Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chapter 1: Meiji

1 The eighty-kilometer excavation between Dagupan and the Baguio summit along the Benguet Road connecting Manila and Baguio was such an arduous project that Major Kennon, the construction supervisor, was promoted to general at the opening ceremony. The laborers had to work while zigzagging up Benguet's 5,000-foot cliffside precipice, and when squalls struck, landslides and ground collapses would immediately occur, smashing them against the valley floor's rocks like house geckos. There was, of course, the danger of endemic diseases.

In July of Meiji 35 (1902), three full years after construction began—having completely exhausted the 700,000-dollar budget with no prospect of completing the project, as if offering an excuse— "...the mountainside had extremely steep inclines; massive boulders jutted out while giant trees grew thickly, forcing them to sometimes descend several hundred meters just to locate suitable foundation points for construction." "Moreover, once they drove pickaxes into such locations, landslides would invariably occur above, gradually generating fissures that ultimately extended for several thousand meters..."

By the time the chief engineer's report—meant to demonstrate the project's extreme difficulty—reached the U.S. Congress, all 1,200 laborers forcibly gathered from various ethnic groups including indigenous Filipinos, Americans, Chinese, Russians, and Spaniards had fled without exception, horrified by the appalling conditions where one death occurred on average for every five meters of construction.

However, the home country government did not give up. In Baguio—unusually cool for a tropical region, cold enough to see frost in winter—the United States established a summer resort city and undertook the Benguet Road excavation as an ancillary project to constructing military barracks; this road was indispensable for American governance following their acquisition of the Philippine Islands.

The construction supervisor was replaced, and a one-million-dollar budget was added. Perhaps having realized these ethnic groups were indeed unreliable, the newly appointed Major Kennon visited the Japanese consulate in Manila and requested a supply of Japanese laborers. Had they bent the Japanese immigrant exclusion laws to this extent because they recognized the perseverance and efforts of the Japanese who had developed California? Japan had also won the war against Qing China... Acting Consul Secretary Iwaya recommended Kobe Tōkō Partnership Company’s Inaba Usaburō to Major Kennon. When Inaba Usaburō, accompanied by interpreter Nagao Fusanojo, visited the government office, Major Kennon—stating they must avoid involving immigration laws—orally contracted for the supply of 900 laborers, 1,000 stonemasons, 20 foremen, and 2 interpreters, totaling 1,922 workers.

The daily wages were 1 peso 25 centavos for road laborers, 2 pesos for stonemasons, and 2 pesos 50 centavos for foremen; interpreters received monthly salaries of 180 pesos and 100 pesos. The workday lasted ten hours with government-funded meals and lodging, while the ill received free treatment at government hospitals. Furthermore, the government covered rail fares between Manila and Dagupan—conditions that left nothing to criticize. The first immigrant ship Hong Kong Maru, carrying 125 laborers, entered Manila's port on October 16, Meiji 36 (1903).

The laborers—wearing loincloths, work aprons, leg wrappings, straw sandals, and twisted headbands—disembarked in their singed-looking, grimy, and eerie attire. White people and Filipinos recoiled at the sight, Filipino labor unions rallied comrades to launch exclusion campaigns, and English-language newspapers sensationalized that "veterans of the Sino-Japanese War have landed to occupy the Philippines."

Whether aware of this or not, the 125 immigrants rested in Manila for two days before boarding a rattling narrow-gauge railway to Dagupan, then set out on foot along Benguet's mountain paths. First they hired oxcarts to load their luggage, then pushed through pathless mountains; but with no inns to speak of, when night fell they simply lay down to camp in the open like refugees. With no pots or pans, they couldn’t cook rice; the bread they’d brought had mostly been devoured by ants, and to make matters worse, the mosquitoes were relentless.

After enduring such hardships for two nights, when they finally reached the construction site, they found cliffs looming perilously close above their heads, the valley floor far below shrouded in clouds, and had to work using rocks that sometimes served as unsteady footholds. Here in this alien land—to think they had to labor in such a place—even the men who had been notorious troublemakers aboard the ship gasped as one, but there was no returning to Japan now. They lacked even travel funds. This was what it truly meant to cling to stone—soon they bound their bodies with ropes and descended the precipice.

Then, they would bore holes into the mid-slope rocks and set explosives. At the moment of ignition, they would pull on the ropes and hurriedly climb up. The instant they did, an explosion split their ears, rocks went flying, and already five men—including Murakami Neizo from Wakayama Prefecture—lay dead. In the landslide that followed soon after, thirteen people were buried alive at once. In November, eight were claimed by cholera. They would dig holes to bury those corpses that were found, but sometimes saved effort by burying four or five together in a single hole.

There were no monks or missionaries, no incense sticks—just small stones erected as makeshift grave markers and silent prayers—making it a simple funeral. One reason was that holding elaborate funerals for each daily death would have left no time for construction work. Deaths occurred with such frequency.

Such was the way their numbers gradually dwindled, and days of unease continued, but then the second, third... waves of immigrant ships arrived in succession. In Meiji 36 (1903), 648 workers landed in Manila; in Meiji 37 (1904), nearly 1,200 disembarked. Excepting a minority employed by the Manila Railroad Company and coal mines like Marangas Bataan, nearly all were lured by the advertised daily wage of one peso twenty-five centavos and sent onward to Benguet. In Japan, meals were self-provided, and 50-60 sen was the most they could earn. One peso was equivalent to one yen. Moreover, in Benguet, meals, lodging, and medical expenses were all covered by government funds.

However, when they arrived, the so-called lodgings had bamboo pillars and thatched roofs—the earthen floors lacked even a single mat—with rows of round bamboo shelves serving as beds. There was no bedding; it was precisely like a pigsty.

The food was terrible too.

With Philippine rice resembling insect-eaten residue—and with no pots or pans to boot—they had to cook in oil cans, though even when the bottom burned, the top remained uncooked rice, casting doubt on whether they received even the promised daily ration of one and three-quarter pounds per person. The side dishes, supposedly including half a catty each of beef or pork and fish, along with a certain quantity of onions or other vegetables, amounted to just two or three small sardines with an eggplant added once every ten days. They quickly fell into malnutrition; moreover, when the rainy season arrived, working from early morning soaked like rats for ten hours until utterly exhausted, they would collapse without changing clothes onto round bamboo beds and lie there corpse-like, bitten by mosquitoes all night long—a state of affairs that meant those succumbing to beriberi never ceased.

In Meiji 37 (1904), ninety-three people had died from beriberi during the three-month period of July, August, and September. This averaged out to one person per day. Moreover, there were, of course, many who died from malaria, cholera, and dysentery.

There was a hospital as per the contract. But there were no medical facilities whatsoever; it seemed only quinine was abundant, so they were made to take quinine even for dysentery. Moreover, since the gruel they were forced to eat at the hospital—riddled with dead rice weevils that gave it the appearance of red bean porridge—only worsened conditions, inpatients dwindled while fatalities steadily mounted. Everything was different from what had been promised.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to be," thought the three hundred members of Tsuruta-gumi as they finally descended the mountain with their labor foremen. Even so, however, the only places that would hire them were either the Marabato-Nabato barracks construction or unloading coal at Cavite Naval Port, with a daily wage of a mere eighty centavos—thirty-five centavos deducted for food expenses made this arrangement untenable; moreover, squatting in vacant Filipino houses to sell rice crackers while cooking for themselves felt downright beggar-like.

As they were deliberating whether any good ideas could be found, Sadoshima Taikichi—dispatched from the Kansai Immigration Association—arrived,

“I shouldn’t say this, but surviving till today—that’s all thanks to the gods.” “Considering how we all nearly got wiped out in that landslide, maybe we should head back to Benguet once more.” “If we run away now and let the project fail, how’re the dead men supposed to rest easy?” “We’re true-blooded Japanese!”

he said in Osaka dialect. Then,

“That’s right! We’ll show ’em by finishing this construction proper—the one those Americans, Filipinos, and Germans couldn’t manage.” “When we got to Majida, those bastards making a racket trying to drive us out—let’s tell ’em straight: ‘You think your lot could’ve done this job?’ We’re Japanese, ain’t we?”

someone spoke up, and then, in Sanosa-bushi rhythm, “One reason was to amplify the glory of our radiant Japan—braving countless storms and raging seas, we journeyed to Manila.”

Once they began singing, no one opposed returning to Benguet anymore. And so the work resumed as before, but Tsuruta-gumi's determination to prevent their fallen comrades' deaths from being in vain quickly spread to the other crews, filling the air with a taut, murderous tension. They buried corpses until sunset, plodding back along dark paths to their hut with sinking spirits—but when dawn broke on having survived another day, they silently shouldered pickaxes with fierce resolve, gripped by something akin to a thirst for vengeance.

Like lead, no one laughed; through sheer stubbornness some lived, and others died.

In October of Meiji 37 (1904), on a certain night, a storm struck. The moment they recalled that "Baguio" meant "storm" in Spanish, their hut was blown away, the road crumbled, and the bridge washed out. Yet they didn't lose heart; shivering through the night, they trudged to the worksite with the same feet that had buried corpses, appearing like drenched rats with bowed heads.

It was during such times that Ota Kyuzaburo—who operated a grocery store in Manila's Kappo District—negotiated with American authorities to contract food supplies for Benguet immigrants, sending them miso, soy sauce, pickled daikon, and umeboshi plums. 2

The Benguet Road—measuring twenty-one miles and thirty-five furlongs in total length—was opened on January 29, Meiji 38 (1905), one year and four months after the Hong Kong Maru had first entered Manila. Of the fifteen hundred Japanese laborers, over six hundred had become casualties. On the day of the opening ceremony, every survivor wept. Though pride existed in having completed through our own Japanese hands this formidable construction project—one where white people, Filipinos, and Chinese had spent three years and seven hundred thousand dollars yet failed to excavate even a single kilometer—there was no joy.

Moreover, when the construction ended, they all became unemployed from the very next day, and when they pleaded for assistance, the American authorities proved far too cold-hearted. They descended the mountain and idled about at a Japanese-run inn in Manila until they had exhausted all their hard-earned money; with no funds to return home, they loitered around Manila’s streets in disheveled groups—a sight that someone, unable to bear watching,

“Everyone, go work in Davao’s hemp fields!” Ota Kyuzaburo had suggested it, but Davao was a terrifying wilderness inhabited only by Moro and Bagobo tribesmen, with malaria even more virulent than Benguet’s and no doctors available. There were even men who had fled from Davao’s hemp fields to the Benguet Road construction site—so who would throw their lives away returning to such a place? Though not a single soul agreed at first, Ota persuaded them by insisting: “We’ll bring Japanese doctors along—send miso and vegetables too. I won’t steer you wrong. Leave it to me.”

“If you think we’ll just starve to death like this, then Davao’s paradise.” When told this, they realized there was no choice but to prioritize survival over comfort; soon they boarded a dilapidated steamship from Manila, arriving in Davao after nearly twenty days. With their blood running cold at the eerie clang of Bagobo tribe’s agong drums echoing from distant forests, they began laboring in the hemp fields. Before long, rumors reached them: a Summer Capital had been built in Baguio, and the Benguet Road was now repurposed as a driveway for Americans heading to dances.

The realization that our blood and sweat had been wrung out for such a purpose sent everyone reeling in bitter frustration; their fury at being abruptly cast aside once construction ended gnawed at them like grit between teeth—but Sadoshima Taikichi in particular suddenly turned livid, left Davao, and for reasons unknown barged into Yamamoto Gonnoshirō’s Manila tattoo parlor.

And with the ferocity of the blue dragon raging across his entire back, he intimidated all of Manila; whenever he spotted Americans,

“Hey! Six hundred people’s blood has flowed on Benguet Road, I tell ya! You think you can just strut through here flaunting your dances? The car tires’ll go flat, so you better watch out. On your way back, a monster like this’ll come slithering out—don’t you dare faint. Should I just chomp down on your head right now?”

The moment he finished making eerie hand gestures to pose as a monster, he suddenly slapped the man's cheek back and forth.

“If you’ve got a problem with that, come at me anytime. “I’m Benguet’s Ta-ayan!” And so, he eventually earned the nickname “Benguet’s Ta-ayan,” quickly making a name for himself—but this very notoriety led others to avoid him. Before long, the Mongoya shop (a stall selling sweet red bean ice and soft drinks) he started with his meager savings failed to take off. With remittances to his home country failing to go as planned—leaving him utterly baffled about why he’d even come to the Philippines in the first place—this only drove Taikichi further into “Benguet’s Ta-ayan”-like behavior. But when influential figures began remarking, “Having you in Manila only causes trouble for other Japanese…”, he seized on this pretext of worrying about the wife and child he’d left behind in Japan to finally abandon the Philippines after nearly six years.

When he arrived in Kobe and saw that after deducting the fare to Osaka his remaining funds amounted to less than ten sen—realizing there was no way he could return to Osaka where his wife and child awaited—he immediately visited the front desk of a hotel catering to foreigners and pleaded to be hired as a rickshaw puller. His ability to speak English was valued, and he was promptly hired. The wages were meager, but the tips from ferrying guests between the pier and hotel turned out not to be negligible after all. He kept running through the thought that if he endured here for one year, he could bring back a fine souvenir to Osaka—until then, he’d even managed to forget about his wife and child waiting in that land just beyond his nose. But one day after about three months, whether from some deep-seated irritation, he suddenly overturned the rickshaw with the American passenger still in it right at the hotel entrance. When the man refused to apologize for this outrage, he was fired from the hotel on the spot.

That night, he returned to Osaka. After six years away, he slipped quietly into his home in Kappa Alley, "I'm back now, I tell ya!"

However, there was no reply; the house stood hollowly empty, with no sign of his wife or their daughter, who should have been eleven that year. An ominous thought struck him; half-rising beside the cold hibachi, he crouched there, “Who’s there—?” Someone abruptly thrust their face out from the doorway. “Oh, Shime-san?” The face remained as plump as ever, cheeks puffed out like a flatfish’s—though six years had passed since their last meeting, Sadoshima recognized him at a glance as Shime Danji, his neighbor.

“Oh, it’s you?” “You sneaking into someone’s house when they’re away and rustling around like that—’course I thought for sure you were a burglar…”

Though he only ever served as an opening act, being a rakugo performer through and through, Shime Danji’s speech still carried the cadence of the storytelling dais, and Taikichi felt with renewed intensity that he had truly returned to Osaka. “Well now, Ta-asan. You’ve come back.” “When’d you even get here?” “Say what you will—it’s been nigh six years already.” “Just now.” Taikichi swallowed hard,

“So where’ve they all gone off to? I can’t see hide nor hair of them.”

With a look suggesting they might have fled under cover of night, he asked, "I hear your voice but see no trace—truly, you’re as substantial as a fart…"

Shime Danji said in a singsong voice, “Since today’s the noon night market, they’ve gone there, haven’t they—I tell ya.” “I see...” Taikichi felt relieved—oh, good—but suddenly pursed his lips, “In this damn cold, they don’t need to go see something like a night market...” “What’re we supposed to do if the kid catches a cold?” “Honestly, she’s such a damn fool.”

Having said that, Shime Danji—"What foolish things are you saying? Listen here, Ta-ayan"—adopted a lively tone and launched into a spirited spiel,

“What sort of fool takes Otsuru for some night-market gawker?” “Otsuru went with Hatsue-chan to sell seven-spice chili powder at the stalls, I tell ya!” “Huh? So you mean—” “They’re peddling wares there now?” Taikichi’s face twisted like he’d chewed a hairy caterpillar.

“For pity’s sake! It’s all well and good you went off to the Philippines and Luzon and such, but you haven’t sent a single yen back…” “I sent it, I tell ya!” “The first two or three years, right? After that you didn’t send even a single copper coin—how’re the two left behind supposed to keep eating, I ask ya? If they don’t set up a night stall, they’ll starve to death, I tell ya! You’re truly a heartless husband, I tell ya. Otsuru didn’t even go see those fancy two-story trams running at Tsukishima—spent her days making toothpicks at home, then nights out at the market for you, muttering ‘that damn old man’ through her streaming tears while mixing spices, I tell ya!”

The moment Taikichi saw Shime Danji's hands moving with utterly convincing expressions as he mimed mixing seven-spice chili powder, his chest grew hot, and he rushed out into the wintry outdoors where cold winds streaked white through the air. When he raced down Tanimachi Ninth District's slope and reached the noon night market in Sennichimae's backstreets, there sat Otsuru in a shop unexpectedly tidy for its kind—perched primly with apron-draped knees visible behind a propped-up glass case lid, mixing seven-spice chili powder with chapped red hands. Their daughter Hatsue clutched a white Seto hibachi, blankly gazing up at the sparse trickle of passersby.

He stood dejectedly before them without saying a word. “Well, look who’s here.”

As she spoke and looked up, Otsuru seemed to immediately recognize him as Taikichi. "You big fool!" "Good day to you. Are you well?" When he spoke in a tone as if addressing a stranger, once again— "You big fool!"

Otsuru was crying.

That became the couple's first greeting in six years.

Hatsue seemed to have forgotten her father's face. With snot crusted hard beneath her nose, she looked younger than eleven. "Why didn't you ever send any letters?" "If you were going to come back..."

Otsuru’s hair hung dry and disheveled without a trace of oil, chili powder clinging to its strands. The chili's acrid sting pierced his nose and eyes, making Taikichi's vision blur with moisture. "You're the one who said to send letters—how the hell could I? You know damn well I can't write. Don't shame your husband."

Taikichi said in a deliberately angry voice,

“But damn, Osaka’s cold.”

and moved toward the hibachi that Hatsue was holding.

3

From the next day onward, Taikichi went out alone to the night market and set up a seven-spice chili powder stall. The stall allocation boss, perhaps thinking Taikichi was a novice, "The chili powder stall goes west of the banana-pounding stall." When they tried to assign him the worst spot, Taikichi suddenly wielded the menace of "Benguet's Ta-ayan" and got them to switch him to a better location, but— "Aah! Seven-spice! Seven-spice! Spicy seven-spice! Aah! Japan won! Japan won! Russia lost!" "Ah! Seven-spice! Seven-spice!"

Because he let out a cracked-bell-like shout ill-suited to the seven-spice vendors where old grandpas and grandmas quietly sold to female customers, the patrons couldn’t calmly place their preferred orders for spice blends, and naturally foot traffic dwindled. Perched like a beckoning cat figurine atop his stall, hunched over as he vigorously mixed seven-spice chili powder, Taikichi felt his vitality drain away all at once. The brutal labor of Benguet grew strangely nostalgic to him now—this thought searing into the blue dragon on his back—that if humans don’t drive their bodies to work, their bones would go slack. Unable to bear it, he recklessly increased the red peppers until his bamboo tubes held a spice blend so fiery it made faces contort in shock. Soon after, he abandoned the seven-spice business altogether.

“You’re not thinking of going back to the Philippines again, are you?”

Otsuru was beside herself with worry, but even he couldn't bring himself to abandon the two of them and leave Japan so soon after returning. He spent all the money he'd saved during his three months in Kobe to buy a secondhand rickshaw—his remaining body now his sole capital—and took to pulling it through Osaka's streets in an odd getup: a white Manila hemp suit jacket worn year-round instead of a long-sleeved work coat. The nickname "Benguet's Taikichi" suited him perfectly here too.

Two years later in the summer, Otsuru died from the cold.

During Taikichi’s absence, perhaps the night dew that had soaked her during the four full years of running the night stall had seeped into the woman’s body, and something about her never having seen the exposition or known where the double-decker trams ran struck him as pitiful—Taikichi wept like a man, but Otsuru, now dying, voiced no complaints of this; she merely, “Until Hatsue’s settled down, you mind you don’t go getting all high and mighty as ‘Benguet’s Ta-ayan’ and go careering off to some foreign land again.” “You’ve always been a reckless one since way back, so mind you don’t go doing any fool things now.”

On the futon laid out in the four-and-a-half tatami room at the back where the western sun blazed in, she offered her thread-thin opinion and breathed her last.

When summer came, had Otsuru discerned the restless impulse that ceaselessly drove Taikichi toward nostalgia for the Philippines?

Otsuru’s death had anchored him; eight years slipped away.

No matter how many ri he pulled his rickshaw each day, he could never escape Osaka's narrow streets—yet with every passenger ferried to Tsukaguchi, as the copper gong's clang set his heart racing anew, his daughter Hatsue had already turned twenty-one. On Setsubun day, Taikichi spotted Hatsue—her hair tied in a peach-split style that felt slightly unbecoming for her age—walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Shintarou, a neighborhood cooper, up Genshoji Slope. He dragged them into the temple grounds and struck Shintarou across the cheek; carried by that momentum, his hand nearly reached Hatsue's face too. But thinking it would waste her carefully styled hair, he pulled back at the last moment—leaving Taikichi so frustrated that flames seemed ready to burst from his eyes.

A chill ran down Taikichi’s spine as he imagined what might have become of Hatsue had he left such a reckless daughter alone and gone off to the Philippines—but soon after, in the neighborhood marathon competition, Shintarou the cooper took first place. Shintarou served as supervisor for the boys’ club, gathering children every night to teach them trumpet in the vacant lot behind Ikukunitama Shrine; the sound of his playing echoed ten blocks away. In the entire neighborhood, besides Taikichi, Shintarou alone would endure ten buckets of cold water at the public bathhouse even in winter. Moreover, on the way back from the bathhouse, he would stop at a udon shop to have a glass of ramune—an unexpectedly dutiful man.

The day after the marathon, Taikichi visited the cooper's owner with a seasonally out-of-place folding fan tucked into his usual jacket pocket, "Let's cut to the chase..." and negotiated making Shintarou Hatsue's husband. "Well now, I've no objections myself—but what'll that lad Shintarou have to say about it?"

When the cooper’s owner said this, “No matter how ya spin it—you! Those two’ve gone and become sweethearts right under our noses!” “Ridiculous.” “Honestly, this whole jangly mess reeks of foolishness.” Taikichi bristled with irritation, but given that this proposal banked on Shintarou’s physical prowess, his expression wasn’t entirely unreasonable. Since Shintarou’s apprenticeship had long since concluded, the matter was settled straightaway.

Before long, Shintarou opened a cooperage in Tamatsukuri and, as expected, proved to be a hard worker; needless to say, the couple got along well. Taikichi heaved a sigh of relief; the mornings and evenings in Kappa Alley suddenly grew restless. However, the money Shintarou had borrowed when starting his business still hadn’t been fully repaid. While he kept suppressing the churning in his gut with thoughts that going to the Philippines required just a little more endurance, a fire broke out next to Shintarou's house and burned everything to ashes shortly after its opening. Displaced by the fire, Shintarou had temporarily moved into Taikichi’s house in Kappa Alley, but he lay gaunt with the futon pulled over his head, his face as lifeless as a shop curtain sagging under its own weight.

He seemingly had no intention of getting back on his feet and starting the cooperage again, nor did he even try to go out looking for work.

If one listened to his incoherent grumbling, he was anxiously tallying up the remaining debt from his startup funds.

“You damn fool!” Taikichi scolded him, “Do you think lazing around at home will let you repay the debt?” “What the hell do you plan to do now?” “Can’t you show a bit more spark?” “Well... what’m I supposed to do now?” “Well... guess I’ll have to go around selling chilled sweets or somethin’. Ain’t no other way now.” “Honestly, what a terrible mess.”

In a timid voice, he said falteringly. “Don’t spout nonsense. If you go around selling chilled sweets with that attitude of yours, the candy’ll rot away...”

Having said this, Taikichi suddenly flashed his eyes. “―Or if you’re so damn set on selling chilled sweets, then get yourself to Manila.” “Why on earth Manila again…?” When Hatsue, taking Shintarou’s place as he remained silent, asked in surprise, “Manila’s summer all year round, see—if you set up a shaved ice stall there selling kintoki and chilled sweets, business’ll do just fine.” “If you stay in Osaka, you think chilled sweets’ll sell once winter comes?” “We could sell amazake in winter.”

When Hatsue poked him in the side and Shintarou spoke, Taikichi made a face as if he'd bitten into something bitter.

“You call yourself a man saying such pitiful things?” “Shintarou, listen up—when you’re young as a man, ya gotta go someplace far away no matter where it is.” “I’ll look after Hatsue here—so you get yourself to Manila and make your fortune.”

“…………”

As if he’d been driven out by fire twice, Shintarou hung his head, “You goin’ or ain’tcha?” “Which’ll it be?” “Ain’t you gonna answer?” “If you’re sayin’ you ain’t goin’, then I got my own ideas.” “Hatsue...”

“Dad.” “What’re you even sayin’?” “Dead Mom’s…”

As Hatsue began to say, “Have you forgotten the dying wish?”— “You shut up!” “You think I can just stay quiet?!”

When Shime Danji—who had been listening through the thin wall—entered with restless eyes, “—Ta-ayan, that line of yours is pure hogwash.”

He tried to intervene, but Taikichi would no longer listen; he forcibly persuaded Shintarou and sent him off to Manila.

Taikichi went with Hatsue all the way to Kobe to see him off, but— “I should get on this ship too and…”

……He had considerable difficulty suppressing his desire to go. Instead, until the gong sounded, Taikichi talked about the Benguet Road, and still—

“Even if you run a shaved ice stall, you don’t gotta bow to American customers.” “If you start bowing too deep every time, you better remember that Benguet story.” “And if you meet that dentist Tatsu the Tooth-Puller, don’t forget to pay back the two yen.” “Since it’s a debt from when I had my rotten tooth pulled, tell him Ta-ayan made the request and hand over the two yen.”

he said.

“Make sure you don’t catch cholera over there.” Hatsue fretted anxiously, barely managing to voice this single concern.

Through Shime Danji’s arrangements, Hatsue was employed at a rakugo theater in Shinsekai and worked as a tea attendant.

Chapter 2: Taisho

1

It was a place that looked poor and cluttered, and yet strangely lacking in change—a town as listless as an old hand towel.

The corner fruit shop had been in business for generations, its sign's characters having become so faded that even the owner could no longer read them. The liquor store had not budged from that spot for decades.

The public bathhouse also did not change ownership. The pharmacy too did not change. A shaky old man still had his pharmacist license from decades past displayed in the shop and was dispensing prescription drugs. Moxa was said to sell the best.

A greengrocer stood across from another greengrocer, and neither ever relocated. Even when a public market was built in the neighboring town, they remained unchanged. The son of the penny candy shop now had grandchildren, and the way he sat planted at the storefront selling penny candies with prizes had taken on an air of masterful artistry.

The barber’s daughter was already twenty-eight and had not married. All year round, she played the same memorized piece "Ishidomaru" on her Chikuzen biwa. She seemed to be doing this to catch the attention of customers coming for haircuts, which only made her appear all the more unapproachable. The one-sen tempura shop had been frying tempura at the entrance to Jūnen Alley for ten years. The old woman from the amazake shop had also been setting up her sweet sake stall in front of the temple for about fifteen years now. She had been setting it up even in summer.

Stock traders also did not flee in the night. The rakugo performer had accumulated six months' worth of rent and settled in one alley for seventeen years.

The alleyways were so pitifully numerous; there must have been roughly seventy or eighty in that town.

Altogether, it was a town of paupers. The families living in the back alleys were indeed more numerous than those residing on the main streets. Jizō Alley was an eighty-unit tenement arranged in the shape of an ※ (where “※” represents an L-shaped right angle). Sandwiched between seven houses and passing through in a U-shape, the fifty-unit tenement was Enoki Alley.

There were also tenements with as many as six entrances and exits. Then there was Tanuki Alley, where four families shared a single-story house. Between the Hinomaru Bathhouse and the Asahiken Barbershop lay a cramped alley that dead-ended at an open space. Enclosed in a U-shape around this lot stood a seven-unit tenement known as Kappa Alley. This vacant lot served as the storage area for Rau Shikae-ya’s food stall, where night market carts were also parked. And the rickshaw left there—despite there being no sick patients—was, of course, Sadoshima Taikichi’s business tool.

This vacant lot also served as a place to hang laundry. But if the wind blew westward, they could no longer hang their laundry. The chimney of the Hinomaru Bathhouse was clogged year-round, so the laundry would turn black in no time. The Nagoya-born wife of Rau Shikae-ya had such a booming voice that when she once scolded her husband, her shouts carried all the way to the main street, prompting a passing policeman to peer suspiciously into the alley. Though complaints about the chimney went straight through to Hinomaru Bathhouse's front desk, the bathhouse owner pretended not to hear.

