Pathway to Japanese Literature

He gazed at the sky, now fully autumn, through the glass window.

The form of those summer clouds—plump with moisture, glistening white with clear outlines—could no longer be seen. Clouds of murky, collapsed form, fraying madly, were gathered here and there across the clear blue sky. It became undeniably clear that the year was growing old. He had been absently gazing at that scene for a long time now.

“We’re almost there.”

Father said this right beside him. He was meticulously writing something in a leather-bound pocket notebook sent as a year-end gift from the bank, moistening the tip of a slender pencil with his tongue each time. Father was the sort who, with his chest sunken so deeply that the collar of his Scotch travel coat hung loose from his neck, would hurriedly make such remarks even while lost in thought.

At the station, the farm supervisor and five or six elderly tenant farmers were waiting to greet them. They all had old hand towels, tobacco pouches, and shoulder ropes hanging from their waists. The short day swung fully westward, and around him lingered only the scent of Hokkaido’s rugged mountains.

With the supervisor at the head, forming a line from father to him and from him to the tenant farmers, they walked silently along the railway tracks. Yet he watched from behind with a sense of novelty how his short-statured father—broad-shouldered and low in height—moved with unexpected steadiness. The scent of decaying matter had settled heavily in the depths of the air, and the light had waned so much that the crimson leaves of the ivy vines climbing high into the treetops appeared pitch-black. Shaken by the age-old rapids of the Shiribeshi River, the broad leaves of Japanese knotweed rustled down into the grass despite there being no wind.

After walking five or six hundred meters along the railway tracks and climbing a small bluff, they found themselves within the farmstead. Even the unharvested soybean fields had only dried stalks still standing. Except for areas where stubborn weeds grew in patchy clusters, the entire ground lay exposed with kochia plants darkened to a purplish hue. And in one spot, smoke from burning crop husks rose heavily, while here and there, one or two farmers continued working as dark shadows. Each time he passed by a tenant hut, he attentively peered inside. With no lamps lit in any of the huts, only the hearth fires beneath pots burned faintly red, just as the saying went. Around each hearth, two or three children invariably sat crouched in a circle, staring vacantly at the flames without making a sound. Such huts stood desolately scattered, like piled grass.

To reach the farm office, one had to climb a steep red clay slope of about a hundred meters. His father, now exactly seventy-two, upon beginning the climb, seemed to have indeed grown short of breath; he stopped around the sixth station and looked back. Without glancing aside and letting his feet follow mechanically behind, he nearly collided face-first into his father’s chest. Father resentfully glared at him out of the corner of his eye. Being an old man of unyielding spirit, there was no doubt this was the moment when his own physical decline had begun grating on his nerves. Moreover, his son’s reckless rudeness—this son who seemed to dwell only on matters utterly removed from his own concerns—had grated on his nerves.

“Hey, Hayata.”

The old man was now surveying a section of his territory spread out below him while calling out the supervisor’s name without even turning to look.

“How many households are there here?” “Isn’t this thinning in what’s left of the windbreak at Cliff Area from illegal logging?” “Which part marks where we did that land swap with the railway?”

“Which one is Fujita’s hut?”

“Are those here fully paying their land rent?”

“How much land rent will accrue from here?” In response to this rapid-fire questioning, the young supervisor Hayata answered in a calm tone devoid of flattery, but whenever his words strayed slightly off course, Father immediately rebuked him. Father appeared poised to pounce on even the faintest ambiguity lingering at the edges of the supervisor’s words. The resolve not to bare his white teeth contorted unnervingly across his small, worldly-wise face—a face tightened by experience.

He could understand his father’s attitude. The farm belonged to Father, but since all reclamation work had been contracted out to a civil engineer named Yabe, Hayata was effectively a supervisor installed through Yabe’s influence. And now that the farm had finally been fully reclaimed this year, it had been arranged for Yabe to come to the farm tomorrow to complete the final settlement. Until tomorrow’s exchange was concluded, Father clung to the conviction that even Hayata—though familiar from years of acquaintance—must be treated in business affairs as an operative of their competitor. He could not help feeling both repelled and awestruck by how his father’s mindset laid bare what might be called the distinction between public and private matters with such naked clarity.

The group started walking again. After that, there were few slopes left, and they soon emerged onto a broad plateau. From there, the farm spread all the way to the foothills of Mount Makkari Nupuri. Beyond the gently undulating fields, the orderly shape of Mount Makkari Nupuri stood bleakly solitary, and only its western face near the summit faintly reflected the sunlight, tinged with red. Before they knew it, in the heights of the sky—now perfectly clear without a single cloud—a slender crescent moon shone with a clarity like forgotten light. The group fell silent and walked hurriedly. It was an internal public road named Base Line Road, though it was little more than a slightly widened ridge path. Here and there among stones thrown out from the fields, lantern plant fruits hung reddening, while butterbur leaves crushed under wheel ruts lay torn to a muddy black and smeared with dirt. He plucked a stem of wild-grown timothy and, chewing on the soft sweetness at its base, followed after his father. And he listened to the murmured conversations of the tenant farmers coming from behind him.

“With the summer crop like that and the autumn crop this bad, we’re in real trouble.”

“With these back-to-back poor harvests, we just can’t take it anymore.”

