed the Captain with rage that it reduced him to a state akin to that of a feverish patient in the throes of a fit.

Trivial as it was—why the Captain had to rage so intensely over such a matter—no one could comprehend. Those on deck were still saying they couldn’t “discover” any “reason” requiring such indignation. It was likely his foul mood—that proverbial “ill-placed bug.” And this ill-placed bug would bring about what followed.

35

That night was an utterly unpleasant, interminably long night for the Captain.

That night was an utterly delightful, exceedingly short night for Bosun’s group. And for those on deck, it was a night painted gray—a lethargic night like that of convicts.

When dawn broke, Bosun and his group revealed the sampan from within the rolling waves characteristic of the Sea of Japan near shore. The waves, bearing undulating hues and widths like great bolts of cloth unfurling from offshore toward land, crashed violently. Near shore, these waves would frequently overturn the sampan with terrible force. The vessel seemed swallowed whole by the sea. Yet it popped back into view moments later. This mustard seed-like sampan gradually grew larger as it drew near.

He should have known better, but Bosun—an amusing man from the navy—stood on the sampan’s bow, waving his handkerchief as if to boast of his achievement.

Objectively speaking, it was so beautiful and poetic that one might have thought Urashima Taro was returning from Princess Otohime’s Dragon Palace. The inky-blue sea, heaving with great swells, held no other ships across its expanse. The air hung sweet, fragrant like a lover’s skin. The sky stretched like a mirror reflecting the whole sea. From between stretches of white sandhills on the sampan’s back, pine trees and roofs rose upward into view. Everything stood perfectly clear and utterly still. This was not 1914, but rather that sea surface from before it bore the name Sea of Japan—the 200th year of an imperial era.

And Bosun, carrying the box from Princess Otohime, was waving his handkerchief. When the Boy reported to the Captain that Bosun’s sampan was in sight, describing the manner and intensity of his fury—his emotions and demeanor—defied all description; one could only throw up their hands in defeat. He grabbed the German-made binoculars and dashed up to the bridge. His binoculars magnified the sampan. “That’s beyond shameless! That bastard’s waving his handkerchief!” He growled.

The sailors and stokers came out onto the deck and gazed at the wretched delinquents. The sampan drew near. The Ship’s Carpenter was humming a tune. He also had a good voice. It evoked sweet memories in all who heard it—of when they had clung to their mothers and nursed.

They had the rope lowered from the deck and climbed up. Before they had all finished climbing up, the Quartermaster came rushing over.

“Leave the sampan as it is. The Captain says to come immediately, Bosun,” he said to Bosun. “Hey, Bosun! If you don’t watch out, he’s red with rage!” Bosun recalled his own household—his wife and six children in disarray like seaweed debris tossed ashore. “Oh damn... I’m done for. “I shouldn’t have gone,” he thought. He regretted it profoundly. Not because he thought it was bad, but because it had become the cause of something worse—he wanted to bang his head against the deck. ……His heart pounded as though it were attached to the outside of his ribs. Like a captured criminal, he intuitively sensed that his fate had been decided. He imagined his wife and children—exhausted, emaciated, and weakened—starving and freezing together in his home on the brink of ruin, then went trembling to the Captain’s quarters.

His accomplice? They too, like frost-numbed fish, had gathered in one place and were "in trouble." Mikami alone among them possessed both the courage to tell his comrades how he had spent his time last night and the compulsion that forced him to do so.

According to his story, for the young sailors, obtaining that joy remained an extraordinarily precious and rare thing—even if it meant risking dismissal. The reason being,

Mikami explained it like this. "They really treated me as kindly as their own husbands," he said.

They were parched and starved for human "love," whether false or true, like a desert. Just as travelers see the mirage of an oasis in the desert, they sought even the mirage of "love." That might have been but a hollow semblance of "love." Moreover, they knew nothing beyond that. They brought themselves there and spent a night of "love"—where vestiges of a primitive system remained, something that bore a faint semblance of truth (likely born from their illusions and wild imaginings).

When the men approached them as fellow human beings and comrades, there were times—on that very night—when the women, driven by fierce resistance and self-abandonment, would unexpectedly reveal a tearful facet of their femininity. That was probably not a good thing. But from that point onward, it would not heal.

The Captain was waiting in the salon. The Chief Engineer was also there. Second and Third were also there, their heads aligned as if on display. The Captain was a man who could not be transgressed even by those men. Therefore, Bosun and his ilk were mere "secondary vassals."

Bosun stood dejected like a fallen fireworks dummy that had dropped from the sky. He stood by the door, fumbling nervously. Though he hesitated, with a death-like silence and corpse-cold eyes having gathered around him, he steeled himself and stepped inside. It was exactly like a courtroom. There, good and evil had already been determined. What Bosun had done left no room for debate.

“I order you to disembark! “Right now. “Pack your belongings and use that sampan to go ashore! This isn’t a mutual agreement—it’s a disembarkation order!” “That will suffice.”

It was extremely simple. There was no protest. There was none to begin with. There was no time to spare.

The Captain withdrew to his cabin to rest his reddened eyes. The other officers too withdrew like ghosts.

Bosun returned to the deck. And with a thud, he threw himself into his bunk.

Everything had been decided. Bosun had been given a disembarkation order for neglect of duty, so his boarding would be prohibited for one year by authority of the Maritime Bureau. That’s the only fact there is!

Tragic facts were compiled together in the "Dead People" column on the third page of newspapers. The collapse of a bourgeois marriage filled the entire paper for days. That’s all there was to it! [...] freezing to death, starving to death, dying of illness, committing suicide, being slaughtered—that was the very state of things! [...]! If you think newspapers and the rest of society were inverting the facts, it was because you weren’t looking at capitalist society.

If those tragic facts did not exist, what would become of bourgeois social architecture, which is built solely upon such tragedies? Therefore, those are, in fact, not tragedies. Dying out due to poverty is not in the least tragic. Precisely because the masses are impoverished to the point of dying out, the bourgeoisie are this wealthy!

Therefore, everything was in the optimal state, so "This must not be disturbed!"

Bosun began tidying up the items around him. Into a canvas-made bag, he began stuffing everything. And in the midst of this, he let out an “Aah…” of a sigh. He thought as gloomily as a cloudy evening and felt as murkily as one. He pulled out a pair of torn rubber boots that had long been crammed under his bunk and stared at them. Salt had settled like white powder. But he wasn’t exactly thinking about those boots either. He gazed vacantly at them.

Namban, the Ship’s Carpenter, and other implicated parties had planned to plead for Bosun’s life and were making their rounds separately to beg on his behalf. What’s more, the Ship’s Carpenter was from Yamaguchi Prefecture, the same as the Captain. He went off to the Captain’s quarters, relying on his usual favoritism—what a pitiful, petty, stingy reason it was, this business of being from the same prefecture—as his grounds. “If you weren’t from the same prefecture, you’d be out too!” The Ship’s Carpenter, having been shouted at like that by the Captain, found himself feeling a mix of disappointment, relief, and even a strange buoyant cheer as he returned to the deck and reported that “it didn’t work.” And in his heart, he felt so energetic, so buoyant that he could have whistled.

Mikami didn't think anything of it. It was someone else's problem! Namban and Nambuto were no different.

The reader must not direct their anger at the author over this matter. The author did not act coldly! If everyone hadn't been like that, something like Bosun being dismissed wouldn't have occurred from the start. In short, it is highly troublesome for readers to direct their resentment at the author over the fact that the workers are not uniting.

Bosun kept fumbling with the boots like a foolish child clamped onto its sash.

After a while, he slammed the boots onto the floor with all his strength. And after thinking a while longer, he picked them up again, examined the tear in detail, and gently set them back down. He had placed a flat celluloid toothpick at the edge of his bunk. He had convinced himself that this flat celluloid toothpick would be good for his teeth. He then noticed it again. What should I do with this? He picked it up and once again began examining it in detail. He began to feel as though everything had suddenly become extremely significant and precious.

The sailors peered into Bosun’s cabin and made pitiful faces. Nada had evaluated Bosun—who charged a steep 20% monthly interest—as little more than a miniature version of the Captain, but upon hearing he had been “dismissed,” suddenly became a sympathizer. He entered Bosun’s cabin in a mood reminiscent of a rainy season evening. And he helped with various things.—The “gaiters” on the rubber boots he sometimes wears now were a memento he received at this time.—

From the others came constant urgings, asking if Bosun wasn’t coming up yet.

“There’s nothing as incomprehensible as humans. “Ah, there’s nothing as incomprehensible as humans,” Bosun said with a sigh.

Bosun, seen off by Mikami, took up an oar himself and rowed away toward the town of Naoetsu they had just left. From the bridge, the Captain and Chief Engineer watched through their telescopes. The sampan gradually shrank, appearing atop wave crests before vanishing into troughs as it moved off.

Coincidentally, there was no cargo work that day either. Since there was no other work to be done either, the sailors spread out an awning on the forecastle deck and lay beneath it, watching Bosun’s sampan depart.

The sampan steadily advanced. And when it had drawn near the shore, advancing to within about one or two ken, a following wave—the same swirling kind—engulfed it from behind, and like a whirlwind churning up dust, it rumbled and rolled over sideways. Of course, the Captain and Chief Engineer found this utterly amusing and clapped their hands in delight.

Onshore, coal laborers had gathered in great numbers—waiting for slightly calmer seas to board the main ship for work—and were watching this unfolding scene.

Four or five of the laborers immediately jumped in. And then the two men—Mikami clung to the oar as they rolled and tumbled; he tried two or three times to stand, but with that oar—four times his length and heavy—still clutched in his arms, he couldn't rise, swallowing seawater instead. Even in that critical moment, Bosun—struggling to keep his belongings from washing away—spread his hands octopus-like in all directions, grasping at anything within reach as he was spun round and round. And he kept tight hold of one plank and one Western-style umbrella in his hands.

If the laborers hadn't helped, the sampan would have been swept away without question, and both Bosun and Mikami would have met their deaths. They said their legs couldn't find footing. That was only natural—no man, however large, stands as tall as the sea is wide. In other words, they tried pushing out their legs while lying prone. The two men, still clutching the oar, plank, and Western-style umbrella, were hauled up by the laborers.

Bosun’s belongings—a bundle containing one futon and one blanket—were secured. And the canvas bag was washed away. And everything that remained was thoroughly soaked through. It had rendered almost everything useless, like blotting paper completely saturated. From the bridge, when viewed through the telescope, even the trunk being washed away was visible. “This is exhilarating! This is hilarious! Bwahahahaha! Bwahahahahaha! Absolutely priceless! Bwahahaha! Look at that!” “He’s clutching that plank like a tiger’s cub! Bwahahahaha!” The Captain laughed maniacally, staggering about as he did so. Truly, that must have been a comical scene from an unrelated observer’s perspective. The Chief Engineer also laughed.

Even under the awning on deck, they saw the grain-like figures on the sand dune begin to stir. What was that? They searched for the sampan’s whereabouts but could not see it. Before long, they saw the Captain and Chief Engineer on the bridge doubled over with laughter. Just then, from the bridge came the off-duty quartermaster, who informed them that Bosun’s sampan had been caught in a swirling wave and capsized, but that the laborers had managed to save their lives.

They clambered up the awning's pillars and rails, clinging tight to get a better look. But the waves blocked their view. They climbed back down and sprawled out on deck, talking about what had happened. Come evening, Mikami returned alongside Bosun wearing a sour expression and gave his report to the Captain. Bosun tried demanding damages from him, but that flat refusal didn't even let him set foot on deck. Now he couldn't so much as step onto the Manjumaru's planks. And everything got swallowed by the sea!

Mikami once again escorted Bosun ashore and returned when night fell. Bosun returned to Yokohama and was reduced to nothing more than a mere screw in a mountain of scrap iron. He had become a canvas sewing worker, earning seventy sen a day.

This was the Captain’s “great achievement,” and this was the “duty-bound” retribution Bosun had to receive!

36

I walked with a drunken stagger, tediously repeating the same thing over and over. But this was because I was a sailor and not a novelist. Truly, such things—no, "writing"—is a terribly difficult endeavor!