Moreover, within the tenement, not a single resident ever formally approached Hinomaru Bathhouse about cleaning the chimney. The owner of Hinomaru Bathhouse had continued from the previous generation to be the landlord of Kappa Alley and was a man who threw his weight around. Kappa Alley had earned its name from rumors that water imps once dwelled there, though it was also commonly called Free Back Alley because—as the owner of Hinomaru Bathhouse claimed—the rent was practically free. Yet no one could even manage to pay that properly, and thus they couldn’t bring themselves to complain about the chimney either.

In short, it was a poor tenement. Thus, for instance, the only son of an umbrella repair shop was hired as a newspaper delivery boy while still in elementary school and scurried through the twilight-lit town.

If he didn’t finish delivering while it was still light out, the return through Teramachi would be eerily dark and frightening. With his ten-year-old legs, one evening, he hurriedly descended the stone steps of Takatsu Shrine’s back gate while singing, “One day, two days of clear skies, but three, four, five days of rain and wind—the path so rough even a horse stumbles, falling ill on the wild roads…” and arrived in front of the blacksmith shop, “Jirō-bon! Jirō-bon!” He was called out to from behind. When he turned around, Taikichi—who had crudely stuffed a scrap of blood-stopping paper into his nostril—was pulling his empty rickshaw while grinning.

“Ta-ayan, you got into another fight, ain’tcha? If you keep picking fights like that, who knows what’ll happen?”

As he deftly tossed the evening papers into the storefronts of two neighboring blacksmith shops while saying this, “Well, ’cause they went and said such foul shit…” However—when told, “What kind of fool is this Taikichi? Sending his daughter’s husband off to Manila without learning his lesson, that place where even I couldn’t save a single sen in six years!”—the fight that had broken out after his furious “The hell?!” was something he couldn’t explain to a child. “Don’t go telling Hatsue about this.”

He said in a meek voice. “Well...” “What’re we gonna do?” “This here’s Pondering Yotsuhashi…” “Actin’ all grown-up for a kid, ain’tcha? ――But hey, you ain’t scared no more when dogs bark at ya?” “Dogs? I’m used to ’em now.”

“Oh, that’s good then. Jirō-bon, work as much as you damn well can. People, you see—if you don’t work yourself to the bone through hardship, your bones’ll go all wobbly. Take a look at guys like us. Six years ago, in Benguet…”

They arrived at Matsuya-chō-suji. “Ta-ayan, can’t you tell some other story? You only ever talk about Benguet! Shime-san’s rakugo stories are way funnier than that!” “Even if you’re unskilled, you’ve got your own way. They’re businesspeople through and through. Tough, ain’t it? Want me to give you a bean-dung-sized ride? Just a tiny bit.” “What’re you on about with your smooth talk… You don’t gotta sweet-talk me—I’ve kept my trap shut ’bout your fight, Ta-ayan.”

And then, thinking that he had to finish delivering quickly or be scolded because, as he started running off, Taikichi followed along,

“Then, how ’bout giving this old man one evening paper?”

he said without any real intention, “Even if I did give it to you, could you even read it? “Even if you guys look at a newspaper, it’s not news to you—just gibberish and hogwash, ain’t it?” “That’s brutal. “Who talks in such a poisonous way?” “Actually, see... With this evening paper... The plug in my nostril here...”

...Adjusting the plug in his nostril as he returned to Kappa Alley, he found—unusually—mail waiting for him. He saw the stamp and immediately knew it was a letter from his son-in-law in Manila, but of course he couldn’t read it. After searching for a dentist named Tatsu only to learn he’d long been dead, and now with this letter arriving after a month—what news might it hold this time?—unable to wait for his daughter’s return, he immediately set off, thinking that Shime Danji could read it.

“Shime-san? Shime-san? You there?” “You in there?” “You not home?”

He called out to his neighbor Shime Danji.

Then, a voice called out from inside the Rau Tobacco Shop, “Shime-san’s at the rakugo theater.” “Oh, right.” “By the way, auntie—weird question—how’s your readin’?” “You got good medicine or somethin’?” “See, my hemorrhoids’re the type that hurt even when they bitch.” When the Rau Tobacco Shop mistress—having misheard “readin’” as “hemorrhoids”—spoke up, “Shoutin’ that loud, no wonder they hurt!” At Asahiken Barbershop, customers caught wind of this and roared with laughter.

2

At Asahiken Barbershop, the previous year during the funeral procession memorial service, they distributed two hundred bags of Tomiedō monaka sweet bean cakes, making them quite the neighborhood talking point.

On the bags was written "Asahiken," where one would normally write "the Such-and-Such Family"—they had deliberately done this, undoubtedly for promotional purposes. The deceased had been the head of that household, and though the eldest son Keikichi was to inherit the family business—still young he was—the predecessor had served as a founding committee member of the barber training school and been commissioned as an instructor; thus when viewed after his passing, the youth of this second-generation Keikichi became glaringly apparent. Moreover, being arrogant and—while technically skilled—clumsy with customers, even his mother Ota Takashi recognized this deficiency with growing unease, which likely prompted her decision to invest in the memorial service—though part of her motivation may have stemmed from worries about her daughter Yoshie.

For some reason, she remained unmarried. The neighborhood criticism had been harsh, deeming it strange she remained unsettled at twenty-six, and her father had worried about this until drawing his final breath. Moreover, below Yoshie was Sadako, who at twenty-three was nearly the same age as Yoshie. What's more, with two such unmarried sisters-in-law in the household, it seemed unlikely any bride would come to Keikichi—making his bachelorhood at twenty-nine stand out all the more, and unlike in business matters, here his youth proved no advantage. To make matters worse, seventeen-year-old Hisae, thirteen-year-old Keijirō, and ten-year-old Mochiko still remained waiting in the wings.

While her husband had been alive, things were one matter, but now as a widow, shrinking from a constricting sense of social judgment, one could understand why Ota Takashi had gone to such lengths with that memorial service. Whether that was the reason or not, after the funeral, for some time afterward, Ota Takashi distributed seasoned rice and five-ingredient sushi to the neighborhood every day. It went without saying that the tenement residents were delighted. Surprisingly, Ota Takashi seemed to hold her head higher, and in that moment, her daughter’s age and such matters were momentarily concealed.

Yoshie, whether aware of her mother’s feelings or not, busily bustled about helping with the cooking.

She was petite, wearing sleeveless garments without any flair, furtively hunching her back with eyes that looked perpetually startled. Nor was she particularly good-looking. As previously mentioned, she had studied Chikuzen biwa and played "Ishidomaru" year-round, leading to the misunderstanding that she was captivating the hearts of customers who came for haircuts. Not long after her father’s forty-ninth-day memorial had concluded, a man in formal crested attire arrived unexpectedly—it was a marriage proposal for Yoshie.

Sensing an air of such an occasion, Ota Takashi found herself in considerable disarray. Unable to prepare herself mentally in the moment, she received him with bashfulness. Bound by her longstanding fear that losing composure would invite ridicule, she couldn't even manage an indirect show of joy.

The guest remained annoyingly composed, tediously prolonging his small talk preamble.

Thus agitated, Ota Takashi deliberately feigned an exaggeratedly calm expression and furrowed her brow. Then, somehow she managed to brace herself to hear the marriage proposal—but having steadied herself, her settled resolve turned out, unexpectedly, to be refusal.

Without even inquiring about the suitor’s status, she had made up her mind in that manner—a stubborn mother even to herself, though this wasn’t something new. ……During her father’s lifetime, there had indeed been three marriage proposals for Yoshie. The suitors had been a kimono shop manager, a public market clerk, and a gas company bill collector—each descending in status. The father, at every turn, neither agreed nor opposed—in other words, remained noncommittal, merely muttering under his breath—but Ota Takashi all but stepped forward to face the matchmaker,

“Ain’t there a difference in social standing here?”

In this manner, she always ended up angering the matchmakers, and each time, the proposals would simply fizzle out. The immediate satisfaction, however, later changed into a hollow loneliness. Therefore, to Yoshie, "If you get taken by some good-for-nothing man like that, your whole life'll be ruined, 'cause..."

She told herself this, and also made it an excuse for herself.

Other girls might be one thing, but Yoshie’s father had been the first to attend barber association meetings in Western attire and was even serving as a town council member... However, after such incidents, when she heard that the current suitor was a tatami craftsman who had completed his term of service, Ota Takashi felt she had been right to have resolved beforehand to refuse. While barbershops and tatami craftsmen might both be considered skilled trades without much difference between them, to Ota Takashi this seemed a vexing decline in social standing—which made refusing the proposal an act of clear-cut resolve.

The matchmaker left in exasperation.

Ota Takashi sank down where she sat, breathing heavily through her shoulders as she stared fixedly at one spot on the tatami. More than anger, what pierced her was the sensation of having let something crucial slip away—as if a hole had opened in her heart, separate from herself. "Why did I refuse?" Even when she turned it over in her mind, she couldn't find an answer—it was nothing but belated regret now. When it came down to it, her father had been the one who'd ill-advisedly become a town council member in the first place. Perhaps if Yoshie had been younger, she might have accepted even a tatami craftsman without hesitation. Was this nothing more than petty resentment?

Eventually growing restless, she stood up and went out to the kitchen area, where she found Yoshie peering intently under the stove. She stuffed newspaper into the flames and added firewood—the blaze roared loudly, brightly illuminating Yoshie's dark-complexioned profile. When Yoshie suddenly turned around, her eyes were red and blinking rapidly—Ota Takashi watched with a pang in her chest, knowing it wasn’t just from the smoke—but for some reason, Ota Takashi’s voice,

“Isn’t it awfully smoky in here?”

her voice came out sounding like a scold.

A considerable time passed, and someone came for Yoshie’s younger sister Sadako.

The suitor was a primary school teacher who at twenty-nine was four years older than Sadako. "A twenty-five-year-old daughter would be steady—a perfect match," the matchmaker had said, deliberately framing Sadako's age as auspicious while accounting for Ota Takashi's temperament. Faced with this approach, even Ota Takashi's stern expression softened; considering that a primary school teacher commanded respectable social standing despite meager pay, she found herself accepting the idea unreservedly. Though favoring Sadako made little difference in actual looks compared to her sister Yoshie—where Yoshie appeared stocky and sun-darkened, Sadako seemed comparatively slender and pale—with such talk circulating, her complexion now struck one as almost translucent when reappraised. Moreover, the suitor's shakuhachi hobby lent him an air of refinement that made settling on this match unavoidable—to do otherwise would have been disingenuous.

The matchmaker gave a free haircut and left.

However, just when it seemed things were settled, the moment it came to the actual meeting, Ota Takashi suddenly refused. The matchmaker was surprised but showed no anger, logically concluding that indeed there could be no method of settling the younger sister before the older one—maintaining that their connection hadn’t been severed—as befitted someone well-versed in life's hardships. Yet those words unexpectedly cut Ota Takashi deeply—and in a strange way, proved effective. In truth, Ota Takashi had no clear reason substantial enough to refuse—and even if she were to insist that she had simply grown unaccustomed to—and thus been daunted by—the ceremoniousness of her daughter’s marriage meeting, such an explanation would only make her seem absurdly girlish. The matchmaker could have pushed a little harder—Ota Takashi had more than enough pretense of relenting even a ten percent chance—but now that her sore spot had been so struck, her feelings settled back into their usual state,

“Ain’t there a difference in social standing here?”

It was a stubborn voice. Even the matchmaker took offense.

Two angry faces glared at each other for a time, and after the matchmaker had left, a clamor of noises and shouts arose in the kitchen. When a startled Ota Takashi went out to look, Yoshie and Sadako were grappling with each other. Ota Takashi suddenly realized something—her chest seized with a start—and the moment she turned pale, she abruptly flew into a rage and pushed the two apart. It was Yoshie who tumbled down onto the plaster floor. It hadn't been her intention, but when she looked at who had fallen, it was unmistakably Yoshie.

When the neighbors came rushing over at the noise as if on cue, the three abruptly fell silent.

Sadako left abruptly. Yoshie huddled anxiously while stifling her sobs, but eventually entered the sitting room and strummed the biwa. That sound reached even the shop area, and the customer, while having his head shaved, listened with occasional grunts.

The next day， Ota Takashi distributed okara mixed with shrimp to the neighborhood.

When six months had passed and a marriage proposal came for nineteen-year-old Hisae, the fact that it would again bypass Yoshie proved an obstacle. Hisae had started working at Kitahama Bank, her obi tied as taut as a drum with its obi cord neatly tightened, a vivid figure in her red kimono and geta with red straps—a daughter who stood out flamboyantly from her sisters. Moreover, she wore glasses.

The suitor was a man working at the same bank—a bank employee, no less. Such an opportunity would surely be one she’d leap at. However, if they had been working side by side all this time, the neighborhood’s gossip was also rife with speculation that there might have been some scandalous affair.

From the start, sending Hisae out to work had been something that had always made Ota Takashi uneasy. The thought of being perceived as a household that needed its daughters to work to survive was deeply painful. Therefore, were Hisae to marry a man working at the same bank, the gossip would become all the more unavoidable. This was intolerable to Ota Takashi. Yet refusing such a promising match seemed wasteful; after much agonizing, she ultimately resolved that she couldn't possibly settle Hisae's future before Yoshie had been properly married off—this became Ota Takashi's firm decision.

She waited half a year until the next marriage proposal came.

This time the proposal came to Keikichi, and since the other party was the daughter of a scroll mounting shop owner, this matter too became unresolved without Keikichi’s opinion being heard. Yet the matchmaker persevered and paid three visits.

But by the third time, “Who’d ever come marry into a house with a middle-aged spinster sister like this?” With that parting shot, she clattered away home.

When she thought about it, Ota Takashi’s chest prickled with pain, and when she counted Keikichi’s age anew, he was thirty. After turning thirty, Keikichi’s cheeks had rapidly filled out, becoming plump, and moreover—due to his trade—the freshly-shaven stubble always remained vividly bluish.

With that face, Keikichi entered from the shop area and abruptly showed it,

“What’d that customer come here for just now?” He asked in a voice younger than his years. “Wasn’t nothin’ special.” Ota Takashi played dumb, “You just gonna leave the shop empty like that?” At her scolding, Keikichi slunk back to the shop. Taking over from the apprentice, he shaved a customer’s face while peering dejectedly into the mirror at his own features—the same plump cheeks his mother had always inexplicably disapproved of—when an inexplicable gloom settled over him. Then suddenly—

“You got some good medicine for me or somethin’? See, even talkin’ ’bout my hemorrhoids makes ’em hurt somethin’ fierce.”

The voice of the pipe repair shop’s proprietress could be heard, “If you go shoutin’ that loud, no wonder it’s hurtin’!”

As the customer laughed, Keikichi too laughed behind his black celluloid mask, "You ain't wrong." Just as he paused the razor, waiting for the customer's laughter to die down, Taikichi suddenly appeared inside.

“Kei-san.” “Here to beg again?” “What d’ya want me to lend ya this time?” “Nah.” “Not about razors today.” “Need to borrow your brains.” “What a cheap favor…”

Keikichi would read lecture notes and discuss matters like the Privy Council with customers, who had long been put off by his scholarly air.

“Need ya to read this one for me.” When he handed over the letter from Manila, Keikichi skimmed it with a razor in one hand.

“No doubt it’s a letter from my son-in-law Shintarou—what’s he saying? He sayin’ Manila’s so hot you can’t stand it?”

Keikichi, however, did not answer that, “Ta-ayan, this is damn near impossible, but I can’t read this.”

he said with a startled look. “That’s mighty unlike you, Kei-san. Here, hand it over—I’ll read it myself.” The customer, still lying supine on the barber chair, took the letter from Taikichi’s hand but immediately gasped and— “I can’t read it either. “This is damn near impossible…” As he spoke, he handed it to the apprentice wearing towering wooden clogs. “—Why don’t you give it a read?”

“Okay.” And though the apprentice’s reading voice was intermittently drowned out by the sound of the Chikuzen biwa, it sank warmly into Taikichi’s chest.

It was a notification letter from the person who had rented a room to Shintarou—who had gone to Manila—stating that he had contracted endemic dysentery and died.

“What’d you say? Can’t ya read that part again? The day before yesterday’s…?” “On the day before yesterday at 2 a.m., he ultimately succumbed despite all nursing efforts.” “What’s this ‘succumbed’ nonsense?” “He’s dead.”

The apprentice was sixteen years old.

The gas lamp was lit, and the surroundings were suddenly submerged in a blue light.

In the barbershop's large mirror, his pitiful face reflected faintly and palely; when he stepped out dejectedly into the street, night came slipping swiftly down.

Taikichi walked in a daze, tottering along.

3

About half an hour had passed—somehow having picked up a passenger, Taikichi was already racing through the night streets. The Tsutenkaku's Lion Hamigaki advertisement light blinked blue, blue, then yellow, its glow appearing blurred and hazy through his vision.

The customer, wary of Taikichi’s strange bearing, “Hey old man, what’s up? You’re cryin’, ain’tcha?”

“I’m cryin’.” “What?”

The customer had been startled more by the manner of his reply. "What a cursed rickshaw I've ended up taking. I'm supposed to be headin' to a rakugo show now, and this is just mad! What's gotten into you?" "Huh. My son-in-law—see—he up and died on me over in Manila." "Manila...? Manila? Never heard'a that place—what prefecture's that in?" "Don't talk such nonsense."

While shedding fat tears, he explained that Manila was the capital of the Philippines. “I see… But what a far-off place he went to.” “He was a marathon runner, but…” “Really? But that’s just awful…” “So… anything else?” “And that daughter of yours—the children…?” When asked whether there were any, tears plopped out again. “Well, you know how it is...” “Well, ya know how it is… There ain’t any.” “Was it a boy?”

“But you see, it ain’t even been born yet…”

When he dropped off the passenger in front of the Shinsekai vaudeville theater, Taikichi didn’t turn back right away but instead called out to his daughter Hatsue, who was working at the neighboring theater. “Did you need something, Father?”

The Hatsue who came out had a figure that made her pregnancy immediately apparent at a glance.

Taikichi hurriedly averted his eyes,

“Yeah. Just…” He started to say, but then trailed off, “I was just thinkin’ maybe I’d go listen to Shime-san’s rakugo for a bit…” He had stopped by, he said on impulse—uttering words he didn’t truly mean—and, “How unusual. You actually wanted to listen to such lousy rakugo? In that case, since you’ve got someone watching your rickshaw, you’d better hurry up and go listen then.”

“Nah, I’ll just drop it. Rather’n that, got somethin’ I gotta talk t’you about.”

And then, after exiting the vaudeville theater and starting to walk while pulling the empty rickshaw, Hatsue—

“If you’ve got something to say, wouldn’t it be better to say it right here? How weird.” As she said this, she swiftly wrapped her apron around her belly and followed along. When they passed through the bright Shinsekai street cluttered with painted billboards of activity halls, the path suddenly plunged into darkness, revealing Tennoji Park. The scent of trees shimmered in the darkness, and the pale gaslight drenched the lawn. The museum building rose slightly elevated and darkly towering, its appearance reminiscent of foreign scenery, and Taikichi thought of his son-in-law Shintarou.

A man wearing a white running shirt was practicing riding a bicycle, bathed in the dim electric light of the grounds. It appeared to writhe like a shadow puppet through gaps between leaves. From the zoo came the roars of wild beasts. It seemed an amateur jōruri performance was underway on Radium Hot Springs' second floor, where the faint strains of Ta's shamisen could be heard. A boy who looked like an apprentice was playing a harmonica. "Drifting oh drifting, where we'll end up ah—north to Siberia, south to Java..."

That song carried a vague melancholy even to the ears of Taikichi, now nearing fifty.

They sat down side by side on the bench.

“Father, why’d you have to bring me to a place like this? You’re such a strange one, Father. If you’ve got something to say, then hurry up and say it already!” When Hatsue spoke with some anxiety, Taikichi turned his face away. “If you go showin’ tears out in the open… Folks’ll laugh at you—that’s just embarrassin’, ain’t it?”

Hatsue jolted. "So, is there somethin' that'd make you have to cry?" ............

Taikichi remained silent and handed over the letter from Manila.

Hatsue stood up and read it illuminated by the gaslight. The instant she did, Hatsue grew lightheaded; when she regained awareness, she found herself already on Taikichi's rickshaw, her lower abdomen abruptly gripped by stabbing pains. Taikichi recognized she'd gone into labor. He hurried back to the alley, borrowed assistance from the pipe repair shop's mistress to settle Hatsue down, then raced off himself to retrieve the midwife. Though premature, the child lived—but in exchange, Hatsue was claimed.

“What a cursed twist of fate this is! Two death notices and one birth notice have overlapped, haven’t they?”

Keikichi of Asahiken flaunted his legal knowledge and stood alone in his vociferousness, yet all others remained hushed—even the wife from the pipe repair shop restrained her voice upon seeing this. Even Shime Danji, who was indispensable at the tenement meetings,

“You—this ain’t some ordinary night we’re havin’, so don’t go spoutin’ your usual funny business.” Having been firmly reprimanded, Shime Danji had been making a sour face, but finding it too painful to remain silent after all, he approached Taikichi—who was muttering to himself in a listless posture facing the wall— “Ta-ayan, this is one hell of a mess—like Obon and New Year’s crashin’ together all at once…” When he carelessly started to say,

“Shime-san—don’t spout such idiotic nonsense!”

Keikichi’s voice came. At this, even Shime Danji shrank back, but after a while opened his mouth again: "But Ta-ayan—for folks like us knowin' when to quit's what keeps us human." "You're one hell of an unlucky man—but you can't just roll over." "Quit makin' that face like you're steppin' on tofu mid-dream—try showin' some spirit!" "If you end up bedridden too—what'll become of us then?"

At those words, Taikichi— “What nonsense you spoutin’, you damn fool! If I took to bed, what’d become of my granddaughter? The Benguet Ta-ayan won’t die even if you beat him dead!”

He glared around fiercely with his eyes, but then his voice immediately turned somber,

“But—I know I’m the one sayin’ it, Shime-san—but it’s like I’m the one who killed Shintarou and Hatsue.”

he said. On a night about ten days later, someone came from Sasahara—the neighborhood’s wealthy man—to summon Taikichi, saying there was something they needed to discuss. Having tied together two black military sashes and used them to carry his granddaughter Kimie on his back, when he arrived at Sasahara’s—a liquor store—the moment he entered, a rich aroma wafted over him. Taikichi, who had sworn off alcohol after that final drink on the day of his purification vow at Ikoma, recalled the taste of sake until his very body seemed to grow numb. “I’m terribly sorry to call you out so late at night, but what I need to discuss… well, it’s actually about your granddaughter…”

After offering perfunctory condolences, Sasahara broached the subject. “Now this might come outta nowhere and sound mighty strange, but… you got any plans yet for where you’ll be sendin’ that child off to?” “No, ain’t nothin’ like that.”

“Oh, I see. Then this’ll make things easier. Let’s cut to the chase—Ta-ayan, how about handin’ over that child to us?”

“The hell you say?” “You think I’d lie? As you well know, we’ve got no children of our own—and I’m the same way—but when it comes to my wife, she’s so desperate to hold someone else’s child that even though we’ve got a bath at home, she’ll traipse off to the public bathhouse just to be around ’em. We’ve had our minds set on adoptin’ for ages now. It’s not like there aren’t other prospects out there—but more’n that, see, I figured takin’ in your granddaughter here, whose nature I’ve come to know proper-like, would be better. And besides, since that child’s got no parents left, takin’ her in wouldn’t be a sin—might even be a good thing.”

“……………”

Bowed under the weight of the granddaughter he carried on his back, Taikichi peered hurriedly into the depths of his heart. The lonely back-alley life of a grandfather and his granddaughter—compared to being taken in by such a wealthy household where she could live sheltered under a nursemaid’s care—he had never wished for his granddaughter’s happiness, yet he could not help imagining how much happier she might be. But when he thought of how this child carried within her the lives of Shintarou and Hatsue, he found himself utterly unable to let her go, floundering in indecision until—

“It’s not my place to say this, but I’ve had my fill of gratitude.” “And once you’ve drunk your fill of that sake you love so much—”

said Sasaharａ.

The instant Sasahara said this, Taikichi’s resolve hardened. “Master, this may sound terribly eccentric of me to say, but I’ve no mind to trade my granddaughter for liquor. She’s a granddaughter so dear I could hold her in my eye without pain, but trading her for liquor would scorch my tongue.” “If you’re gonna put it that way, there’s no discussin’ it—well then, if you’re sayin’ you don’t want me involved, fine by me. But Ta-ayan—you might be fine with that, but why don’t you at least think about the child’s situation? Is growing up in Kappa Alley really better for her, or…”

The remark had struck a nerve, but Taikichi abruptly— “I’m well aware of that. “I know that full well.” With that, he raised his face, “But Master—even if we’re poor, even if she grows up in some alley like a den of raccoon dogs or kappa—being raised by her own blood’s still best for this child’s happiness.” “No, I’ll surely make her happy.”

Having said that much, Taikichi wept like a man.

Eventually, wiping his tears over and over, “Well now, just listen up. “This child’s father too—all because I forced my way through and made him go to Manila—ended up dropping dead. “This child’s mother too, tormented by that, in the end… “To put it that way, everything’s my responsibility. “I’ve already given my life over to this granddaughter.” As he spoke, his resolve truly came trembling into his knees, and when he sharply raised his gleaming eyes, Sasahara’s wife, who had been sitting beside him,

“I can’t say your words are unreasonable—but can you truly raise her all on your own as a man? You—do you produce milk?” “It won’t come out—no matter how much she sucks at my chest, that’s impossible. That’s like trying to fill a child’s belly with your own stomach—it won’t work, that’s all.” “There, you see?” “But Madam, this business of milk…” As soon as he said this, Sasahara—

“Children raised on milk grow up weak.”

he said abruptly,

“That’s right—that’s all…” Sasahara’s wife revealed a cruel twist to her lips,

“Ta-ayan—if I were to take that child, I’d have a wet nurse hired for her, you know. And besides, Ta-ayan—are you really planning to haul that kid on your back while pulling a rickshaw?” “Well then, I’ll take my leave here. You’ve been quite the particular one.” When Taikichi bowed his head, Kimie’s head on his back dangled limply in midair before sinking down.

4

Before long, Taikichi sent Kimie out as a foster child to a farming household in Minami-Kawachi Sayama and, right then, ran thirty ri a day gripping the handlebar of his rickshaw.

The foster care fee—exploiting his vulnerable position—was the exorbitant sum of twenty yen per month. Moreover, the debt that his son-in-law Shintarou had left behind in Osaka still remained unsettled. Taikichi’s rickshaw ran faster than any other driver’s, startling his passengers, “Hey old man, if you run that fast, my eyes’ll go dizzy.” “Could you slow down just a bit now?”

Even when they pleaded,

“I’ve got to earn double or triple what others make with this body of mine—can’t afford to go slow.” Letting the ferocity in his eyes speak as he turned and told them to endure it, Taikichi refused to listen. Around that time, cruise ships began plying Osaka’s main rivers.

The cruise ships moved at speeds no rickshaw could match, charged lower fares, and even offered prizes with tickets at times. Naturally, the rickshaw pullers suffered losses. They planted red flags on their rickshaws, stationed themselves at the cruise ship docks, and tried to drag away passengers with belligerent force—when that failed, they resorted to hurling stones at the ships. But Taikichi refused to join their ranks, nor did he attempt to promote himself as “Benguet’s Taikichi.” Admittedly, when competing with his fellow pullers for customers, he acted with such brazen shamelessness that he truly lived up to his moniker “Benguet’s Ta-ayan,” yet despite this—having vowed abstinence at Ikoma Shrine—he never touched a drop of alcohol, and whenever lending twenty or thirty sen to his peers, he invariably demanded interest.

There were times when he would sell evening newspapers received from Jiro-bon to customers for one sen, and snarl over five rin.