“That’s right.” The voices were muttered like private soliloquies, yet he recognized they had been deliberately crafted to draw his notice. Those were words that could never be risked being spoken directly to Father. But if overheard by him—they seemed certain he would simply listen and stay silent—the tenant farmers appeared fully aware this would ultimately bring them no disadvantage. He found their attitude as distasteful as Father’s own. The restless agitation that had simmered within him since leaving Tokyo now burned more acutely in his chest. And once again, he bitterly chafed at his own inability to voice everything weighing on his mind.

The office was already illuminated by a brightly glowing lamp, and the supervisor’s mother and the wife rushed out through the door to greet them. Even toward the mother’s greeting so deep it bordered on prostration, Father maintained a stern attitude toward both her and the supervisor. Then, deliberately removing his shoes, he passed through the tatami room he had designed himself and took his seat properly in Western attire beside the hearth. And without even removing his glasses, he pressed both hands to his face and vigorously rubbed upward from below toward his receding temples. That was a gesture Father made when fatigued, while also being one he made when something weighed on his mind. After helping carry the luggage into the tatami room, he took a seat before Father and felt uneasy about that gesture. He thought bedtime tonight would be extremely late.

When the two had finished bathing, the wife brought in the meal, and the supervisor assumed a respectful position at the room’s entrance to keep them company without partaking.

Father, his face flushed from the bath, rubbed upward with both hands while letting out a deep sigh. The wife seemed unbearably ill at ease, as if she could not remain seated.

“You replaced the bathtub.” Before picking up his chopsticks, Father looked squarely at the supervisor and pressed in an interrogative tone:

“It had become too old, so just the other day…” “Was the expense paid from the administrative funds… or has it been charged to my account?” “It was recorded under administrative funds, but…” “Did you consult Yabe?”

The supervisor answered that he had not particularly refused. Father did not say anything in particular about that but remained silent and glared sharply. He then admonished the wife about the excessively lavish meal and instructed her that since when in the mountains, the mountain's produce was sweeter than anything else, from tomorrow onward she must absolutely refrain from shopping in town. The wife appeared utterly stifled. When the meal was finished, without even time to smoke a cigarette, Father ordered the supervisor to bring the account books. He pointed out that the supervisor hadn't even bathed, let alone eaten, but Father merely said "Uh-huh" and ignored him.

The supervisor emerged carrying a bundle of documents large enough to fill both arms. Around the office lingered traces of tenant farmers—apparently in good spirits—leaving their greetings behind as they dispersed toward their homes. Through the frozen stillness of autumn night air in the mountains, their footsteps gradually receded into the distance. While watching his father intently flipping through account book pages, he listened to those fading footsteps his father likely couldn’t hear. He imagined in vivid detail what they had discussed along the way—what rumors they’d share with their families upon returning to their huts. None of it felt pleasant to him. He felt like an indifferent officer occupying conquered enemy territory. By contrast, Father remained wholly absorbed. Firing every conceivable question at the supervisor while criticizing ledger deficiencies, he seized papers to recalculate figures himself. Even when the supervisor proposed using an abacus, Father ignored him and repeatedly redid large-number calculations himself. This was Father’s habit—once immersed, even elementary logic sometimes eluded him. The supervisor endured scoldings while re-explaining points multiple times. He assisted these explanations as calmly as possible. At this, Father’s mood turned visibly acrid.

“I already know that without you telling me.” “That’s not what I’m asking about.” “I’m not trying to hear your reasoning.” “Hayata’s just pressing because he hasn’t grasped what I’m saying.” “You’d better listen properly to my words one more time.”

Having said that，Father would explain his questions' intent in an excruciatingly roundabout manner when heard by an outsider，yet upon careful listening，he would occasionally articulate points so precisely aimed at critical flaws that one might involuntarily nod．The young supervisor too had initially interpreted Father’s questions as routine matters．When convinced he had grasped their meaning，the supervisor would falter and flounder for answers．This stemmed unmistakably not from misconduct but from deficient accounting knowledge—yet Father rebuked him mercilessly，as though exposing hidden corruption．

He was well aware of that. Yet he did not rashly interject. For whenever even the slightest word escaped his lips that sought to supplement Father’s understanding of the supervisor, Father would display a demeanor that verged on malice toward him. He simply endeavored only to understand how the farm’s administrative affairs had been managed up until today. Because he had defied his father’s wishes and stayed away from home for nearly five years, he had no inkling of how things had unfolded up to now. At this point, he could not help but consider the hardships his father had endured during that time. He was well aware that Father’s resolve to establish this large farm in the mountains of Hokkaido, too, had been born from concern for his future. When he thought of that, he wanted to silently contemplate the nature of parent and child.

“What about your dinner?”

Father suddenly asked.

The supervisor, in a voice that sounded as expressionless as ever,

“Oh, it’s nothing…”

he answered evasively. Father took a heavy-looking gold watch from the personal items drawn up at the left corner of the futon and, squinting his eyes, held it at a distance to try to read the time. Suddenly, from the direction of the office, a floor clock—its spring apparently loosened—struck ten. He also felt for his watch in his sash and found it was half past ten.

“It’s half past ten. You still haven’t eaten, have you?”

He said this to the supervisor in a voice that had a slight edge reminiscent of his father’s.

Despite this, Father remained unexpectedly unfazed. “Is that so? “Then go eat. “When I was your age, I’d stay up all night working—forgetting meals and everything. “If you mean to work seriously, you must forget other things entirely—otherwise it won’t hold your interest nor go smoothly…… But you’ve endured well tonight. “Before you go—one last thing.”