The Apprentice thought that now, with this, both his wounds and the illness that had followed would finally heal. That was because he was now going to Muroran Public Hospital. To get there, he would surely see the sea, see houses, see trees, and also be able to see the townspeople and all sorts of other things! That's right—for about a week, he had done nothing but stare at the bottom board of the upper bunk above his head.

In such circumstances, people likely found everything they saw nostalgic—even a drunkard who might pick a fight with them. It was the same as the mind of a released prisoner.

Fujiwara and Nada were preparing to take him. While making preparations, Nada—a brisk twenty-five-year-old young man—uttered a bitter joke. “There’s nurses at the hospital—fair-skinned, innocent ones. Not exactly beauties, but charmingly cute…” “What’s this—I can’t leave this guy alone! You ever even been to a hospital?” Since this was an uncharacteristic topic for Nada, Fujiwara took a sharp jab.

“Those eyes are wonderful! Her eyes—eyes that don’t reflect even a speck of dirt, as clear as an untouched virgin lake deep in the mountains, with such kindness in them! That woman treats every patient like her own brother or sister, with genuine warmth!”

Nada, having already put his arms through his work clothes—soiled from cleaning the toilet over ten times—spoke as though narrating a tale of his lover. “Doesn’t suit you at all. Nada-kun, no matter how you try to finagle it, there ain’t no link between your shit-stained clothes and some clear-eyed virgin!” Fujiwara teased. Even the Apprentice inadvertently smiled. The sailors also laughed.

“Wait—don’t get ahead of yourself.” “That’s true enough.” “I’m twenty-five already, you know.” “I know plenty about love and romance.” “If I met such a virgin at the hospital then—” “I’d wonder if she’d even approach this shit-stained work uniform! Ha ha ha ha!” He laughed. Within that smile lay an utterly pure expression, like a virgin forest nestled within a virgin lake.

“But you’re the one who said it yourself—‘this leafy vegetable works best for warding off women’s troubles.’ If that’s true, then of course that girl wouldn’t be an exception either!” Ogura said. “Pessimism, pessimism! It was wrong of me to bring up women in the first place. Hell, even my own sister wouldn’t want to marry some filthy laborer like me. Ha ha ha ha!” “That’s absolutely right, Nada,” Fujiwara said as if he could no longer contain his emotions.

Now, the preparations—which amounted to putting their hands and feet through where they needed to go and fastening buttons, shoes, and hats where required—were complete. Truly, Nada was a "talisman against women troubles." Even novice beggars presented a more respectable appearance than he did. As for his hair, one couldn't distinguish it from that of a veteran beggar.

Nada carried the Apprentice on his back. The sailors carefully positioned the Apprentice onto his back.

“I’m sorry,” said the Apprentice in a tearful, nasal voice that seemed choked with emotion. The three of them set off on four legs.

Even carrying a child on one’s back made the shoulders ache terribly and feel heavy. In the Apprentice’s case, it was severely heavy. To make matters worse, his chest ached, and even worse, his shattered left leg would dangle limply and drag through the snow. The Apprentice tried to keep his leg lifted, focusing all his attention on his left leg in an attempt not to drag it, but in vain. Just as the Apprentice’s leg sagged down, Nada’s hands sank lower as well.

Nada had gone from hoisting the Apprentice up every twenty steps to every ten steps; now he was doing it with each one. The Apprentice’s face had drained of color from pain and cold, yet still he endured.

They entered the guardhouse located about twenty ken from the pier. And then, after lowering the Apprentice onto the bench, Nada wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Ah, you’ve had a rough time,” Fujiwara said. The Apprentice’s heart pounded wearily, cold sweat pouring from his forehead, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to speak. He simply let out a small, pained sigh.

The male and female laborers resting in the guardhouse cleared one side of the stove they had been huddled around and made space for the three. Then they offered words of sympathy and compassion for the Apprentice's injury. "We're our own capital—these bodies of ours. We've got to take care of 'em," they said to each other. "Oh poor lad—still just a kid," they said. The Apprentice's left leg had swollen perfectly round like a bayonet's tip, bound in unbleached cotton cloth. The swollen mass had grown damp from melted snow warmed by the stove's heat.

The Apprentice couldn't hold back his tears upon hearing these strangers' words of comfort. An aged woman—likely his mother's senior and probably enduring the same grueling labor—stood by the stove leaning on a shovel like a cane. He felt ashamed. Though he didn't know why, he must have felt humiliated at being injured and carried to the hospital like this. Most people there were elderly—those who seemed to struggle even lifting those massive shovels. They were all either over forty or mere children of fifteen or sixteen—with four or five girls among them—where were those in their working prime? The people couldn't help wondering.

Those in their prime working years were risking their lives digging coal thousands of feet underground in the Yūbari Coal Mines! Moreover，their sons and daughters had gone there for migrant labor．And if they did return，they would come back either as cripples or broken invalids—and many would return as corpses．

“Will I too have to return home a cripple?” The Apprentice’s heart was gnawed by a bleak desolation, like coal turning to ash. “Alright, let’s go. This time I’ll carry him,” Fujiwara said.

The laborers also helped out, and the Apprentice was carried by Fujiwara. The three of them trudged along once more on four legs, following the edge of the horseshoe-shaped coastal cliff. And yet, tall as Fujiwara was, the snow lay two feet deep. The trampled path was narrow. The Apprentice had to drag his leg as if trying to leave some kind of signal mark with his foot in the high snow at the roadside. The three of them walked on in silence, pressed close together—so quiet that one might have thought it wouldn’t hurt for them to exchange even a single word now and then. Even they wanted to rebel against that oppressive silence themselves, but they simply lacked the energy to speak. It felt as tedious and cumbersome as some government office procedure.

For Fujiwara and Nada, this was the same path they had walked the previous night, yet now it stretched endlessly before them as though the very road were sliding away into the distance.

However, they soon arrived at the second hut. It stood at the innermost part of the port, forming the apex of the horseshoe shape. After proceeding some distance from that hut, they turned left away from the coast, passed through a tunnel built between coal ridges, then crossed a plain of dozens of rails near Muroran Station's engine shed before finally reaching the town. Their party paused to catch their breath at the second hut. There too, numerous laborers had gathered around a stove glowing red-hot.

The three of them were once again given seats by the laborers there and repeated much the same routine as before. With each rest, they grew a little wetter. Eventually, the group crossed through the rail-strewn plain and emerged into the town. There, they wanted to hire a rickshaw or sled for the Apprentice, but no such things existed. Nada and Fujiwara took turns climbing the slope until drenched in sweat, ascending until they reached the elevated part of the city where the ocean became visible from the peninsula's narrow neck. There stood a public hospital.

37 At the reception desk, they purchased examination tickets and waited their turn in the surgery waiting room. It felt as disorienting as landing in a country where no one spoke their language. Shipboard life was gradually rendering them cripple-like on land. Nurses in white uniforms moved about. Some were beautiful. Yet no woman matched the idealized vision Nada had imagined. Instead of paint fumes, they inhaled medicinal odors. Where bleakness should have reigned, clear feminine voices carried through the air while nurses' uniform hems rustled softly. Through the antiseptic smells wafted traces of face lotion from the nurses' skin, lingering like strands of spider silk.

On the chairs sat two or three people waiting—some with their heads entirely bandaged, others with arms in slings from the shoulder. Before long, when called as "Mr. Yasui," the Apprentice was supported by two men and entered the examination room. "What happened?" the doctor asked.

The Apprentice tersely explained how he had been injured and indicated where it hurt. The steam radiator hissed out white plumes. Lying on the examination table, the Apprentice endured a meticulous inspection. Then they cut his leg open anew with a knife, tugged at nerves with tweezers, drew out blood vessels and bound them with thread.

“Why did you leave it like this for so long? If it were summer, we might’ve ended up having to amputate from around here,” he said, pointing near the knee. “The captain absolutely refuses to let him be examined. So we brought him here using our own money,” Fujiwara answered. “You must’ve had another one of your usual quarrels with the Captain, I suppose. It’s a common occurrence aboard ships. You must’ve stood your ground pretty firmly too,” the young doctor said with a laugh, his kind eyes peering out from behind thick glasses.

“It’s not like that. It’s completely beyond reason,” Fujiwara said, briefly explaining about the violence and the Yokohama incident.

The doctor listened with vigorous nods, "The leg should be ready for stitch removal in about a week, but that chest contusion needs examining by internal medicine." "We surgeons can't properly handle that part," he added. "So his chest requires internal medicine's attention?" Nada inquired.

“Yes, that would be better.” “You absolutely must not move the leg.” “Please come again within five days or a week.” “Right,” Fujiwara answered, and the two of them, supporting the Apprentice, headed toward internal medicine. They wouldn’t be able to come within a week—this fact troubled everyone and left them at a loss. But, well, they all thought in unison—as if they had agreed—that they would consider the matter after dealing with internal medicine. It was a state akin to not wanting to touch a painful wound.

“Does the fever come in the evenings?” asked the internal medicine doctor. “But on our ship—whether above deck or below—we’d never laid eyes on a thermometer.” “So while there was definitely a fever, we couldn’t tell if it ran high or low.” “We never took measurements—truth is, we don’t own a thermometer,” Fujiwara answered. “Does he feel ill or get chills when evening comes?” the doctor inquired.

"Yes, the wound hurts constantly, but it's in the evenings that my mind gets hazy." "I keep having these strange dreams and nightmares." "And without fail, I get chills every evening too." Yasui answered. The doctor tilted his head while listening to his breathing from behind with a stethoscope.

“Can he be hospitalized? It would be better if he were hospitalized.” The doctor turned to Fujiwara and asked. “What exactly is this illness? As for hospitalization, I don’t believe that will be possible either. Unless the ship covers the expenses, we won’t be able to pay the hospitalization fees ourselves.” Fujiwara laid bare their reality. “The illness stems from the contusion, as I suspected. With something like a leg—formed from bone and flesh within—it’s manageable. But these regions contain complex internal systems,” he said, then pronounced an unwieldy medical term.

“So if we determine the illness was caused by the injury, will he be released from the ship?” “I’ll prepare a medical certificate for you,” said the doctor, writing it out and handing it over.

“Thank you very much. Once we return to the ship and have discussed it…”

The three expressed their thanks, and the Apprentice was carried out by Nada.

They thought that even a hundred copies of the diagnosis certificate would be useless, but regardless, this one was a powerful ally.

Nowadays, diagnosis certificates held more critical significance than actual injuries or illnesses. This was especially true in cases of injury and illness among the working class. Factory doctors often served only the role of writing diagnosis certificates based on the capitalists’ diagnoses. Capitalists do not bat an eye at workers severed by machinery, workers caught and crushed in conveyor belts, workers who fell into drying furnaces and became charred like roasted meat. They were only shocked by the diagnosis certificates for those cases.

A coal mine owner would never bat an eye when five hundred workers—men and women alike—were steamed alive underground during a gas explosion! His only concern was whether sections still awaiting excavation would remain intact when they finally unsealed the pit entrance—in three years or five!

The same applies to steamships. The humans who sink alongside them mean nothing—yet the ship’s hull itself is a source of eternal sorrow for the capitalists.

The Captain, too, had no compelling "reason" to be shocked by the Apprentice’s injury itself. But as for this diagnosis certificate—that it might not be entirely incapable of provoking some reaction—the three of them clung to this futile hope.

Elementary school children pulled small sleds loaded with books and lunchboxes, laughing and shouting as they trudged home from their school perched on the heights. When the road steepened into a sharp slope, the children would clamber onto sleds too small even for them, line up both feet, and hurtle headlong down toward the town below—failing to steer, they’d crash into general storefronts or slam against wooden planks. Some managed to turn successfully, but ended up crashing into mountains of swept-up snow, scattering smoke-like powder snow.

For the Apprentice, this was delightful beyond endurance. It served as a pleasant diversion. His own figure from three or four years prior slid and tumbled countless times across the snow. He had forgotten about his leg and even forgotten that he was being carried.