One summer, a sumo wrestling tour came through town. The yokozuna and all the wrestlers decided to make their greeting rounds by rickshaw, but the yokozuna alone proved too large to fit even in a shared rickshaw. Having deemed it undignified to make the rounds without one, they finally looped a thick rope around the yokozuna’s waist, had two rickshaws pull it, and as the yokozuna himself lumbered along with heaving efforts to maintain appearances, he astonished all of Osaka. The newspapers ran photos so extraordinary they might’ve made dogs bark, but those pulling this rickshaw were Taikichi and his partner Zōzō. True to his status as yokozuna, the wrestler’s gratuity proved exceptionally generous. “How ’bout we hit Takoume or Shōben Tango for drinks with this?” Zōzō proposed, but Taikichi refused,

“Rather than that, give me back the money I lent you the other day.” “The interest is eighteen sen—What?! Eighteen sen is too high?” “Go on, say that again!” At such times, Taikichi’s eyes would glint with an unusual sharpness, and his slightly soiled linen jacket—the sort worn by those returned from Manila—seemed all the more intimidating for remaining on his body.

However, about half a month later, on a certain night—

After delivering a courtesan to the Goryō Literary Theater and on his way back, he bought a toy for his granddaughter at the Hirano-machi night market, then followed along Yokobori until he came to the foot of a bridge—probably Sujikai Bridge or another slanting over Yokobori River.

“Taikichi!” Abruptly called by name, he found himself surrounded by five or six rickshaw pullers. “What’s your business?”

In that instant, he reflexively reverted to “Benguet’s Ta-ayan” and assumed a defensive stance— “You’ve got some nerve messing with another’s turf!”

A fist struck, and his field of vision burned crimson.

“The hell?!” With that, he first flung off his jacket and shirt with a flourish, revealing his back, “Come on, bring it!” Had the toy he was gripping not caught his eye as he raised his fist, Taikichi would have thrashed about until his leg snapped right then and there— *If I get hurt here now... Kimie...* Taikichi merely lost consciousness. Eventually—after who could say how long—he awoke from dreaming of Benguet’s bamboo-slat beds to find himself back on the same bridge, being shaken awake as though he’d overdone it with awamori.

And so five years passed.

Before long, because she was starting elementary school, he brought Kimie back to Kappa Lane on his rickshaw—she had grown gaunt and sallow-faced, with a runny nose and sleeves stiffened into rigid tubes, a gloomy child through and through. That she had no parents seemed to weigh on even her childish heart—whether this explained her listlessness or not—and finding her pitiful, he grilled salmon for her to eat. “What kinda dish’s this here?” she asked in her countrified dialect.

“It’s a fish called salmon.” “What kinda thing’s a fish?” “Ah, then...” Wondering if they hadn’t let her eat fish back in the village, Taikichi’s eyes welled up.

“They snatched up every damn thing worth taking, but let this child suffer through this?”

And as he glared around the area, even his eyes lacked their usual ferocity. Kimie thrust her face into the bowl again and again, gobbling down the food, while Taikichi teared up, “Truly, I’m makin’ you suffer too.” “Forgive me.” “But y’see, you don’t realize how much better it is sharin’ meals with Grandpa here than gettin’ taken in by strangers.” “Right?” “That’s what you think too, eh?”

Even as he said this, whether she had truly taken it to heart or not, she kept picking up rice grains from her lap and nibbling at them.

On the day of the entrance ceremony, Taikichi accompanied her there.

Deeply impressed by the principal’s address, Taikichi grabbed the old lantern shop owner beside him, “It really is the principal. He sure says great things. Humans—no matter what you say—it’s all about learning.”

He kept whispering this incessantly, but when the roll call of new students began, Taikichi adjusted his collar and tensed up. “Aoki Michiko” “Here.” “Inabe Torakichi” “Here.” “Udagawa Matsu” “Here.” “Echi Tora”

“Here.”

The names had been read out in aiueo order, and all the children responded clearly. They reached the 'Sa' section. “Sasahara Yukio” “Here.”

Sasahara Yukio was the adopted son the Sasaharas had taken in Kimie’s place. Sasahara in the guests’ seats flushed slightly, but since the child had answered properly, he kept nodding as if it wasn’t entirely disgraceful after all.

"Sadoshima Kimie"

“......”

Kimie was looking elsewhere. “Miss Sadoshima Kimie.” Taikichi poked Kimie’s neck, “Ain’t ya gonna answer?!”

He whispered, but Kimie was listlessly biting her nails. “Is Miss Sadoshima Kimie not present? Miss Sadoshima Kimie!”

Taikichi couldn’t bear it any longer,

“She’s right here, y’hear! She’s here!” he roared, throwing both hands up in the air.

Because the voice was so shrill, a roar of laughter erupted, and in that instant some startled children began to cry. Even Taikichi flushed crimson; while all the other children were so capable, what would become of this girl growing up like this?—his shoulders slumped as the strength drained from them.

5

On the day of the entrance ceremony, since her grandfather had accompanied her, Kimie managed to avoid being bullied by anyone, but from the very next day onward, she was called a parentless child and came home crying. However, Taikichi was out pulling his rickshaw and not home, so during his absence—so she could eat alone as intended—she took the cloth off the meal tray he had set out that morning, and in the empty house, furtively ate by herself dejectedly, went to the communal water tap to drink, pressing her tongue to the spout while glancing up to see that on the alley's main street,

“Little monk in the middle there, Why’re you so short? Ate fish on your parents’ memorial eve That’s why you’re so short!” Then spinning around and crouching low, “Who’s behiiind you now?”

The girls were playing.

Kimie scurried over,

“I’m Ta-ayan’s Kimie. Let me join.” “Let me join! (Meaning: Let me be part of the group!)”

She pleaded and was allowed to join the group, but unaccustomed to the girls' names, she couldn't guess who stood behind her, “You’re such a gloomy kid.”

They wouldn’t play with her anymore. “We ain’t lettin’ you through! We ain’t lettin’ you through! Off to the alley liquor store for vinegar, Going there’s fine, fine, Coming back’s a fright, This is Hell’s Third Block”

While listening to the children’s song at her back, she slunk back into the alley, where Shime Danji, taking pity on her, would let her listen to a rakugo story. However, Kimie did not laugh. “Ain’t my rakugo amusin’ ya?” Shime Danji was disappointed,

“Listen up. This rakugo tale’s called *The Illiterate Palanquin Bearer*, y’see. It’s about uneducated folks like me an’ Ta-ayan here—we get these advertisin’ flyers but can’t read a lick, so we’re stuck passin’ ’em around beggin’, ‘You try readin’ this next!’ Real funny stuff, I tell ya.” “Alright, let’s get on with the rest! Laugh it up!”

And he wrenched out a hoarse voice.— “C’mon, you read it now!” “Um, it’s a real stupid thing to say, but on account of my old man’s dyin’ wish, I’ve been refusin’ flyers, see...” “Good grief, you’re refusin’ such a strange thing again?” “It can’t be helped.” “Pass it on to the next one, I tell ya!” “Huh.” “Now it’s your turn—you can read a simple flyer, can’t ya? “Read it, I tell ya!” “The fact that this flyer ended up in my hands—I’ve been thinkin’ about it since last autumn.” “My dead grandma, when her illness from last autumn took a turn for the worse, called me to her bedside—‘Son, you’re enterin’ your unlucky year next year.’” “All because I didn’t follow her advice—‘If you wanna escape this unlucky year, you’d better devote yourself properly!’—now here I am stuck in this disaster outta nowhere!”

“Hey, that guy’s crying and refusing.” “You take over, I tell ya!”

“Alright! — Readin’ it’s alright, yeah?” “Yeah—how’d they write it? Readin’ it’s fine.” “It’s written here alright. Hmm... Ah, I see—it’s written here alright.”

“I know damn well it’s written here! How’s it written then—the hell are you askin’ me for?”

“How th'hell it's written don't matter now—too late for that.” “This ain't th'time fer jawin' 'bout such—this here flyer's…” “Hey! That fella's fishy too—enough already! Pass it t'next one!”

Shime Danji performed with sweat streaming down his swarthy face, but Kimie remained sullen and did not laugh. "You're a right troublesome child." "Not even a chuckle?" "Where's my dad an' mom at?" "Well then, guess I'll have to switch to heart-tuggin' tales instead." Shime Danji emitted a drained voice.

When evening fell and Shime Danji left for the vaudeville hall, Kimie trudged down Genshojizaka Slope and forlornly appeared at Taikichi's waiting spot.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you playin’ at home?”

“…………” “Ain’t nobody playin’ with ya?”

Without responding to that either, keeping her hands tucked under her arms and glaring at Taikichi, she remained silent as lead. "You shouldn’t be putting your hands there." Then she extended her hand and bit her nails. "Don’t do dirty things. Idiot!" When he barked, she kicked off her geta, hurled them at the ground, and—without shedding a single tear—fixed Taikichi with a white-eyed glare. Disappointed and thinking it futile to explain to a child like you, Taikichi began his first scolding,

“You’re different from other kids—since you got no parents, you gotta be extra…” “…gotta be well-mannered and obedient—waitin’ at home’s gotta be lonely, but if you just cling to me and somethin’ happens—if I die—what’ll you do then? Gotta be a strong kid who don’t get lonely alone. Just one more fare and I’m headin’ back, so ‘Go home and wait…’” But no matter how he tried to appease her, Kimie wouldn’t budge.

But try as he might to appease her, Kimie simply wouldn’t comply.

Taikichi was half-crying, “Then, will you follow behind Grandpa?” “Can ya manage even if it’s rough?” “You won’t cry saying it’s too hard running behind the rickshaw?” And when Taikichi picked up a passenger and began to run, Kimie toddled along after him. Taikichi would look back, stop under the pretense of checking the lantern flame, and wait for Kimie to catch up. The passenger, sympathizing, suggested letting her ride in the corner, but Taikichi refused—no, having her follow like this was better for the child’s sake, the logic being that if she endured hardships as a child, it might prove useful later… Yet Taikichi couldn’t articulate it well.

Even if he could have explained—that half his motivation came from pity, that he made her run alongside out of guilt for leaving her lonely, no—that he felt her father who had died in Manila now ran alongside her too—whether any of this would have reached the passenger—on the way home after seating Kimie in the now-empty rickshaw, Taikichi rambled on as he explained these sentiments to her, but when he suddenly turned around, Kimie lay snoring atop the carriage.

“Once loaded onto the ship, How far will it go? Beneath Kizu and Naniwa’s bridges…………” Taikichi sang a lullaby as he pulled his rickshaw along the edge of narrow alleys—at the water station, a dim bare bulb burned, droplets plip-plopping—then abruptly the night deepened as if nearing the hour when night-market vendors would return hunched over in their usual silent trudge, the figure of Shime Danji, a lifelong bachelor, furtively eating his late-night meal cast on the shoji screen.

At school, Kimie performed poorly and spent all her time in the classroom looking elsewhere. “Miss Sadoshima!” “If you want to look outside that much, go stand outside!”

Made to stand outside the window, when she abruptly raised her face—which had been properly bowed in feigned obedience—the teacher had his back turned as he wrote characters on the blackboard. When the teacher, having finished writing and feeling sorry for her, looked out the window to let her back into the classroom, Kimie was already gone. The startled teacher rushed out of the classroom and searched everywhere, only to find Kimie dozing forlornly against a pillar in the corner of the auditorium.

On the wall—when had they been drawn?—were faces of a woman with a round chignon and a man in a silk hat, sketched in brown colored pencil; each,

“Kimie-chan’s Mom” “Kimie-chan’s Dad”

were labeled in downward-sloping script.

Before long came the promotion ceremony. Pulling his empty rickshaw past the school gate, Taikichi spotted Kimie emerging with an armful of prizes. "You got a prize? Good job—is this for not skipping? Or for studyin' hard?" Given how she fought going to school every morning—needing piggyback rides from the old amazake vendor who kept her year-round stall before Chōganji Temple’s gate—there was no way she’d earned a perfect attendance award. Figuring it must be for academic merit instead, his stern expression softened as he drew near—

“That’s not it.”

Kimie muttered flatly—she had actually been entrusted with bringing home the prizes for the bedridden daughter of the neighborhood secondhand clothes dealer.

The secondhand clothes dealer’s daughter had attended only one term before dropping out and had been lying in bed ever since in the dim back room—though her father was a community leader who also served on the school board.

That night, Taikichi harshly scolded Kimie.

“What a pathetic brat you are. “What’m I supposed to say to this?” “You’re so damn rotten!” “Where in the world does such a fool exist—happily bringing home some other kid’s prize without even becoming an honor student herself?” “You damn fool!” “Don’t ya have even a shred of shame?” “From next year, you’re gonna be an honor student, I tell ya!” “What’s that?” “You’re not gonna be an honor student?” “Can’t ya become one?” “Which is it?” “Ain’t ya gonna answer?”

“I ain’t cut out to be no honor student or nothin’.” “How ’bout buyin’ me air sandals instead?” “All the other kids are wearin’ air sandals.” “You damn fool!” “What kinda pathetic kid are you!” “C’mere.” “I’ll give ya a moxa treatment!” Grabbing her and forcibly stripping her naked, as he lit the incense stick, Kimie burst into tears. “Lemme go.” “Lemme go.”

At the sound of her voice, Shime Danji lumbered in,

“Ta-ayan, what’re you makin’ the kid cry for, huh?” “I was about to give ya a moxa treatment when you started bawlin’.” “Of course she would! Where in the world you gonna find a kid who wouldn’t cry gettin’ moxa burned on ’em, huh? Even a grown man like me would tear up from that! And anyway, where’s the fool who’d go applying moxa when there’s no call for it, huh?” “Then what am I supposed to apply instead, huh?” “Duh!” Shime Danji paused for a moment, “—You fool! You’re tormenting her! First off, you’ve got this awful habit of treating people’s backs like they’re nothing—it ain’t right. If you were a man, having marks on your back wouldn’t matter one bit— But if you go putting moxa scars on a girl’s back, who knows how she’ll resent you when she’s older? What a troublesome man you are!”

“Even if you say that—you, listen here—Sasahara’s kid and the secondhand dealer’s child have both become honor students, but this one hasn’t brought home a single prize. Where in the world does such a good-for-nothing exist?” “If everyone went getting prizes like that, first off, it’d throw the school’s accounts into chaos. First off—you can’t even read or write a single damn thing yourself, Grandpa—and here you are getting mad that your granddaughter can’t study worth a lick? What kinda fool does that?! Hey, Kimie-chan—Ta-ayan here hasn’t taught you a single character, right?”

When Shime Danji said this, Kimie began crying with a voice burning crimson.

“Cry. Go on and cry.” “Kimie-chan, you’ll stay over at the old man’s place tonight.” “If you sleep at this ogre grandpa’s place, you’ll be in for a hell of a time.” “C’mon, let’s go, let’s go.”

Taikichi had no energy left to try to stop Shime Danji from taking Kimie away like that.

Was it really a mistake to have sent her off to foster care or raised her alone all this time? As he sat there utterly drained, he suddenly realized he was still clutching the lit incense stick.

Taikichi took it to the homemade Buddhist altar. There lay Shintarou's mortuary tablet.

When he lit the ritual lamp and stared fixedly at it, the desire seeped through him—to send Kimie away somewhere, go to Manila, and visit Shintarou’s grave just as things stood. From next door came Shime Danji of the Hokke sect,

“Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō! Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō!” came the sound of him chanting in the cadence of winter ascetic practice.

*Thump-thump, thump-thump, Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō, thump-thump, thump-thump* The one imitating the drum sounds was Kimie.

The one imitating the drum was Kimie. Ah—had her mood already improved? Taikichi instinctively looked toward the wall, but when he tried to furtively slip into the futon, the sudden loneliness of his granddaughter’s absence welled up within him—and the realization that this was the same desolate feeling with which he’d always slept through Benguet nights settled quietly in his chest.

However, after sleeping for who knows how long, when he suddenly opened his eyes, Kimie—who was supposed to be sleeping at Shime Danji’s place—was stealthily burrowing her way over to his side.

Taikichi lit a quiet relief in his heart. “Kimie, ya came back?” “Oh.” “See? Gramps’ place’s better after all, eh?” “Shime-san’s snorin’ makes it stuffy, don’t it? C’mon in—get right under here.” He pulled the futon over Kimie’s head. “—Which spot d’ya like best?” “Shime-san’s place or yer old gramps’?” “I like Granny’s place in Sayama best.”

“Ah!” Even if she was just a foster child, was it still better for her to sleep beside a woman? Taikichi remained speechless for some time, but eventually: “Even so…you still like Grandpa’s place too, right?” “You won’t do the moxa, will you?” “I won’t, I won’t.” “Then I like it here.” “Oh, you like it?” Holding Kimie still with a tenderness so profound it made him lightheaded, breathing in the warm scent of her hair—Shime Danji—

“Ta-ayan, this is bad! “Kimie-chan’s gone missing in the middle of the night!”

Wondering if she had run away from home, he came rushing over in his nightclothes, his face twisted in panic.

“Shime-san, what’re you playin’ dumb for?”

While deliberately hiding Kimie under the futon as he spoke, Shime Danji finally noticed, “What—she was here all along?” “Oh! You gave me a fright.” “What a mischievous child she is, honestly!” “She says she can’t stand it because you snore.” “Grandpa’s place is better, Kimie.” “That’s downright cruel—” As he said this and stepped outside, the sound of water sloshing as they drained the bath and scrubbed the floors at Hinomaru Bathhouse reached his ears, and Kappa Alley had fallen completely still.

Was the old woman from the amazake shop’s chicken deranged? Though dawn hadn’t yet broken, it suddenly let out a shrill, madcap crow. As he listened to that sound and tried to burrow back into his original futon, his feet grew cold.

When he looked, there were traces of bed-wetting.

"Ah, so that's why she ran back home," Shime Danji suddenly recalled Taikichi's delighted face.

6

Late one night, the benshi from the moving picture theater lodging in the home of a folding box craftsman came in smirking and said in a gravelly voice:

“Ta-ayan, didn’t you give a ride to some fifty-year-old granny carrying a shamisen in Shinsekai the other day?”

“What’s this – talkin’ like some detective? Creepy as hell. Gyokudō-san, don’t go gettin’ all high-and-mighty just ’cause ya wear glasses!” “Hahaha…” Pushing up his thick celluloid glasses with his left hand, Tachibana Gyokudō let out a samurai-like laugh, “What do you mean I’m a detective? Today, I’m the matchmaker.” “Matchmaker…? That’s way off base—my granddaughter’s only ten! If you’re so set on matchmakin’, go pester the barber’s wife!”

“You hearin’ this? If word gets out, the old lady at Asahiken’ll be clutchin’ her head again.”

Gyokudō, born in Hiroshima, said in his clumsy Osaka dialect and flushed slightly. Recently, O-taka of Asahiken had been bedridden for three days due to headaches. The Miyake Pharmacy across from Hinomaru Bathhouse had already passed to Gisuke's generation, but when Gisuke's wife died leaving three children behind, O-taka immediately rushed over and assisted with every aspect of the funeral arrangements to a comical degree. Even when offering condolences, she bustled about with peculiar eagerness.

After that, she began making various excuses about being ill to go have medicine prepared for her. Gisuke grew a mustache and, like Keikichi, served as an officer of the neighborhood association. Moreover, considering that he was forty-two—the same age as Keikichi—and three years apart from Yoshie, which made them well-matched in that regard, O-taka thought; and she secretly observed Yoshie’s small frame, wondering how she would fare if suddenly made a mother to three children. For some time, O-taka had forbidden Keikichi—who was fond of shogi—from neglecting his business by putting out a bench in front of the shop, but when summer arrived, she herself brought out the bench. Gisuke was fond of shogi. Keikichi was a rural first dan, but having been persuaded by O-taka, he would lose to Gisuke once out of every three matches.

By now, people no longer doubted that Yoshie would become Gisuke’s second wife—but when autumn came, a bride arrived at Gisuke’s home from Ōmi Province. Despite her flat, unattractive face slathered thick with white powder, she was said to have graduated from a practical girls' school.

When the time came for the bride's automobile to arrive, Yoshie trailed along with Sadaye and Hisae to see it. As the automobile stopped before the pharmacy, Yoshie's eyes flew open in astonishment, their blue growing even clearer. Though dark-complexioned, her fine-pored skin flushed crimson from excitement, giving her a scrubbed-clean appearance. Upon their return, O-taka said, "There was no need to go see such useless things. "What an idiot."

She seemed to suddenly grow heated and burrowed into the futon. However, within barely an hour, O-taka got up, took celebratory sake and dishes to the pharmacy, and busied herself with all the little tasks of assisting in the pharmacy's kitchen with the wedding preparations until late into the night.

And then starting the next day, she complained of a headache and stayed in bed for three days. When O-taka saw "Miyake Pharmacy" printed on the medicine bag that a concerned Yoshie had bought for her, she wept for no reason and scolded Yoshie...

Tamado had brought up that matter, but he blushed because lately he’d been frequenting the back room of Asahiken without any real business there. When Tamado visited, Yoshie would grow flustered and bring tea. Tamado was thirty-two; Asahiken’s youngest daughter was twenty. Whenever she saw his face, she’d jerk up her chin and walk away, leaving him feeling slightly lonesome... Recalling this, Tamado flushed red but immediately reverted to his usual smirking face.

“So did you give ’er a ride or not? Which is it?” he said. “What’re ya gonna do askin’ that for?” As they argued, Kimie—who’d been curled up inside the kotatsu—suddenly sat upright,

“If you mean the woman carrying a shamisen, she did ride, she did!” said Kimie. “Hmm, did I now? You remember that clear as day, huh?”

As Taikichi spoke, Kimie— “Well, I remember. “She said I looked pitiful running along behind, so she gave me some acorn (candy).” It was an uncharacteristically clear and lively voice.

“So it was true after all.”

Tamado nodded exaggeratedly, “Actually, Ta-ayan—that old woman is the one who plays shamisen accompaniment at the hall where I work.” “What’s that got to do with anything? Did she leave somethin’ in the rickshaw or what? Couldn’t find nothin’ like that.” “Well now, just listen.”

She was a woman living alone on the second floor of a geta strap shop at Mikuraato Site—no husband, children, or relatives to speak of… “Even though she hardly ever rides rickshaws, the fact she happened to take yours must’ve been fate…” Seeing Kimie toddling behind Taikichi’s rickshaw, she was moved to theatrical tears—her only daughter, who’d been lost in the Matsushima Great Fire years ago, would’ve been about that age. Kimie looked so dear she nearly wanted to steal the girl away. After brooding all night, she came to the shack the next day, grabbed anyone nearby, and rambled about the odd rickshaw man and his granddaughter. When Tamado heard this and said, “Ah, I know that fellow—he’s in my alley,” she pressed him about Taikichi. Learning grandfather and granddaughter lived lonely lives, she flushed crimson and murmured, “I’m alone too…” Then she pleaded: Ask if he’d take me as his second wife. I’ve some savings. I could return to the shack or teach shamisen nearby—wouldn’t burden his household. “Tamado-san,” she begged…

“...At my age, it’s rather unbecoming to have been asked to play matchmaker, but what do you say, Ta-ayan? Her pitying Kimie-chan’s circumstances and saying she wants to weather life’s hardships with you—isn’t that admirable? Though mind you, since you’ve got that bitter streak about you—the woman’s got quite discerning taste.”

When Tamado said this, Taikichi puffed out his cheeks. “Acting all unbecoming for my age—that’s me you’re talkin’ about. Dumb thing to say, teasin’ an old man like that. I’m fifty-four already, y’know.” “However, she’s fifty-one herself—I don’t think you need to be so embarrassed about it.”

With those words, Tamado left, saying he’d come again tomorrow and that you should think it over until then.

The old woman’s name was Otora.

Taikichi was left dumbfounded. Rather than feeling angry, he was embarrassed. There was also the feeling of having been teased, and he had no desire to try recalling what the old woman even looked like. “Is that lady from before coming to our house?”

While peering out from behind the futon to check the kotatsu's fire, Kimie murmured. "Don't go gettin' all grown-up on me—just go to sleep." As he placed Kimie's small feet on top of the kotatsu, Taikichi suddenly thought—if that old woman truly came out of affection for Kimie, how much happier would this child be.

Then he grew strangely restless. Taikichi imagined how things would be when that old woman came.

In the morning, the old woman would wake while it was still dark and prepare meals. When smoke from the stove began filling the room, Taikichi would crawl out from inside the kotatsu. After lighting the lamp at the Buddhist altar, waking Kimie, washing their faces together at the communal water area, and returning home, breakfast would already be prepared. After finishing their meal, she would have Kimie prepare for today's lessons. (The old woman might be able to read a little.) Once that was done, Kimie would be taken to school by the old woman. (Up until now, the old woman from the amasake shop had been taking her, but she was now bent with age and would sometimes find it a bother.) During that time, Taikichi would tend to his rickshaw. In the alley, the morning hustle began.

After dealing with that for a while, Taikichi hitched up his rickshaw and headed out. As he passed by the elementary school, the children’s singing reached his ears. He stopped briefly, straining to pick out Kimie’s voice among them as he listened intently. Then he made his way to the rickshaw stand. During Taikichi’s absence, the old woman would tidy up around the house, do the laundry, and mend tears in Kimie’s kimono. When Kimie returned from school, the old woman would play with her. She took her to the public bathhouse too. She oversaw her studies as well. At night, she lay down beside her. Even after Kimie fell asleep, the old woman stayed awake. She waited for Taikichi to come home. When Taikichi returned, they ate supper together while watching Kimie’s sleeping face. Sometimes she invited Shime Danji from next door and treated him to a meal. When supper ended, they offered the bedtime lamp to the Buddhist altar...

Taikichi’s imagination stretched out like a long-necked yokai’s neck, growing longer and longer—but when it collided with the matter of the Buddhist altar, his chest tightened with a jolt.

"This wasn't something I could decide on my own. Hey—no need to go consultin' you lot!" He glared at the mortuary tablets.

Taikichi sat before the Buddhist altar. Of the three mortuary tablets—Otsuru, Hatsue, and Shintarou—somehow Shintarou's stood out most starkly. Imagining how Shintarou must have felt dying so lonely in Manila made his chest ache. The memory surfaced of when he'd struck Shintarou's face at the temple atop Genshōji Slope. "Well then, if you're tellin' me to go that much, I'll go to Manila."

The words of Shintarou, who had meekly obeyed, suddenly echoed deep in his ears. The bond between parent and child pierced his skin with sudden intensity.

Then, Taikichi decided he didn’t want to let a single other person into this house. Otsuru and Hatsue must be wishing for that too, he thought. These three lived on within Kimie—that thought came to him anew.

“Only by living just the two of us—Kimie and me—with no one else needed does causing Shintarou’s death in Manila truly have purpose.”

Taikichi muttered.

The next day, when Tamado came, Taikichi said, "I'm a man who's been called Benguet's Ta-ayan. Since I can't even properly raise my own granddaughter, if folks started thinkin' I took some meddlesome old woman as a second wife—that'd really stick in my craw."

Having said that, he refused.

However, the next morning, as Taikichi was squatting before the hearth cooking rice, “Is this Mr. Sadoshima’s residence?”

With that voice, the old woman came in.

And then, pushing aside the dumbfounded Taikichi, “I’ll handle the cooking.” squatted before the hearth, pulled a cord from her kimono front, and tied it across her shoulders as a sash, “You step back and keep your hands in your sleeves.” He’d heard she was fifty-one, but in the hearth fire’s glow, her face looked remarkably young. “You—barging into someone’s house first thing—what’s your game?” Finally managing to say just that much, Taikichi— “I came to help.”

she said, playing dumb.

Since his opponent was a woman, he couldn't very well show them "Benguet's Ta-ayan," and— "I sure don't recall hirin' any helper!" "Oh, I don't remember bein' asked neither, but it ain't like I'm after your coin—quit barkin' like that!" Old Woman Otora stood half-cocked for a fight.

In the midst of this back-and-forth, Kimie opened her eyes.

A small yawn suddenly stopped. “Ah, Auntie.” Kimie remembered her through the candy. “Kimie-chan, you’re awake?” The old woman had somehow come to know Kimie’s name, “Auntie’ll cook some rice for you now, so just wait a bit.”

“Auntie, are you comin’ to our house from today on?”

Kimie got out of bed and came over.

“Well...?” The old woman looked up at Taikichi’s face.

Taikichi deliberately blew his nose messily into his hand and turned away. “Kimie, it’s still early. Go back to bed.” Taikichi scolded Kimie, but when she took the candy that had been stashed beforehand in Auntie’s sleeve, he didn’t scold her anymore.

When the rice was cooked, Otora tried to transfer it to the rice tub. Taikichi, who had been cleaning the room, came rushing over, snatched the rice paddle, and transferred the rice to the offering bowl on the Buddhist altar. And then, “Old woman, go home already. —Get out!” he said. Because his demeanor was so fierce, Otora left in startled retreat.