Thus began Father’s explanation of the supervisor’s role and responsibilities for tomorrow’s meeting with Yabe. What should have been an earnest briefing stretched into tedious verbosity. For another half hour, the supervisor sat in silence as Father droned on with his instructions.

When the supervisor bowed politely and withdrew from the room, Father and he faced each other with a palpable awkwardness. From excitement, Father’s cheeks flushed a faint crimson unbecoming of his age, and nowhere could be seen any trace of weariness from the long journey. But despite that, he was not at all cheerful. He showed a demeanor toward his would-be successor that seemed somehow guarded, and cast an awkward silence over them—the kind that follows after delivering a harsh reprimand meant to chastise. He did not try to look directly at his face. In this situation, he was utterly helpless. He did not possess a shred of the tact required to initiate cheerfully from his side and soften the other’s mood with jokes or similar means. There is nothing as awkward as the awkwardness between those once close. He sank into an unpleasant mood that verged on melancholy. Moreover, there were no sounds or colors there that could distract the two of them. As for the frames hanging on the wall, there were only a stone tablet inscribed with the testament of the Kurozumikyo founder and an enlarged photograph of Father in formal attire, sternly posed. And the surroundings fell utterly silent. It was like the depths of a stone foundation. When they strained their ears, all that could be heard was the distant, monotonous sound of a waterwheel grinding potatoes.

Father remained silent, perhaps lost in thought, continuously puffing on his Shikishima cigarette, unaware of the ash that had fallen onto his lap. He was helplessly fiddling with the local section of the Tokyo Nichinichi Newspaper that the supervisor had brought. All the articles except those about Hokkaido were ones he had already grown tired of reading on the train to Aomori.

“Did you manage to grasp most of the farm’s affairs through Hayata’s explanation today?” After a brief pause, Father blurted out just this one forced remark and looked directly at him for the first time. The reason Father had tediously made Hayata report on various matters now seemed clear to him. “I’ve mostly understood.” When he heard that answer, Father glanced suspiciously and once again looked sharply at him. “It must be quite a hassle to get a handle on all this work.”

“I suppose so…”

He had no choice but to answer like this. Father seemed to immediately notice the unpleasant tone of his answer.

And once again, an odious silence descended. He fully understood his father’s feelings. To corner his son, who was nearly thirty, and lecture him anew on all the hardships he himself had endured might seem childish—yet the bitterness of seeing his son’s passion for the farm burn so pitifully faint, and worse, detecting no particular stirring of gratitude toward him, left Father tormented by the fragility and discontent that so often haunt old age. And in his temperament—which refrained from stating anything bluntly, keeping everything quietly contained within his heart—he even felt a certain pity. He felt that such emotions had flowed directly from Father into his heart. He, too, felt frustrated and ill at ease. However, when he thought about how the distance between his father and him had grown too vast, he didn’t want to say anything rash. Because in the end, it was something that would only drive them further apart beyond repair. And he still hadn’t developed enough confidence in himself to remain unperturbed even if he subjected this elderly father of his to such an ordeal. So, to tell the truth, he had to feel this unpleasantness more in himself than in anyone else. And that had increasingly made him into a withdrawn, overly cautious man who seemed to take no interest in anything.

He finally resolved that it would be best not to say anything tonight. Even if his father remained unaware of it himself, he also considered how the old man's body must in reality be thoroughly exhausted.

“Won’t you rest now? Mr. Yabe is scheduled to arrive here early tomorrow as well.”

That his words sounded like a carefree remark to Father was not something he was unaware of. Father indeed seemed to feel as though oil had been poured on the smoldering discontent of their internal strife.

“If you want to sleep, then go ahead and sleep.”

he immediately retorted—yet still pressed on without pause: “Well then, I suppose I’ll sleep too.”

he said brusquely and immediately got up to go to the toilet. Apparently having lost patience with the numbness in his legs, Father staggered off unsteadily. Watching his receding figure, he was suddenly struck by a profound loneliness. Father seemed unable to fall asleep no matter how much time passed. The man who would usually start snoring as soon as his head touched the pillow remained quiet for a long time and kept making repeated trips to the toilet. That night was one where even he could not fall asleep. And he had resolved that he would not sleep until Father fell asleep.

Around some time past two and nearing three o’clock, faint snores began escaping from Father’s futon. He listened intently for them before quietly rising to use the toilet. The night had turned so cold that the engawa boards seemed to cling to the soles of his feet. Peering through the storm shutters—their upper sections fitted with transparent glass panes—at the sky beyond, the glass looked so bitingly cold it might shatter at a fingertip’s touch.

He, uncertain of how his future work and life would unfold while immersed in the depths of this piercingly cold autumn night, found himself assailed by an indescribable loneliness. When he awoke with a start at some noise, Father appeared to already be in the neighboring room sipping tea.

That morning was also clear. When he got up and stepped out onto the engawa, the landlady emerged as if she had been waiting for that moment and busily flung open all the surrounding storm shutters. Along with the fresh morning air, the vibrant scent characteristic of the countryside filled the entire room. Father, troubled by where to discard it, forcefully flung the umeboshi pit he’d been holding in his mouth into the gooseberry thicket. The supervisor had gone out to meet Yabe and was absent, but at Father’s side, numerous account books and documents were already spread out in disarray.