Nada Yoshio dripped sweat under Yasui’s weight as he carried him piggyback. “Mr. Nada—it’s still quite a detour to reach any sweets shop from here.” The Apprentice found himself craving confections. He wanted kintsuba. Better yet—just the sweet bean paste inside those high-grade steamed cakes. When he ate sweets nowadays, he imagined their saccharine essence coursing through his veins to form a protective film over his festering wound—such was his desperate hunger for sugar. One motive was granting Nada his promised rice cracker (“Once ashore,” he’d declared, “I need at least one damn cracker or I’ll go mad”). Another was resting his throbbing leg. But above all pulsed his craving—to delay their return by minutes, hours; to linger in this luminous terrestrial world. Clean air! Defined shapes! Human lives! All beauty’s facets—he yearned to dwell among them one moment more.

“That’s a brilliant idea!” Nada had been steering their course in that direction with that very intention. *Tōyōken* once again welcomed customers of an unparalleled sort that day.

The Apprentice, since his leg wouldn't work, was led with the other two to a Japanese-style room.

Truly, the extent of Nada's genuine devotion to sweets was something I could not quite put into words. He was even more consumed by sweets than a true lover of alcohol would be by drink. It was "pathological". Yet sailors in general harbored this "pathological" desire toward anything and everything. In sheer quantity, Yasui and Fujiwara likely surpassed Nada at times.

The three of them sat around a charcoal-filled hibachi and picked at sweets. This was something the Apprentice had never experienced before. Workers who had been living in utter misery were thrown into prison over some trivial crime. There, he was made to eat pork and fish meat that he had never tasted before. The labor there was easier than what had tormented him until now. From barren lands devoid of industry, from deep mountain valleys, there were those—somewhat mentally deficient prisoners captured past the age of forty—who would say such things. And he seemed not to mind spending his twilight years in prison.

From an 1863 British government investigation into provisions and labor conditions of prisoners sentenced to criminal penalties or penal servitude, Marx proved that inmates in Portland prisons received better nutrition than agricultural workers and typesetters. (Source, 1-3, p. 238) In 1855 Belgium, Mr. Ducpétiaux wrote in his book that even standard workers not considered destitute received thirteen centimes less in nutritional value than prisoners in that country. (Source, 1-3, p. 224)

In this world，there were those whose lives were harsher than prison in all aspects—food，labor，everything.

The apprentice—having been injured and received condolence money—for the first time experienced such a leisurely mood: eating exquisite sweets whose names he didn't know from trays lined with tea utensils over charcoal-filled braziers, sipping tea. Wasn't this akin to those pitiful laborers who only upon entering prison finally tasted "pork" for the first time?

―I must clarify to the reader that none of the above should be taken to mean prisons are good places. Understand this: the existence of conditions worse than prison cannot serve as a basis for considering prisons good, because that does not inherently make them good.―

The Apprentice became able to divert his attention from his leg and chest, at least for a while. He had become able to think about other things to some extent as well. That is to say, undergoing surgery and smelling medicinal scents had provided him care. “When you’re aboard ship you can’t eat things like this at all,” he said while nibbling adzuki beans from a fawn-patterned sweet.

"Truly, this shop's sweets are delicious. You won't find this many even in Yokohama!" Nada acted the connoisseur. "When it comes to appraising confections, Mr. Nada here possesses bourgeois tastes, you see." Fujiwara laughed. The three ate sweets until their chests burned. During this time, their fatigue was restored. And for a while, there were moments when they forgot about the ship and all unpleasant matters. Yet in Fujiwara's mind, the question of when to launch the strike remained nearly impossible to forget.

He thought of the motto—"Until all people have obtained bread, no one shall have sweets"—while eating sweets. This phrase, this motto—how profoundly it had educated Fujiwara! This simple and clear motto—with what fraternal resonance would it resound among workers across the world, passing from mouth to mouth, village to city, spreading in the blink of an eye! And now, this phrase had far surpassed in numbers those who uttered "Amen." There blazed a truth burning with new inspiration, shining like a beacon-fire.—

Fujiwara paid the bill. "I'm sorry. I was supposed to treat you as thanks," said the Apprentice with genuine contrition as Fujiwara carried him on his back.

The Apprentice’s pure white bandages were nevertheless stained with seeping blood. “At least it’s not pus coming out,” the Apprentice managed to laugh. However, by the time they returned to the ship, they were utterly exhausted. Because of his dragging leg, the Apprentice’s nerves were once again frayed. It was akin to the heart of a prisoner within a prison, awakened from a beautiful dream.

Everything returned to the narrow, low, clamorous, filthy, dark ship-cabin existence!

38

The *Manju Maru* returned to Yokohama, and just like that, it became New Year’s. Therefore, the ship’s hull had to be given a fresh coat. The ship’s sides had already been painted. Next, the mast had to be painted.

Soap scrubbing and Pennantine painting of the mast—this work had been manageable in summer, but with New Year preparations invariably scheduled for winter, it became arduous. The soap water froze until it resembled yogurt, the brushes froze—it was utterly unmanageable.

But worst of all was their bodies freezing. On a winter day, cold winds howled around utility poles; on that blizzard morning, snow blown against one side of a pole had frozen in such a way that it appeared as though sunlight was striking that very surface. With several times the height and thickness of those utility poles, the mast jutted out exposed in the open sea, where nothing obstructed the wind. Truly, the work of dealing with that mast was both dangerous and bitterly cold.

The work began from the first mast. They tied their own bodies to ropes, secured blocks to the mast's top, passed the ropes through them, and gripped one end themselves. Painting as they let out the ropes and letting out ropes as they painted, they worked their way downward bit by bit. Our pennant painting work went much easier in summer. This was because the paint spread smoothly. But in this case, no matter how much they mixed the paint with oil, it stayed far more viscous than in summer. Nada fastened a can of thick, stiff, poor-flowing Pennant paint to his waistband and started applying it from the mast's top.

Nishizawa was painting the opposite side. The elevated pier was visible four or five ken below the top of the mast.

"The pier looks high, but it's lower than the mast," Nada said to Nishizawa. "Yeah, that's right—but damn, it's so cold I can't even feel my hands!" The two gripped their paintbrushes like children clutching chopsticks as they worked. The rope suspending them swayed in the wind. They had to paint at an awkward distance from the mast, legs jerking stiffly like automatons performing calisthenics. Sometimes the workers collided on the same side of the mast.

“Hey! This is my territory!” “Don’t give me that crap!” The two of them peered sideways. If the pier lay to the left, then Nishizawa was right. Nishizawa faced from bow to stern as he painted the bow section. Even the rope suspending them felt frozen solid. They marveled that they hadn’t stiffened like salted cod. “What’s the point of dolling up this tattered tub wide as a hand fan?” “Hah! Only a *Manju Maru* captain could dream up painting masts in Muroran for New Year’s—guy’s got some weird hobbies, eh?” Shivering violently yet desperate to descend, Nishizawa slathered paint like a blind man flailing a cane.

"You think he just wants to see us freeze stuck to the mast, don’t ya?" “Well, I’m tellin’ ya, I’m dead sure that’s exactly what he’s scheming for.” Nada was also shivering.

“Well, ‘course it’s decided! A human freezin’ to a mast’s way more of a spectacle than some goldfish turnin’ into ice, ain’t it?” Nishizawa replied.

The large mast swayed considerably at its highest section. It was shaken by that cold wind—sharp as a polished Japanese sword. “Climbin’ masts with paint cans at twenty—must be my parents’ curse, eh?” Nishizawa shouted, twisting the words of a miner’s song. “Hss-hss—these days we can’t even suck on five-sen bats, hss-hss!” Nada sang back. “What’s that abandoned pup whine you’re makin’?” Nishizawa sneered.

“Yours sounds like you’re just bangin’ the paint can.” Nada shot back. And he looked down.

"Hey, there's still a ton left. Ain't there some clever trick we can pull?" Nada grumbled. "There sure is something real nice." Nishizawa said. "Heh! Why don’t you just get down and warm yourself by the stove?" "There's an even better way. “Jump from the top of the mast into the sea! Do that and any incurable disease or shitty job—you’ll be done with ’em all at once!” “You said it.”

They were almost unconsciously rubbing the mast. Like goldfish freezing in water, they were on the verge of freezing in midair.

Nishizawa and Nada were ordered to paint the mast as a "yarijimai" task. *Yarijimai*—literally “finish-it-off”—meant that once it was completed, that day’s work would be done. In other words, it meant contract work.

It was usually an inconvenient situation. This was because those assigning the work would take tasks that couldn’t be completed within an ordinary day’s schedule—and were urgent besides—and designate them as *yarijimai*. When this happened, those assigned would work like mad—spinning around frantically and leaping about like dogs with ropes tied to their tails—desperately trying to escape the labor. “It’s *yarijimai*! Get it done by two!” The Second Mate contorted his face into the unsettling grimace of an unripened pumpkin, barked this order, then retreated to his cabin. Then that job would surely be finished by five o’clock. They’d worked an extra hour beyond normal and put in more than double the effort!

They were grating themselves down with the *yarijimai* system—a veritable wasabi grater!

It was akin to contract work on land, or what’s called “piecework”— It was the same as labor.

In *yarijimai* work, any delay was blamed on the workers' lack of skill. Even among their comrades, it was deemed "undisciplined!" From their own perspective, it was "self-inflicted." And from the capitalists' viewpoint, they declared, "This is exactly why this system works!" Thus came the verdict: "We profit." They finished that *yarijimai* chilled to their very marrow in the evening, long after the other sailors had eaten. Their outcry stood justified: "This is impossible!"

39

Everything proceeded as planned. From the elevated pier, they spewed out far more coal than anticipated. It became a black avalanche that literally crashed into the ship's hold. Beneath this deluge, stevedores raked the cascading coal toward the corner, toward the corner with their shovels. When coal poured too fast and too thick from the upper funnel, dozens of laborers' shovels couldn't keep pace—the hatch clogged with coal, trapping workers in the hollowed-out corners of the hold.

To save themselves from the agony and darkness, they raked the coal toward the corner with every ounce of their strength. The sound of shovels, the clattering of coal, their shouts—when walking on deck, a newcomer couldn’t tell where these noises came from, and their eerily gloomy resonance, as if emerging from the netherworld itself, was so startling it never failed to shock. The coal piled mountain-high at the hatch opening had settled so neatly into the dumbwaiter that one couldn’t help worrying whether the workers inside would be able to climb back up—it was piled that alarmingly high.

The workers were sometimes sealed in with coal for half a day at a time, laboring in the darkness like tunnel workers confined within their excavation. When they emerged, they would take deep breaths over and over again, endlessly, as if their entire bodies were dolls made of lungs. Then they would receive from the foreman—one by one—enormous rice balls sprinkled with sesame salt, each shaped into neat equilateral triangles as thick as a human head—unlike anything found in other ports—which they carried back to the cabin and ate.

Even Mikami, renowned as the greatest eater among the sailors, could not finish a single one. They contained nothing but sesame salt—no other accompaniments whatsoever. The laborers, upon receiving one such rice ball for their evening meal, were obligated to continue their overtime labor in that pit until dawn, like denizens of the netherworld. The coal freight rate at that time stood at five yen per ton between Muroran and Kobe. Thus coal was loaded even into the sailors' quarters. Sailors received monthly wages of eight to sixteen yen, while stevedores and laborers earned daily wages of eighty sen. Yet lured by those monstrous rice balls, they could obtain a mere one yen and thirty sen for a full day and night's labor! And the freight rate for coal was five yen per ton!

Every conceivable gap was packed with coal; the insurance mark, constantly washed by the waves, stayed invisible. And provisions were loaded precisely for the voyage's planned duration. For shipowners and shareholders, it was a golden age. For sailors and laborers too, it was a golden age—of overwork. The steamship resembled one of those wind-up toys. As long as the spring remained wound, it ticked without pause—thus sailors and Captain alike became cogs in the machine. The Captain likely vented this mechanical frenzy on the stokers—what a cursed system!

Under the coal avalanches that came crashing down from the pier with thunderous roars, the laborers worked with desperate frenzy—not for their wages, but to save themselves from being buried alive. And because of this, their labor could not be sustained for more than twenty days a month, even by those in the best physical condition. And they breathed pulverized coal.