However, it seemed she had sneaked back after Taikichi had pulled his rickshaw out and left. According to what Taikichi had clearly overheard in the men’s bath—the old woman from Rau Shikae-ya telling the wife of Tanegichi the one-coin tempura vendor at the women’s bath that night—Otora had been waiting for Kimie at the alley entrance when she returned from school, entering together with her, feeding her meals, taking her to Sennichimae, and keeping Kimie company until just before Taikichi came home.

“Did you go to Sennichimae today?” Taikichi asked while washing Kimie’s stomach. “I went.” “Where in Sennichimae did you go?” “To this place called Rakutenchi.” “Was it fun?” “Yeah! It was so fun! Auntie was crying.” “Why?” “She said the play was sad and cried.—It was really fun!” Kimie said as soap was applied under her chin and she was being washed.

Taikichi tightened his grip on the hand towel,

“Why’d you stay quiet till now?” “Did she say that...?” “Auntie told you to keep quiet, didn’t she?”

Kimie nodded. "What a hopeless old woman." "It hurts! If you scrub like that, it hurts!" When Kimie cried out, Taikichi loosened his grip and resigned himself to letting matters with Otora take their course. And since it seemed too cruel to tear Kimie away from Otora now that she'd finally grown attached, when Otora came again the next morning to cook rice, Taikichi didn't speak harshly to her.

Otora was efficient too—before transferring the cooked rice to the rice container, she did not forget to make an offering at the Buddhist altar. She also took Kimie to school. When Taikichi went out, “Auntie, I’m leavin’ Kimie in your hands.” he said.

“Sure thing, sure thing!” Otora’s eyes sparkled as she resolved to take another day off from the theater troupe. “But you’ll have to leave before I get back at night. There’s also the neighbors to consider.”

Taikichi said without looking at her face. Therefore, he couldn’t tell what expression Otora made.

This continued for five days. Asahiken's Otaka had long maintained the troublesome habit of developing headaches whenever she witnessed anyone in the neighborhood take in a bride or marry one off, but now she came down with a headache over the matter of An no Sada's Otora and took to her bed for two days. Because Tamado had unfortunately opened his mouth as matchmaker, he soured Otaka's disposition, and even when he visited the back room at Asahiken, they didn't give him much of a welcome.

7

It was the day when Otora would finally bring her belongings from the Okura Site tomorrow or thereabouts.

Sure enough, Taikichi felt restless; he ended his rickshaw work early and returned to the alley before evening to hear the sound of a shamisen. "From the high mountain, Peering into the valley below, Gourds and eggplants ……………" When he realized it was Kimie singing along to the shamisen, Taikichi suddenly barged into the house and struck Otora.

“Do you intend to make this girl a geisha? What the hell are you trying to pull here?”

Otora's face changed color.

“Ah! That hurts!” “Don’t be so rough!” “What’s wrong with teaching shamisen?”

Narrowing her eyes into triangles, she launched into him, “—Don’tcha know the sayin’ ‘skills save lives’?” “If I teach her the shamisen properly like this, once she’s grown up, when the time comes…” “……Do you mean she can become a geisha or yatona?” “Idiot! You damn fool!”

Taikichi bellowed as if breathing fire.

“——So that’s the half-baked idea you came up with? Listen up. This kid here—come hell or high water—she’s Benguet no Ta-ayan’s granddaughter. Even without that nonsense, I’ll raise her to stand on her own two feet proper. No more leavin’ her care to some pathetic wretch like you. Get out. Get out! If you wait till dark, folks’ll think you’re doin’ a moonlight flit. Take your gear and clear out while it’s still light.”

“Ah, I’ll leave then.”

Otora packed her belongings and truly left. "Auntie, where you goin'?"

As Kimie tried to follow after her, Taikichi barked in a voice more terrifying than she’d ever heard— “Idiot! Don’t you dare follow her! “I’ll make ya wish you’d never been born!” After that, Otora never showed her face again, and Taikichi felt unburdened.

Asahiken's Otaka, stirred up about something, cooked okara and brought it over.

However, because Taikichi had spoken ill of geisha and yatona, a dispute arose between him and Tanegichi from the same alley. At the entrance to Kappa Alley, Tanegichi fried one-sen tempura using ingredients like burdock, lotus root, potatoes, mitsuba, konjac, red ginger, dried cuttlefish, and sardines. Though he sold them on their flavor and gained quite a reputation for it, this very success seemed to be causing him losses. Even the lotus root and konjac slices were cut quite thick, clearly failing to meet his wife Otsuru’s standards, but Tanegichi set down his abacus and—

“There’s no way I’d lose money selling one-sen tempura at seven rin’s cost.”

However, his abacus calculations didn’t include the cost of charcoal or soy sauce. Naturally, tempura alone couldn’t sustain him, so whenever there was a funeral in the neighborhood, he was hired as a palanquin bearer. At the summer festival of their tutelary Ikukunitama Shrine, when he wore suikan robes and marched bearing the shrine’s great lanterns, his daily wage became ninety sen; when he wore armor, it rose by thirty sen. When Tanegichi was away, Otsuru would fry the tempura, but since she saved ingredients as much as she could, on festival days when passersby saw it, Tanegichi would feel ashamed, sweat running beneath his armor.

Because of this temperament, Tanegichi remained poor year-round, and every day moneylenders came and went. When he borrowed a hundred yen, with thirty days' interest deducted upfront, only sixty yen came in, and when night fell, they would come by bicycle and take away the day's earnings. It was what people called “crow money.” When Tanegichi spotted the moneylenders, he would look down and suddenly pretend to knead udon flour, but the neighborhood children too, “Old man, hurry up and fry the burdock!” Without giving him a moment’s respite,

“Alright, I’ll fry ’em up now!”

Even so, he just kept scrubbing hard at the mortar's bottom, never noticing the watery snot dripping from his nose. Since Tanegichi was hopeless, when they went to confront Otsuru at the alley's end, she—unlike him—kept close watch on every move the moneylenders made. When their dunning gestures grew too bold—if they so much as tapped a floorboard—Otsuru would snap, "You go bangin' on folk's floorboards like that, you call that proper?" Her face contorted with fury.

“—That’s where our household god dwells, y’know!”

She’d meant it as an act, but her genuine agitation made her voice tremble with tears, leaving the moneylenders somewhat taken aback. “That’s nonsense y’know. We ain’t banged nothin’ here, y’know.” Rather than backing down—in fact doubling down—after two or three rounds of heated argument, Otsuru found herself outmatched. Left unable to send them away empty-handed, she had to hand over fifty sen or even a whole yen, each coin feeling like a piece of her flesh being torn away. Even so, there was one time—just once—when a debt collector, upon having the floorboard matter pointed out on the spot, became so inexplicably apologetic that he suddenly prostrated himself in remorse and fled in disarray—and without fail, Otsuru would later vent these grievances to her daughter Chōko.

Chōko found her mother both embarrassing and pitiful. Thus when she graduated from elementary school and was immediately sent to work as a maid at a secondhand clothing store in Nihonbashi-suji, she didn't voice a single complaint. If anything—for over half a year—she worked so diligently of her own accord that one might marvel at her endurance. Otsuru would sometimes come to ask for small change—ten sen here, twenty sen there. Yet one winter morning, after making purchases at Kuromon Market and taking a detour on his return route, Tanegichi happened to pass by the secondhand store. There he saw Chōko's hands—chapped and bleeding—as she swept the storefront, and the sight pained him deeply. Without hesitation he marched inside to confront them and brought her back home.

“You’ve endured well. I won’t make ya do such harsh service anymore.”

Tanegichi kept telling Chōko he wouldn't make her endure such service, but soon complied with requests to place her in domestic service—of all places, at a teahouse in Kitashinchi. Though a tenement child, Chōko's features were delicately proportioned, her complexion fair—traits the employment agent had keenly noticed. After several years of menial work as a junior maid, she made her formal debut. This was three years ago.

However, Tanegichi had never intended from the start to make Chōko do such things; in fact, when Chōko herself had volunteered to become one, he had been so shocked he’d opposed it—which was precisely why Taikichi’s words to Otora now cut all the more painfully into Tanegichi’s ears.

Tanegichi no sooner slid open Taikichi’s door than he was already shouting at the top of his lungs— “Ta-ayan, if I’ve been sitting here listening quiet all this time, you’ve sure been spouting some high-and-mighty talk, haven’t ya?” “What the hell are you on about outta nowhere? Yapping like that old hag from Rau Shikaeya...” “You were takin’ digs at my family, weren’tcha…” “What’re you on about? What the... Makes no damn sense. Well, that’s enough.”

“Enough of this!” Standing rigidly there, “—Put yer hand on yer chest an’ think it through proper-like.” He’d meant to put on his fiercest front, but Tanegichi was at heart a timid man—his voice quavered pitifully, face streaked with half-shed tears. “Well now, what’d I say?” “You went on ’bout whether geisha oughta come or not come, din’cha? Ta-ayan, you holdin’ some grudge ’gainst me? Huh?! You sell me rotten tempura?”

“Ah, so that’s what this is ’bout. I did say that.” Taikichi recalled, “—What’s wrong with that?” “What’s wrong with geisha? —See, Ta-ayan and I are from different walks. But just ’cause I made my daughter a geisha, that don’t give you no right to take digs like that. First of all, what did’ja say back then...?” ...When Chōko made her debut, Taikichi had volunteered to pull the rickshaw for free himself to keep the costs down as much as possible—but back then, Taikichi…,

“...I’ve carried plenty of geishas in my time, but never one as pretty as that—Tanegichi-san, she was truly beautiful, I tell ya—didn’t I say that?” “Yeah, you did.”

As he recalled what had happened three years ago and smiled, “To bring that up now with such harsh words—that’s downright cruel, y’know.”

Tanegichi's voice had returned to normal. He wasn't a man who could stay angry at others. "Harsh words? That's just you misreadin' things, Tanegichi-san." "I didn't mean nothin' by what I said." "I wasn't takin' digs at you." "Don't take it wrong." "If you thought I was some cruel old man, would I've pulled that rickshaw for free back then?" "In the first place, you didn't force your daughter to become a geisha against her will, did you?" "Well, if you put it that way, but..."

“Right? If you’d forced your daughter into that against her will, then you’d have every right to be pissed off at what I said. But didn’t you actually oppose your daughter when she said she wanted to become a geisha? If you’re gonna put it that way, then you and I are cut from the same cloth. The truth is, you don’t really want to put your own precious daughter into the nightlife business, right?” “That’s right. You said a good thing there. Ta-ayan, that’s exactly how it is. I ain’t got no intention of sellin’ my daughter off to live easy. In fact, when that girl was makin’ her debut, I went through hell tryin’ to make sure she wouldn’t get stuck with debts—you know that well enough yourself.”

“Of course I know—ah, don’tcha worry ’bout it. Don’t just stand there like that.”

After he swept away the dust at the entryway and laid out a zabuton cushion for him, “Ah, no need, no need. “Don’t need nothin’ like a zabuton cushion. “If it gets stained with oil, that’d be a problem.” He waved his hand in refusal but ultimately sat down, “Ta-ayan, you really said a good thing there, I tell ya.” “Speaking of this matter here, I’ve been thinkin’ I did a terrible thing by lettin’ that girl become a geisha just ’cause she wanted to…” Chōko had made her name with her good looks, singing talent, and tomboyish charm (hassay), but she became involved with the young master of a cosmetics wholesaler in Umeda Shimmichi. As for Yasuyoshi Ryūkichi, he was particularly fond of cheap street food, especially the two-sen dote-yaki (thick pancake) at night stalls, earning him the nickname Mr. Dote-yaki,

“My old man also struggled all year with his one-sen tempura stall.” While saying this, he dragged her around to cheap eateries like “Shiruichi,” “Sushisute,” “Shōben Tango,” “Izumoya,” “Yudōfuya,” “Tako Ume,” and “Jiyūken,” and though their outings stretched late into the night, Ryūkichi was not a single man. As it turned out, Ryūkichi had messed up with his bedridden, stubborn father who’d suffered a stroke, leading to his disownment and leaving him dependent on Chōko. But Chōko, desperate to live with Ryūkichi, took on debts herself and moved them into a second-floor room in a back-alley tenement within Kuromon Market, where the two began their life together.

But Ryūkichi, spoiled from childhood, had no capacity for work, so it fell to Chōko to earn their keep. While idly spending her days supporting that reckless spender Ryūkichi and trying to pay off their debts, she faced two choices: take on a second job or become a yatona. Of course, she chose the latter. Carrying a small trunk containing her shamisen, she would bustle off to locations designated by the club; when the three of them took on everything from serving meals and warming sake to providing shamisen accompaniment for naniwa-bushi ballads at banquets for fifty guests, being a yatona was no easy trade.

To make matters worse, by the time she returned late at night—after riding the last streetcar and getting off at Nipponbashi 1-chome—the only signs of life were stray dogs and ragpickers rummaging through trash bins. She would trudge wearily through the utterly silent Kuromon Market, where nothing but the raw stench of fish guts hung in the air. But on snowy days, even this routine became unbearable. Upon reaching the alleyway, she would feel a flicker of relief in her heart and quicken her pace, but even after calling out “I’m home!” and climbing up to the second floor, Ryūkichi was often nowhere to be seen.

Since all the money she earned was spent by Ryūkichi, there was no telling when they could repay their debts, and moreover, Ryūkichi’s heart wavered between his family home and Chōko…

“...Wanderin’ here and there, loafin’ around without a care—can’t rely on him at all.” “But Ta-ayan, you can’t really blame him for that.” “After all, the man’s got a proper wife back home—that’s why.” “That girl Chōko’s committin’ a grave sin too—and even after all that hardship she’s puttin’ herself through, there’s no knowin’ when she’ll have to split from that man. Makes all her strugglin’ downright pointless.” “To get back to what we were talkin’ ’bout—that Ryūkichi-san’s got himself a stutter, y’see. They say folks with stutters ain’t bad apples, and sure ’nough, he’s decent enough at heart. But the thing is—he’s a pampered rich kid through ’n’ through. Makes Chōko’s life all the harder for it.”

Tanegichi said earnestly, the combative demeanor he’d shown upon arriving now nowhere to be found,

“The thing is, they’ve all just gone and become geishas.” “Honestly, Ta-ayan, even if I had a daughter, I’d never let ’em into the nightlife business.” “Though I might say this or that, in the end, you were right.”

Having forgotten that he had come to pick a fight, Tanegichi dejectedly made his way back.

8

When Otora was gone, Kimie became a dejected girl once more. While running after Taikichi’s rickshaw, she continued to bite her sullen lips and did not show a single smile.

However, about half a year later, on a certain day,

Shime Danji took Kimie and Jirō to Sennichimae for an outing.

After drinking Tetsurei Mineral Spring and wolfing down grilled rice cakes at the gate of Chikurinji Temple, from the razor shop across the street—

“Sh-Sh-Shime-san, i-i-is that you?”

As he said this, a man came out.

“Oh, if it isn’t Yasuyoshi-san. Fancy meeting you in a place like this.”

Once, Ryūkichi had come to Kappa Alley with Chōko, and they had become acquainted then. "—How’ve you been keepin’ yourself these days?"

When Shime Danji said this, Ryūkichi looked embarrassed and, “I-I-I’m w-workin’... at the r-razor shop across the way now.”

“I see. That’s good for ya.” “Ms. Chōko must be over the moon now that you’ve gotten serious about workin’…” “What’s up?” “Here’s a rice cake.” “N-No—I-I mean, if I gotta look at that damn place across the street every day, I can’t even work up an appetite, see.” “T-T-Tell Mr. Tane properly, will ya?” “Got it.” “Do come visit our alleyway again sometime now, you hear?” “And give my best to Ms. Chōko.”

When he parted with Ryūkichi and arrived in front of the electric photo studio, Shime Danji—suddenly wondering if his promotional photo might be displayed there—peered into the display window and let out a loud shout.

“Kimie-chan! Look—your father and mother’s photo’s right here, I tell ya!” The commemorative photo from eighteen years ago—when Shintarou had won the neighborhood marathon—sat displayed among costume portraits and actor stills, a sample tag reading “three for forty sen” fastened to its corner. Taken on location at Naganganji Temple’s grounds serving as the finish line, it showed Shintarou standing victorious in his running shirt with the winner’s flag, while from behind a draped curtain, half of Hatsue’s face—Kimie’s mother stretching up to peek out—had inadvertently slipped into the frame.

It seemed they hadn't yet been married at the time, and Shime Danji felt a wave of nostalgia as he wondered if that might have been how the two of them became so close.

Hatsue wore her hair in a peach-split style, but from the mouth down was not captured. “Dad’s here, but he hasn’t grown a beard.” “Of course,” “Only Tōzai folks grow beards at twenty-six or so.” “Ah! Dad! Dad!” Kimie had leapt up in excitement but suddenly— “—Mom’s not here...”

She deflated.

Then, Jirō, “They’re here, they’re here! This one—look right here! See? Peeking out just a bit from behind this curtain, see?” “I know your mom real well, Kimie-chan, I tell ya!” “Here it is, right here! See, Shime-san?” “Yeah, yeah.” Kimie was staring intently, “Ah! She’s here—she’s here! Mom’s got her hair done!” “Dad’s here too! Mom’s here too!” And in a clear, ringing voice,

“I’m not a parentless child anymore! No one can call me a parentless child and get away with it anymore!” From that day on, Kimie gradually grew brighter. At the second-grade footrace held soon after during the sports festival, eyes wide and chin thrust forward, she burst into a sprint—“My dad was a marathon runner!”—and using the momentum as she rounded the corner, overtook everyone in an instant to claim first place.

Taikichi watched from the parents’ seats, his wrinkled face brimming with delight. But suddenly,

“That girl’s always running behind a rickshaw, so no wonder she took first place.”

When whispers of “That girl’s always running behind a rickshaw, so no wonder she took first place” reached his ears, Taikichi— “Well, maybe so. See? My trainin’s different, eh?” Before he could puff out his chest in pride, something—some distant memory—swelled hot in his heart. He wanted to tousle Kimie until her bones creaked, to crush her in a hug right then and there, so overwhelmed was he by this sudden surge of tenderness for the girl beaming as she clutched her pencil prize. However, that very night, Taikichi turned to Kimie and said,

“Since you’ve got enough pep to take first place in runnin’, starting tomorrow after school lets out, you’re gonna work as the footwear attendant at Hinomaru Bathhouse.” “I’ve gone and properly asked the boss at Hinomaru Bathhouse.” Shime Danji, having overheard this startlingly harsh order, “Ta-ayan, what kinda cruel nonsense you spoutin’ there, eh?” “This child you claim wouldn’t hurt a fly even if she were in your eye... Have you lost your damn mind?!” “There’s no need to make this child work as a footwear attendant—we can get by without that!”

When he said this, Taikichi— “You shut your trap. “You should stick to jabbering at the vaudeville theater. “Quit yappin’ about things that ain’t worth a damn penny! You’ve always bucked against every word I’ve said since way back—you’re a real pain in the neck, I tell ya! “That’s what I get for shackin’ up next to some bigwig like you.” he said. Even Shime Danji bristled, “Now listen here—I’ve lived next door to you for ages, but I never pegged you for such a thick-headed fool.” “Ah, I’ll button my lip for good, I swear!” “You think I’ll keep flappin’ my gums before you lot? Hell’s bells—I won’t so much as squeak a fart in your direction!”

With that, he stormed out, but immediately came back and— “Ta-ayan, just think about it. “This child’s only ten, I tell ya! “At her age, d’you really think she can handle being a footwear attendant? “I’m beggin’ ya here—show some mercy!” “Shime-san, I’ll tell ya straight—it ain’t like I’m makin’ this child work as a footwear attendant ’cause I hate her. “It’s ’cause I love this child that I’m makin’ her do it. “Kimie, you’re at just the right age. “You listen here—if folks start thinkin’ life’s all about takin’ it easy, that’s when they’re done for. “Only by workin’ your bones raw since childhood will it all come to serve you proper when you’re grown. “Confucius himself said so, didn’t he?”

“You don’t say, Ta-ayan—Confucius said that? First I’m hearin’ of it.” “Y’re some scholar, ain’t ya?” “Didn’t he say it? ‘Pleasure’s the seed o’ pain, pain’s the seed o’ pleasure’—that’s what he told us!” “You off your rocker?” Shime Danji looked thoroughly exasperated, but being Shime Danji, “There now—you’re quoting Ōishi Kuranosuke’s words, eh?”

“Well, whichever it was—doesn’t matter. Anyway, people ain’t meant to take it easy." “If I’d wanted to let her take it easy, I’d have sent this kid off to Sasahara ages ago.” "But Shime-san, if you look at Sasahara’s little lord—a brat raised soft in some moneybags’ house just ain’t right." “Ten years old or so—can you believe he’s burning through twenty sen a day? Other day he went solo to Sennichimae for moving pictures—guzzled five sen of chilled candy and thirteen sen of tempura at Tanegichi’s stand—ended up squirting so bad they pumped him full of shots and bamboo sheath charcoal! What a circus! With whelps like that—what’s left to do?” “Parents must be rolling in it to let him piss away that much!”

Compared to that, his child was different—from when school let out until the bathhouse attendants finished scrubbing the baths, taking in footwear for eighty sen a month including dinner—Taikichi’s resolve remained unshaken, and starting the next day, Kimie began commuting to Hinomaru Bathhouse for work. After school ended each day, she would return home and finish her homework forlornly in the empty house. Then she would go to Hinomaru Bathhouse and take over for the sunken-cheeked bathhouse attendant’s wife, handling the footwear. Receiving footwear and handing over tickets, receiving tickets and returning footwear—this simple routine she performed without a single misstep, her small frame making her movements appear swift. Yet she’d been instructed to call out as loudly as possible—.

“Welcome.”

“Thank you kindly.”

At first, these two phrases did indeed draw complaints from the owner. During the crowded evening hours, she could hardly see the customers' faces, her bloodshot eyes glaring at footwear ticket numbers as she grew increasingly flustered. Especially on rainy nights when she also had to handle umbrellas, the clammy feel of their damp surfaces became unbearable. Winter proved hardest. The tips of her extremities prickled with raw pain. Each customer's entrance brought gusts of icy wind. They always forgot to shut the door. Every time she had to rise and close it. Every time her nose tip stung with needle-like cold.

Still, it was sad.

Yet when Taikichi passed through the noren curtain of Hinomaru Bathhouse late at night, hunched over, he would put away his own sandals and scarcely ever properly looked at Kimie's face. Receiving the footwear ticket Kimie handed over, his hands—pallid with bulging veins, dry as parched earth—made young Kimie's heart ache, yet she couldn't bring herself to believe her grandfather treated her as harshly as people claimed. Rather than resenting it, Kimie seemed to have resigned herself to this labor as her fate, but there was one thing—the tedium of slow daytime hours brought a sadness she couldn't quite place. Gazing absently through the glass door at the street outside, she would let out listless yawns until tears threatened to spill.

And so, she would eventually doze off while sobbing quietly, but what always woke her at such times was the swish of the evening paper being thrust through the gap in the glass door.

“Oh, Jirō-san!” It was cold outside, but when she stepped out, the wind was blowing, Jirō’s figure had already vanished around the street corner, and the barking of dogs echoed through the evening gloom.

However, Jirō was no longer at an age to fear dogs, and before long he stopped delivering evening papers and went off to serve as an apprentice in Tokyo.

9 Society finches became all the rage, and everyone kept them—from housewives to temple priests. The toothbrush handle craftsman of Enokijirō Alley chased after an escaped society finch, tripped, broke his leg, and remained lame for life. Shime Danji kept two birds only to have them die immediately, suffering a loss of two yen and fifty sen. But many struck it rich—the apprentice at Tanimachi Ninth District’s metalwork shop who caught a pure white society finch amassed a fortune, then returned to Tamba sporting matching Oshima silk robes, creating an enormous sensation.

One day, as Taikichi was pulling an empty rickshaw over Kuchinawa Slope and passing by, from the foot of the slope— “It’s a society finch!” “It’s a society finch!” Voices overlapping, the crowd came running up the slope, practically piling on top of each other. “Fools, ain’t they? What’re they makin’ such a damn racket for?” Taikichi muttered dismissively, as if tearing off and discarding cotton—but in that instant, the pursued society finch flew straight into his bosom. Pure white. He instinctively reached out, but the society finch darted away.

“Blast it!”

Taikichi shouted, abandoned his rickshaw, and chased from Suidera-cho all the way to Oe Shrine's precincts, but distracted by the air-infused geta he'd bought for Kimie tucked into his breast pocket, he couldn't run as he intended and ultimately let it escape.

And when he returned to where he’d been, the rickshaw was nowhere to be seen. Taikichi turned pale.

That night, Taikichi did not come to Hinomaru Bathhouse. That morning, “Today I’m gonna buy air-infused geta. “I’ll bring ’em over to Hinomaru Bathhouse, so you wait there.” Relying on her grandfather’s words, Kimie waited at the footwear counter of Hinomaru Bathhouse, stretching her small neck in anticipation—now? now?—but he never came, and she heard the hollow chime of midnight.

Grandfather’s such a cheapskate.

Kimie would hand over every penny she earned—her wages along with Bon and New Year gratuities—to Taikichi without touching a single sen herself. He would silently accept the money, tuck it into his belly band, and never once offered even a sen or two for her to buy something like grilled dumplings. Though unaware of other matters, she understood with her child’s heart how money transformed Taikichi’s usual disposition into something unrecognizable. Thus when she rushed home through the noren curtain of Hinomaru Bathhouse, those words slipped out unbidden.

"If he lies, Enma-san'll rip his tongue out," she thought. When she went upstairs, Taikichi was already asleep with the futon pulled over his head, the air-infused geta shaped like konnyaku lined up beside his pillow. So Grandfather must've wanted to surprise her—skipping Hinomaru Bathhouse on purpose, placing them by his pillow while pretending to sleep—Kimie figured as she secretly slipped the air-infused geta onto her feet and walked around the room.

Ah, what a nice sound—patta-patta, patta-patta. I wonder if this noise reaches the person sleeping here.

When she tried to rouse Taikichi indirectly, he turned over lifelessly and floated his dejected face out from the futon like a pale moonrise. "I can hear it well enough..." he said, voice muffled by bedding. Then with effort, he propped himself up and continued: "You're a proper good girl, Kimie. Workin' hard every day without complaint. But what sorta fool does that make me? Ashamed to face my own grandchild, I am." "Grandfather, what's wrong?" she asked, kneeling by the futon's edge. "Did you forget your change when buying the geta?"

“Do I look like I’m in any state to fuss about that?”

Taikichi’s tone took on an adult-like gravity, “Because of this fool’s foolishness—chasing after society finches—the rickshaw got stolen right from under me. It’s turned into a proper mess. I can’t work starting tomorrow.” When he muttered that he hadn’t had the strength to show his face at Hinomaru Bathhouse and had been lying there under the futon like this, Kimie plopped down on her bottom—oh no, everything’s fallen apart—and it seemed to pierce her child’s heart through and through.

Without the rickshaw, he couldn’t work, and for two full days he wandered around like a man whose soul had been drained, scouring everywhere,

“Ah, I’m done for. “Burned Kanhachi, sunburned eggplant.”

While muttering this, he lay on his back atop the tatami and rolled heavily about. But on the evening of the third day, as Kimie tended to the footwear counter with an increasingly sullen expression, "Hey~ Udon portions here! Hot-hot Tama-chan

"Wearing a white kimono, bathing from morn till night in the hot springs! Smooth skin like polished jade! Our lovely Tama-chan! Ten portions for five sen!" The hawking voice carried through the streets, and when Kimie listened closely, she realized it was Taikichi's. At his age, with his back already bent from years of labor, the heavy load made his voice rasp hoarse. "Thankee kindly!" he called out to passersby.

After handing over the footwear and rushing out once the customer had left, Taikichi was smiling as “How’s it look on me?” “It suits you real well.” Joining in with Kimie’s voice, Tanegichi too, while frying tempura,

“Ta-ayan, that look suits you real well, don’t it?” “Your voice ain’t half bad either.” “You think so?”

Taikichi said happily, and— “Tan-san, folks’ll always find a way to put food on the table somehow. We mustn’t go giving up now.” This he half-directed at Kimie too, and then, shifting the carrying pole to his left shoulder, “Udon portions here…”

Eventually, both his voice and figure grew faint and diminished.