Before long, a man named Yabe arrived at the office. He was seeing that man for the first time. Utterly unlike what he had imagined—a fortyish, fat, one-eyed man. Brisk and accustomed to things yet not superficial; his disposition seemed to grasp what he understood with ease. In contrast to when he had been face-to-face with him earlier, Father was uncharacteristically cheerful toward that person. The air in the room had completely changed from the night before.

“Oh, I’m not tired at all. This sort of thing happens every time.”

Having finished breakfast, he said this and promptly began preparing himself. And under the supervisor’s guidance, he toured around the farm. “To be honest, this is my first time actually seeing this place myself, as I’ve entrusted everything to the office and haven’t had them do anything... Of course, I made sure all reports were accurate, so I trust there’s been nothing to cause you offense—but once you start extending your scrutiny a bit more closely, well, even a dozen of me wouldn’t be enough.”

With that, Yabe laughed boisterously, his face turned squarely toward the sunlight. Upon hearing those words, Father looked at him with an expression of surprise. And a flicker of unease passed through his eyes.

Just touring around the farm took a full half day. A little past noon, the group returned to the office with just the right amount of fatigue.

“First of all, these are significant results.” “I believe I have adequately carried out the tasks entrusted to me—may I ask your esteemed view?”

Yabe, his forehead beaded with sweat due to his corpulence, sat down on the raised edge and spoke as if suddenly exhausted. To Father too, those words seemed to have no particular objection.

However, he could not take Yabe’s words at face value. How much had the over sixty tenant farmers’ huts improved since they were first granted loans? Only five or six households had stables—wasn’t that the case? Could it truly be said that results were achieved merely by digging up and cultivating such a vast expanse of land? When he saw how these cramped, makeshift huts—surrounded by corn husks and wild vines, their walls merely piled wheat stalks—still lacked proper floors, with mats laid over planks instead, and how every household subsisted on massive pots of chopped pumpkin stew eaten three times a day, a life unchanged since the land’s initial cultivation, he could not help feeling a pang of guilt. Yet he wondered: how did Yabe perceive all this? However, he said nothing about it.

“In any case, I would like to request an examination of the account books…” True to his characteristic manner, Yabe rarely brought his statements to a definitive close. That struck him as exactly like a seasoned merchant.

When he faced the account books, Father’s expression abruptly tightened, becoming identical to when he dealt with the supervisor. Since Father stated he would call when needed, the supervisor was dismissed to the office. Sitting formally with meticulous precision, Father took out the familiar leather-bound pocket notebook and began pressing his long-held points of suspicion in a convoluted tone. In this situation, he found himself in the uncomfortable position of crossing his arms and observing the negotiations between the two men. Instead, he was able to witness, for the first time in his life, a scene where his father engaged in business negotiations. Father had entered the business world after a long career as a government official, primarily serving as an auditor for banks and companies. and had gained a reputation as a renowned auditor. He truly wasn’t even clear on whether auditors were merely nominal roles appended to an organization’s roster or whether they actually wielded substantive authority over profit-driven enterprises. Moreover, whether the reputation of Father that reached his ears was spoken from business operators or shareholders—that too he could not quite grasp. If the rumors originated from shareholders—but if it was a reputation among business operators—then it would amount to Father being certified as incompetent in his role. Although he had no particular interest in fully understanding these relationships, he now found himself, quite by chance, in a position to witness them firsthand today. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity to see a side of Father he had not yet witnessed. But by imagining the unpleasantness of the scene that was likely to unfold, his heart tended to grow rather somber.

Yabe began answering Father’s questions casually. The majority of these questions seemed to Yabe like trivial matters not even worth counting,

“Is that so? If that’s the case, then proceeding accordingly would pose absolutely no issue on our end, but…”

With that, he brushed it off lightly and continued. Father, appearing intent on striking at vital points with his questions, often found himself countered as if thrown off balance—yet he pressed on insistently,

“Hmm, is that so? “Then this matter is settled like this, I take it?” He added this with an air that brooked no later revisions, but Yabe remained unperturbed, showing no sign of faltering. Even from his perspective, there were moments when he feared Father’s proposals—so excessively mired in trivial details—might reveal Father’s narrow-mindedness to the other party. At such times, he would unconsciously hold his breath. Father’s character—ever scrupulous and meticulous, yet oddly inept at the shrewd calculations befitting a businessman—seemed both dangerously exposed and pitifully vulnerable before this consummate merchant.

However, Father pushed forward relentlessly, using his innate enthusiasm and tenacity as weapons. Even Yabe, tempered by his mercantile spirit, seemed to think this was a tactic he had yet to encounter, and there were moments when he suddenly reached an impasse and assumed a thoughtful expression.

“I’ve largely grasped how the business has progressed.” “Now then—”

Father retrieved the contract he had exchanged with Yabe when commissioning the land reclamation from a large envelope marked "Important Documents" in red, “According to this contract, upon transferring the cultivated land, one-third of the total area is to be granted to you as compensation… which amounts to the approximately 127 chō 4 tan… specified here—this extent of land. That is correct, yes?”