But it was fine. They understood nothing. Nothing came to light. Toiling like draft horses under ominous clouds was deemed virtuous. And for the capitalists too, this was supremely advantageous. And at that time, the European War raged on.

That was the era! The era when our Japanese Empire's wealth came to rival the world powers! That was the era! When Japan grew rich. That was the era when Japan's capitalists amassed their fortunes! In exchange, the workers had utterly wrecked their bodies through relentless overwork! Though dinner aboard ship had long ended, the hatch sealed shut since noon remained closed. Beneath the decks—under tables, below the apprentice's bunk—an eerie clattering reverberated incessantly from every direction. At times, groans resembling human voices could be heard. Only after seven o'clock did an opening finally appear. It brought the laborers joy akin to an incurable abscess bursting open to discharge its pus. Like mountaineers conquering a summit, they ascended using their shovels as staves, stamping down coal beneath their feet.

And through that exception, they obtained thick rice balls. Even as they worked like burrowing wasps within the dumbwaiter, tasting the agony of near-suffocation, some among them came to envy another's lot. That other lot belonged to the laborers on the elevated pier.

It was so high that it rivaled the ship's mast in height, and with such exposure to the wind, it felt like being inside a blower's pipe. They removed the lid at the bottom of the coal car. The coal fell onto the funnel built on the pier. Then it came crashing into the ship's coal chute with a thunderous roar. The areas where they worked were entirely made of iron. And that iron was like a branding iron—touching it would tear their flesh. They wore large canvas bags on their legs. They also wore red or gray work clothes stuffed with cotton and wool between layers of blankets. This was their only cold-weather gear during breaks from their dizzying, grueling work hours. All of them moved their hands within leather gloves resembling the archery gauntlets that Minamoto no Tametomo might have worn.

Just as Hokkaido’s bitter winds meticulously tightened apple peels and dyed their skins red, the laborers too thickened their clothes and turned their cheeks as ruddy as a drunkard’s nose. But just as a high-speed steel cutter shaves cast iron like a knife slicing through daikon radish, Hokkaido’s frigid winds relentlessly stole the workers’ body heat. Working on the pier had an effect opposite to placing ice into flames, yet equally paradoxical in its fittingness.

When they finished their labor, their bodies became so stiff that climbing onto the empty cart to return was difficult. One of them said. “Well, it’s like being frozen alive.” However, the workers could not afford to fear death in order to survive.

40

Fujiwara lay on his stomach inside his bunk, writing something on a scrap of paper. As if making excerpts from a book, two or three volumes lay beside him. He smoked. He puffed so recklessly and rapidly that one might have thought he should just stick two cigarettes in his mouth at once. He alone produced enough smoke to fumigate the entire space. The dumbwaiter was nearly full of coal. The ship appeared likely to depart as scheduled tomorrow morning, return to Yokohama, and welcome the New Year. Welcoming the New Year in Yokohama was the hope of all sailors. "There was nothing to be done in Muroran."

In Yokohama, the Captain, the Chief Engineer—every single one of them—maintained households. To want to welcome the New Year with their own families was only natural as a matter of human feeling. The Manju Maru was scheduled to return to Yokohama around 10 AM on the 31st, or perhaps even later. Therefore, that schedule could not be extended by even an hour.

The Captain was supposed to part with his mistress at Noboribetsu Hot Springs first thing tomorrow morning and return to Muroran on the first train. The moment the Captain finished boarding the ship, his figure would appear on the bridge. There, he would give the order to “Heave-ho!” and weigh anchor.

Until then, everything would remain exactly as it had been. But from then on, things would change. They believed that “Yokohama New Year” was already within their grasp. They would have to realize that this fragile sense of security had been violently shaken—that everything had derailed from its intended course and run aground like a ship dashed against rocks. And all because the sailors had submitted their demands and were now locked in negotiations—which meant they weren’t working. That’s why the ship wasn’t moving! This fact would soon spread throughout every corner of the vessel. Our demands would likely be scrutinized by the engine room workers too. These clauses might even ignite something within them. And for that very reason, these demands had to be meticulously crafted—every word weighed with care!

Fujiwara was thinking these things through the haze of cigarette smoke.

He gazed at the scrap of paper. On it were written phrases that appeared to be a draft of their demands. Establishment of working hours, wage increases, official holidays, suspension of work the day after departure and arrival, regulations and enforcement of compensation for work-related injuries and illnesses, prohibition of midnight sampan operations, and so on were haphazardly written down.

He was now struggling to give these clauses proper form as a formal list of demands. "Tsk!" Fujiwara clicked his tongue. He flicked the cigarette ash onto the book cover. *That we even have to demand such things now...* He stuffed the scrap of paper into his pocket and climbed down from his bunk. Then he asked Nada, "Any word from Ogura's side?" "Nothing yet that I've heard." Nada too was worried.

“Is Ogura on duty now?” “Not sure.” Nada went to the entrance and looked at the bridge. Ogura was pacing back and forth across the bridge. “He’s there. Let’s discuss in the chart room.” Nada whispered to Stoki. Stoki nodded. “Then I’ll go check how things stand, so you wait up on the engine.”

Nada bounded out casually as he was. Fujiwara went further inside once and sat down on a bench there. He lit a cigarette. After a while, he suddenly stood up as if remembering something forgotten, and headed out toward the deck.

Fortunately, the Mates had all gone somewhere to bid farewell before tomorrow morning’s departure.

The three gathered in the chart room. “We need to have Nishizawa-kun come,” Ogura said.

“Right now he’s maintaining appearances with brothel talk, so standing out would be problematic,” Fujiwara answered. “That guy’s utterly hopeless. When it comes to whorehouse stories, he goes completely wild—I need him to act seriously when it actually matters.” Nada seethed with frustration. “But even if—no, rather—when nearly everyone else has nothing beyond that, isn’t it enough that he at least possesses something more? Toward our comrades, we must maintain absolute tolerance. Otherwise our front will collapse from within naturally.” Fujiwara mediated.

“So, how about the Quartermaster? And he still hasn’t told you anything?” Fujiwara asked Ogura.

“He still hasn’t said anything. “I don’t know where to start—the words just won’t come out right.” “So how about this—when we’re about to submit the demands, I’ll show them and ask for opinions. And if there are any demands specific to my role as Quartermaster, we could add those before submitting.” Ogura answered. “That’s right. “That approach would work better.” Fujiwara agreed. “Might actually help keep things secret too.” Nada also agreed.

“Then I’ll go bring Nishizawa-kun. “And we’ve got to settle this now, or else it’ll have to wait until tomorrow, won’t it?” Nada felt his mind racing as if he were being hurried along.

“Wait,” Ogura held up a hand to stop them. “I’ll be off duty in fifteen minutes. How about we meet at the comrades’ warehouse once I’m off?” The clock showed fifteen minutes to eight.

“Yes, let’s do that. If each of us makes it look like we’re just going ashore for a bit and then leave, that’d work.” “Alright, let’s do that.”

There, the two sailors descended below.

After returning to the front area, Nada told Nishizawa that when the eight o'clock bell rang, there would be a discussion at the comrades' warehouse, so he should slip away unnoticed and come. Nishizawa nodded.

Stoki sat down on the bench with the air of someone merely part of the audience and, as was his habit, continued to smoke his tobacco.

41

The eight o'clock bell rang. By that time, Fujiwara was already gone. Nada sat down next to the Apprentice and was talking. "Then I'll save up sweets till New Year's. I won't forget your souvenir, so wait for me, eh? Same old Toyo-kan, ha ha ha ha ha!" Nada had rebranded the comrades' warehouse as Toyo-kan. "Huh?" Nishizawa let out a shrill voice. "Nada! Take me along sometimes too, will you?"

There, the two of them made their way together to the warehouse.

Fujiwara sat atop the coiled hawsers like the Tsunashiki Tenjin deity, clutching an eyeball-shaped lamp. Before long, Ogura also arrived.

And thus, everything was set into motion—so it began. “Here we are doing dangerous labor—could be swept by waves any moment, crushed by the winch, no telling where or when—yet when someone like the Apprentice gets hurt, they leave him rotting. If he dies? Left dead. How can we feel secure or keep our heads straight in such conditions?” “That’s why I say we need occupational disease and injury compensation regulations on this ship—use them to provide proper aid.” “I want your input on this matter.” “But just asking them to draft rules would get us useless trash. So here’s my thought: we appoint two from our side, one from theirs. Have this committee draw up assistance regulations—what do you say?” Fujiwara laid out his plan.

“That’s absolutely necessary.” Nishizawa said. “However, regarding these regulations—will our will truly prevail through this committee? I have doubts about that point.” Nada said. “Exactly. That’s why we set the ratio as two from our side and one from theirs.” Fujiwara answered. “On paper that’s how it looks—but won’t this committee actually end up being controlled by their two members instead of our one?” “If their two refuse to be controlled, I think even these conditions alone could trigger a strike.” “And that would mean double the trouble for us.” Nada said.

“Well… Then what should we do?” said Ogura. “I see. The committee members from our side would be as good as puppets anyway.” Fujiwara also agreed. “So ultimately, how should we go about this?” “In my opinion, we should draft it ourselves and only make them choose between approving or rejecting it.” “Otherwise, since this decisive battle must be settled in that brief window before departure—if we postpone it until after sailing, our defeat becomes certain.” “Therefore, we must make all conditions clear-cut for outright acceptance or rejection—then strike a fatal blow right before departure. That would be our optimal strategy.” This was Nada’s idea.

“Yes, that approach seems sound. They say not a single worker sits idle in Muroran now.” “I heard two men who’d been unemployed until two or three days ago caught passage back to port aboard the Jinimarau.” “In a backwater like Muroran, there’s not a ship taking on crew.” Ogura said. “So even if there’s only four or five of us, I believe we can prevail—provided we strike at precisely the right moment.” “Then let’s draft those demands right here.” Nishizawa said.

“Since we’ve left the draft entirely to Fujiwara-kun, let’s build on that to put it together.” Nada said. There on the piled ropes, new demand conditions were forged from Fujiwara’s original proposal—a process that dragged on until around eleven that night.

They were as follows:

1. Working hours shall be established as eight hours. (Currently exceeding twelve hours without restriction) For work exceeding eight hours when necessary, double the standard wage shall be paid per hour. 2. Increase in labor wages: For all lower-ranking crew members including stokers, helmsmen, and carpenters, their monthly payments shall be raised by twenty percent through the following method. Method: Twenty percent of the total monthly income of all lower-ranking crew members (what does "lower-ranking" even mean?!) shall be equally allocated per capita among said crew members and added to their existing wages.

3. Sundays shall be strictly observed as official days off. 4. When entering or leaving port on an official holiday, the following day shall be observed as a day off. 5. Work orders shall be issued by a single person, and multiple officers shall not be permitted to issue simultaneous orders. 6. Upon arrival at Yokohama port late at night, we shall refuse to allow sailors to be used for landing via sampan for the Captain’s personal purposes.

7. For occupational injuries and occupational illnesses, this ship shall bear all actual expenses until full recovery and continue paying monthly wages. End of document Such were the demands.

Ogura returned to the helm room, made a clean copy of it, and handed it over to Nada. We decided that the negotiation procedure would be as follows: early tomorrow morning, before commencing departure preparations, we would submit them to the Chief Mate and remain in our quarters until all our demands were accepted.

The three demands—working hours, wage increases, and occupational injury benefits—were perfectly aligned with the firemen’s interests. And these three formed the most crucial clauses among their demands. “So we can’t just push these demands on the firemen without consulting them first.” “Of course.”

Thereupon, Ogura reported to the firemen (stokers) and coal carriers, Fujiwara approached the oilers (lubricators), and the sailors decided to present their demands: if they could form a united front, that would be ideal; if not, they wanted their support. However, this had to occur simultaneously with our demands being taken to the Chief Mate. The reason was that these were such urgent demands for the sailors—demands they had to carry out themselves—whereas for some of the firemen, they might not be urgent at all. But what we feared even more were spies. We had to be absolutely on guard against spies. Because they were more terrifying than plague bacteria. The fact that spies were never where one would expect them to be—just as you couldn’t expect to find a loach under the same willow twice—meant we had to be all the more vigilant. Therefore, though it might have seemed somewhat belated, it was decided that it would be better to do it tomorrow morning—it absolutely had to be tomorrow morning.