As she stood buffeted by the wind watching him go, the town crier came from the opposite direction and stopped at the entrance to Kappa Alley. And as soon as he began his spiel, Tanegichi dashed into the depths of the alley and quickly emerged with Otsu. Kimie vaguely gathered from what she heard that this town crier was promoting the opening sale of a razor shop—a tiny establishment with a one-ken frontage and three-and-a-half-ken depth—that Yanagiyoshi and Chōko had rented at the foot of Takatsu Shrine slope to start their business. “Could you give us a proper lively spiel in front of my dad’s tempura shop?”

Chōko had likely made the request to the town crier, for he now delivered his spiel before her father’s tempura shop with the same meticulous vigor he had shown that morning in front of Chōko and her husband’s establishment. Keikichi from Asahiken came out,

“Tan-san, you must be feelin’ right relieved now things’ve settled here.” When he said this,

“Ah, now... It’d be good if things sold well, but when you open up shop, you’re lucky if you move a few ear picks, ain’t that right?”

Tanegichi looked slightly embarrassed. Otsu promptly, “Kei-san, if you ever need razors or shampoo or anything, make sure to place an order with us, alright?”

“Kei-san, if you ever need razors or shampoo or anything, make sure to place an order with us, alright?” she said. After the town crier had been treated to tempura and left, dusk suddenly began to fall.

Returning to Hinomaru Bathhouse, she suddenly noticed how the bathwater rippled across the red, purple, yellow, and blue colored glass panes set into the women's bathing area’s shoji doors—their hazy reflections appearing with an unaccustomed profundity of beauty as she gazed upward—when “The upper bath’s gone lukewarm now!” The voice of the madam from Rao Exchange Shop sounded, and after a short while, the out-of-season notes of a Taishō koto could be heard. The song was the counting song “Hitotsu Toya”. Yoshie of Asahiken had passed away last year, and the one now playing was her youngest daughter Mochiko, twenty-two years old—who of course remained unmarried like her sisters—while her immediate elder brother Keisuke worked for a shipping company but drank three gō of milk every day because of his bad lungs.

Chapter 3: Showa

1

Ten years had passed. Kimie was twenty years old, her beauty having blossomed to such an extent that people said a woman's looks couldn't be judged in childhood. Her complexion had grown so fair it was hard to believe she was the granddaughter of that dark-skinned Taikichi from before Manila, "If only her hands didn't have those chilblains, cracks, and red sores, she'd be perfect..." This they would say while noting her good-natured charm, and when the owner of Hinomaru Bathhouse suggested he'd rather have her sit at the cashier's counter than work as a footwear attendant, Taikichi became strangely flustered and let her quit despite the opportunity.

When she was hired at the Namiō商会 telephone disinfectant workers’ dispatch office in Terada-cho, Kimie realized for the first time just how meager her wages at Hinomaru Bathhouse had been. That Taikichi—so notoriously strict about money—had never once mentioned this matter until now seemed almost unbelievable, but Kimie too had been remarkably oblivious, obediently working as a footwear attendant for a pittance these past ten years.

In other words, had Taikichi’s oft-repeated maxim—that the Benguet Road project could never have been completed if you only considered the daily wage of one peso and twenty-five centavos—somehow seeped into Kimie’s very being? In Benguet, he had gritted sand and suffered agonies enough to spit blood, had never buckled under any hardship—and this conviction that he had seen the construction through to the end was the sole medal that hung from Taikichi’s chest, Kimie too had come to understand.

“Don’t go complainin’—just work your hardest and that’s good enough. “People are born to work.” “Ain’t no good thinkin’ ‘bout takin’ it easy.” Thus it was precisely because Taikichi’s recent words hadn’t been reasoned arguments that they sank all the more deeply into Kimie’s bones. Uneducated Taikichi, unable to articulate rational arguments, had raised Kimie by relying on something like a snail’s antennae—an instinctive wisdom—and so, in its own way, one might say Kimie had been made to walk a single path.

Even so, the wages at Hinomaru Bathhouse were certainly low. At Namiō Company, the training period wage was a meager 25 yen including self-provided meals, becoming 30 yen after two months. Furthermore, there were biannual raises and bonuses, and according to the supervisor, “After all, Osaka’s vast—even homes with telephones don’t know about this convenient service where we’ll dispatch disinfectant women if they just apply.” “If you push into those houses and aggressively secure contracts, we’ll even give special allowances based on performance—so hustle to lock ’em down!”

Though the value of money differed between ten years ago and now, Kimie was astonished at what seemed like remarkably good treatment for merely ordinary work, but in return, unlike her time as a footwear attendant, the job was far from easy.

At eight in the morning, she would first report to the company office and receive that day’s visitation schedule and disinfectant solution. After that, she made her rounds to clean telephones; in addition to collecting payments, she had to spot houses likely to have phones, go inside, and offer a monthly service of three cleanings and disinfectant refills for one yen and fifty sen. It might seem trivial work, but she had to make clients grasp that nothing grew filthy as easily as telephone receivers while also securing contracts—compared to her days as a footwear attendant, where simple greetings like “Welcome” and “Thank you kindly” had sufficed, the mental strain proved immense.

Of course there was the bashfulness appropriate to her age, but she was also beautiful.

When she finished disinfecting, received the verification seal, and was furtively packing the disinfecting machine into her cloth bundle to leave, "You’re being too fussy!"

There were times when her face burned as if spewing fire to the point she couldn't voice a response, leaving her seething with anger. On top of that, she spent the entire day bustling about from one end of Osaka to the other—enough to make her marvel at how quickly geta could wear down—so her body would end up utterly exhausted. After making rounds to every stockbroker’s office in Kitahama once the afternoon market closed and disinfecting a tremendous number of telephones, her hands would go numb.

"Ah, this is so hard..."

A sigh escaped her before she knew it, and putting up her parasol, she came to a sudden halt in a shaded alley—yet in such moments, what spurred Kimie onward was “Humans must drive their bodies to work—it’s no lie.”

That familiar maxim of Taikichi’s—no, rather, the very sight of Taikichi himself whom she’d occasionally encounter by chance in town. For a time, he had peddled udon dough balls, but when the rickshaw he’d put up as collateral for a loan to his colleague Suguichi Zōzō came back into his possession, Taikichi once again began pulling it through the streets. But soon came the rise of motorized rickshaws. Crushed by the competition, his business failed to thrive; he was hired at a town clinic only to be promptly dismissed for refusing to remove his tattered coat; he even tried working as a handyman at a department store.

However, these days, thanks to gasoline rationing, more customers had begun using rickshaws—and seizing this opportunity, “The world’s really got it all figured out.”

And so, rejoicing, he once again went out pulling his rickshaw. “Grandfather, you’re getting on in years—it’s about time you retired.” “Besides, pulling rickshaws up slopes must be hard for you by now, right?”

Even as she tried to stop him, “Ya fool—it’s precisely because of slopes like these that folks still ride rickshaws! If ya laze around, your bones’ll fall right outta your flesh!” She wouldn’t listen—Taikichi, shuffling along with thoughts like “Compared to the hardships of Benguet, this is nothin’” running through his mind—and while Kimie could nod in understanding, seeing him like that still made her chest sting and her eyes grow hot, “It’s because I’m no good that Grandfather has to keep working.”

And as this thought grew stronger, Kimie found herself unexpectedly unable to remain indifferent to money—a desire arose. However, for instance, in the nightlife establishments she visited to disinfect telephones, they would say— “With looks like yours, you don’t have to do this kind of work—there’s other jobs that’d pay better.”

To such offers, Kimie naturally had no intention of acquiescing—there was nothing for it but to improve her sales performance for the disinfectant solution and earn whatever extra special allowance she could. With sweat streaming down her unpowdered face, she would diligently walk on even as dusk fell over the remaining ri of road. One morning after she had been working there about half a year, the supervisor said: “Don’t forget today—make sure to stop by Ōnishi pawnshop at Hagi no Chaya.” “But I just visited there about five days ago...”

Even though her task was disinfecting telephones, it wasn’t merely that she felt ashamed to pass beneath the pawnshop’s curtain—when she said this, “I’m well aware of that. I know you went there five days ago.”

The supervisor, preoccupied with something, "—Just go already." This felt strange, Kimie thought— "Could they have taken in a desk phone as collateral?" But following orders, she resolved to go regardless.

“Here, take this with ya.”

The supervisor, in a rare gesture, tore off two municipal streetcar tickets for her. After getting off the municipal streetcar in front of the zoo, passing through bustling Daimon Street lined with jumbled food stalls and sundry shops, and turning right near Daimon, there before them lay the Nankai Electric Railway’s Hagi no Chaya tram stop— "Hichi, Ōnishi" A blue noren bearing "Hichi, Ōnishi" hung over the entrance. At the entrance, she hesitated for a moment and glanced around the area before,

“Good day.” As she entered, “Welcome in,” An apprentice with a face resembling a Bunraku puppet’s cropped hairstyle—who had been sitting behind the lattice—no sooner saw Kimie than he shouted toward the back: “The telephone lady’s here, sir!” In that instant, Kimie sensed some commotion stirring in the back room. “Hideto-san! What’re you bellowin’ for? You idiot!” While scolding him, the young master—who normally sat motionless like an ornament by the long hearth in back, his pale temple bearing a headache plaster—unexpectedly came hurrying out,

“Well now, you’ve come all this way. “Please, come in. “Do come right in.” He was so friendly it seemed he might grab her hand, his brow smooth without a single crease.

Kimie felt uneasy.

“Well then, I’ll come in.” She opened a small moss-patterned furoshiki bundle, took sterilized cotton from the disinfectant case, deftly cleaned the telephone, and was refilling the disinfectant container when several pairs of eyes seemed to drill into her back, face, and every motion. “You’re still young to be doing this sort of work.” The young master hovered nearby, persistently making conversation. “Oh, no.” As she offered vague responses,

“What did you do before this job? Were you just staying at home...?”

"I worked as a footwear attendant at the neighborhood bathhouse."

She answered straightforwardly. “Footwear attendant?…” The young master let out a small hum,

“—And your family?”

he asked.

Why he was asking such things—it provoked not so much suspicion as anger. “It’s just my grandfather and me.”

“Well now, is that so? “That must be lonely for you.” “So what does your grandfather do now?” “He drives a rickshaw.” Kimie had difficulty hiding her sullen expression. “Oh, is that so? “My, my...” “Did your parents pass away early?” “Oh.”

“A long time ago, right?” “I see.” “My, my…” “And your father…?”

The young master was persistent in asking what he had done for a living.

"He had a cooper's shop in Tamatsukuri, but it failed, so he went to Manila and died." Kimie's tone was earnest, but her face burned with anger toward the persistently nosy young master.

“Your official seal.”

As she was leaving that place, Kimie thought she felt the young man’s bloodshot eyes glaring at her with an upward stare.

After making the rounds disinfecting and soliciting here and there, when she returned to Terada-cho,

“You’ve worked hard.” “How’d it go at the pawnshop...?”

The supervisor said. Ever since shaving off his mustache, the supervisor’s face had remained as smooth and featureless as an egg, no matter how many times she saw it. “......?......”

Why he would bring up such a thing, she couldn't grasp the reason. "You had a son, didn't you?" "...Hmm?" "Now that's another damn wishy-washy answer from you." Laughing, he gave Kimie's shoulder a light pat,

“—You never know—your luck might turn soon. “Keh, keh, keh...” The supervisor let out a peculiar laugh through his missing teeth.

Kimie grew even more perplexed, but on her way back, after hearing it from her colleague Harui Motoko, she finally understood why the supervisor had told her to go to Ōnishi Pawnshop. "Yesterday while you were out, that young master came to the office," she said. "I happened to be back then, so I was listening nearby, you see..." "...The young master said—though I must say this comes quite out of nowhere—'There's someone working at your place: fair-skinned, petite, charming... Ah, you're called Sadoshima Kimie, yes? Now about this Kimie—to speak plainly, my son has... How to put this... Taken a bit of a shameful fancy to you, one might say...'"

“...Demure, just like a proper young lady should be, but despite that, her working movements are brisk—it’s very pleasing to see—and not extravagant at all—that’s where my son took a fancy to her, he says......” ...Now that he’d declared he wouldn’t marry anyone but that young lady—and being an only son who’d been doted on, he wouldn’t budge once he’d made up his mind—the truth was, as a mother with no husband left and no other children, she’d been secretly searching to find him a bride as soon as possible. Regarding this matter—it wasn’t that she intended to let her son have his way completely, nor that she was thinking of rushing anything immediately—but still, she felt she should at least respect her son’s opinion, though ‘respect’ might sound odd here. In any case, as a mother’s responsibility, she wanted to know what sort of person this girl he’d taken a fancy to was… She believed Kimie would understand this feeling. What she’d like to ask was—though she’d gotten a vague impression from seeing Kimie come once or twice for disinfections—could she perhaps stop by their place tomorrow? Not for any formal test or arranged meeting—nothing so stiff or grand—just to see her working as she normally did. That’s all. So please keep this confidential for now, Kimie-san.

“So that’s why you were specially sent out today—that’s the reason.”

While walking side by side from Terada-cho to Tennoji West Gate, Motoko talked on alone.

“So that’s why?” Realizing such matters had been unfolding without her knowledge, Kimie felt her heart pound with unease. The age of twenty was brought back to her with an awkward self-consciousness—but there was no sweetness in the feeling. Rather, she felt more strongly that she had been deceived somehow. She remembered with distaste how the pawnshop’s young master had persistently questioned her about all sorts of things.

“So, how’d it go when you went there?” Motoko asked the same sort of thing as the supervisor had.

“What was the son like?” “I wonder…?” She only remembered a pale-faced young man who resembled his mother, restlessly flipping through a newspaper by the long brazier while stealing glances their way—but even that impression remained vague. “—I don’t know what sort of person he is. I hadn’t thought about anything at all.” Blushing crimson despite herself as she answered with uncharacteristic honesty, Kimie felt Motoko jab an elbow into her side.

“You’re such an unreliable kid. If you charge into enemy territory and just laze about, that won’t do at all. You need to get it together more.”

Had it been her, she would have at least immediately grasped the supervisor's intentions when told to go—assessing at a glance everything from what school the man graduated from to whether he had any culture to his taste in neckties—so thought twenty-five-year-old Motoko as she pursed her thick lips, this woman who prided herself on having attended Practical Girls' School through her second year and who could charitably be called plain-looking.

When they came to the front of the coffee shop, “Why don’t you come have some coffee? Today’s treat would be wasted otherwise.”

Motoko said and stepped inside first. Kimie briefly pictured Taikichi’s face, but deciding that even this extravagance was permissible once a month, she resolved to spend the thirty sen for two cups of coffee and followed inside.

Once they sat down facing each other, Motoko continued talking. “I’ll really treat you—you see, after you went to that pawnshop earlier today, seems the young master called our supervisor.” “Hmm.” “What a noncommittal response.” “Are you even listening, you?” “You better listen proper!” “About that phone call—‘Thank you for coming all this way today. I’ll come by soon to properly express my gratitude, but truly, you’re an even finer young lady than I imagined—I was thoroughly impressed,’ he said when he called.”

“That’s all lies.” “No need to get so flustered about it. Ah, you’ve really got it made. When it comes to pawnshops—you can’t run that business without money, right? You’ll be a rich man’s wife before you know it. How nice for you. When I go pawning things, you’ll lend me plenty. Let me get my request in now.”

There, Motoko lowered her voice, “Just between us—my boyfriend’s a newspaper reporter, but he only makes forty yen a month.” “It’s so pathetic.” “You know how I’ve been getting that one-yen-fifty-sen monthly circulating magazine.” “If I lend it to him, no matter how much I tell my boyfriend, he just keeps a straight face and won’t give it back.” “I need to exchange it with other magazines soon, and here I am stuck, but when I see he won’t return it, I start thinking he must’ve sold it off to some used bookstore—it makes me so furious and miserable… But then there’s you. You’ve really got it made.” “You’ve got suitors from nice families too, and…”

Kimie couldn’t help but find Motoko’s grumbling unbearably amusing. She had never once given thought to marriage before, and even now that such matters were happening to her, she couldn’t grasp them as anything real. She would occasionally stiffen at the realization that she too had reached that age, but the overwhelming thought of what would become of her grandfather if she were to marry and leave him behind canceled out everything else.

Moreover, surrounding her were the daughters of Asahiken. Literally, it was a matter far removed from her reality. "There’s not a single good thing about it."

Kimie said flatly.

“Why’s that?” “I’m not doing anything like getting married.”

Such feelings of Kimie's were beyond Motoko's understanding. "Huh?" "Now what’s this all about?" "Don’t you like him?" "Or does their son give you the creeps?"

Having decided on her own, “Now that you mention it, you’re right. It’s a man’s right to choose a bride—but summoning someone to secretly test and observe them? That’s downright shameless.” “If you’d gone along with it willingly, that’d be different—but them taking you without any warning, making you some bride candidate to inspect? When you think about it, it’s downright nasty.” “No wonder it gives you the creeps.”

They each contributed fifteen sen, paid the bill, and when they left the café, it was already dark.

After parting with Motoko and boarding the streetcar, Kimie had already forgotten about the matter and hadn't mentioned any such conversation to Taikichi either, but the next day she found herself forced to recall it against her will. It was because the supervisor had brought it up again. “Were you back by five today?”

“Huh…?” “Ōnishi-san says he wants to have dinner with you together with his son.” “I’ll be coming along too.”

“But… something like that… Grandpa…” “I’ll speak with your grandfather about it later.” Hearing this, Kimie felt anger surge up within her. “You think he’s just some rickshaw man you can mock. My grandfather isn’t someone to be made a fool of by the likes of you. And besides, I’m the eldest daughter. This isn’t about me being marriageable. You know that, yet you go deciding things on your own—looking down on me like I’m just some tenement girl, aren’t you? I don’t care if you scorn me, but I won’t have you pitying Grandpa.”

Thinking this, Kimie heard the grating sound of her own back teeth.

Kimie did not return to the office that day.

The next day, she took a day off and walked around looking for a job.

That night, when she returned home, there was an express letter.

It briefly instructed her to report to work the next day. In the morning, she went in, declared her intention to quit, received her prorated allowance, and went straight to the employment agency.

2

Before long, Kimie was hired as a taxi dispatcher.

Assigned to Namba Station’s parking lot, holding an umbrella even on rainy days—here too it was work that kept her standing all day, and when she took the position, it turned out to be a workplace befitting the daughter of Benguet’s Ta-ayan.

Before long, a taxi ride-sharing system was established. It was a characteristically Osaka-esque practical idea—whoever had conceived it—that by packing passengers heading in the same direction into single vehicles through split-fare accounting, they could conserve gasoline, reduce customers' waiting time, and keep labor costs low. Kimie found herself managing these shared rides during peak hours especially,

“Is there anyone here heading to the XX district?” She shouted incessantly until her voice grew hoarse. Unfamiliar customers floundered, and drivers showed little welcome for the system, making the dispatcher’s job all the more grueling. Kindness, courtesy, and promptness were essential—that was the supervisor’s constant refrain. However, Kimie was so diligent—so much so that the supervisor told her she didn’t need to work that hard—and with her enthusiasm, charm, and flawless handling of customers, when a local newspaper reporter came during Kindness Week to take photos and gather impressions, partly due to her beauty as well, she quickly became a popular figure at Namba Station.

Whether it was her petite stature proving advantageous, her nimble movements, or her voice ringing out sharper than necessary, customers found no opening to casually crack jokes—even when thinking "My, she's pretty." Even she herself found the sensation of lining up passengers spilling from Namba Station's concourse and efficiently managing them one after another to be inexpressibly satisfying. But after processing thousands of customers, when her shift ended and dusk fell, listening to the roar of the last car gliding out the instant the doors closed, as she sighed in relief and readjusted her garter—suddenly,

“Grandpa’s a rickshaw man and his granddaughter’s directing cars—now that’s one fancy family business they’ve cooked up!” Recalling Shime Danji’s offhand remark—how unlike machine-driven automobiles, a rickshaw required the whole body to pull—her heart clouded over as she suddenly thought of her grandfather’s toil. However, unaware of Kimie’s clouded heart, Taikichi had been hired alongside Tanegichi the tempura vendor as a palanquin bearer for the Ikukunitama Shrine’s summer festival on July 9th and went off to work.

Wearing the heavy armor meant a daily wage of two yen and fifty sen—thirty sen more. “Grandpa, enough already this year—you should stop wearing that armor-like thing. I’ll pray for you, so don’t wear such a sweltering thing…”

Kimie tried to stop him through half-suppressed tears, but Taikichi wouldn't listen, “That’s absurd—treatin’ me like some old codger…” “How could I not wear somethin’ this year that I wore last year?” “You call this hot? Osaka’s summer’s Manila’s winter.” “Even if you say that, age is age.” “Even the old man from Rau Repair Shop collapsed mid-job the other day.” “If somethin’ happens to you, Grandpa—what’ll we do?”

“Don’t go sayin’ such ill-omened things. “Don’t go lumping me in with some old coot who’s already got one foot in the coffin……. “You think someone in Ikukunitama-sama’s procession’s gonna collapse? The shrine’s got our backs proper—ah, they’ll be sayin’, ‘Look, Benguet’s Ta-ayan’s here again this year,’ and keep protectin’ us proper!” “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Taikichi repeated dismissively as he turned back toward the armor nonetheless.

That very day happened to be Kimie’s day off. The fact that she was idling about on this of all days left Kimie with an unshakable unease. Even as the sounds of pillow drums and lion dances reached her ears, she felt no urge to watch the sacred procession. After preparing chilled somen noodles for Taikichi to eat upon his return that night and soaking them in well water, she visited Ikukunitama Shrine. Her feet then naturally carried her down Shimoderamachi Slope toward Sennichimae’s electric photo studio.

The disguise photos and kabuki actor portraits that had once filled the studio had completely vanished, replaced by conspicuously numerous commemorative photos of soldiers departing for war. Amidst these, through some miracle she couldn’t fathom, a twenty-year-old marathon race commemorative photo—its colors faded yet priced higher as a sample set of three for one yen and eighty sen—was displayed. When she saw this, it struck her with such dizzying nostalgia that her vision nearly swam. Considering how Grandfather had said, "Osaka’s summer is your Manila winter," Manila must be an unbearably hot place. Staring at her father’s yellowed, faded face in the photo—grinning shirtless in just a running singlet, holding a championship flag in a setting befitting where he had died—as if she might press her face against the display glass, she was suddenly—

“Aren’t you Kimie-chan—?” She was called out to.

She turned around and, after staring at his face for a moment,

“Ah. “Jirō-san!” Nine years prior, he had gone to Tokyo for work, then two years later received news that his only remaining blood relative—his father—had suffered a stroke and died while repairing bat umbrella frames. When he returned to Kappa Alley, they had met just that once; in the moment Kimie quickly calculated that he must now be around thirty and realized she had addressed someone of that age as “Jirō-san,” flushing with sudden realization—Jirō then said, “It was you, Kimie-chan. “No, well—seeing you look at this photo here made me think it must be you,” mixing Osaka and Tokyo dialects as he spoke.

mixing Osaka and Tokyo dialects as he spoke, "When Shime-san brought us here to look at this photo together—that was already ten years ago now... Do you always come here to look at this, Kimie-chan?" "Yes. I come almost every ten days..."

It wasn’t just the heat—sweat wrenched through her entire body. Jirō was tall, broad-shouldered, and had sharply defined features. The thick eyebrows suited his tanned face well. With a slight movement of his eyebrows, Jirō gave a soft laugh, “But if that’s how it is, you should just tell the studio owner and have him give it to you…” “You’re more reserved than I expected, Kimie-chan…” he said. “But that’d be so forward of me…”

“Then I’ll go say that and get it for you.” “Please wait a moment.” “I won’t go anywhere...” “If I were to go off and leave you, that wouldn’t do.”

After saying this, Jirō began climbing the stairs two steps at a time. Kimie forgot the heat.

After a while, he came back down together with the photo studio man in half-pants. "This one."

When Jirō pointed at the photo in the display window with his thick, stubby hand, “This one?” “Now look here—this’s an antique item!”

The photo studio man said, but— “—Well, if that’s how things are, I suppose I can part with it.” —then removed the display glass and took out the photo for them. Jirō’s unexpected kindness left Kimie so delighted that when she recalled how Jirō-san had been the only one to protect her when she was bullied as an orphaned child, she found herself unable to refuse his suggestion to enter the café across from the electric photo studio for a cold drink.

As they drank their coffee, the conversation turned to Taikichi. "He’s still pulling that rickshaw. Today he was talking about Ikukunitama-san’s sacred procession..." “...Is he actually going out wearing armor?”

Jirō looked slightly surprised, “All this...’cause I’m not capable enough...” He stopped Kimie from sinking into dejection and deliberately smiled, remarking, “Even with age, Benguet’s Ta-ayan’s still full of life, eh?” “So what you’re saying—even now he’s still clinging to that principle? That humans have to drive their bodies hard and anything less than working yourself ragged is a lie?”

His tone shifted to one of defending Kimie. “Speaking of which—I’ve sometimes remembered Ta-ayan’s catchphrase too. Well, actually, even now…” Jirō explained that his diving work—where his body was his only asset—had been his profession since entering this path at twenty-two; over these seven years he had dived in most of Japan’s seas, and since yesterday had come to Osaka’s Ajikawa for a job with the Tsurudomi Group. “Admittedly, this job isn’t anything major—just dismantling a tiny boat that’s hardly worth mentioning. I wasn’t particularly keen on it, but when I heard it was Osaka, I got nostalgic and ended up drifting back here without thinking.”

Jirō's speech wavered uncertainly over how familiar he should be with Kimie. Yet she found reassurance in his blunt manner, felt nostalgia stir at the occasional slips of Osaka dialect, and grew somehow embarrassed whenever his polite speech surfaced. He refilled his coffee multiple times, gulping it down without a straw in single draughts, swallowing ice chunks whole in the blink of an eye.

As she watched this vigorous drinking, Kimie suddenly recalled how Jirō used to run wild alone in the men’s bath at Hinomaru-yu and often get scolded from the counter, so when she mentioned it, “That’s right! There was a time I stayed underwater in Hinomaru-yu’s bath while Shime-san counted to fifty,” “One time when Shime-san was counting way too slow, I nearly blacked out and grabbed his leg—then he jumped up so startled that I came up for air. If he hadn’t jumped, I’d have drowned right then!”

Jirō was unexpectedly skilled at storytelling,

“—But now that I think about it, I guess I’ve liked diving ever since back then.” So after three years of apprenticeship at a camera shop in Shinagawa, Tokyo—by the time he’d properly learned developing work—he’d already left there and, through the help of a diving enthusiast named Kinoshita who often came to the shop to request developing, became an apprentice under Boss Yoshida in Bōshū Fura and began training as a diver. Typically, diving apprenticeships require one year of pump operation, one year of air hose management, and one year of rope handling—roughly four years total to become a full diver. Yet whether through natural talent or sheer dedication, he achieved full diver status by his second year of apprenticeship.

Generally speaking, divers' work encompassed salvage operations—ranging from simple tasks like retrieving cargo to large-scale projects such as explosive demolition and refloating massive ships—along with underwater civil engineering projects like port construction, bridges, and dry docks, as well as marine product collection. However, salvage operations were primarily limited to calm seas from spring through summer, while marine product collection naturally adhered to fishing seasons. So unlike land-based factories where work remained constant year-round, they needed to become proficient in two or even three of these specialized skills during the off-seasons to maintain stable livelihoods—but...

“I don’t mean to boast, but ever since becoming a full-fledged diver, I’ve completely mastered all the necessary techniques within three years.” Jirō went on. “But it’s not like I’ve gone and forgotten about developing work, you know. I still develop photos my buddies take every now and then—oh right, Kimie-chan, that photo you’ve got now—if you want, I could do a proper job of enlarging it for ya. It’s gotten pretty faded...”

“Thank you kindly, but I’d feel terrible having you do such a thing for me.”

“Feeling bad? Don’t be so standoffish. “We’re neighbors from the same Kappa Alley, aren’t we?” Kimie found herself blushing for some reason at the word “connection.” “Anyway, I’ll hold onto this photo for now.”