Father pointed to the numbers with short, well-formed fingertips roughened by coarse wrinkles. “Yes, that’s correct…”

“Indeed.” “Yes—127 chō, 4 tan, and 2 se bu.” “However, even if you were to own this modest plot of land in these mountains, it would likely prove inconvenient in every regard… This is merely my own opinion, but…”

“That is indeed correct.” “Well, I too have been considering for some time now that…” “For some time now…” “Precisely—for some time now, I have thought it preferable to forgo receiving land on this occasion and instead request monetary compensation if feasible… However, this too amounts to a rather selfish proposition on my part… And you may have circumstances of your own to consider…”

When Father echoed back “for some time,” there was an involuntary lean forward from him—but he lacked the composure to swiftly rein himself in. “That would indeed be convenient for our side as well.” “But what about agreeing on the amount?” “When I spoke with Hayata last night and inquired, I found that land transactions around here are surprisingly inexpensive.”

When Father took out that familiar notebook and began presenting the prices of recently traded properties, Yabe cut him off by bringing up general market rates himself. He had heard Father’s conversation with the supervisor the previous night, yet Yabe’s claims—despite having insisted he’d always been in Sapporo and never visited this land—were not at all unreasonable. Father seemed surprised by this, and he too felt startled. It suddenly struck him that Yabe and the supervisor might have already reached some prior understanding. Of course it was only natural for Father to harbor such suspicions. He immediately turned his attention to observe Father. Those eyes now held a clear glint of suspicion as they sharply met Yabe’s gaze head-on.

He thought it had become the final close-quarters battle.

Dinnertime had long since passed, but Father, in his usual obstinacy, paid it no heed whatsoever. He thought that a temporary truce would be convenient to ease such a pressing atmosphere, so he ventured: "Since it's gotten quite late, how about having dinner?"

he ventured. When he heard this, Father’s anger flared up across his face like ignited flames.

“Don’t spout such nonsense.”

“How could you do something so rude before this important matter is settled?”

Father harshly reprimanded him in front of Yabe. It was Father’s nature to ignore decorum when agitated, but now, being addressed this way before Yabe, he too flared up involuntarily—indignant at the absurdity of it all, like a general berating his own lieutenants before the enemy. Yet he could only fall silent and lower his gaze. And he felt keenly frustrated by his own weak character.

“No, if it concerns myself, I would prefer not to receive anything yet… Truly, we must first ensure you fully comprehend this proposal… However, should preparations have been made…”

“No, even if it’s prepared, I don’t mind in the slightest.”

Father curtly responded to Yabe’s conciliatory demeanor. Father immediately returned to the original issue. “You may have heard this from Hayata, but the price you mentioned is what was agreed upon with a prospective buyer for Matsuzawa Farm—it doesn’t set the standard for the entire village.” “First, the average would be around twenty yen per tanbu, wouldn’t it?” Yabe, with an attitude that seemed to find humor in Father’s sheer simplicity, showed a cheerful face while,

“Well… But at that rate, it won’t even cover the interest on the reclamation costs.”

Having said that, Father rushed out in one breath,

“But since such transactions are now the reality.” “You mentioned reclamation costs just now—here—you try calculating with the abacus.”

As if attempting to compensate for his earlier harsh words, Father softened his expression slightly and turned his gaze toward him. But he, like his father, knew nothing of abacus calculation. When Father saw him blushing slightly as he picked up the scattered blank papers and pencils nearby, he once again appeared to regret having exposed his own child’s incompetence in financial administration. But the son’s incompetence was also present in Father. Father had been involved in financial administration for years with national institutions and corporate banks, but when it came to manual calculations, he was extremely inept. For this reason, even when examining his own household accounts, Father would sometimes end up sitting for half a day pondering over a minor calculation. Therefore, when he blushed and picked up the paper and pencil, it was in effect a crude portrait of Father himself. Father gazed down from over his glasses with evident irritation at his hands. And then he forced him to calculate the approximate reclamation costs required per one tanbu.

“When you convert that to 127 chō, 4 tan, and 2 se of land, how much does it come to?” Father, still not taking his eyes off his clumsy hands, pressed on with another command. At this, he faltered completely. He, feeling the exposure of his own foolishness before Yabe’s eyes, haltingly began converting 127 chō into tan and adding four tanbu to it. Yet the awareness of being impatiently peered at by the two men disrupted his composure, and even simple times tables refused to surface in his mind.

“That’s not seven—it’s four!”

Father had been interjecting like this, but just as his words grew increasingly rough, he suddenly said “Hmph!” and snatched the paper from him. “What good are you if you can’t even do something this simple?” It was an unmistakable roar of anger. He was rather taken aback and inadvertently looked at Father’s face. Father’s eyes—a vexed blend of tearful laughter and anger—stared fiercely at him. And then, with extreme contempt, he turned away from him toward Yabe,

“I have a request for you—please bring the abacus here.”

he said in a voice that sounded almost genuinely gracious. Yabe, maintaining a calm face, promptly provided the required answer.

He thought this was no longer a place for him. Then he abruptly stood up and walked out toward the office without hesitation.

In contrast to the formal room, around the completely darkened hearth, Hayata was exchanging casual talk in a low voice with gathered tenant farmers. The mistress, worried that the meal bound for the formal room would grow cold, kept returning bowlfuls to their original pot. When he entered there, their collective demeanor shifted at once—an unpleasant stiffness permeating the air. The tenant farmers scrambled upright all together; pulling straw-sandaled feet from hearthside warmth to step onto earthen floor before bowing deeply toward him.

“Young master, you’ve had quite the ordeal this time.”

Among them, a tall man with half-gray hair who seemed well-versed in such matters spoke as if representing everyone. "The hardship lies with us." He sensed that behind those words lurked another meaning.