And one more crucial matter was decided. Taking the submission of these demands as our opportunity—whether they succeeded or failed—we had at least succeeded in making them. To commemorate this, let us join the Seamen’s Union—and if none exists, we shall create one. They seemed to recall—albeit vaguely—that it had indeed been established very recently. It was decided that once they returned to shore, they would promptly investigate and, if a union existed, immediately resolve to join.

Regarding the regulations for occupational injury and illness benefits, it was naturally decided they would be implemented immediately, but it was also resolved—and formally recorded—that negotiations must ensure the Apprentice’s compensation would follow these newly established rules. This too was unanimously agreed upon.

What did it mean that they themselves had to first keep this secret—as if in making their necessary demands, they were plotting some improper, forbidden act—and even consider contingency plans for when it failed?

Whatever that might signify was none of my concern. Yet I knew this - whenever they demanded even the barest minimum of what should be humanly natural, their plans were always cautiously concealed through ingrained habit. No one wants to plunge into hell. Who had conditioned humans to skulk about like this?

At this very moment, the Captain received a report from the Chief Mate that the mast had been cleaned, the sides painted, and the ship fully loaded in good order, and was drinking sake with her. She said something along the lines of, “This is our farewell for the year, but we’ll meet again soon next year, won’t we?” “I do love your beauty, but that very thing is what makes me worry,” he said, sipping from his cup. It was in a room at a hot spring inn in Noboribetsu, within the warmth of a kotatsu draped with a blazing scarlet futon.

At that moment, the Apprentice was groaning in his bunk—where the iron ship's side doubled as one wall of his bed—from wounds and illness of uncertain origin, neither clearly of the sea nor the land. The sailors were in the midst of discussions to demand that the chains binding them—which were fastened too tightly—be loosened slightly.

Count Mita was the president of this steamship company and its coal mine. At that moment, what he was doing remained hidden above the clouds and could not be seen.

42.

Dawn broke.

The wind howled. The gray sky had blended indistinguishably into everything—mountains, plains, horizon—its origins untraceable. Through it all flew powdery gray snow, lashing sideways. But this was no proper blizzard. Not that legendary sort that seals eyes and nostrils shut. They imagined once past Daikokujima Island, the wind would rage less fiercely than on their last voyage.

The hatch still gaped open like a child's mouth smeared with puffed rice crumbs. The entire deck lay buried under coal. Each fragment clung frozen to the steel plates like metallic barnacles.

The Bosun went to the Chief Mate’s quarters to inquire about the work procedure. Immediately after, Storekeeper Fujiwara Rokuo followed, carrying the finalized written demands. Ogura went to the firemen’s quarters as soon as he woke up. The sailors felt that this morning was somehow profoundly different from any ordinary morning. Wasn’t this morning truly different from any ordinary one?

The Bosun entered the Chief Mate’s room. As he tried to close it behind him, the Storekeeper had already fully entered. Then the door was closed from behind by the Storekeeper. “Good morning,” said the Bosun. “Yeah, right away…” Just as the Chief Mate was about to issue work orders, the Storekeeper immediately placed their list of demands on his desk. “We sailors demand everything as written in this petition. Please accept our demands.” “And affix your seal to this demand letter.” “That will signify acceptance of our demands.”

The Bosun stood there like a frozen rod. The Chief Mate was far more shocked than if he had run aground on a reef.

That was inconceivable. Running aground was possible—but sailors submitting a petition?! He became enraged. “What’s this? A demand?! “What kind of demands?!” “A strike demand?!” The Chief Mate shouted. The Bosun shrank back. He wanted to say, “I don’t know anything about this,” but—there stood Stoki—oh, this was bad. He was literally brought to a standstill.

Stoki remained composed. They’ve started, he thought. "These demands are exactly as written here. "If you have any questions, I will answer them." Stoki maintained an infuriating calm. "No demands can be addressed now. "After we return to Yokohama!" The Chief Mate realized the situation was neither as simple as he’d assumed nor likely to unfold as predicted. "We believe we will refuse work unless matters are settled in Muroran. "These demands scarcely exceed—if at all—the minimum standards set by maritime law. The remaining issues are ordinary. "To present demands this late reveals our foolishness—and equally shames the Manju Maru. "Yet for us, this is an utterly urgent matter. "For you, no doubt, it seems trivial—hardly worth a glance. "But for us, it is vital. "We request your review and acceptance."

Stoki said this with feigned seriousness, like a primary school student being forced to recite. The Bosun fidgeted nervously. There was no way for him to escape— “In any case, I can’t give any answer.” “After the Captain returns, I’ll consult him and give a response.” “But Stoki—you’d better drop this nonsense. I’m telling you for your own sake. You’re thirty-three already—old enough to know better. Quit this whole thing. The Captain’ll never agree.” “Do this and your lot’ll get slapped with a year’s suspension—maybe three! Eh? How ’bout you go back out there and make those sailors see sense instead?”

The Chief Mate changed his course.

"I cannot comply with that. "We do not make demands that can be brushed aside or treated lightly. "That is because these are all matters vital to our very lives and livelihoods. "We do not engage in such actions half-heartedly, as some joke or idle pastime. "We know full well that if we feared suspension at this stage, we could never have made these demands. "In short, we have agreed that should these demands be rejected, we will undertake no work whatsoever. "I have simply come here as a messenger to submit this list of demands and explain them." Stoki did not take the bait of the Chief Mate's tactics.

"If you insist on refusing," said Stoki calmly yet pointedly. "The Captain will receive this demand directly from me." "But mark my words—it won’t be approved," he sneered. "And don’t think I don’t see what you’re after—crushing my authority while you’re at it!" The Chief Mate had wanted to suppress this matter personally.

“That’s right! Please hand this over to the Captain. Moreover, I find it absurd to speak of whether we’re crushing your authority or not. Such matters may seem trivial, but to avoid misunderstanding I must clarify—this petition was initially addressed to you. In that case, you’ll say that since you can’t decide alone, we must take it to the Captain. Then if we ask you to pass this to him, you’ll say we’re ‘crushing my authority,’ right?”

“Am I wrong? Why won’t you listen to me?” The Chief Mate pressed his point once more. “Then while claiming you lack authority to decide our petition, doesn’t that mean you do possess the right to suppress it? To suppress is to reject, is it not? And to say you hold only rejection rights without approval rights—even if that’s fashionable these days—isn’t that illogical?” "Therefore, we no longer make demands of you." “All you need do is pass it along.” Stoki spoke with his usual deliberate seriousness, his measured tone suggesting consultation rather than confrontation.

That utterly destroyed the Chief Mate’s authority. He didn’t say a word. "I’ll hand it over when the Captain returns." "Please do." "Please do," Stoki said. The ship’s carpenter went up to the forecastle (the forward deck) and adjusted the windlass with clank-clank sounds, oiling it here and there. The Bosun, in the Chief Mate’s room, remained standing there while feeling terribly awkward.

“What’s wrong? Bosun, didn’t you know about this?” The Chief Mate pointed at the demand letter on the desk and asked. “They act so hastily.” “I had absolutely no idea.” The Bosun answered as if suddenly revived. He had been desperate to say something—anything—for some time now.

“It’s a problem if you don’t know anything about this—you’re responsible for it.” “What on earth do you intend to do?” “Moreover, if we delay departure today, we won’t make it back to Yokohama by New Year’s.” “If something like that happens, the Captain’s liable to order every last one of us ashore—so what do you plan to do about it?” The Chief Mate suddenly came up with a plan to break down the Bosun. “Well... I’m at a loss here. Even when we were hoisting the boiler, I barely managed to persuade them to work... In any case, I was entirely negligent myself, so I’ll go out there and try to talk them into working as much as possible...” He hurriedly tried to leave the spot as if driven by some conviction.

43

The Captain had returned. The Bosun was about to go plead with the sailors not to “act recklessly” when the Boy appeared in the Chief Mate’s room. “Mr. Chief Mate, they’ve called for standby.” “The Captain has now gone up to the bridge, sir.”

The Boy left just like that. What a mess this was. “This is unmanageable!”

The Bosun and the Chief Mate stood facing each other rigidly in place, their postures looking ready to start brawling at any moment. “Just go out there and stand by! Deceive them however you need to and get those sailors working!” “I’ll be right there too.” After finally saying that, the Chief Mate hurriedly took off his hat.

The Bosun dashed out to the deck like a pursued cat.

The Chief Mate ran up to the bridge. In his right hand, he clutched the demand letter. The Captain had called for standby, but with the Chief Mate failing to appear on the forecastle, the sense of happiness he had maintained since parting from his mistress was now on the verge of bursting. He smiled faintly when the Chief Mate arrived. “Well then, let’s get started.” The Captain said. Then he noticed the Chief—standing breathless before him—was not his usual self. And fixed his gaze on that scrap of paper.

“Those sailors have presented their demands.” “Even two helmsmen have joined in.” The Chief Mate had finally managed to say only this. He presented the demand letter before the Captain. At the sailors’ entrance, Fujiwara had carried out a one-foot-wide bench to the three-foot-wide doorway and sat closest to the opening, with Nada, Ogura, and Nishizawa taking seats behind him, forming a microscopic picketing line. Fujiwara watched the Captain and Chief Mate discussing the demands from the front entrance.

The Captain did not even attempt to look at the Chief Mate’s demand letter. As far as the Captain was concerned, if the Chief Mate were to tear up that document, that alone would constitute a satisfactory resolution. Yet despite that, the Chief was bringing even such trivial matters to me. “Just tear that thing up!” “That nonsense—it’s all because you’re cowering like this!” “Tell them I’ll hear everything out once we return to Yokohama.” The Captain measured the Chief Mate from head to toe as if he were a carpenter’s square.

"I tried that already. But they refuse to work until these demands are accepted. They say they won't lift a finger even if spring comes next year. And since you hold the authority as Captain, they insist you just need to hand this over—" "I kept it knowing you'd find out eventually anyway." Even as the Chief Mate endured the Captain's berating, he couldn't suppress the thought: *Who does this bastard think he is? I'll have my captain's license in a year!* *Strutting about as captain of that fan-shaped chokoman tub—'Bosun' would suit him better!* But these thoughts remained trapped in his skull—there was nothing to be done.

“Let me see what sort of bedtime ramblings they’ve written here.” The Captain took the demand letter. “There! He’s taken it!” Fujiwara declared in a low, resonant voice. “Hmph. Hmph.” The Captain expelled his contempt through flared nostrils. But when he reached the sixth clause—the stipulation against rowing midnight sampans for the Captain’s “private use”—his snorting ceased. This struck at his personal domain. A matter of grave consequence.

“Call the sailors!” The Captain could not afford to ignore this. If he ignored, the ship wouldn’t move, they wouldn’t make it to Yokohama for New Year’s, and moreover, it was utterly outrageous that they had the audacity to complain about his sampan. The Captain, having issued the standby order, entered the salon and waited there in readiness to confront the sailors. The seaman’s books had been brought by the Chief Mate and were piled up on the table.

Pitifully, the Bosun and the Carpenter had their snot frozen on the forecastle.

The Engineer had entered the engine room and stood waiting with his hands on the handle. The steam kept rising relentlessly. The safety valve teetered on the brink of blowing.

On the salon table, the Mates lined up on both sides of the Captain. Chief, Second, and Third. The Boy dashed outside. “The Captain says all sailors, the Bosun, the Carpenter, the Quartermaster—every last one of you—are to come to the salon.” “Immediately!” Like smoke, he dashed away again.

So the sailors set out. "He’s planning to take an authoritarian approach," Fujiwara thought. Nada, Ogura, and Nishizawa each harbored distinct combat resolves. The Bosun and Carpenter too had turned pale. At this moment, even among the Fayaman faction, the demands Ogura had presented became contentious, sparking ferocious debate between strike advocates and conciliators. Yet overall, their grasp of class struggle remained nebulous. Thus while their position was sound, this vague 'sense' that direct provocation hadn’t yet arrived prevented them from standing united with the sailors. Still, though they refrained from action, their resolve wavered. The atmosphere carried an undercurrent suggesting uprising remained imminent.