Jirō took the photo and, “—Sooner would be better. “I’ll have it enlarged for you by tomorrow.” “I’ll hand it over in the evening.”

he said in brisk Tokyo dialect. "Oh, thank you kindly." "Where should we meet?" "...?..."

“Nakanoshima Park would be good. “I’ll hand it over at Nakanoshima Park.” “Can you come?” Jirō thought for a moment before saying this. Kimie suddenly pulled her mouth away from the coffee straw, looked up at Jirō’s rugged face, and sensed something distinctly masculine there. “Well, but…” Though meeting at parks had been innocent enough when they were seven-year-old children, the very idea of two grown individuals doing so now struck her as wildly presumptuous, making her heart stiffen with tension.

Kimie stated that she worked as a car dispatcher and, “Today’s my day off, but tomorrow…” When she looked down while explaining she couldn’t go out due to work, Jirō— “But your shift ends by evening, right?”

he said briskly. Pressed,

"Well, my shift ends at five." "Then could you come around five-thirty?"

Jirō’s Osaka dialect softened Kimie’s stiffened heart somewhat. “Well, it’s not like I can’t go, but…” “In that case, I’ll be waiting.”

Jirō grabbed the slip and, “—Shall we go?” he said as he got to his feet. “Alright.” The fact that she had nodded just then could easily be taken as agreement to wait at the park, and Kimie grew flustered, yet—

“No, I can’t go. I’ll pass.”

In that instant, she simply couldn't get the words out. "It's not like I'm going there with some lighthearted intentions. I'm just going to pick up the enlargement of Dad and Mom's photo."

While Kimie clung to this fleeting thought as her self-justification, waiting outside the café for Jirō who was paying the bill— "Coming to see the photo today and meeting Jirō-san might actually have been about matching up the photos—can't really say for sure." Kimie grew sweetly numb to the point of lightheadedness at her own involuntary murmur, but suddenly the drums from the festival procession pierced her ears with painful clarity.

The setting sun was harsh. Remembering Taikichi's dust-caked feet as he must have toddled along in his armor, Kimie couldn't forgive herself for that momentary lapse into sweet thoughts; with a prickling ache tightening her chest and brows furrowed, Jirō came bustling out,

“Let’s walk this way.”

He moved toward the shaded area. He thought Kimie’s furrowed brow was due to the harsh sunlight.

Next to the photo studio was a vaudeville theater.

Next to the vaudeville theater was a barber shop. Jirō peered into the depths of the narrow barber shop, but the figure of Yanagikichi, who had been there ten years prior, was no longer to be seen.

But across from the barber shop, the Iron Cold Spring Shop remained as always.

Next to the barber shop was a photo studio. Next to the photo studio was a beef shop. At the Iroha Beef Shop—still bearing its old name—Jirō was about to pass by, thinking that Sennichimae hadn’t changed at all, when Kimie—for some reason—

“Wait...”

With that, she came to a stop and entered Iroha alleyway. It was an oddly desolate, dingy, cluttered alleyway where five or six masseurs on the second floor of a left-hand house bearing a "Massage" sign were massaging each other. On its small roof sat a morning glory flowerpot, with a shabby dental clinic sign running along the roofline. Without that sign, no one would have guessed this old, tiny shack of a house—the sort of dilapidated dwelling where treatment machines sat crammed into the low-ceilinged second floor that forced you to duck—harbored a dentist at all.

To the right stood a grimy red brick wall; passing through its gate revealed a darkness as though the earth itself had collapsed—even in broad daylight—where the glow of great paper lanterns and flickering candle flames mingled with swirling incense smoke to form Jian-ji Temple. There lingered an atmosphere like something from a theater’s painted backdrop.

As Jirō stood surprised at finding a temple's back gate in such a place, Kimie—

“Wait...”

She told him to wait, then squatted before the Jizō statue at the corner of the temple grounds, bowed her head, poured water over it with the provided ladle, and vigorously scrubbed its feet with a scrub brush.

While dimly noticing that the Jizō statue bore the name Jōgyō Daibosatsu,

“Kimie-chan, you’re quite the devout one, aren’t you? What’s this Jizō supposed to help with anyway?” When Jirō, standing idly by, grew self-conscious of his presence, Kimie— “This Jizō helps with everything.” she declared, putting force into both her hands and voice, “If your eyes are bad, you pour water over its eyes and scrub them—they’ll get better. And if someone’s feeling poorly in the chest, scrubbing right here on its chest with this brush will do just fine.”

she said while scrubbing vigorously.

Indeed, now that he mentioned it, the Jizō statue was covered in limescale that had turned its entire body reddish-brown rust color，its facial features so worn down they were barely distinguishable，and the kasaya robe pattern around its chest had become completely invisible. It appeared to be a remarkably well-visited Jizō statue. Jirō found such superstitions foolish，and Kimie，who seemed to believe them，struck him as pitiable— “Does it really work?” “I think it’s suspicious.”

He had spoken bluntly, but when he suddenly noticed that the part Kimie was washing was the Jizō statue’s feet, something occurred to him— “Ta-ayan, hasn’t he been having trouble with his legs lately?” he asked. “No, there’s nothing wrong with him,” she replied, “but since Grandfather’s job uses his legs so much, I thought to keep the fatigue from setting in...” That this was how she was making her wish—Kimie demonstrated it with earnest hand movements.

Jirō was suddenly struck through the chest and abandoned all desire to reproach Kimie for her superstitions. “Thanks for waiting.” When he saw Kimie’s face—flushed yet radiant as she stood—a sudden wave of Osaka nostalgia surged through Jirō’s heart without reason, and with it came aching memories of their days in Kappa Alley. As they exited Jian-ji Temple’s main gate, he even recalled this—how from a tenement’s second floor in Kanteki Alley visible through their neighborhood, someone would endlessly practice the jōruri phrase “Behold Takechi Mitsuhide…” on summer evenings, while his father mended bat umbrella frames and mimicked the recitation—

“Kimie-chan, why don’t we go see some Bunraku?” he said. “Hmm, maybe...” As she hesitated, “Have you ever seen Bunraku? I’ve never seen it either, but since I’m back in Osaka after so long, I thought I’d take the chance to experience something properly Osakan while I’m here.”

Jirō said.

“I’ll humor what you suggest, but…”

However, Kimie hesitated, wondering whether it was truly acceptable to go to such a place with Jirō. “Anyway, today’s the festival, right?” When Jirō pressed his invitation again—with Kimie’s spirits having lifted from visiting the water-pouring Jizō—she nodded in agreement.

Turning from Sennichimae's tram street toward Midosuji and walking side by side in the direction of Shinbashi—along the way, Kimie said, "Speaking of Bunraku, Ms. Chōko's been learning jōruri lately, you know."

She mentioned Chōko. "Ms. Chōko—you mean from that Mr. Tane’s family?" "That’s right."

“What happened to Mr. Yasuyoshi? When I peeked into the barber shop in Sennichimae earlier, he wasn’t there…”

When Jirō said this, Kimie— “They closed that place down ages ago—that’s ancient history now." “That must’ve been a good ten years back now, hasn’t it?” —and she began to talk...

3

At a small shop at the foot of Kōzu Shrine slope, they started a barber business, but it didn't take off. On the morning they opened shop after hiring construction workers, Chōko sat inside with the determination of someone ready to tie a front-knotted headband. Around noon,

“Not a single customer’s coming.”

Ryūkichi spoke in a timid voice, but Chōko did not answer him, her eyes wide like saucers as she glared at the people passing by outside. After noon, a customer finally came, resulting in the pitiful sight of a six-sen sale for a single safety razor blade.

“Thanks for your patronage!” “Please favor us with your patronage.” Working together as husband and wife, they provided service that was almost unnervingly attentive, but whether due to poor reputation or being a new shop, only fifteen customers came that day—most buying replacement blades—and their total sales amounted to less than two yen. In this way, with customers remaining scarce and days when even a single Gillette item sold being considered good, wretched sales consisting mostly of ear picks or replacement blades continued for many days.

With their topics of conversation exhausted, as they listlessly minded the store while exchanging looks of wretched boredom, Ryūkichi declared he wanted to kill time by going to practice jōruri for an hour or two during the day—and Chōko found herself lacking even the will to stop him. Ryūkichi became a disciple of Takemoto Kumishō, who ran a practice hall in nearby Shimoderamachi, for a monthly fee of five yen, searched through Futatsuiido’s Tentō Shoten for old practice books, and would stroll out daily. Even when Ryūkichi threw himself into the business, he would open his practice book with an expression that said there was nothing to be done if customers didn't come while minding the store, and begin mumbling. The voice sounded utterly pitiful, and Chōko found herself oddly reluctant to praise his improvement.

As their losses mounted month after month, Chōko returned to working as a yatona. Though she sank into solemn reflection—thinking this must be true hardship—her temperament rarely wavered; that drive to diligently work through banquet rooms alone, treating her profession as paramount remained intact. For one thing, Ryūkichi’s legal wife had died some years prior, giving Chōko’s struggles a sense of purpose. Yet whether Ryūkichi understood Chōko’s feelings or not, when evening came and she went out carrying the small handbag holding her shamisen, he would restlessly close shop early. At a stall in Futatsuiido Market, he ate kake rice and red miso soup with goby fish, drank sake with cockle vinegar dressing, paid sixty-five sen while muttering “Cheap enough,” then ordered beer and fruit from the “Ichiban” brand. After lavishing tips on the woman he was courting, ten days’ worth of earnings vanished into thin air.

Despite barely scraping by on Chōko's yatona earnings, Ryūkichi's reckless spending caused their debts to wholesalers to steadily mount. After enduring this for a year, they took advantage of finding a buyer for the shop's rights and resolved to close the business. After using the 220-odd yen—comprising a little over 100 yen from the closing sale proceeds and 120 yen from selling the shop rights—to settle payments with wholesalers and various creditors, not even ten yen remained...

“……Ms. Chōko is such a pitiful person, isn’t she? She went through all that trouble to make Mr. Yasuyoshi respectable—trying to get his father to acknowledge her as a proper woman despite her nightlife past—but since Mr. Yasuyoshi remained a pampered son at heart, disowned or not, always eyeing his parents’ wealth... Even after they struggled to open that barber shop, within a year they’d closed it down and wound up renting some second-floor room near Tobita, I’d heard…”

When Kimie told this,

“Huh?” “I see.” “And then, what happened to them?”

More than wanting to know about Chōko and Ryūkichi’s whereabouts, it was from wanting to hear Kimie’s story as they walked side by side that Jirō spoke. Kimie's voice was lovely. What’s more, to Jirō, this was Osaka dialect he hadn’t heard in ages. “Then, with the money Ms. Chōko had painstakingly saved over three years of scraping by and what Mr. Yasuyoshi managed to borrow from his sister, they started up another business.” “What kind of business...?”

“An oden shop…”

They decided to open an oden shop, and when they went looking for a suitable place to buy, they found a small oden shop for sale on nearby Tobita Daimon Street. The elderly couple currently running the business had put it up for sale because, given the neighborhood’s rough clientele, meek waitresses never lasted long while feistier ones would end up looking down on them—leaving them utterly desperate for reliable help. When they negotiated, the couple surprisingly agreed to transfer everything—including fixtures and all utensils—for a mere 350 yen.

Since the entire downstairs was whitewashed and used for business, their living quarters were limited to a single four-and-a-half-tatami room on the second floor—a gloomy space with ceilings so low one’s head would brush against them—but its location near the pleasure district ensured steady foot traffic, and being a corner shop meant excellent layout and entryway placement. Upon hearing the price, they jumped at the deal. Prior to opening their new shop, they haphazardly visited oden establishments—from Seibendantotei in Hozenji Temple grounds to Takofuku in Dotonbori—stepping under their noren curtains to learn seasoning adjustments, the balance of sake bottle contents, and business methods.

Then, taking one character from each of their names, they christened their shop "Chōryū" and finally prepared to open for business. Since the lingering summer heat hadn’t yet subsided, they had boldly stocked barrels of draft beer; though they fretted anxiously about needing to sell it quickly before it went flat, it ended up selling surprisingly well.

Without hiring help, they managed the shop entirely by themselves, so during the busiest hours from around ten to midnight—so hectic it made their heads spin—they couldn't even find time to use the restroom.

With the pleasure district nearby keeping customers until late into the night, by the time they took in the signboard, the eastern sky had already turned purple. Exhausted, they had barely dozed off in their second-floor four-and-a-half-mat room when the alarm clock began to buzz... When they went downstairs in their nightclothes without even washing their faces, they put up the standing signboard that read, "Breakfast available—four dishes for eighteen sen." Targeting late-night revelers returning home with miso soup, simmered beans, pickles, and rice—four dishes for eighteen sen—they had assumed it would only bring in small profits. But with some customers ordering beer and such, business turned out surprisingly brisk, so they could endure their lingering sleepiness.

As autumn deepened and the wind grew chilly, it became the perfect season for their oden shop, with sake beginning to outsell beer as the more common drink. They paid the liquor store promptly in cash—to such an extent that Meishu Honpo offered to provide them with a signboard—and this time, Chōko’s shamisen lay unused in the closet where it had been stored away.

Ryūkichi’s dedication this time was faultless—though it likely wasn’t solely because he had contributed over half the funds himself. They set no public holidays, working diligently every day, and without any wasteful spending, their momentum only strengthened. Ryūkichi went to the post office daily. As it was such physically grueling work, Ryūkichi replenished his energy with alcohol whenever fatigue set in. Chōko knew Ryūkichi’s tendency to grow reckless when drinking and squander large sums, so she watched anxiously—but since the alcohol was meant for sale, he drank moderately. Yet even this restrained drinking became another source of worry for Chōko; no matter which way things turned, her anxieties multiplied. When drinking heavily he turned foolishly jovial, but when sipping slowly, his inherent stutter rendered him more taciturn than usual. Seeing him slump vacantly on a chair during customer lulls, seemingly lost in thought, Chōko wondered if he was brooding about his family home in Umeda—and once again found her nerves fraying.

Just as feared, when refused attendance at his sister’s wedding welcoming an adopted son-in-law, Ryūkichi grew despondent, withdrew about two hundred yen from their savings, and left without returning for three days. Chōko gave Ryūkichi a thorough scolding.

“Even if that’s fine with you, I’ll be the one laughed at by your father.” “Don’t you get it? We’ve worked ourselves raw to become proper people—to stand tall before your father someday! This heart of mine, breaking its back trying—can’t you feel none of it?” “When are you ever going to become a responsible person?” “I-I-I get it already.” “O-O-Old woman, I get it!”

Ryūkichi vowed never to philander again, but Chōko’s scolding proved no remedy. After a while, he started carousing again. He seemed utterly incapable of embracing the mindset needed to build their life together. Chōko, who had begun putting on weight, grew short of breath each time she berated him.

The money Ryūkichi spent on carousing amounted to considerable sums, so on the day after his escapades, even he would turn pale and silently stir the pot without touching his sake cup. But after four or five days passed, he would start grumbling that merely warming customers' sake wasn't skill enough, then fill a flask to the brim with undiluted liquor, submerge it in the copper pot, and sip slowly. He clearly grew weary of the business—when drunk, his spirits would swell, and his feet naturally turned toward carousing. This went beyond the dyer's spotless apron; it felt like they were running the shop just to fund Ryūkichi's indulgences, and Chōko gradually began regretting ever starting the oden business. As payments to the liquor store started falling behind, she concluded they had no choice but to quit—when she told Ryūkichi this, he agreed immediately.

They left up a "This Shop for Transfer" notice and gloomily kept it closed indefinitely. Ryūkichi began attending jōruri lessons.

Despite their savings gradually dwindling, no buyers for the shop came forward at all. Chōko was beginning to consider returning to work as a yatona banquet hostess for the third time.

One day, as Chōko gazed down at the street from the second-floor window, everyone passing by looked like potential customers, making it truly regrettable that they weren’t open for business. The fruit shop five or six stores down across the street was bursting with vibrant reds, yellows, and greens, exuding liveliness. There was a steady stream of customers. The moment she thought, "A fruit shop’s a good business," she couldn’t sit still another minute. The instant Ryūkichi returned from his lessons, she immediately proposed, "Why don’t we try running a fruit shop?" But Ryūkichi merely muttered “Nah,” showing not the slightest bit of interest. He had concluded that when they were truly on the brink of starvation, going to Umeda to beg for money would suffice.

One day, he had apparently really gone out to Umeda. When he returned and told his story—how when he went to ask for money, his brother-in-law had come out to meet him, but being an inexplicably stubborn man who likely believed the family’s wealth would eventually be his as the adopted son, he turned out to be quite miserly and in the end didn’t give so much as a single penny—Ryūkichi grew increasingly agitated. And with a thoroughly bitter expression, he showed a face that said, “We’ve no choice but to run a fruit shop.” They renovated the shop with the money from selling off all their oden utensils. Since they were significantly short on funds for purchasing stock and other expenses, they pawned their clothes and hair accessories, then went to borrow money from their former colleague Okina, who now ran the Yatona Club. Okina spent about an hour badmouthing Ryūkichi, but in the end said, “Chōko, I feel sorry for you,” and lent her a hundred yen. “I’ll be waiting for the day you and Mr. Yasuyoshi become proper husband and wife.” Being told this by Okina, Chōko felt like crying.

From there, she went to her father Tanegichi’s place and asked him to lend a hand for a couple of days since they were starting a fruit shop. Because Ryūkichi didn’t know the proper way to cut watermelons and such, he needed to learn from Tanegichi, who had experience. Tanegichi, in his youth, had once bought a cartload of watermelons from Otsu’s hometown of Yamato and sold them by the slice at the night market on the sixteenth. “Back then, Chōko was just two years old, carried on Otsu’s back—in other words, all three of them, mother and daughter working together—and they managed to sell two hundred watermelons in a single night,” Tanegichi recounted this story from the past, happily declaring he would help.

Tanegichi was visibly bursting with joy at helping his daughter and son-in-law with their business. On opening day, when he spotted another fruit shop directly across the street, he began chanting in Ōmi-bushi rhythm: "Watermelon shop facin' watermelon shop—fellow melons squarin' off!" Their competitor's strength lay in dedicating half their store to ice, using chilled wedges to lure customers, forcing Chōko's family to compete through thicker slices. Yet Tanegichi needed no prompting—his knife cuts were recklessly generous. As Ryūkichi fretted over how many ten-sen slices to carve from an eighty-sen melon, Tanegichi barked, "We'll lose on slices but clean up on whole ones! Take a loss to make your gain!" Then—

“Watermelons! Watermelons! Sweet watermelons, get ’em cheap!” Tanegichi let out a showy hawking call. The calls from across the street were no less vigorous. Chōko couldn’t stay silent either, “Cheap watermelons here!” And she let out a shrill cry. Their charm brought customers. Chōko hung a satchel-like purse around her neck, taking in coins and doling out change.

Ryūkichi applied himself earnestly enough that within four or five days, he had mastered the technique of cutting watermelons. Tanegichi withdrew after seizing the chance to be hired as usual for the Ikukunitama Festival's procession. As he left, he stressed they must vigorously polish apples with cloths to make them shine, avoid touching the honey peaches entirely, and constantly dust all fruit since they abhorred grime. They tried conscientiously to follow his advice, yet somehow the produce spoiled rapidly—the honey peaches rotting away in moments. Unable to keep them displayed in the shop, they reluctantly discarded them. The daily waste grew substantial. Reducing stock would make their shop look shabby, so cutting back on purchases wasn't feasible either; their poor sales efficiency bred anxiety. When they gradually realized profits required absorbing losses too, and that fruit-selling was no simple trade, Ryūkichi abruptly lost all vigor.

Chōko began worrying whether Ryūkichi was already tiring of the fruit shop business. But before that concern could take root, Ryūkichi fell ill. He'd been suffering stomach troubles for some time now—likely from overindulging in greasy dishes—making regular visits to Jikihi Hospital in Nitsui Well. Now blood had started mixing with his urine, drawing pained whimpers whenever he relieved himself. When examined at Jikihi Hospital, they advised seeing a urology specialist. Upon hearing K Hospital in Shimanouchi was renowned, they had him checked there too—where they diagnosed bladder issues.

He had gone for about ten months, but showed no real improvement. He kept wasting away before their eyes. Though Chōko herself had grown plump, dark circles rimmed her eyes as Ryūkichi's condition weighed endlessly on her mind. Suspecting a misdiagnosis, they took him to the municipal hospital - where their fears proved founded. An X-ray revealed kidney tuberculosis. That very day saw him admitted.

Because she couldn’t keep the shop running while attending to him, Chōko reluctantly closed it. She had thought to ask Tanegichi to take over the shop, regretting how the fruit kept rotting away—but when luck turns against you, there’s nothing to be done, especially since her mother Otsu had taken to her bed four or five days prior. It was uterine cancer, and she wasn’t expected to last more than a day or two. The morning after Ryūkichi underwent major surgery to remove one of his kidneys, Otsu died. Chōko stayed constantly by Ryūkichi’s side and could not be present at her mother’s deathbed. The only consolation was that Ryūkichi’s life had been saved, but the feeling of being an undutiful daughter still pricked at her chest. Otsu didn’t resent Chōko for not rushing to her side in the slightest; on the contrary, she told Taikichi, “Mr. Yasuyoshi’s gone through so much for Chōko’s sake.” “If Mr. Yasuyoshi’s surgery goes well, I could die without seeing Chōko’s face and still be content,” Otsu told Taikichi, who had suggested sending a rickshaw to fetch her—and hearing this, even Chōko writhed in anguish.

She attended just the funeral and rushed back to the hospital, where a young woman accompanied by a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl had come to visit. The moment she saw her face, she knew it was Ryūkichi’s sister. She suddenly tensed. “Thank you for coming.” With those words serving as their first greeting, she managed a polite smile. It was painful to wear a smile on the day of her mother’s funeral, but making a sullen face simply wasn’t in her nature. The girl they had brought was Ryūkichi’s daughter. She had been attending girls’ school since that past April and wore a sailor uniform. When Chōko patted her head, the girl grimaced.

They mainly talked about his illness, and half an hour later, Ryūkichi’s sister left. When she saw her off to the hallway, Ryūkichi’s sister,

“Father’s come to properly understand your hardships these days,” she said. “He says you’ve done so much for him.” With that, she discreetly pressed money into Chōko’s hand. Chōko wanted to believe these words were true. She wanted her dead mother to have heard them. The memory flickered through her mind—how two years earlier, people from Ryūkichi’s family had come proposing separation. Ryūkichi was eventually discharged from the hospital and went to recuperate at Yuzaki Hot Springs. Chōko covered the expenses through her Yatona hostess earnings. Since renting a second-floor room proved uneconomical, she stayed at Tanegichi’s place. Taikichi told Tanegichi,

“Tanegichi, you’ve raised a good kid. I said some harsh things about Chōko-san back then, but don’t hold it against me. No, really—she’s an admirable daughter.” he said.

However, Ryūkichi was squandering money every day in Yuzaki. Chōko, who had gone to Yuzaki under the guise of visiting him, learned that Ryūkichi had also been having his sister secretly send him money and was beside herself. “There’s nothing wrong with letting your sister send you money since you’re siblings—but then all my efforts amount to nothing. If only you hadn’t squandered everything, I could’ve supported your recovery on my own.”

When Chōko returned to Osaka from Yuzaki with Ryūkichi, she rented a second-floor room behind Matsuzakaya. She continued working as a Yatona hostess. She found encouragement in the thought that if she stopped renting the second floor and established a proper business this time, Ryūkichi’s father would praise her as an admirable woman, and they could finally become formally recognized as husband and wife. His father had been bedridden with a stroke for over ten years now—having persisted where under normal circumstances he would have long since died—and with no telling when he might pass, Chōko grew anxious to act while he still lived. But Ryūkichi remained in a post-illness state requiring tonics and injections—expenses so severe that even after six months, they couldn’t save thirty yen in total.

4 “……After all that hardship she’d endured, they say the world ain’t so cruel after all—see, there was this old friend of Chōko-san’s, a Mr. Kinpachi who’d made it big, ran into her after ten years. When she told him how things’d been goin’, he took pity an’ lent her money. With that capital, Chōko-san opened a café called ‘Chōryū’ down in Shitaderamachi, an’ it’s still thrivin’ to this day……”

Kimie narrated this. “Oh…?” “That’s good.” “And Tanegichi-san must’ve been happy too, right?” “And what about Ryūkichi-san’s father…?” When Jirō asked, Kimie— “Well, about that…”

she pressed on, “She’d been hopin’ to make things official while his father was still alive, but he ended up passin’ away at the end of the year before last…” “Even though Chōko-san went to the trouble of preparin’ a mournin’ outfit, thinkin’ she could at least attend the funeral, they told her she had no right to be there—‘How could they be so cruel?’ she cried out, makin’ a huge scene.” “Well, can’t blame her for that, really.” “After all, Chōko-san didn’t want to end up a nobody her whole life—worked her fingers to the bone all these years—and just when all that struggle was about to pay off, Ryūkichi-san’s family had to go and treat her like that…” “But there’s no more fuss like that now—what with Ryūkichi-san’s parents havin’ passed away too, and nobody left with any right to oppose them—so they finally went and registered their marriage proper the other day, and folks say they’re gettin’ along just fine.” “Just this spring too, at Tentō in Nitsui’s second floor, Ryūkichi-san was performin’ jōruri—I got an invite and went to see it—and there was Chōko-san playin’ the shamisen for him. They seemed so close, they did.”

Kimie flushed slightly. "But Ryūkichi-san has a child, doesn't he?" "Did she take in that child?"

“Well, that’s…”

Kimie wore a look that said she didn’t want to discuss Chōko any further.

The truth was, Ryūkichi’s child was now old enough to have graduated from girls’ school, but the words drilled into her by her deceased mother—that her father had been stolen away by a wicked woman—still lingered in her ears. She held no goodwill toward Chōko and stubbornly refused to leave Ryūkichi’s sister’s side. Part of it was that she also disliked Chōko and Ryūkichi’s line of work.

That became a source of headaches for Ryūkichi. Even if he held no lingering attachment to the property taken by his adopted child, he still couldn’t quite forget about his daughter; perhaps his jōruri practice was also a way to distract himself from such gloom. Considering this, even though Chōko now had no need for social niceties or financial worries, her heart was not completely free of clouds. Exactly because Chōko was usually so cheerful by nature, Kimie found her loneliness all the more worthy of sympathy.

They had reached the front of the Bunraku-za, so they ended their conversation about Chōko.

However, the Bunraku-za was not showing puppet plays; it seemed to be screening an old film instead, with movie stills displayed. The puppet theater troupe had gone to Tokyo for their summer tour, it was said.

“What the hell? I went to all the trouble of coming to Osaka thinking I’d finally get to see some Bunraku, but with this, I might as well have stayed in Tokyo to watch it.”

Jirō was a little disappointed. “Let’s just go see a movie then.”

“Won’t it be packed today since it’s a special showing?”

Kimie seemed disinclined to watch. For some reason she appeared ready to part ways and go home then and there, making Jirō increasingly disappointed—until he suddenly remembered something and brightened up. “Right! Got just the thing! I’ll show ya somethin’ you’ll love.” “What kinda thing? What’d make me happy...?” “Just hush an’ follow me! It’s right ’round here! When I saw it yesterday—ah! If I showed this ta Kimie-chan now—I really thought she’d be pleased.”

“Oh?” “What in the world is it?”

As she followed after Jirō while speaking, he led them to the front of Yotsuhashi’s Electrical Science Museum,

“Here it is.” He came to a stop. There was one of only two Carl Zeiss planetariums (celestial globes) in Japan, and as they listened to Jirō’s explanation—that according to this machine, one could view not only every sky from every time in every land between the North and South Poles but also past, present, and future skies all from this very spot—they rode the elevator, got off on the sixth floor, and entered the "Star Theater."

In the center of the circular hall was installed a planetarium resembling an enlarged dentist's apparatus, with chairs arranged in a circle around it.

When they sat down, the spring-loaded chair backs tilted back.

“These are just like Asahiken’s chairs.”

As Kimie said, “Since it’s projected on the ceiling, they’re designed this way to make looking up easier.” Jirō said, “Is everyone at Asahiken doing well? I know Yoshie-san passed away, but…”

“Yes, everyone’s doing well.” “So they’re still all unmarried?” “It’s a troubled household—Grandfather often says so too.” Kimie remembered Taikichi again. Where might he be wandering about now? The hall felt cool—maybe they had air conditioning.