He sensed an underlying meaning in the man’s words. Having been doused in unsettling cold water, he now found himself plunged into an equally discomfiting tepid bath. Still, he wished to engage with the tenant farmers without reservation. It was simply his own unbearable frustration he sought to flee from in that moment. That he and those farmers might ever sit together as equals—sharing truly human feelings—lay beyond even his wildest hopes. Even he couldn’t bring himself to sustain such self-deception.

But it was too much. The tenant farmers,

“Do come closer now. Perhaps because it’s clear today, it’s gotten bitterly cold.” Despite Hayata’s urging, they remained in the dark corners as if in mockery. He sat down on the edge of the hearth, ignoring the people in a somewhat resigned mood. The mistress carried a lamp to the formal room, but upon returning, she relayed Father’s instructions to him. It was a task Father had commanded him to perform last night before bed—a role requiring him to summon each tenant farmer individually and hear directly from them their grievances against the supervisor and their hopes regarding the farm’s regulations. It was also for that reason that the tenant farmers were gathering one after another, heading toward the office.

A dim light was lit in the office. The scent of smoked fish and smoke from smoldering firewood lingered in the vast soot-stained hall and earthen floor—like a temple kitchen—until it seemed to seep into his very mind. An indescribable disgust gnawed at him. He dashed outside, stood in the open field space, and felt an overwhelming need to breathe deeply. Was farm management truly so tangled that he had to dredge up these petty litigious matters and extract testimony? The supervisor had been here since his father’s time—steadfast and honest, having resigned himself to being an ordinary man content to guard only the farm’s work. Though this wasn’t a path he himself could take, he couldn’t help feeling warmth toward such a person. He thought he simply couldn’t endure keeping that man ostracized while calmly listening to others spread rumors about him.

In any case, he asked Hayata to light a fire in the office, then called the tenant farmers in there one by one. And he decided to ask only about their hopes regarding the farm’s management. Before five or six people had come and gone, he had already realized the futility of doing such a thing. The dull-witted ones had not even a shred of hope worth stating, while the clever ones never uttered a word about trivial matters. Despite having so strongly hinted at their difficulties with payments due to poor harvests both last year and this year, when actually left alone, not a single one of them attempted to voice even such obvious grievances. He endured up to fourteen or fifteen of them, but having completely despaired by then, he stopped summoning any more tenant farmers. And hunched over the brazier, he ended up lost in thought alone. For no particular reason, his feelings of rebellion toward Father kept welling up no matter how much he tried to suppress them, and he could do nothing about it.

After some time had passed, the mistress timidly came over and informed him that dinner was ready. Though his appetite had strangely vanished, he had no choice but to return to Father’s formal room. The place had already been completely tidied up, and with Yabe seated formally, Father and Hayata sat in a triangular formation, waiting for him to arrive. He took his seat in silence, but upon entering the room, he couldn’t help but sense the indescribably awkward atmosphere hanging in the air. Yabe, who until just now had been steering the conversation freely without any reservations, now wore the most troubled expression. His assumption that they had been waiting for him to arrive before picking up their chopsticks seemed to have been mistaken.

When Yabe saw him enter the room, his expression grew even sterner. And as if he could no longer endure it, while glaring at Father with his squinting eye,

“While I deeply appreciate your invitation, I must nevertheless decline and return to Sapporo without partaking in this meal.” “After all, had you returned just one night earlier, you’d have gained but a single night’s extra work… True, I may appear an untested greenhorn to your eyes, but I’ve been tempered in this trade since boyhood… Yet never before have I endured such groundless suspicions that stripped me of my dignity.” “Commerce operates by its own principles.” “Clumsy though I may be, I’ve exhausted every proper channel in this matter. If that merits no trust, further discussion bears no fruit.” “Now then, Mr. Hayata—I’ve fully explained your circumstances. Henceforth, join our faction and labor steadfastly for us.” “...I shall take my leave.”

Yabe dismissed the matter briskly. To him, these words came as a genuine surprise. Father listened in silence, intently absorbing the verbal barrage that struck like firecrackers being hurled all at once—yet when he spoke, his tone held an uncharacteristically calm, almost conciliatory quality.

“It’s not that I distrust you that much,” he said, “but business must remain business—I can’t rest until everything’s clarified.” “Since it’s late, stay here tonight.” “Thank you, but I’ll take my leave.”

“I see. If that’s the case, then I have no choice. As for our consultation—it remains as we previously agreed, I take it?”

“There’s no need for concern.” “If you handle matters satisfactorily, that will be sufficient.”

Yabe stood up with an air of someone who could no longer bear to exchange another word, offering only a terse farewell. He and Hayata went out to see Yabe off as far as the office, but when Yabe noticed Hayata hastily trying to slip on his shoes, he gestured sharply as if to thrust him back,

“Hayata-kun, I can’t have you seeing me off.” “Have someone else carry the luggage.” “Even without that, the master already suspects there’s something suspiciously entangled between us.” “But since I’ve already explained your situation thoroughly… until everything is settled, keep your distance from me.” “Don’t come to see me off.”

Then Yabe started to say something to him but, seeming to feel displeasure even toward him, turned toward Hayata. “After six years of working for free, only to have my perfectly healthy stomach probed in the end—that’s a first for me.” “I’ve gotten angry beyond all reason tonight.” “Once everything here is settled, come out to Sapporo.” “At that time, I’ll handle everything on my end, so…”

“Farewell.”