As the sailors passed by their entrance, they let out a shout.

It resounded throughout the salon.

All of this marked the first time since the *Manju Maru* had been built and launched to sea.

The sailors passed by with smiles on their faces, greeting the stokers as they went. It was like the first roar of an awakened lion. Somehow, everything felt different from usual. Though standby orders had been given, the ship remained motionless. Stokers from the boiler rooms and colliermen from the coal bunkers emerged onto the deck, lifting their heads like mosquito larvae wriggling to the surface. The oilman peered out from the engine room doorway.

In the salon, negotiations commenced. To be sure, the Captain had intended to crush them in a single blow and had no intention whatsoever of engaging in negotiations. However, by some chance or another—before anyone knew it—they entered into negotiations.

44

“Who wrote this?!” “This!” “And this list of demands?!” The Captain severed his own outburst with these words. “I wrote it.” Quartermaster Ogura answered. “You?” The Captain was so shocked that he unconsciously rose from his swivel chair. Ogura was, among the quartermasters, the obedient young man he had most cherished—intelligent, capable at his job, with a handsome appearance and a refreshingly straightforward demeanor.

“Someone made you write this, didn’t they?” “There’s no way you wrote this yourself! Who was it? Who created this document?” He glared at the storekeeper. “I created it.” The storekeeper answered this time.

“I knew it was you,” the Captain sneered. “You’ve always been insolent. You’re the one who goaded Ogura and the others into presenting this nonsense.” He interrogated them like a magistrate passing sentence. “I consider such matters trivial,” Fujiwara countered. “We became sailors to feed ourselves. Yet when injured in service of this ship, if we’re denied medical care, it amounts to having our lives discarded.” His tone hardened fractionally. “Granted, one might argue risking life at sea is inherent to our trade—if one accepts such terms.” The storekeeper leaned forward, eyes glinting. “But that only we should have to sell our lives cheaply—this we cannot abide.”

Fujiwara fired the first searchlight shell.

“Then why don’t you just go ahead and disembark on your own?” “Who asked you—when did anyone ever beg you, ‘Please don’t disembark, stay aboard!’?” “Think hard about which side was doing the asking.”

The Captain said. “No matter where we go, there’s no decent place for us. Therefore, we have no choice but to find ways to improve our current lives. Even if we disembark complaining that only this ship lies in shadow, it’d be the same on any other vessel or ashore. So we simply strive to live under better conditions where we stand now.” He answered quietly. “You claim there’s nowhere decent for you? Then whose fault is that? You want to pin it on me, don’t you? Didn’t I just ask—who begged you to stay aboard?! And if you wanted better conditions, why didn’t study harder to climb higher? Shoving your own failures onto others is downright shameless!” The Captain resolved to squeeze this man dry like a grease-soaked rag—then discard him.

“Thank you for your advice, but if too many people studied and climbed their way up, I imagine there would be no one left to work as sailors.” He nearly laughed but restrained himself.

“Idiot! “Do you think you’re mocking me?!” “Idiot! But no matter how much you study, a fool remains a fool. They can't rise above being sailors. So if you had any real ability, why don’t you just go ahead and become a captain or chief engineer without hesitation?” The Captain gradually became drawn into conversing with the Storekeeper. “Even if we study, we believe we could never become bosuns, let alone captains. Therefore, all the more reason we wish to labor under even slightly better conditions as we are now. We have absolutely no intention of becoming ship owners or captains to obtain wealth or rights. We demand a life as ordinary workers and ordinary human beings. As human beings, we do not consider the Captain to be any more special than the workers. We now believe that what is referred to as class is merely a division of labor. And yet nowadays, when we divide certain tasks, it even becomes tantamount to defiling humanity itself. We believe that considering the act of humans oppressing, trampling upon, and exploiting other humans as greatness is a notion from half a century ago. We see ourselves as precious contributors to a part of humanity's livelihood. But you think of us as capitalists.” The Storekeeper gradually infused his speech with heat and sincerity.

"You think of us as capitalists." “Us? You lot?” “Ha ha ha ha ha!” Finally, even the Captain burst out laughing at the Storekeeper’s outrageous words. “What dreadful capitalists we must be!” “Ha ha ha ha ha! You’re talking about fleas and bedbugs!” The Mates all laughed.

For the sailors, “capitalist” was an unfamiliar term. “If you don’t consider us capitalists, then you must think of us as nothing but slaves.” “The only thing we can sell is our labor.” “In other words, just these ‘bodies’ of ours.” “But if even that isn’t considered ours anymore, then we must be deemed slaves.” “But if we’re slaves, why don’t you value your slaves’ lives?” “Aren’t slaves supposed to be your property?” “The reason our lives mean nothing to you now is because we’ve changed from slaves into capitalists—wage slaves.” “That’s because there’s an endless supply of fresh new commodities to replace us.”

“Moreover, we no longer wish to remain slaves of any kind forever! At every opportunity, we stand ready to cut through the iron chains binding us!” “We strive to live as human beings—and now you push us to this point? What say you?!” “We’re capitalists of fleas and bedbugs! So here’s how it goes—if our demands are met, good. If not, we’ll show you exactly how much strength we possess!”

The Storekeeper pronounced his final words with full force.

“Hmph, fine by me. But what’s your point? Nada, you didn’t stamp this petition on your own, did you? Someone must’ve put you up to this.” The Captain shifted tactics.

“I became a sailor intending to make it my duty to find the seeds of strikes on every ship.” “Since the very first day I boarded this vessel, I had thought even the lack of a bathhouse could form the basis for a strike.”

Nada Yoshio, the toilet cleaner, felt the absence of a bathhouse more acutely than anyone else. Moreover, he was young and had been inhaling the air of a new society. The Captain had never imagined that this innocent youth—so fastidious he polished the metal fixtures in his toilet more meticulously than those in his own quarters—could be a “radical.” *And now this bastard goes around spouting nonsense about “finding strikes”!* *It’s as if these bastards are partisans!*

The Captain was surprised to see that the sailors had solidified their unity. He realized this was neither a spontaneous outburst nor an impulsive act, but something deliberately planned.

At that moment, another shout rose from the firemen’s quarters. It echoed into the salon. The departure time was steadily getting later! New Year was steadily approaching!

The Captain grew irritated. “Nishizawa! What about you?” “Uno—the helmsman who stamped—and Ogura! You bastards agreed to this and put your seals on it!” “Alright, Chief Mate! “Get to Boren immediately—four sailors, two quartermasters, one bosun—retribution’s finally come for the bosun too! Tell them it’s their chance to board the Manju Maru! Suspend these bastards from duty and hire those replacements! Start working now so we don’t delay departure any further!” He commanded the Chief Mate.

The outcome was something the sailors had known since the day before! In all of Muroran's Boren boarding houses—and there were barely three establishments even counting the semi-amateur ones—there were only two former sailors running those Boren and one offshore vendor! They were managing one establishment on land! No matter what happened, they had no intention of boarding the ship to try sustaining their families on thirteen or eighteen yen. Strike-breakers were unfortunately unavailable. “We’re careful about that sort of thing too,” Fujiwara wanted to retort. Nada was already growing restless.

The Bosun was surprised. His profession and the twenty percent monthly interest—though in reality ten percent of that was skimmed off by the Chief Mate (or perhaps the Captain)—amounted to nothing. Moreover, what had he even done! Wasn't he just a faithful watchdog? What fault had he committed despite his merits? Had he not even rescued the Chief Mate in a moment of crisis?

However, the Captain must have had some deeper plan in mind. Once he said that in front of everyone, he probably intended to make it seem like there was no replacement for me—or something along those lines. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have had the right to fire me—if it hadn’t been for me, that mistress of his would never have been acquired so cheaply in the first place.

Poor Bosun—like a cowardly dog, he was trying to gauge his master’s intentions with half-doubtful suspicion. But Bosun, others never think of you the way you think of yourself. Even at the very moment you’re starving to death with nothing to eat, other people are thinking about their mistresses and geishas! Other people never give a second thought to anyone else’s circumstances. Other people are those who use you—do you understand, Bosun?!

But replacements weren’t limited to just the Bosun. In all of Muroran, there wasn’t even a single replacement for an apprentice.

The Chief Mate had just enough leeway to direct his thoughts somewhat toward this point.

“Captain,” he called in a low voice from behind the Captain’s swivel chair.

“Just a moment,” he said, stepping back. “What is it? Hmm, oh right. Then let’s head to the cabin,” he said to the Chief Mate. The Chief disappeared into the door of the captain’s cabin. “You lot, stay put here!” After saying this to the sailors, the Captain followed the Chief Mate into his own cabin.

The Captain was a man who would dare erase even the word "impossible" from his dictionary. Thus Chief Engineer Kurokawa had meant to tell him that procuring so many workers immediately in Muroran was "impossible". But the Captain remained an utterly unmanageable tyrant. A tyrant with the petty stinginess of withered lettuce leaves. "Captain... There's only one Boren left in all Muroran," he ventured tentatively,

“Since it’s just before New Year’s, I don’t think there are any workers on break,” the Chief Mate broached the subject. “If there are none in Muroran, summon them from Otaru or Hakodate. Hmm, but then the return voyage to Yokohama will be significantly delayed. But there must be five or ten sailors in Muroran. Have you checked?” The Captain asked. “Actually, I did inquire as soon as we entered port, but... Until two or three days ago, three or four were on break, but they said they seized the opportunity and went to Yokohama. So, since it hasn’t even been a week since then, I don’t think there’s any chance at all. And since I too had thought that we needed to dispose of the Storekeeper quickly, I intended to have him disembark here if only there were a replacement. If only he weren’t here, the others would just be following along like sheep, as they say. What if we just have him disembark and deal with the rest gradually… Otherwise, we’ll miss New Year’s in Yokohama.”

The Chief Engineer had also been searching for Boren! “That’s it!” “I’d like to spend New Year’s in Yokohama too, but if that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t care if we dropped anchor for ten or twenty days. So as an emergency measure, let’s just have the Storekeeper disembark.” The Captain also agreed. “I think that would be best.” “It’s just the method.” “The question is how to go about it—whether to do it in front of everyone or call him in alone.” “And if the whole crew were to follow that bastard’s lead, I think we’d have no choice but to pay twenty or thirty yen and drive them out.” The Chief thought that as long as he—no matter how—would just “vanish” from this ship, that would be fine.

“That’s it! Whatever happens, we’re racing against time here. Even the best method can’t be allowed to cause delays. Let’s order that Storekeeper bastard to disembark,” said the Captain. “But really, what inconvenient wretches they are. If only this were Yokohama…”

The Captain bitterly resented, over and over, that they were not in Yokohama. "Even killing them wouldn't be enough to satisfy me! Yet here I am having to not just let them disembark but even pay them money?!" Truly, there was reason for his bitterness.

“Times are bad no matter how you look at it,” said the Chief Engineer as he moved toward the exit. “What’s more, I’m worried that Storekeeper might report both the Apprentice’s unprocessed hiring status and his injury to the Maritime Bureau. If he does that, things’ll get messy—we’ll need to smooth it over somehow.” “Goddamn infuriating!” roared the Captain. “Can’t even suspend them—I’d rather toss the lot into prison! They’re already tangled up with the Public Security Police anyway. Filthy beasts!”

That the Captain was enraged was, needless to say, a "perfectly justified" matter. The two of them continued whispering furtively about something. It would be unbearably tedious to record each and every one of those details.

Let’s move on. Hurry, hurry.

45

The Captain and Chief Engineer Kurokawa went out to the salon.

But what do we have here? At the salon entrance, soot-blackened stokers had gathered and were peering inside. Someone whistled. Others began stomping their feet. When the Captain and Chief Engineer entered the salon, they shifted from rallying their fellow sailors to staging a demonstration against the Captain and Chief Engineer.

Whistles were blown vigorously. The foot-stomping took up the rhythm; they pounded it out noisily. “What the—! Peeking in from there—get the hell out!” The Captain bellowed. “What the hell are you saying?! (six characters illegible)” Someone shouted from behind.