First there was a cultural film, and then came the planetarium demonstration.

“This month’s planetarium presentation is ‘Stellar Journey: Around the World.’” When the female announcer’s message ended along these lines, beautiful music began to play. The hall gradually took on twilight hues as the first and second stars appeared in the western sky, one after another, until a starry sky that seemed to rain down was projected across the ceiling.

The surroundings had sunk into such deep darkness that even the shape of Jirō's face sitting beside her was no longer visible, while the hours of night flowed through the gloom and snores rose from the crowd of group visitors. Those gazing upward at the ceiling must have mistaken this artificial spectacle for true nighttime. The spring-loaded chairs were engineered to invite drowsiness. When the faint hum of the planetarium's machinery began, the starry vista transformed, departing Osaka's skies to commence its celestial voyage—until finally the Southern Cross materialized in a shimmering burst of radiant light.

A meteor crossed the Southern Cross. They flowed like rain. It was like a magic lantern show.

While she was entranced by its ethereal beauty, the commentator directed a blue arrow of light toward the Southern Cross,

“Now everyone—here appears the Southern Cross, and we’ve finally reached the southern skies. The time is one o’clock in Manila—exactly midnight. This beautiful Southern Cross gazes quietly down upon Manila’s hushed and slumbering towns, fields, mountains, and palm fronds.”

Hearing Manila, Kimie awoke from her drowsiness. Ah. Kimie cried out—so her grandfather had worked in Benguet under those stars, and her father had died alone in Manila under those same stars—as tears streamed down her cheeks and the meteor blurred her vision. In the darkness came Jirō’s feelings—he who had understood her heart enough to bring her here—with such searing intensity that it left her numb. After parting with Jirō and returning to Kappa Alley, she found Shime Danji, the speculator, the old woman from the pipe repair shop, and others—as if celebrating a festival night—who had brought camp stools out to the vacant lot before their houses and were enjoying the cool evening while eating watermelon sent by a Western-style tailor from his hometown in Yamato. When they saw the watermelon’s face, Tanegichi—who should have fetched a kitchen knife—had gone out with Taikichi to watch the imperial procession and hadn’t yet returned.

“These days rakugo’s being overshadowed by manzai, and we’re completely done for. Well, manzai’s a two-person act, and here we’re just solo performers. If they’d just give us one theater a day to perform in, that’d be fine, but that’s only for the popular acts—folks like us are left idle all year round. But that said, we can’t just up and join manzai acts now either.” As Shime Danji, wearing a half-sleeved shirt, spat out watermelon seeds while speaking, the still-down-on-his-luck stock trader,

“Damn bush mosquitoes.” as he swatted at them with a fan all around,

“Hey Shime-san, you could at least give me some rakugo tickets once in a while,” “I’ve been hangin’ around with ya for ages now, but have you ever once given me a ticket?” “You’re really a cheapskate, ya know that?”

“Don’tcha go usin’ such nasty talk.” “I’ll get around to it soon enough!” “You keep sayin’ you’ll do it, you’ll do it—who knows if that mouth of yours is any good for business? You’re just like Hinomaru Bathhouse’s kettle—all steam and no pour! Right, Granny? Ain’t that so?” “That’s right.” “Shime-san here’s hopeless at what you’d call promotion.” “You gotta pass out tickets to everyone, get ’em to come to the theater, and when you step out on stage, make sure they holler ‘Shime Danji!’ nice and loud and give you a proper clapping.” “With that attitude, you’ll never move up from openin’ acts! And another thing—you can’t keep leanin’ on ‘Muhitsu no Katappo’ forever, y’know.” “If you keep spoutin’ that ‘illiteracy’ nonsense nowadays, you’ll never amount to nothin’! Right, Kimie-chan? Ain’t that so?”

The pipe shop granny was now old, her voice having grown so deep it seemed to belong to someone else entirely. Moreover, just then, Kimie plopped down barefoot on the plastered edge of the water spigot and was scrubbing her feet vigorously, so the sound of the water interfered, drowning out the pipe shop granny’s voice. The dim light of the bare bulb by the water spigot cast a white glow on Kimie’s feet.

“What? “Granny. “Granny, what’d you just say?” “Didn’tcha hear? What a troublesome girl. Shime-san here, always...” “What a troublesome girl.—Shime-san here, he’s always……”

The Pipe Shop Granny started to say something but changed tack, “How long you gonna keep washing those feet? The water ain’t free.” “What’re you gonna do if you catch a chill?” “Even if you say that, it feels nice.” With that, Kimie rubbed her feet together, “Since tomorrow’s another day of standing all day, I’d better give myself a massage…” While saying this, when she suddenly looked up at the sky, it was a starry sky. Kimie suddenly let out a shrill voice,

“Shime-san, do you know about this thing called the Andromeda constellation?”

“What’s that? “Anro-ro...? “What a tongue-twister—ain’t never heard of it from the get-go. “Did they come up with some new Western-style dish called that?” “You dummy. “It’s not some Western dish—it’s the name of a star.”

Kimie laughed, wriggling her shoulders, “Well then, what about the Southern Cross…?” “Don’t mock me just ’cause I ain’t educated. But you’ve gone and turned into a proper scholar now, haven’t ya?” “Oh, come on…”

As Kimie wiped her feet, she stuck out her tongue with a playful flick—tomorrow evening she was meeting Jirō-san at Nakanoshima Park. As she eagerly slipped into her geta, a sweet feeling welled up inside her—Oh no, is this what they call love or romance? Hugging her chest while muttering to herself—the procession having apparently ended—Taikichi and Tanegichi came trudging back. Kimie’s chest suddenly ached, and she washed Taikichi’s dust-covered feet.

Taikichi must have been thoroughly exhausted—for there was Shime Danji gazing skyward as he mused, "Hmm... Which direction's that Southern Cross s'posed to appear from?"

he kept saying while gazing up at the sky when— “You idiot! How could the Southern Cross be visible in mainland Japan?!” “Not to brag, but that star there—I saw it every single night when I was in Benguet and Manila, I tell ya.” “Those who’ve seen that star—in all of wide Osaka, there ain’t many besides me, I tell ya! If you wanna see it, go south—go south!” After saying that, he didn’t even attempt to join in the evening chat, crawled up onto the tatami, flopped down heavily, and without touching the chilled somen noodles Kimie had prepared, immediately began snoring.

Kimie had missed her chance to mention meeting Jirō today.

If she told him, Taikichi would surely be both shocked and pleased, she thought, but she couldn't shake the feeling that meeting Jirō without his knowledge was somehow inexcusable.

And yet, she couldn't help wanting to talk about Jirō. While hanging the mosquito net over Taikichi as he lay there, she seriously considered waking him up—of eating the somen noodles together while telling him about Jirō and discussing the planetarium—but seeing Taikichi's sleeping face, limp and snoring, she couldn't bring herself to rouse him. "I'll tell him tomorrow morning." Kimie had muttered this to herself, but when she awoke in the morning, the thought that she was meeting Jirō today flashed through her mind, and once again Kimie ended up failing to mention Jirō.

5 Though exhausted from attending the procession, Taikichi still didn't skip the dawn radio calisthenics in the alley's vacant lot that morning. As usual, he took out his rickshaw at dusk. From Naniwa Bridge where he happened to pass, he spotted Kimie's face aboard a boat with some young man, lit by the vessel's lantern. Had he not been carrying a passenger, he might have abandoned his rickshaw then and there to leap into the river—to tear into that boat with his teeth like a lion. Instead, after dropping off his fare, Taikichi returned straight to Kappa Alley,

“Ah, just as I thought—a girl without parents is no good. No matter how well I tried to raise you, you’ve gone and turned rotten after all.”

As he sat there holding his head in a daze, about an hour passed before Kimie came home restlessly. The moment he saw her face, Taikichi bellowed without a care for what the neighbors might think. “You idiot! “What time do you think it is?! “It’s nearly time for even the radio to sign off, and here you are gallivanting about at night like some flighty young thing. “I didn’t raise you to be such a shameless girl. “Take a good look at the Asahiken girls. “They’re all proper young ladies. “A woman’s got to stay respectable even if she’s slow finding a husband. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

“I was at Nakanoshima.” “Just as I thought.” Taikichi’s eyes briefly flashed with disappointment, “Fooling around in a boat at the park with some boy, were you?”

He glared at her, “Were you watching, Grandpa?”

Kimie’s heart skipped a beat, but now that he knew, she found it easier to mention Jirō after all. “If you’d called out to us then, it would’ve been better. Even Jirō-san would’ve been glad.” “And what stray mutt is this ‘Jirō-san’?” “He’s the son of the man who fixed your umbrella ribs.” Kimie stifled a laugh. “Jirō-bon... that so?” “That’s right.” “Truly Jirō-bon?”

Taikichi's eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you mean I’d lie about something like that?"

Kimie began explaining how she’d met Jirō-bon the previous day, “—Jirō-bon enlarged this for me.”

When she showed him the marathon photo, Taikichi also knew about that photo and— “Well now, it’s been blown up real big, ain’t it?” “So you’re sayin’ Jirō-bon here’s the one who blew this up for real?” “Hmm.” “So Jirō-bon’s become a proper photographer now, eh?” “Did you give him the money?” “You think he’d accept something like that?”

“Why not? “Why won’t he take it? “It’s business, isn’t it? “If we’re the only ones getting it for free, that’s not right, is it? “Make sure you hand it over properly. “After all, it’s a business with slim margins...” “What’re you on about? “It’s not like he’s a photographer by trade. “He just does photography as a hobby.” When Kimie said this, Taikichi “A hobby...?” he interjected, “Then what’s his business? How’s that guy making a living...?”

“He works as a diver.”

When Kimie finished telling him everything she’d heard from Jirō, Taikichi groaned. “He’s quite the worker—you hear? Folks who don’t drive their bodies to work end up spoutin’ nothin’ but lies. That guy there—been drivin’ himself raw since his paperboy days—all ’cause I hammered it proper into ’im.”

Taikichi’s face broke into an ineffably cheerful expression, but then—as if remembering something—his eyes narrowed sharply: Why hadn’t that Jirō-bon come to greet him properly in the alley? Sneaking around to meet only Kimie like this was downright improper. “Even so, Kimie—young men and women got no business clingin’ together in some rickety boat like that.” “And what’d you do if that tub flipped over?” “It’s safe enough.” “Jirō-san’s a diver—even if it did capsize…” “From a diver’s eyes,” he’d told her, “Nakanoshima River’s nothin’ but a gutter ’tween alleys.” “Said Ōhama’s swimmin’ beach was like a puddle to him…”

“You shouldn’t talk back to your elders every damn time. Whether it’s Jirō-bon or Tarō-bon, a young girl got no business cozying up with men like that. Besides, you’ll mess with Jirō-bon’s work. You listening? Next time you meet him – that’s it.”

Even after they entered the mosquito net, Taikichi's scolding continued.

Kimie hung her head as she fanned Taikichi with an uchiwa, but when she suddenly looked up, her face flushed red up to the base of her ears,

“Um… Jirō-san… today, he and I…” The fan’s movement came to a halt. “He said he wants to marry me.”

“…………” The muscles in Taikichi’s face twitched faintly.

A long silence stretched on. The sound of mosquitoes was fierce.

Kimie hurriedly recalled on her lap the conversation she had exchanged with Jirō today at Nakanoshima Park. “Ta-ayan—how long’s he gonna keep pullin’ that rickshaw?” “No matter how high he talks himself up, age’ll catch him in the end...” “Even when I tell him to retire, he just won’t listen. “It’s ’cause I ain’t capable enough...”

“That’s probably not true though...” “Wouldn’t Ta-ayan want you to find a decent husband quick so he can finally retire?”

“Well... “He did say something like that before...” “‘Once you’re settled down,’ he went on, ‘I’m thinking of heading back to Manila one more time...’” “Then all the more reason you should get married sooner.” “Well... “You sure do say such mean things.” “But that’s just how it is, isn’t it? “If there’s someone you like, you should get married quick and put Ta-ayan’s mind at ease—that’s how it’s gotta be.” “How should I know? “I won’t be getting married or anything like that.” “There’s not even a hint of someone I like.” “Besides, even if I were alone, there’s no one these days who’d even take care of Grandfather.” “I won’t get married while Grandfather’s alive.”

“If you say that, you’ll only make Ta-ayan suffer more.” “You think…?” “But there’s no other way than that.” “There’s just no other way.” “It’s not like there’s no way...” “Like, for instance…” “For instance… if you married me...” “You sure do tell jokes like it’s nothing, don’tcha.” “You think this is a joke?” “Well then…?”

“Yeah…”

Recalling this, Kimie raised her face once more, “If it’s Jirō-san…” “If it’s Jirō-san… he’d take care of Grandfather, and the three of us could live together,” she fumbled out.

“Idiot!”

A voice came from within the mosquito net where Taikichi lay. “From now on, no matter what happens—if I meet Jirō-bon, I ain’t backin’ down.” “I’ll tell Jirō-bon the same thing myself.” “Where’s Jirō-bon livin’ now?”

Five days later that night, for some reason, Taikichi suddenly came out with this.

“You’re of age now. Before any bad influences get to you, marry the man your grandfather’s chosen. Whether you like him or not doesn’t matter—marriage isn’t something youngsters decide themselves. To keep it respectable, parents must discuss things properly and follow the steps. I’ve set the meeting for tomorrow morning, so get to bed early tonight.” “I don’t want to, Grandfather.” Kimie was already on the verge of tears.

“Why don’t you want to? What’s he lacking?”

“Well, that’s just it… Even if you spring a matchmaking meeting on me out of the blue like that, I don’t even know what kind of person he is…” “Even if you don’t understand, if Grandfather does, that’s all that matters. You’re not gonna tell me you can’t even handle shoveling manure, are you?” “I haven’t even seen a photo yet…” “Photo this, photo that—what’s so great about a damn photo? That Jirō-bon had to go and drill this photo-crazy nonsense into me...”

Though he was scolding her, only his eyes remained gentle.

“――Ain’t nothin’ needs fixin’. Just get yourself to that matchmakin’ meetin’.”

“……”

Kimie dejectedly savored the briny tears caught in her throat. “Will ya do it or not?” “Which’ll it be?” “Answer me!” “Well? You gonna do it?”

Kimie nodded.

6

The next day, it rained as if on purpose. "What cursed fate makes me go through another matchmaking meeting on this rainy day?"

Kimie sat dejected, regretting how she'd kept her grandfather's orders these five days and not met Jirō. No—the day after their meeting at Nakanoshima Park, once her work ended, she'd hurried straight to their agreed spot only to find Jirō absent. The sadness from that dejected return came raining down into her chest now—she could only assume Grandfather had gone to confront him.

But Taikichi was in high spirits, “Even if it rains, the meeting place is inside the subway, so you won’t get wet.” “How’s that? Your grandpa doesn’t miss a trick, eh?”

“……….”

Taikichi wore tall wooden geta and walked with visible difficulty. Yet when they went down to Namba Station's subway level, waiting at the ticket gate ahead of them stood none other than an unexpected Jirō, accompanied by the Tsurutomi Group's owner in what appeared to be a parental capacity. Kimie stood dumbstruck, unable to believe Jirō could be today's arranged marriage prospect, her face paling so abruptly it seemed to drain of color.

But there was not a trace of resentment in Jirō's eyes; calm yet with an unmatched cheerful expression twitching across his face—no matter how one looked at it, he was today's matchmaking partner. When she realized this, Kimie was suddenly struck with regret at not having applied even a dab of cream for today's meeting. Overcome with both joy and shame, she looked down—and there, catching her eye, lay a single soiled commuter ticket on the ground. She thought this moment, this sight, would remain etched in her memory forever.

After exchanging greetings at the ticket gate with the owner of the Tsurutomi Group taking the lead, they went down the stairs together, and Jirō and the owner boarded the subway bound for Umeda. Kimie and Taikichi saw them off, and just like that, the matchmaking was over. “If you’d just told me that from the start, it would’ve been fine...”

“You didn’t have to make such a fuss,” Kimie pouted slightly while climbing the stairs, “With this dirty face of mine, even the owner of the Tsurutomi Group must be laughing at me.” She had said it while harboring the thought that Jirō would likely be laughing, yet afterward there was none of the expected theatricality—no boisterous drinking revelry. While young Jirō’s demeanor was one thing, both Taikichi and the owner of the Tsurutomi Group wore unexpectedly earnest, sober expressions.

Above all, Taikichi put on his best behavior, his face betraying anxious concern over what would happen if Kimie failed to win the Owner of the Tsurutomi Group’s approval. To Taikichi’s eyes as well, Kimie’s looks appeared above average, but such things—while perhaps mattering to Jirō—should have been of no consequence to the Owner of the Tsurutomi Group. Thus, from Taikichi’s perspective, his belief that he had raised Kimie into a daughter without a single flaw might well have been sheer delusion. By contrast, according to what the Owner of the Tsurutomi Group had told him three days prior, Jirō was first and foremost a man of his age—his diving skills were unmatched, his eye remarkably keen, and in every salvage operation he had ever undertaken after declaring “I’ll dive here,” there had been no failures.

“The job we’re having him do now is just some penny-ante work—I feel bad for Mr. Hanai, truly—but once this wraps up, there’s a real big one coming.” “I can’t spell it out here and now, but it’s the sort of job only Japanese salvage could handle... Yeah, raising a sunken ship.” “For this one, we absolutely need Mr. Hanai’s physicality.”

"Huh," Taikichi marveled, promptly resolving to bring the matter to a close. “And what’s more, “With the times turning this way, someone like Mr. Hanai isn’t the sort to stay forever at a small outfit like ours.” “There may come a day when he’ll have to go overseas—when we’ll need him showing his skills in salvage work.” “That’s why she’s got to be one hell of a capable wife.” “No call to fret there. “I mightn’t look it now, but I’m a man who worked Benguet in the Philippines back when.” “Had my son-in-law die in Manila.” “On that score, I’ve drilled it proper into Kimie.”

Even if it was merely a formality, the reason Taikichi had gone through the matchmaking procedure stemmed partly from his confidence that they should at least take a look at his granddaughter - but even he had grown anxious.

However, the Owner of the Tsurutomi Group—a man of unconventional views—was most impressed precisely because she had come to the matchmaking still wearing her taxi dispatcher uniform. The Owner of the Tsurutomi Group was someone who ran major enterprises and possessed considerable wealth, yet always rode third class on trains. "Even if you take first or second class," he would say, "it doesn't get you there any faster." This remained his steadfast conviction.

And so Jirō and Kimie began their new household in the newly developed area of Ichioka, but on the evening of the wedding held at their new home, there was a bit of a commotion. After the festivities concluded, as Taikichi was about to leave with Shime Danji, Jirō and Kimie stopped them, “Grandpa, won’t you please stay at our house tonight?” “Well, obviously not!” In place of Taikichi, Shime Danji answered. “Having an old fossil like Ta-ayan stick around at you young newlyweds’ place—” “What with the gloominess and him being a nuisance and all.”

Shime Danji had a sharp tongue, but Taikichi did not get angry tonight. "Hmph, hmph," he nodded cheerfully.

“Oh, you’re awful, Shime-san!” Beneath her powder, her cheeks flushed crimson. Jirō too looked slightly abashed, “There’s no need for such formality. “I even prepared bedding thinking you’d stay tonight… And there’s no train back now anyway.” “Then I’ll walk.” “From here to Kappa Alley—how many miles do you think that is?” “Grandpa, if you pity Shime-san going back alone, just let him share your futon...”

“No, I’m going back. No matter how many miles it is, it’s easier than pulling a rickshaw at full tilt. Hey, Shime-san. If I get bored, I’ll listen to your lousy rakugo while we walk.” “I oughta smack you one!”

Shime Danji clenched his fist and held it up above Taikichi’s head. Jirō laughed and said, “In that case, we’ll have you humor us for tonight, but starting tomorrow, you’ll have to come to this house every day. We really need to have Grandpa retire soon, don’t you think, Kimie?”

Then, Taikichi frantically waved his hands. “Don’t talk nonsense. “I’m still nowhere near retirement age. “Like I said the other day, I mean to set out tomorrow if I have to and get myself to Manila. “Kimie’s body’s fully recovered now, and I’ve got no regrets left. “Benguet’s Ta-ayan can finally fulfill his life’s wish and die in Manila!”

When he clenched the hand he had waved, his veins bulged painfully. Noticing this out of the corner of his eye, Jirō—

“What’re you on about? I get why you’d want to go to Manila, Grandpa—but at your age, can you really get there all by yourself? Hey, Shime-san.” “That’s right!” “And besides, Grandpa—times’ve changed from the old days. You really think Japanese folks can just up and go to the Philippines that easy nowadays? The immigration laws’re strict as hell...” “Is there some law sayin’ Benguet’s Ta-ayan ain’t allowed to go to the Philippines?”

“Even if you say there isn’t, the law’s set up that way—there’s no helpin’ it. If you think I’m lyin’, go ask the authorities yourself.” “Is that so?” Taikichi looked disappointed. “And even if you could go, Grandpa—if you went off now, we’d be so lonely we wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves. Hey, Shime-san.” “That’s right, Ta-ayan—Manila’ll manage just fine without you goin’ there. If you go ahead and do that, I’ll end up without a single friend left.”

When even Shime Danji said so, "That’s true too..."

"That’s true too..." Taikichi said in a drained voice. "You all ganged up with your smooth talk and ended up making sure I can’t go to Manila after all." "But I’m telling you now—this is just for now, got it?" "When the time comes I can go, no matter what anyone says, I’ll be first out the gate—so you better believe that’s what I’m planning to do, hear me?"

This slightly eased Taikichi’s heart. “Very well then—we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. At least you’ve given up on Manila for now.” Kimie alternated her gaze between Jirō and Taikichi’s faces. “Then like I said before—you’ll come to this house starting tomorrow. We’ll have a handyman handle your luggage and bring it over.” At this, Taikichi retorted: “Now even you’re telling me to retire? What twisted karma makes me slink out of Kappa Alley like some debtor in the night?”

It was an uncharacteristically forceful tone. “But even so, when I got married, we had a promise that you’d retire and the three of us would live together, didn’t we? If we’re just going to have you keep living in Kappa Alley anyway…” Kimie started to say “I shouldn’t have gotten married,” but caught herself when she saw Jirō’s face.

Jirō's face turned pale. Keeping his face turned aside, Jirō said in a trembling voice.

“There, see? Coming from Kappa Alley to this filthy house must be shameful, right? If it weren’t practically a midnight escape, you wouldn’t come, would you? If that’s how you feel, then don’t bother coming at all.” Jirō had always been quick to anger. “After all, I’m just a worthless bum. If you hate it here so much, I’ll send Kimie back home with you.” The truth was Jirō genuinely cared for Taikichi and wanted them to live together—partly to prove to everyone he’d become responsible enough to support his wife’s grandfather. That’s why the public rejection before Shime Danji cut so deep. Had the rakugo performer not been present, Jirō’s fury might never have erupted.

“What?! Say that again—I dare you!” The voice of “Benguet’s Ta-ayan” emerged after a long interval.

“So when I said I wouldn’t be a burden on you lot, you took it like that, did you? Idiot!”

As the atmosphere grew tense, Shime Danji hurriedly— “Now, now.”

He interjected himself between them and—though even he himself didn't understand what he was saying—babbled on and on until he softened the atmosphere.

“You ever see folks pullin’ sour mugs and glarin’ at each other on their weddin’ night?” “C’mon now—laugh! Quit makin’ those faces!”

When Shime Danji put on a broad grin, finally—first Taikichi, then Jirō—their stiff expressions softened.

Urged by Shime Danji, Taikichi followed behind and stepped outside—it was a moonlit night. The chilly autumn air seeped deeply into their skin. “Ta-ayan, just how old are you anyway?” Shime Danji said. “Sixty-five.” “Who ever heard of a sixty-five-year-old picking fights with youngsters? But then again, why are you so stubbornly refusing to let those two take care of you? Even Kimie must be fretting herself sick right now, thinking she can’t fulfill her filial duties while there’s still time.”

“Didn’t I raise her to take care of me in my old age?” Taikichi muttered.

“I see. So you’re saying that if you become a burden and make Kimie feel obliged, that’d be pitiful.” “That’s part of it, but…”

After that, Taikichi didn’t answer.

The next day, it rained.

Through the rainy town, Taikichi pulled his rickshaw, trotting along.

7

After half a year had passed and their work at Ajigawa River reached a stopping point, the owner of the Tsurutomi Group began undertaking the sunken ship salvage operation off △△ coast that he had long planned. Thinking Jirō would dislike leaving Osaka so soon after his wedding, he asked him to go on-site for the job. Given that the Owner had acted as a parental figure during Jirō’s marriage to Kimie, this should have been an automatic acceptance—yet Jirō hesitated. “There were indeed fifty fathoms there,” he said. “With no family before, I’d have gladly taken the dive... But now that I’ve got a wife, fifty fathoms feels...”

The salvage operation for the sunken ship in △△ waters was something Jirō knew about through hearsay, as a salvage company had previously attempted and failed there.

“It’s certainly dangerous, no doubt about that...” said the owner of the Tsurutomi Group. “It’s dangerous, no doubt—but that’s exactly what makes it worth doing, eh? And look—I don’t mean to lecture you—but these days salvage operations aren’t some money-making scheme for the Tsurutomi Group alone. I know your wife is dear to you, but just this once...” “It’s painful when you put it that way,” Jirō said. “Needless to say, I well understand that salvage work is a matter of national importance. I do understand that, but...”

“So after all, your wife’s that precious to you, eh?”

“No, it’s not just my wife—when I think about Grandfather, I might... Well, given that Grandfather’s the way he is, he’d manage splendidly even if I died—but then again, he’s already lost one son-in-law before…” With that, Jirō was half using it as an excuse for himself. The truth was, Jirō had recently come to dislike his work as a diver more than fear it.

Just recently, at Sakura Bridge intersection, he had met a man he once apprenticed with at a camera shop in Shinagawa. From their sidewalk chat, he learned the man now ran a proper camera store on Sakai-suji. "You should've toughed it out back then." Hearing this, the thought took such fierce hold within him—that maybe it was true—that spending his whole life as some day-rate diver struck him as downright pitiful. Jirō hadn't forgotten Taikichi's teachings about driving one's body to work without letup. But seeing Taikichi still refusing retirement—still wobbling along pulling that rickshaw no matter how often people urged him otherwise—it all started seeming like some mulish sickness. And so Jirō began considering whether he shouldn't aim for an easier trade himself.

Ever since Taikichi realized that the international situation would not permit his trip to Manila, he had become so utterly listless he couldn't even raise his voice. Part of it stemmed from the reassurance of having settled Kimie's future. From Taikichi's perspective, Jirō appeared as a hard worker and an ideal son-in-law. However, when Taikichi heard that Jirō had refused the Tsurutomi Group owner's request, he regained twenty years of youth.

Taikichi came rushing to Jirō’s house with a frantic look, “To think you’ve grown to hate being a diver—what a spineless fellow you are!” “The owner of the Tsurutomi Group said it too—Japan’s gonna end up fighting America and England before long.” “When it comes to salvaging enemy sunken ships, no matter how many bodies you divers have, they’ll never be enough!” “What’re you gonna do—get scared of fifty-fathom seas and quit?” “Just think for once about what kinda dangers I faced every day back in Benguet!” “If your father were alive, he’d smack your head with a Western umbrella!”

he bellowed,

“Don’t you worry about us. Even if somethin’ happens to you, I’ll take care of Kimie. After I die, Kimie’ll keep up bein’ a proper widow. That’s how I raised her to be. No need for frettin’. It’s exactly ’cause I’d think how terrible that’d be—you goin’ round worried like that—that I’m plannin’ to manage alone without weighin’ you down...”

Taikichi kept insisting, "Look at me still pulling this rickshaw," but Jirō was a stubborn man who took after his father. But recognizing that words alone wouldn’t get through to this obstinate fool, Taikichi nevertheless refrained from laying hands on his granddaughter’s husband. Instead—though what possessed him none could say—he took Kimie back to Kappa Alley.

Because it happened in an instant, Jirō had no time to get angry or even say "Wait a minute"—he could only stand there dumbfounded. Kimie was accustomed to Taikichi’s ways.