Leaving only the brusque farewell of “Farewell” for him, Yabe bolted out into the star-pricked darkness where nothing shone but the constellations. He stood rooted there, listening to the retreating footsteps while reconstructing in his mind the chain of events that had brought them to this pass.

That evening, Father regained a smile he seemed to have left behind when departing Tokyo and drank his evening sake. When finding the rigid supervisor poor company there, he tried engaging him in conversation instead—but he, filled with resentment toward Father, refused to even look his way. Even so, Father took no offense. With no alternative, he turned back to Hayata and entertained himself alone by recounting stories of that father-like figure from his mentor’s lifetime.

“He was a lively old man, I tell you. Whenever he drank, he’d strip to the waist and start doing solo sumo right there on the floor—but that damn habit of pursing his lips and spraying spit like mist drove me up the wall.”

Having declared such things with such exaggeration, Father let out a booming laugh. Hayata too appeared overcome with nostalgia, a kindly smile playing at the corner of his mouth,

“That’s exactly how it was,” he offered with a perfunctory nod.

Before long, the night deepened considerably. When the supervisor cleared away the meal tray, two awkward figures remained behind. Yet Father showed no sign of discomfort whatsoever. He seemed to have clean forgotten how he had scolded Yabe earlier as if reprimanding a child of eleven or twelve.

“It went smoothly.” “I’d long marked Yabe as a formidable schemer, so today’s strategy cost me no small unseen effort.” “But it worked—the other side finally lost his temper.” “In haggling, anger means defeat for whoever flares up.” “There were overdrafts too—truth be told, it worried me—but after writing those off, the whole farm became ours with five thousand yen in payment.” “With this, we can call the farm’s business concluded successfully.”

“To me, this doesn’t feel like success in the slightest…”

Even just saying this much, his voice trembled. Yet unlike his usual silence, he had to say everything he wanted to say tonight—with something lodged in his chest, he had fallen into such a restless state that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for some time. “When I walked around the farm today—you know how we first came here during the reclamation—I was shocked to see the tenant farmers’ living conditions remain exactly as they were back then.” “You may have succeeded in collecting rents and keeping reclamation costs low, but as a farm—where exactly does the success lie here?”

“Even if you say that—you do realize impoverished tenant farmers have lived more or less the same way in every era.” “If they became rich, there wouldn’t be a single person left toiling in the fields with sweat dripping down their backs.” “Even so, that’s going too far.” “You’re laughing at fifty steps from a hundred.” “However, even in Hokkaido, there are plenty of places that have been giving tenant farmers a fair share all along.”

“If such places exist, go check their account books—they’re surely losing money.” “If keeping tenant farmers in such misery is the only way to profit, then this farm business is nothing but a lie.” “Do you actually think something like truth exists in this world?”

Father turned away as if exasperated by his son’s inflexibility. “I don’t think that, but…” “However, I simply cannot endure living a life filled with nothing but lies as things are now.” “If you were to consider your own attitude toward Yabe, even you would find it repulsive.” “It’s outright fraud, you know.” “Starting negotiations with the intention of making the other party angry from the very beginning—it fills me with such disgust that it feels utterly absurd.”

He resolutely pressed on this far.

“Does it disgust you?” “It’s disgusting.” “I’m feeling just fine.”

Father glared down at him contemptuously while deliberately removing his glasses, then stroked his face upward against the grain with both hands. He was about to burst with indignation. “I didn’t think you were that kind of person.”

Suddenly, Father appeared to be gripped by genuine anger from the depths of his heart. “Do you think it’s acceptable to speak that way to a parent?”

“What’s wrong with that?” “Someone like you—a vague fool—wouldn’t understand.”

Their words came to an awkward halt. He had made a firm resolution. Tonight, he would stay up until dawn if necessary to thoroughly settle matters between his father and himself. Father seemed to struggle for some time with his own anger, but eventually began to speak in clipped, punctuated bursts, forcibly suppressing it as he did.

“Listen here. Listen carefully and think about it. Yabe is a merchant, you know. Business—you see—is something that inherently can’t exist without lies somewhere along the way. Since ancient times we’ve had the four-class system—samurai, farmers, artisans, merchants—but that order was set based on how much each balanced truth and deception; their work’s very nature demanded it. At first glance it may seem trivial, but there’s weight to the wisdom of those who established it. Since I dealt with that merchant today, falling for his tricks would mean knowingly making a fool of myself. And since I can’t spin lies like a merchant, I’ve got no choice but to crush Yabe’s tactics by force—isn’t that right?”

He thought there was no way he’d fall for such tactics.

“Then in that sense, to which class do those landowners who deceive tenant farmers and monopolize profits belong?” “This habit of yours—countering every statement I make—is a bad one.” “You should think more before you speak.” “What deceit is there in leasing land and collecting rent for it?” “If that’s the case, then merchants are also taking some profit by considering people’s convenience, aren’t they?” Whether cornered by logic or unable to contain his anger, Father fell completely silent. His balding forehead flushed red up to the hairline, and the hand that haphazardly plucked a rolled cigarette and carried it toward the hearth fire trembled violently. He had never seen his father this angry. When Father brought the cigarette that far, he suddenly changed his mind and threw it down on the tatami.