He thought it necessary to settle this quickly. The Captain shot a terrifying glare toward the entrance then settled into his chair. “How about this? Since this can’t be answered immediately let’s postpone it until we reach Yokohama.” He began.

“Captain, that won’t do. We know these demands can only be valid here in Muroran. If we reach Yokohama, you’ll have an industrial reserve army to discard by the dozen. If our demands aren’t met here, we won’t work. And let me make this clear—you may think what you like, but firing me alone won’t settle anything. Haven’t you seen how the engine department’s in uproar without any consultation? These demands are shamefully compromised—timid relics of bygone days. If you reject them, you’re declaring: ‘You slaves belong to us!’”

“You receive four hundred yen per month in salary alone”—he had struggled to learn this—“plus an annual wartime profit special bonus equivalent to forty-five months’ pay. In our current situation, that we risk our lives laboring for monthly wages of thirteen to eighteen yen—we cannot consider this anything good. While you remain absorbed in your ample purses’ affluence, we’ve effectively suffered drastic wage reductions as prices rise at three times our salary rates. Moreover, our working hours increase in direct proportion to the ship’s busyness, driving us without respite. Fourteen hours a day—it’s practically longer than convicts’ sentences! On top of that, no public holidays exist. Injuries go untreated, deaths are permitted at will—storm or midnight, I’m heading home, so row the sampan! You lot can return before dawn! This is what we are. How about it? Aren’t these labor conditions shameful to hear? In truth, even prisons provide far better treatment! What’s worse than those prisons is the Manju Maru—and if its captain is called Yoshinaga Takeshi, I can’t imagine that brings you any honor.”

Fujiwara had really gone and done it again!

The indignation of the Captain and officers had reached its peak. They turned as red as chair cushions and as blue as the sea. In direct proportion to their indignation, the sailors rejoiced. "Absolutely!" Finally, Nada shouted. "That’s right!" The stokers outside the door, swept up by Nada’s impassioned words, raised a unified shout. "First of all, we might be capitalists who sell our bodies! But in short, we are alive. Moreover, even beyond that, we still want to keep on living! If we didn’t want to live, who the hell would board this damn ship?! Damn it!" Nada had a mountain of things he still needed to say. Because there was too much to say and his words wouldn't come out smoothly—damn it! he exploded in the end.

“Who the hell are you calling a beast?!” “How dare you!” The Captain frantically stood up.

From outside the doorway came shouts of abuse and stomping. “We’ll burn it down!” they roared.

"I would like to recount the origins of this 'We'll burn it down!' declaration, but as you can see, I'm terribly busy at the moment." "Isn't that right?!"

Nada stood up.

“Who the hell dismissed sacred human lives so carelessly?!” “Even the Apprentice was born of a father and mother—he possesses every single condition of being human, no different from you bastards!” “And despite that—what have you done?!”

"Since the Apprentice was injured, have you bastards ever once thought about him?! Who gave you the right to despise human life?!" He had lost all control. "If you dare treat the Apprentice with even more of your beastly attitude, I’ll be ready to act! If you let the Apprentice die, I’ll—" Finally, Nada pulled out the sheath knife tucked at his waist.

“Look out!” Before they could shout, he thrust it into the table with such force that the blade pierced through. “I can’t act human toward beasts!” The room fell dead silent. The crowd outside became all eyes, holding their breath as they watched. “You’ve got rights.” “Too many rights on this earth exist by trampling others’ rights.” “But Captain—listen—” He slammed his fist against the table. “No one’s allowed the right to scorn humans!” “Those who deny others’ lives get their own denied!” “You get that?!” He stood rigidly planted, as if forgetting to sit. He glared at the Captain with murderous eyes. It looked like the soul of raging fire.

The storekeeper quietly pulled Nada’s knife out of the table and placed it in front of his own seat.

The Captain should have brought a pistol, but he could not bring himself to leave that spot. For the first time, he saw within those lowly humans—whom he had scarcely deigned to acknowledge—a dignity that could overwhelm and transfix even a superior man like himself. That was, truly, a worker who possessed nothing. He was a greenhorn laborer cleaning toilets without status, money, family, or home—nothing at all—and yet the Captain could not rise from his chair.

He had once stood up, only to regret sitting back down halfway through, his movements sluggish with hesitation. He could not have stood unless that laborer standing before him had directed that "boiling" glare at him. It was something that wounded his professional, conventional dignity. And like a defeated rooster that can no longer hold its head high once it loses, this experience would become an unpleasant weight pressing down on him forever. That was akin to a patient gripped by delusions of persecution, continuing to go mad as they saw terrifying hallucinations where there was nothing. It had to be the fate of people who, placing their full trust in an impressive yet flimsy theatrical prop, would collapse along with it when it fell. He was leaning against the flimsy theatrical set!

“You’re caught in a massive delusion and don’t even realize it yourself! You’re nothing but exploitation fodder too! Otherwise, you’re just a lackey! Look clearly from within at what you really are! If you don’t accept these demands regarding the Apprentice—and let me tell you, these demands are already far too lenient—you’d better know I’m ready to act. You must already know without me saying it that I’m prepared. Now! Set aside your trivial schemes and gilded pretenses! As a human being, you’d better answer to human demands!”

Nada dropped heavily onto the chair. And he took the sheath knife from before Fujiwara and slid it back into the canvas sheath dangling from his backside.

Everyone finally breathed a sigh of relief. The fact that he hadn't gone on a lion-like rampage and instead brought things to a close put them all at ease. Truth be told, it made everyone feel things had turned out well enough after all. The Captain had been treating the demand letter with scornful disregard, but now—as if it were something profoundly sacred—he pulled it from before the Chief Mate to his own side and began scrutinizing it. All that passion and fury had been woven into this mere scrap of paper! He felt grateful now that he hadn't torn it up.

If he had torn it up!

“Then shall I explain each article in the demand letter one by one—if you wish?” Fujiwara said. “No explanation should be necessary.” “You likely grasp most of it already.” “But I must confer with the mates first—you’ll wait here.” “Brief discussion,” he told Fujiwara, then motioned to the mates with “To my cabin” before withdrawing into the captain’s quarters. The mates trailed after.

“Nada’s one hell of a guy!” Outside the salon, they spared no words of praise for Nada’s actions. “That’s who we need.” “Stick with him like this and we wouldn’t have to sweat half so much.”

"That's right—the strong prevail. We're the ones getting devoured," declared the firemen, who showed no intention of leaving their position. The sailors, freed from extreme tension now that their opponents had withdrawn, lit cigarettes and rested. "How about it, Bosun? They've even ordered your replacement," Nada said, turning toward him. The Bosun stood dumbfounded, as if struck across the head. He'd witnessed men suddenly attack the Captain before, but never someone this skilled with both words and blade. "And he's still just a kid," the Bosun muttered in shock. "No—I truly hadn't known." This reaction was only natural.

Nada was a young man with a reputation for neither drinking alcohol nor visiting brothels, who behaved quietly and worked diligently.

“Truly, you can’t judge people by their looks!” “Well? What do you say, Bosun?” This time Fujiwara questioned the still-dazed Bosun.

“Huh? Oh... I’ve been spacing out.” He was truly dazed. “This is no joke—pull yourself together.” “Everyone’s working up a sweat, aren’t they?” Nishizawa, Ogura, Uno, and Nada—the four of them were fervently discussing something about the negotiation terms.

At that moment, the engine department’s Head Boy brought a scrap of paper and placed it on the table. And with that, he said, “From the engine department,” and darted off as if fleeing.

Nishizawa opened the scrap of paper. STRUGGLE TO COMMEMORATE, PRAY FOR SUCCESS – ENGINE DEPARTMENT ALL MEMBERS, SAILORS’ OATH It was written in katakana like a telegram. They saw it, turned toward the doorway, and raised their hands to signal. “Do it thoroughly! If it comes to a strike, we won’t light the fires!” Someone shouted from outside the doorway.

The four showed it to Fujiwara. He didn’t forget to shout, “Thank you!” Before long, the mates who had gone to hold a secret conference in the captain’s quarters returned to the salon. On the list of demands, meticulously stamped side by side, were the seals of both the Captain and the Chief Mate. “After discussing with everyone, we’ve decided to accept your demands. Therefore, we want you to resume work immediately. The Head Boy will be hospitalized as soon as we dock in Yokohama, and we’ll implement the other conditions without delay.” The Captain said in a low voice. He wanted to make it appear as though he had voluntarily accepted these conditions of his own accord, but he was far too flustered to pull off such a pretense.

"Hooray!" "Look at that!" While chanting things like "Workers, hurrah!" the firemen outside the door clattered away noisily.

“In that case, get to work right now,” the Chief Engineer said. “Understood, sir,” the Bosun answered. “Thank you ever so much,” Fujiwara said as he tucked the stamped demand letter into his pocket.

They returned to the deck.

The sailors achieved victory. Yet a vague sense of incompleteness lingered in a corner of everyone's heart. They felt a premonition of something. In front of the firemen’s quarters, they welcomed the sailors with three cheers of “Banzai!”

For the sailors, however, the ship's departure that day carried the air of "triumphant generals setting sail for their homeland."

46 That voyage was an uncanny voyage. The sailors now seemed to be treated as human beings for the first time. The mates who issued orders simply commanded them to act according to their assigned tasks. Moreover, with their duties now properly organized, the sailors achieved comparable results with roughly two-thirds of their former labor and time. Whether it was the Captain or any other mate, they all now appeared to have lost interest in the fact that these "good-for-nothing" lower-ranking sailors were merely "toiling miserably." They seemed liberated from their delusion that sailors behaving humanely would undermine their authority.

There was something vague about it—no, more than vague—they were clearly being excessively pragmatic in their deference, extending it not just to sailors but even to firemen. To those unaware of the true circumstances, it seemed peaceful. And everything was subdued. "Oh, such humble mates!" An outsider—even a worker—might have praised them to that degree, so quiet was it all. Thus, the sailors too were no longer "scoundrels."

They too—as long as they were not prohibited from behaving humanly, nay, from doing so at all—conducted themselves admirably, humanly. What were these wages being recompensed to them, the sailors? Some knew; many did not. Only when their livelihoods stood severely threatened would they—through their comradely loyalty—revert to themselves. And while they sometimes succeeded in this, more often they failed. From any decisive standpoint, they had not even made their demands when they were crushed. They acted individually—like Mikami, or Nada, or Ogura, or Nishizawa—trying to escape labor conditions that increasingly tightened their grip like constricting wings.

Their actions seemed almost contradictory. Even quarrels broke out among the comrades over this. But what drove them to this was the "hard labor" and "destitution" that weighed heavily upon them. It was the threads of the capitalist system pulling the strings. They realized that what they had been doing was entirely different from what Fujiwara had been doing, yet both had been aiming for the same thing. They had been taught that there was a proper way to do things.

Until now, they had been comrades who shared meals from the same pot. But now, there was an added sense that they were comrades belonging to the working class. This seemed to bind them together in an oddly powerful way, deepening their intimacy. From being friends who visited brothels together to becoming fellow inmates in prison, they were propelled into a comradely relationship.

Was this due to Fujiwara’s advocacy, or was it something he had "incited"? Could the power of a single individual have moved so many people? And if so, would those many have acted even against their own will? Was this not akin to people gasping in sweltering heat and shivering in bitter cold—a minor eruption of the uniform resentment harbored by workers under the capitalist economic system?

We knew that many labor disputes were waged according to historical materialism and punished according to historical materialism.

This small story too—unable to escape its single predetermined trajectory—stiffened my pen and made progress arduous. Yet resigned before the fact that (eight characters missing) *** no victory could be won—I pressed onward with my pen!

This voyage was both the calm before the storm of rebellion and the desolation in its aftermath.

It was an ordinary thing after such events. And those ordinary matters were sorrowful and painful for the working class. It was outrageous. But for the capitalists, it was still insufficient, too lenient, and frustrating—yet also somewhat “pleasurable.” But what was that? I had gotten ahead of myself again. That was after arriving in Yokohama!