At the time of Kimie’s wedding, Ota from Asahiken had, as was her custom, developed a headache and taken to her bed for three days. Therefore, under normal circumstances, no one would have rejoiced more excessively at Kimie’s return to Kappa Alley—as if to say I told you so—than Ota of Asahiken. But just then, the Asahiken family was no longer living at the entrance to Kappa Alley. There was a reason they couldn’t stay. To put it bluntly, their youngest daughter—though she was already thirty—Mochiko had become pregnant. Put another way, she had gotten pregnant ahead of her older sisters.

Tamado the benshi would have despaired if he had heard, but he had fled Kappa Alley under cover of night seven years earlier. After talkies rendered his profession obsolete, he had eked out a living through picture-story shows until those too fell from favor. Reduced to idling about in poverty, he abruptly vanished from Kappa Alley one day. Rumor had it someone recently spotted him peddling magic trick toys at a street stall near Umeda. The pregnancy brought an immediate marriage proposal. Naturally it came from the man responsible—who boldly appeared without a matchmaker and asked outright if he might have Mochiko-san.

“There’s such a thing as proper order to things!”

Ota flew into a rage. It was absurd for her to start talking about proper order now of all times. From the very beginning, things had been too thoroughly out of sequence. However, after a moment's thought, the man made his friend act as a matchmaker and sent him over.

However, this so-called friend was another foundry worker just like the man—a fellow who knew nothing of proper etiquette and was, in short, of rather disreputable character. "Our Mochiko graduated from girls' school, you see." Ota spoke in that manner. In that neighborhood during the Taishō era, only a handful of families had sent their daughters to girls' schools. "We didn't send her to girls' school just to have her help with foundry work." "Is that so?"

The matchmaker promptly went home.

Mochiko pressed Ota tearfully.

Ota too, now grasping the situation for the first time, regretted having sent the matchmaker away.

Thereupon, Keisuke met with the man in question once again.

However, the man—being of an artisan disposition—flew into a rage, declaring that his friend, whom he’d gone to the trouble of asking to serve as matchmaker, had been publicly humiliated. “It’s true I’m a foundry worker.” “But you’re also a craftsman who cuts people’s hair, aren’t you?” “It’s just five-minute work, isn’t it?” “Moreover, I’m the father of the child in that woman’s belly!”

Keisuke returned and asked Ota to apologize to the man who'd served as matchmaker. "I ain't bowin' my head to nobody at this age."

Ota flatly refused. “This ain’t the time for sayin’ things like that. Think about Mochiko’s belly.” After being badgered relentlessly, just as Ota had finally steeled herself to apologize—whether fortunately or unfortunately—Mochiko’s suitor came down with appendicitis and abruptly died.

Ota's hair turned pure white. Mochiko's belly was becoming noticeable.

The Asahiken family had moved to the Tanabe area.

“This time, it’s in the suburbs, I tell you. There’s a river flowin’ right in front of the house—scenery’s real nice there, I tell ya. Suburban living ain’t so bad either, I tell ya.”

The term "suburbs" slightly satisfied Ota’s vanity.

Keikichi took the opportunity of moving to Tanabe to quit the barbering business. He might also have intended to avoid having people come and go from the house.

And now, it was said that he was working as a broker for barbershop cosmetics.

“’Twas Ryūkichi-san’s recommendation, I tell ya!”

Tanegichi told Kimie proudly. Kimie remembered that Ryūkichi’s family home had been a wholesaler of barbershop cosmetics, and she found it endearing how Tanegichi had gone out of his way to bring up Asahiken to her. Even after parting with Jirō and returning to Kappa Alley, Kimie surprisingly didn’t show a sad face. She washed the laundry Taikichi had accumulated over the past six months and restitched futons with help from the old woman at the pipe repair shop.

She also cleaned the house of Shime Danji, the bachelor—and during such times—Kimie—

“Here’s Hell’s Third Block—easy going in, no coming back.”

hummed such lines to herself. And at the canal side, “I’ve ended up coming back home after all.” When she spoke up herself, wearing a perfectly unperturbed expression, people were astonished—but Kimie too was not without sharing Taikichi’s simple belief: that if they brought Jirō back to the alley and left him there, he would have no further worries and would rouse himself to start diving again. Of course, operating under the carefree notion that once Jirō returned to diving, Taikichi’s resistance would crumble and they could live together again as before, she now worked diligently to fulfill her filial duties to her grandfather.

However, one day, Chōko unexpectedly showed up in Kappa Alley, grabbed Kimie, and said— “You can’t keep dawdling like this.” “What on earth are you talking about?” “What’s this? Honestly, this is a real mess. Your man came to my place last night and splurged a fortune.” “What?!”

Kimie was surprised. Jirō had always said alcohol caused diver's sickness and never drank a drop—she couldn't wrap her head around how he'd started drinking now. "Since it's my business, I can't not serve drinks, but I can't let your husband throw his money around like that either. It's a real problem now." "What a mess I've gotten myself into." Chōko told her to apologize.

“No, it’s nothing like that.” “I’m truly the one who’s caused you worry.”

When Kimie said that, Chōko made a hesitant face, "But you’ve got to watch yourself too. My husband’s been changing his ways lately, getting more serious-like, so after letting yours drink his fill downstairs, I took him upstairs meaning to give him a talking-to—but when I asked around gradual-like, turns out his drinking isn’t without reason." He had intended to quit diving and take up another job, walking everywhere searching for work but finding nothing suitable; yet he couldn’t bring himself to return to diving out of pride—to top it off, Kimie had left him. Having naturally become discouraged, he started drinking, it was said.

“More than anything, Ta-ayan’s been nursin’ quite the grudge ’bout draggin’ you back here.” “My old man said it too—ain’t nothin’ makes a man lonelier than his wife walkin’ out on him.” “You gotta chew this part over real careful-like, Kimie-chan.” “Then he ain’t got no mind t’ dive back in at all?” With all her hopes dashed, Kimie let out a hollow sigh. “Doubt he’s got that kinda grit left in ’im.” “Way I see it—long as you’re holed up here—pride or no pride—he ain’t divin’ again.”

Chōko said in a heartfelt tone, like someone who’d known hardship. “―Well, if we leave him be like this, he'll only keep carousing more and more. After all, if you don't go back to him…”

As dusk fell, Chōko made her way home through the fine snow. Kimie slipped her hand into her obi and stood lost in thought for a time, but when she finally left the alley, her feet carried her toward the streetcar stop.

As the streetcar passed Taisho Bridge, the snow turned into large, wet flakes falling steadily.

She transferred at Sakaigawa and got off at Shioka 4-chome. The three-chō road from there was already faintly white. Because she hadn’t brought an umbrella, her eyebrows had gotten soaked, but her heart burned fiercely with longing for Jirō.

However, the door was locked. Because she had a spare key, she opened it and went inside. She fumbled to turn on the light and looked around, but there was not a single trace of warmth—only a cold, desolate emptiness.

She lit a fire and waited by the brazier for hours, but Jirō did not return. Wondering where he could be drinking on this snowy night, Kimie remained utterly still. A dog’s distant howl pierced the air. Gradually, the night deepened.

While putting charcoal briquettes into the kotatsu, there came a fierce knocking at the door. When she went to the entrance, there stood a stranger who informed her that her husband had been struck by a truck and was at Ohno Hospital. Kimie stood frozen, then plopped down onto her backside.

8 His life had been saved, but it was a severe injury that would require three months before discharge. “That good-for-nothing bastard! With that attitude of lazing around drinking instead of working—no wonder he got careless and hurt himself!” Upon hearing the news, Taikichi spat these words, but even he couldn’t maintain his angry facade and ended up visiting the hospital daily.

Of course, Kimie stayed in the third-class ward—her sleepless nights continued for five days straight—but after about two weeks, she became able to leave his side for short periods. Now she was hounded by hospital payments. Due to divers' habit of spending whatever they earned as soon as they got it, they had never saved much, and what little they'd put aside had been completely used up during their idle days. The owner of the Tsurutomi Group, whom they relied on, had been away on business off the coast of △△, and to make matters worse, the truck driver who'd hit Jirō turned out to be a forty-year-old woman raising her child alone after her husband's death; upon learning this, they couldn't bring themselves to accept any condolence money.

“It’s not your fault at all.” “My husband had spent his whole life underwater, so he was clumsy on dry land—and what’s more, it was snowing that day.” She forced a smile and shoved the condolence money back across the table.

The female truck driver, full of apologies, came to visit every day.

“If you come every day like this, I’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude—you must be busy yourself, after all…”

As she spoke, it suddenly occurred to Kimie that she might try helping out at the delivery service between nursing shifts. Near Kappa Alley, there was a tiny transport and delivery service called Benriya. They handled deliveries not only of moving supplies but also items brought in from furniture stores, mounting shops, Buddhist altar stores, and the like; however, having heard that they often had to turn down valuable requests these days due to losing their small truck and being short-handed, Kimie promptly tried negotiating with them.

“Well, someone as pretty as you...?” The owner of Benriya was startled, but since delivery work wouldn’t bind her to fixed hours—allowing her to manage it between nursing shifts—and Kimie appeared unexpectedly earnest about being confident in her physical stamina, “Then how ’bout you try ridin’ a bicycle?” The pay was naturally meager, and against the hospital bills searing her back it amounted to pouring water on hot stones, but since having even this was better than nothing at all, Kimie promptly began practicing bicycle riding. One reason was that by working during this labor shortage, she felt she could also serve in place of Jirō, who lay hospitalized and unable to work.

However, the moment Kimie grasped the handlebars, she fell flat on her backside, and a crowd instantly gathered in front of Benriya. Kimie gathered sweat on the bridge of her nose, thrusting out her lower lip repeatedly as she mounted and remounted until finally managing to get moving. “Get outta the way!” “You’ll crash!” “It’s dangerous!” He shouted in a shrill voice; then she fell down and laughed “Ahahaha!”

Even though her husband was injured and hospitalized, the owner of Benriya was astonished at where this brightness could possibly be coming from. Starting the next day, whenever the hospital called Benriya, Kimie would eagerly head out and make her delivery rounds with the cart in tow.

One day, she loaded a Buddhist altar and went to Hagihara Tenjin in Minami Kawachi. After passing through Mikuni in Sakai, on the two-ri uphill road—even though she had left Osaka at nine in the morning—it was already past one in the afternoon when she remained in Nakamozu.

As she recalled her childhood in foster care and opened her lunch under the shade of a tree, the rain began pattering down before suddenly turning into a downpour. She covered the Buddhist altar with her raincoat, pedaled onward drenched to the skin, and finally reached her destination; even as the rain continued to pour during her return journey after delivering the altar, she refused to falter—perhaps because she had endured all manner of hardships since childhood.

When she returned to Osaka, the sun had set. Where a man might have stopped to rest, she went straight to Jian-ji Temple in Sennichimae to pray. While scrubbing the Mizukake Jizō statue with a stiff brush, “Kimie,” a voice called out. Otaka from the old Asahiken stood there with her three daughters—Sadako, Hisae, and Mochiko. Mochiko cradled a baby. “Oh, you’ve had a child?”

When Kimie said this, Otaka broke into a grin, “Take a good look.”

She looked genuinely happy. “Ever since this little one came along, I tell you, my daughters all fight over who gets to hold them—it’s such a lively affair, I tell you.” One could almost see Sadako and Hisae—both over forty—vying over the baby every day with uncharacteristic eagerness. "They won’t let me—the one who should matter most—hold the baby even for a second!"

Mochiko’s voice was bright.

“Even if you say that, you can hold ’em anytime when you’re breastfeeding…” “Right, Hisae?” Sadako made her clean, clear, beautiful eyes dart around as she spoke. “They’re always like this, I tell you. “Even today, when you came for this kid’s worm-charm, the whole family made a huge fuss about it, I tell you.”

As she listened to Otaka’s words, Kimie thought that Mochiko’s unexpected misfortune must be brightening up the entire household.

“Let me hold the baby for a bit too, will you?” She was allowed to hold the baby. “My, what a well-fed little one.” “Oh, well, out in the suburbs, the air’s real good, see.”

Otaka said. After parting ways and returning to the hospital, that night, Kimie sewed maternity clothes by Jirō's bedside. The midwife had said it would be born seven months later. Jirō watched, his eyes growing hot, “Ah, I must’ve been under some spell. Thinking about quitting diving—that was just a moment of weakness. My injured leg’s crying. When I get my body back, it’s crying, telling me to hurry up and dive again.” He muttered as if to himself, then continued earnestly, “I’m making you go through so much hardship too. I’m so sorry,” he said.

He pressed his hands together as if in prayer. “That’s foolish—don’t go saying such distant things now.” Kimie said in her usual tone, then nodded off again and again. Taikichi watched Kimie start working in this manner and was pleased that a poor man’s child was truly different. “That’s some hard work!” He kept repeating his praise and nodded with an air of satisfied approval, but about half a month later, when he suddenly saw Kimie sewing diapers one day, he abruptly shed tears as if realizing, “Ah, I hadn’t known.”

And then, pulling out the post office bankbook from his belly band, he said: “Up until now, I can’t tell you how many times I thought about takin’ this out—takin’ it out—but... Wait, no—if I take it out now an’ you two let your guard down, then it’d be no good. It’d just become dead money. That’s what I thought, so I kept pretendin’ not to see Kimie’s struggles... But when I think about it now, I was a damn fool.” "I had no idea Kimie was pregnant." “Forgive me.” “Don’t go thinkin’ I’m some cruel old grandpa now.” “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have put Kimie on that bicycle.” "I shouldn't've just stood by watchin’ you do such great work without sayin’ a word." “You’ve endured so much.”

Taikichi quickly sniffled back his tears but soon wiped them away with his rough palms, “There’s eight hundred yen here.” “This money was meant for emergencies—no, I’d kept it as travel funds for when I saw Kimie’s future settled proper, figuring I’d visit my dead son-in-law’s grave and finally make it to Manila once that day came. But now things’ve turned out this way, it’s time to use it.” “Use this to pay the hospital bills, and put what’s left toward Kimie’s childbirth and Jirō’s recovery costs.”

“No, I’d be in trouble if you did that for me. You should keep that for your funeral expenses.” When Jirō waved his hand, “Don’t spout such damn nonsense. You think I’m some Benguet Ta-ayan who’d leave behind funeral money?” Taikichi glared. “Then… for your trip to Manila…” “It’s not some foreign land—even without travel funds, when push comes to shove, I’ll swim there if I have to.” Taikichi laughed with his toothless face but soon grew solemn,

“And besides, this money includes what Kimie earned working as a shoe attendant. There ain’t no call to hold back with this cash!” Taikichi shed tears he’d never shown before, plopping down one after another.

9

Jirō was discharged from the hospital before long. And by the time Kimie had given birth, he had completely regained his former strength. The child was a boy, and when they named him Benkichi,

“Benkichi of Benguet, eh?”

Taikichi was filled with deep satisfaction.

The Tsurutomi Group’s sunken ship salvage operation had not yet been completed. When Jirō sent a telegram and received an immediate reply saying “Come at once,” he was about to set off happily when Kimie began fidgeting, “I’ll go with you. To work the pump on the diving boat.” she said.

Jirō was surprised. Pump operation in shallow underwater construction could be managed by a woman working with her husband and about three others, but at ten or twenty fathoms, it became beyond a woman’s strength—a task so grueling it required six to eight men and was commonly called “pump-pushing one-shō rice” labor. “A woman couldn’t handle that.”

When he said that, Kimie, “I’ve been putting air into Grandfather’s rickshaw tires every day until now, so I’m good at pump work.” “Even though I say that… well, it sounds like I’m just saying this because I don’t want to be apart from you…”

She flushed red.

Such a Kimie was unbearably adorable to Jirō. “Then let’s go together,” he said. “Even if you can’t do the pump work, you could handle holding the hose, right?”

Holding the hose was a crucial role involving receiving signals about air pressure levels, a task that divers' wives had traditionally performed. The owner of the Tsurutomi Group had been struggling without competent divers, so when Jirō and Kimie appeared at the site, "Well now, you've finally come around!" he said with relief.

he rejoiced. Jirō, “A man’s gotta get injured once in a while,” laughed and dove into the fifty-fathom depths. The thought of Kimie holding the hose made Jirō feel ready to face any danger—then, like a wave striking his diving suit, came the emotions of Kimie’s father who had died in Manila. As he kept diving, images floated through his mind: Grandfather trundling his rickshaw, Taikichi’s limbs with veins swollen painfully thick. If Grandfather were to tell him to go to Manila like he’d told Kimie’s father, Jirō knew he too would be unable to refuse.

After completing the salvage operation and returning to Osaka, that year too soon came rushing to its end, and the Greater East Asia War began. And then—the Imperial Army had landed near Lingayen Gulf in the Philippines. He couldn’t read about it in the newspapers, but the radio news reached Taikichi’s ears. “Ah, my life’s been worth living after all. “My grandchild’s doing splendidly. “My great-grandson’s growing up strong—I’ve got no regrets left. “My corpse’ll go in the same grave as the Manila son-in-law, eh?”

With that, Taikichi rushed to the prefectural office while shouting loudly, “In truth, I’m what they call ‘Ta-ayan of Benguet’—there’s no one but me fit to guide along Benguet Road! The Imperial Army that landed near Lingayen Bay’ll likely take Benguet Road toward Manila, but I know every bump on that zigzag path and which turns are plain visible from the opposite cliffs. Baguio’s got American barracks—if they go careless down Benguet Road it’ll be dangerous. Make me your guide!” he pleaded.

“We gotta move now or we’ll miss our chance! Get me on that plane right quick!” “Gramps—just how damn old are you?” When the clerk heard Taikichi’s age, he stopped humoring him.

Then, Taikichi suddenly flared up,

“You lot wouldn’t understand! Send out someone who actually understands things! Is the governor here or not?!” With that, Taikichi struck the pose of “Ta-ayan of Benguet,” but immediately grew dizzy—ah, even now tanks were passing that bend on Benguet Road, his son-in-law Shintarou’s grave would end up who-knows-where if loaded onto a ship, he needed to repay two yen to Tatsu the Toothless, Manila was his town, and above all—off he’d go to Manila country, that shining jewel of Japan—then, without so much as a cry, Taikichi collapsed.

The doctor said he couldn’t be saved, but whether it was due to Jirō and Kimie’s blood transfusion taking effect, Taikichi clung tenaciously to life.

Where did such tenacity come from? On a day in the second month of his stubborn hold on life, Shime Danji came to visit Taikichi lying bedridden at Jirō's house.

However, while it was all well and good that Shime Danji had put on a Western suit he never wore, he was shivering violently in an odd pair of shorts despite the lingering cold. "Shime-san, has the spring in your head gone loose?" Kimie, showing no signs of nursing fatigue, asked in this manner—and Shime Danji,

“Not at all. “The thing is, I’ve ended up joining this rakugo entertainment corps from XX Industries that’s headed to the South. “Since I hear it’s hot down south, I’m dressing like this from now on.”

he said, sniffling a runny nose, “My rakugo’ll be a hit down south, won’t it?” he added cheerfully. “You think a washed-up old fool like you can handle the South?” Taikichi listened bitterly, “Manila’s already fallen anyway—so you’re sneakin’ in there too now? Crafty bastard.” “Beat you to it—my apologies,” “The hell d’you mean ‘beat’? “I’m flyin’ by plane—I’ll pass your stinkin’ ship and get there first! “When I land in Manila, Ta-ayan better come greet me—I’ll wipe my crusty eyes good and proper for that. “So—when’re you leavin’?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

When Shime Danji answered, Kimie— “That’s really sudden again. If Grandfather were well, he’d give you a ride to the station in his rickshaw and see you off...” she said. “Nah, don’t mention it,” he replied. “If that were to happen, I’d get a once-in-a-lifetime human-powered ride—terribly fancy that’d be—but why’d Ta-ayan have to go and get sick right now of all times? My teacher, the first Harudanji, used to tour vaudeville theaters in a vermilion-lacquered rickshaw—incredibly lavish that was—but me, I’ve ridden elevators by this age yet never once set foot in one of those human-powered contraptions.”

“On the flip side, your rakugo never got accepted even once here in Japan either, did it?” Even in his sickly weakened state, Taikichi kept up his trademark sharp tongue when dealing with Shime Danji. “But mark my words—it’ll kill down south.” “Ain’t no competition there to speak of.” “Plus this mug of mine’s just right for facing south—sunbaked already!”

“South-facing? What’s this—sounds like you’re house-hunting.” Kimie laughed. But when she saw Taikichi’s painfully emaciated face, she immediately stopped laughing. “When I get there, first thing I’m gonna do is see the Southern Cross and come back—that’s what I’m thinking,” said Shime Danji. “Enough with this ‘Which direction’s the Southern Cross in?’ nonsense—I ain’t gonna spout senile drivel like that,” Taikichi retorted. “Truth is, when I get there and look up at the sky, if I can’t tell which one’s the Southern Cross it’d be shameful as hell—so yesterday I had some fella from our company’s literature department take me to Yotsuhashi’s Electrical Science Museum to see Pla... Pla... Platina...”

“Planetarium.”

Kimie said and blushed. She recalled the day she had first met Jirō. Jirō was away working at the port again today. When he returned, she would tell Shime-san about visiting the planetarium, Kimie thought fleetingly. "That's... that's where they showed me this thing called the Southern Cross."

When Shime Danji spoke, Taikichi’s eyes sparkled.

Around the time Shime Danji was leaving, Taikichi seemed to remember something, “By the way, Mr. Shime—when you get to Manila, look for a dentist called Tatsu the Tooth-Puller and pay him back the two yen I borrowed long ago. “This is the debt from when I had this tooth pulled.” he said, opening his mouth to show his back teeth, but gasped for breath and looked truly pained. “Alright, alright.” “Tooth-Puller Tatsu-san, right?” Shime Danji replied, though he knew full well from a letter his son-in-law Shintarou had sent from Manila over twenty years prior that Tooth-Puller Tatsu had long since died—but faced with this senile state of affairs, even he couldn’t help but feel a pang.

When Shime Danji left, Taikichi suddenly seemed to lose all energy.

10

Two days later, after the planetarium's "Southern Sky" demonstration had concluded at Yotsuhashi Electrical Science Museum's Star Theater, the hall abruptly brightened and the crowd exited, leaving behind an old man in a soiled white jacket still slumped in a corner seat.

“Oh, he’s fallen asleep again.”

Thinking it was a common occurrence where someone had mistaken the starry sky for nighttime and dozed off, the attendant girl approached—

“Excuse me, excuse me. The demonstration has already ended. Excuse me, excuse me.” She shook him, but he remained heavy and still, his face deathly pale. He was dead. It was Taikichi who had crawled out of bed during Kimie’s absence—after she heard Shime Danji’s account of seeing the Southern Cross at Yotsuhashi and went to see off his entertainment corps.

In the coat pocket was a faded letter that Shintarou had sent from Manila, so his identity was quickly determined. Taikichi’s corpse was returned to his original bed. From within the framed marathon commemorative photo on the wall by the pillow, half her face peeking out, Hatsue gazed down at it.

Taikichi's corpse was peaceful.

The old woman from the Rao Exchange Shop came to offer her condolences and rang the Buddhist hymn bell on Taikichi’s chest, “Ta-ayan, go to a good place now.”

When she said this, Kimie raised her face from where it had been pressed against the foot of the bed, “Auntie, Grandfather’s already gone to a good place without us even saying a word.” “He died while looking at the Southern Cross, you know.” “While looking at the Southern Cross he’d always longed to see, he finally went to the Manila he’d always yearned to reach.” “Grandfather’s spirit has already made it to Manila ahead of Mr. Shime.” said Kimie. The sound of the bell wavered.

Jirō suddenly looked at Kimie's profile and, with a jolt, realized how much she resembled Ta-ayan; in that instant, the thought that it was now their turn to go to Manila abruptly surged through him. Ta-ayan had never once explicitly said "Go to Manila to salvage American shipwrecks," but seeing how he—driven by nostalgia for Manila on the very day Shime Danji departed southward—had pushed through grave illness to visit the Star Theater and died while gazing at the Southern Cross, it might as well have been an order without any room for argument: you too must come to Manila. No—this had been decided from the moment you married Kimie. The conviction that this was the Sadoshima Taikichi family’s tradition came to him with visceral force; puffing out his excited chest, his eyes caught on the framed photograph on the wall.

The sound of the bell wavered incessantly.

“Go to a good place now.”

The old woman from the Rao Exchange Shop was crying as she— “Even if you died in the cold, Ta-ayan, you must be nice and warm in some hot country by now, eh?”

“Go to a good place now,” she said. No one laughed. The bell’s ringing woke Benkichi from where he’d been put to sleep, and he began crying. Kimie lifted him up, “The ship’s loaded now, oh How far will it go? Beneath Kizu and Naniwa’s bridges, oh” As she sang in a small voice the lullaby Taikichi had let her ride in his rickshaw to hear during her childhood, tears fell drop after drop.

“Good evening…”

A woman’s voice sounded. Though kept low in a reserved manner, it was still a voice that carried clearly. The moment they heard it, they knew it was Chōko.

“It’s Chōko-san.”

Kimie wiped her tears and, "You—Chōko-san has come," she said to Jirō. "I see." In the instant Jirō briefly recalled the time he had fooled around at Chōryū and been scolded by Chōko and Ryūkichi—

“That’s it—Manila,” he muttered.

He muttered aloud. “Of course Kimie’s coming too.”

After finishing her condolences, Chōko, showing consideration toward the people who had gathered,

“Excuse me...” Having said that, she exchanged a glance with Kimie.

Kimie went upstairs. Chōko followed her up,

“I thought you didn’t have anything proper to wear for the funeral, so I brought this.”

and passed the furoshiki bundle to Kimie. "I’ve caused you so much worry—I’m really sorry." Kimie knew about when Chōko had made that mourning garment. When Ryūkichi’s father’s illness had reached its final stages, Chōko had made it intending to attend the funeral. But having been barred from attending, how deeply Chōko had grieved over it. But that too was now a distant memory, and the daughter who had been a source of Chōko’s worries—Ryūkichi’s daughter—had married at the end of last year, with both Chōko and Ryūkichi attending the wedding together.

While thinking there was likely not a single dark shadow cast over Chōko’s present feelings in lending her this mourning garment, Kimie accepted it.

“You’ve had little connection with your parents, and now Ta-ayan’s been taken from you too—you really have terrible luck.” “But with Jirō-san being so reliable, you must feel reassured, eh?”

After saying that, Chōko continued, "My husband’s been acting downright proper lately—doesn’t touch a drop, hasn’t indulged in fancy foods—though mind you, he still pesters me nightly for those Western-style pancakes from the night stalls."

Chōko spoke of Ryūkichi with visible happiness. That Chōko would come to offer condolences and brag about her husband was so characteristic of her that Kimie, who had spent the entire day unable to smile, finally showed a faint smile.

“Well, it’s just some Western-style pancake…” “S’right, downright pitiful. My husband’s pushin’ fifty already, you know? Still begs me nightly for those kiddie snacks! How undignified!” Chōko had been carrying on like this when she suddenly seemed to remember, “Ain’t there any night stalls round here?” “Hmm…? What day’s today again?”

“Hmm…”

She had been thinking when she suddenly slapped her knee, “Oh right, today’s the Day of the Horse! The Day of the Horse night stalls! If I don’t buy him those Western-style pancakes on my way back, he’ll give me an earful again.” Looking at Chōko—her plump frame radiating carefree energy—Kimie felt momentarily comforted enough to forget Taikichi’s death. But when a distant steam whistle sounded, tears welled up. “You just keep saying whatever you please...” Seeing Kimie’s tears, Chōko finally realized she had overstepped with her thoughtless chatter.

“I should be going now.” Chōko stood up and began descending the stairs, but then spoke again. “Oh, and my husband might come pestering you later, so if there’s any ledger work needing done, best put it aside.” “If it’s just writing things out, he’ll manage quick enough.”

Chōko had long boasted of Ryūkichi’s skillful handwriting. “Oh, that’s very kind. But your household must be busy too, and besides, the neighborhood association folks said they’d handle the bookkeeping and all that.”

When she stood in the entryway, Chōko said, “In that case, I’ll take my leave here and put this on.” With that, she slipped on her black velvet coat. Kimie thought Chōko’s happiness seemed to emanate from that coat and felt somehow reassured. “Goodbye—make sure you take care of yourself properly like Seiraku-san.”

As Chōko opened the entryway door, the sky was reflected in Kimie’s eyes. It was a pouring starry sky.