After a short while, Father adopted an extremely composed demeanor, as if lecturing someone:

“If you want to lecture your father this much, then do so only after you’ve secured proper work and built a proper life for yourself. To spout opinions without having accomplished a single thing yourself—that’s what I call selfishness! ……Listening to you, you’ve been cursing everything I do as lies, lies—but where have you ever done anything truthful? Since one is born human, living in this world means having no choice but to lie—that’s humanity’s unspoken pact. Virtue lies in striving to tell as few lies as possible even within a world of falsehoods. Or will you show me a world where I don’t have to lie before my very eyes? Then I’ll take off my helmet for you without a shred of regret.”

Father’s words cleaved through the very center of his heart. In truth, he felt as though a blade-like chill had pierced somewhere deep within his flesh. And he found himself guiltily observing how his own shoulders had stiffened and hunched up in agitation. Father continued his words further.

“To make even this small farm what it is now—you’ve seen firsthand how much effort I’ve poured into it.” “You might think I’m just making unnecessary fuss, but even with all that preparation, worldly matters leak through like water.” “That’s something your single-minded logic could never grasp.” The words struck him like a searing blade. Whenever pressed this far before, he had always fallen silent, unable to respond. But tonight—this very night—he would pierce through that barrier. And he steeled himself to make his father truly understand his essence.

“You may not understand.” “In truth, watching how you’ve been obsessing over this matter since before leaving Tokyo—if I may say so without offense—I even felt pity for you at times.” “...I am indeed such an idealist.” “A person who does nothing but dream.” “…But please consider my feelings too.” “I haven’t accomplished a single thing until now.” “I haven’t even been able to discern what I should do in the first place.” “I might spend my whole life just thinking like this—but I utterly detest a world where one can’t survive without lies.” “Wait—” “Let me say more... It’s not just the world that tells lies, of course.” “I myself am like a lump of falsehood.” “Yet this desire not to be so torments me relentlessly.” “So when I see people I trust or care about lying casually before me, I can’t help but ignore my own faults and grow furious.” “I know this too is unavoidable, but...”

“If you could play around and still make a living, you’d probably feel free to indulge such sentiments.”

As if demanding “What irresponsible drivel are you spouting?”, Father spoke with venomous sarcasm. “At least those of us who can idle about and still eat shouldn’t utter such things without incurring heaven’s wrath.”

He too involuntarily became sarcastic. If I were being supported by Father—this was precisely why I had to endure such humiliation. How weak I am. While speaking sarcastically he had to keenly realize his own inadequacy. At the same time he felt he had glimpsed how their parent-child relationship had snagged on some unseen nail. A loneliness came over him—the realization that even between parent and child when it came to their true natures they were mere strangers. He fleetingly thought he might just become a beggar. He reflected that his trust—that Father was willingly providing him food and clothing for his true nature’s sake—was far too presumptuous for someone nearing thirty.

Perhaps his inner turmoil had struck a sharp chord with Father, for unlike his previous anger, Father let out a sigh that even he himself seemed unprepared for. He involuntarily looked up at Father. Father was steadily watching an area about the size of a single tatami mat before him and seemed to be contemplating something distant. “It’s strange that I’ve been grinding away like this just to reach this age...” Father’s voice grew solemn and somber, as if speaking to himself.

“Earlier you called yourself an idealist, didn’t you?” “That’s it.” “This is the kind of man I am.” “Born into an impoverished samurai family no better than dirt farmers—from birth I grew accustomed to poverty.” “When I first understood life, my father had already been exiled to a distant island, leaving me with just my mother. By twelve I’d undergone my coming-of-age ceremony, writing rice ledgers at the storehouse so mother and child could scrape by.” “What’s more, I’ve no particular vices to speak of—you could say I’ve achieved more success than needed just to feed a family.” “This luxury now is truly beyond what suits me.” “But when you have five children starting with you, a parent’s heart grows strange—it can’t help worrying far beyond tomorrow... And you—whether you mean my parenting failed or it’s your nature—with this idealism you spout, you’re utterly careless about worldly matters.” “Even if you landed work decent enough to get by, who knows what hoodlums your siblings might become or what misfortunes might strike?” “My reason for starting this troublesome work was thinking that in such cases, you could at least burrow into this farm and scratch at the soil to survive.” “...In Japan, when you’re the eldest son, looking after your siblings inevitably falls to you...”

Father’s words gradually grew truly calmer and more somber. “I’m by nature utterly inept when it comes to money—I have to put in twice the effort just to come up with ordinary ideas. From your perspective, you might think that at my age I’m only fixated on money—but this is how it is: what others conceive in half a day takes me a full day’s effort just to catch up with…”

Having said that, Father put on a laugh. “In today’s world, once you fall, society won’t even glance back... Well, if you want to act according to your thoughts, go ahead and try. No matter what you think, I intend to do what I must... ‘Take not a single thing unless it’s justly earned. Give not a single thing unless it’s justly earned’—there’s such a saying, you know. In today’s world, it seems there’s no way to live without lies other than this way of living.”

Having said this, Father fell abruptly silent.

He became unable to say anything. He felt the resolve—"All right, I'll see this through"—sink into the depths of his chest like an iron bullet. A strange emotion—a fervent yet lonesome emotion that seemed to arise solely from blood ties—threatened to wring tears from his eyes.

While watching the aged figure of his father standing at the toilet, he too rose. He stepped out onto the veranda and gazed outside through the storm shutters. The night in Hokkaido's mountain depths was quietly deepening toward midnight. The vast form of nature spread out before his eyes in the distance.