This voyage—the arrival in Yokohama—was something every sailor’s heart harbored great expectations for. And even if they departed early, it would still take until around the 4th. On New Year’s Day, everyone took the day off. And uniformly—just as soldiers on a forced march under blazing skies thirst uniformly for water—they hungered for life on land, any life on land, even if it meant a flophouse. Moreover, it was New Year’s there, wasn’t it? For that reason, their feet weren’t touching the ground!

The ship would enter port dressed in her finest! She'd anchor for two or three days. On top of their monthly wages, there ought to be allowances! Let's go there! Let's go here! I'll make it all the way to Tokyo! They dreamed in a thousand different ways.

When prisoners gazed at society’s sky beyond high iron windows or towering red brick walls, they imagined there lay more freedom and happiness than truly existed—Dostoevsky had made this apt observation. In much the same way, the sailors too harbored a longing for land that far exceeded its reality. They convinced themselves that any happiness might be possible if only it were ashore, forgetting they had once fled to the sea precisely because of the suffering endured on land. They told themselves times must have changed since then, that their past selves had been the problem. Like ships arriving under cover of darkness, they let night shroud all the land’s ugly truths while yearning for the harbor’s bright, beguiling lights. Yet each time they disembarked, they felt life ashore grow more distant—as if every object and person on land were inexorably pushing him away.

Just as a left-threaded bulb would not fit into a right-threaded socket, it rendered them specialized and impaired.

The Manshūmaru advanced in orderly fashion to avoid anchoring overnight outside the port. It had passed Shiriya Lighthouse, Kinkasan Lighthouse, off Kamaishi, off Inubōsaki, off Katsuura, Kannonzaki, and Uraga. Now it glided forward with Honmoku's offshore waters quietly visible to port. The sailors stood ready at the forecastle. Snow-bearing winds chiseled their cheeks. Since this needle-like gale pierced through any cold-weather gear, the sailors' work clothes might as well have been mosquito netting. They wore raincoats despite the absence of rain or snow—garments that blocked cold while remaining light. These also deflected the sea spray.

December 31st, 9:00 AM—Everything had gone perfectly—the *Manshūmaru* entered deep into Yokohama Port and dropped anchor nearly off Kanagawa. As soon as the ship entered the port, a launch from the company immediately began circling around it like water striders. That was December 31st. It was New Year's Eve. It was a time when all labor should have ceased. However, at that time, a war was being waged in Europe. Because of this, the frenzied economic prosperity drove the Japanese bourgeois class into a mad, unstoppable frenzy—like people who had eaten hallucinogenic mushrooms—dancing wildly without pause. And so this ecstatic dance and its accompanying imposed austerity upon the workers compelled stevedores to load coal even on New Year’s Eve. In other words, stevedores were crammed into launch-towed barges and delivered to the *Manshūmaru*. The stevedores—known as Gonzo—had come relying on the promise of special wages and an extra cup of New Year’s sake tomorrow.

The laborers’ barge was brought alongside the ship. They scrambled up the ropes like monkeys. They were just competing. All it achieved was driving them into overwork and further fattening the capitalists’ wallets. But they leapt forward, each eager to be first! The Manshūmaru appeared about to begin cargo operations. The winch was recklessly manhandled whenever the stevedores got their hands on it. With the valve left wide open, it was just a single handle for go ahead-go astern.

If I were to write in this way, I realized it would be endless. I had also intended to write about how the Captain and Mikami had become sworn brothers after patronizing the same prostitute in Muroran. But such things were neither particularly strange nor unusual. I should stop. From the launch, company employees entered the captain’s cabin. There, while drinking coffee, they talked about something. The Captain had already resolved in Muroran to mete out severe punishment for the sailors’ “inappropriate conduct.” There, he briefly explained to the employees from the company “how the sailors had made unreasonable demands with an insolent attitude.” Therefore, it was necessary to disembark all the sailors and have them tied up at the same time. He announced that he also intended to prosecute “the Mikami sampan incident” while at it. Therefore, he said, “When you return to the company, I would like you to inform the secretary section chief of the matter.”

Meanwhile, as soon as they anchored, the Chief Mate boarded a launch and headed for the Water Police station. There, he gave a full account of everything that had happened in Muroran. He forgot to mention anything about the apprentice leader—that must have been Fujiwara’s doing. Nada even pulled out a scalpel and threatened us. Since they’d likely resort to violence to get their way, he formally requested officers be dispatched to protect us aboard ship. The Water Police launch set out energetically with five or six brawny officers aboard alongside the Chief Mate.

The launch came alongside the *Manshūmaru*’s gangway. The Chief Mate guided the police officers to the salon. There, the police officers had to wait for a while "in front of" apples, sweets, and coffee. The sailors were oiling the winches and tidying up various tools. And they worked in a cheerful mood, thinking, "Tonight, we can go ashore and not have to return until tomorrow morning—no, until New Year’s morning." Certainly, they were being awaited by this shore leave—one that would allow them not to return to the ship for some time.

The Captain was now neither the captain from the midnight sampan of the previous voyage nor the man he had been in Muroran before departure. He could now be violent. He was the most blatant tyrant.

The Boy who had received the Captain’s orders came out to the deck. And then he said to the Bosun: “Bosun, pack your belongings and prepare to disembark. The Captain said for Bosun, Fujiwara, Nada, Nishizawa, Ogura, and Uno to come to the salon.” “And then, hey—” He now shifted to talking about his own part. “There’s fifteen or sixteen Water Police officers waiting in the salon—they must’ve brought ’em ’cause they figured Nada’d kick up a fuss.” “They’d do well to kick up a bit of a fuss, really.” “Tell everyone that, okay?” He headed back toward the stern.

There was no longer any particular need to inform everyone about that. When the Boy from the stern came—knowing it meant some kind of order—the sailors stood in front of the Bosun’s cabin and listened. "This is bad!" Fujiwara felt. "But I never imagined it would be this thorough. This way the ship’s completely empty! But—" He endured silently. He already knew with perfect clarity the path he would walk. It was a white, parched, dusty road. It was a road like a desert—one that drove humanity to hunger and thirst.

Nada also realized. "We’re really going through with this," we thought. "Our path—to our right lies starvation; to our left stands prison." He spat out those very words.

47

They each came to know their fate. And they packed every last possession into their wicker trunks. Those who owned them stuffed even their futons inside. Their trunks still had plenty of space left. They could have easily embarked on a world cruise with those. A sailor's life appears entirely different when seen through a passenger's eyes. As for the firemen and stokers, their reality lies completely beyond a passenger's understanding. Cargo ships carry no passengers at all. No passengers meant no need to keep up appearances. There wasn't even a bath. They squeeze you dry as they please.

They had barely enough for food and clothing, so consequently, the various items they had packed into the luggage bought when first boarding the ship steadily dwindled instead of growing—such a thing almost never happened.

They hoisted their luggage—full of gaps and sparse in contents—onto their shoulders and, like a line of emigrants, proceeded from their quarters to the salon.

The Apprentice’s grief upon learning of their departure was profound. He clung to Fujiwara and Nada’s hands, seeming to want to say something, but the words that finally emerged were drowned out by violent sobs. But he spoke through his sobs! He had been stripped of everything. It was the first of these, and at the same time, the last. Even the sole labor power he could sell had been taken away from him—precisely because he had sold his labor power.

And now, the people who had protected and loved him were setting out to where the police were—having been told by the Captain to prepare to disembark. What a captain! He was a man of such dauntless resolve that he wouldn’t even spare a thought for his own life.

Through his morbidly heightened nerves—developed ever since his freedom had been stripped away—the Apprentice had intuited that something ill must surely be looming there. Mr. Fujiwara and Mr. Nada and the others are going to be forced to disembark. And with these legs of mine that can't even move, what's going to become of me under those cold-hearted mates? I'll be left forgotten! He cried.

Crying was something that had never occurred aboard the ship before. It was unthinkable for a hot-blooded youth to weep among hardened adult laborers.

The Apprentice clenched his teeth and tried to suppress his sobs. He wanted to express his deep gratitude. He wanted to know their plans for future actions. He wanted to know how and where he could meet them—the method as well. He also wanted to obtain a provisional written statement to have on hand. He wanted to hand over his own written statement as well. He wanted to do so many things. All the more for that, his tears spilled over. His sobs leaked sharply from between clenched teeth.

Even in Fujiwara’s nearly cruel eyes—eyes like an unmoving will itself—a heavy, sharp sorrow flashed. Nada also clenched his teeth. And he squeezed the Apprentice’s hand with all his strength. And,

“Take care of yourself and get well soon, you hear?” he said. But he thought that even the words “Get well” were cruel, wondering what would become of the Apprentice after they left—who would tend to his wounds and illness? If they leave it unattended like this, how can his injuries and illness possibly heal? Who’s going to take responsibility for this! As he thought this, he felt tears welling up in spite of himself. And his heart stoked the flames of resentment ever fiercer.

“We’ll meet again somewhere. Until then, let’s both stay strong. Take good care of yourself. Goodbye.”

Fujiwara gave a squeeze and walked away. “Please take care of yourself. Goodbye,” said the Apprentice, burying his face in the pillow. “It’s lonely.” He kept his face buried in tears that overflowed without cease.

The capitalist system had us tangled up like a spiderweb. No matter how much I struggled, all it did was creepily entwine and cling—damn it! Just you wait, you earth-spider! Fujiwara walked across the deck in long strides as he thought.

In the salon, the Captain and his mates stood lined up in their decorated shore-going attire.

The police officers were standing at the back. "Hmph! Unconsciously bourgeois and their [...]!"

Fujiwara gazed at the scene from outside and felt it. Nada felt all the blood in his body rush to his head. He fixed burning eyes on the Captain’s face as though gouging out his own heart.

However, the Captain was now fully clad in the armor of "conventional dignity," waiting with flags and weapons aplenty.

The entire group, each throwing their luggage down at the salon entrance, proceeded there all harboring the same unpleasant feelings.

“Everyone’s here, then,” the Captain said to the Chief Engineer. “Yes, this is everyone,” the Chief Engineer answered. “Then proceed with handing them over.” “Bosun, Ogura, Uno, Nishizawa—the four of you are to disembark. Fujiwara and Nada, all of you will come with me to the Maritime Bureau. As for Fujiwara and Nada—you two needn’t go to the Maritime Bureau. I’ll hand over the logbooks later. The two of them apparently have business with the police, so…”

That was the pronouncement. And he did not forget to add: "That’s why I told you back in Muroran you should’ve quit." "You lot can strut around all you want—it won’t do any good." "Better to stay quiet." "If you’d kept quiet, folks might’ve taken pity on you. But talk tough like that, and nobody’ll lift a finger when trouble comes."

“You’d better make damn sure you tell yourself this—we don’t need your fucking help.” “Our paths are different, you know.” “Just you wait—you’ll remember what kind of ‘thanks’ you’ll get for this!” Nada bellowed. “That’s Nada for you.” “What a violent fellow he is!” The Captain said. “What?!” he roared. “You lunatic! How can a bastard who leaves a dying person to rot dare lecture others?!” “There’s no one more violent than you, you damn squeezing machine!” Nada bellowed at the Captain himself.

“Well, rage all you want. The police will squeeze every last drop from you,” said the Captain. “I’ll pray you stay alive till I get out. Don’t go getting burned up before then.”

But the Captain promptly retreated.

The Chief Engineer took Bosun, Ogura, Uno, and Nishizawa and went to the Maritime Bureau with two police officers. They were summarily dismissed there.

This was December 31st. Fujiwara and Nada went to the marine police station by launch. Until January 4th, even the police were on holiday. Therefore, Fujiwara and Nada spent New Year's confined within the detention center. From the first working day of the new year, they underwent judicial investigation. Then under the Public Order and Police Law, they were transferred to the Prosecutor's Office. The prosecutor confined them in prison's pre-trial detention for interrogation. They received neither visitors nor provisions. As if they were convicted prisoners, they stared at the wooden cell walls. Through meal hatches, peepholes and other gaps, razor-sharp cold wind hissed inward. There they waited for their sentences to be determined.

From the meal window, the peephole, and other gaps, a razor-sharp cold wind hissed in. They waited there for their sentences to be decided.

――End――