Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chapter 1 Meiji 1 The eighty-kilometer excavation between Dagupan and Baguio Summit on the Benguet Road connecting Manila and Baguio was such an arduous construction project that Major Kennon, the construction supervisor, became a general at the opening ceremony. The laborers had to work while clambering up the zigzagging 5,000-foot sheer cliffs of Benguet’s mountainside, and when squalls hit, landslides and collapses would instantly occur, crushing them against the rocks in the valley below like flattened lizards. The danger of endemic diseases was, of course, ever-present.

In July of Meiji 35, three years after groundbreaking, having completely exhausted the 700,000-dollar budget with no prospect of completing the project—as if making excuses—, "...the mountainside was extremely steep, with huge rocks jutting out and large trees growing thickly, forcing them to sometimes descend hundreds of meters just to find suitable foundation points for construction." “Moreover, once a pickaxe was struck into such locations, landslides would inevitably occur above, gradually creating cracks that ultimately extended for thousands of meters…”

By the time the chief engineer’s report—declaring “let this suffice to show the extreme difficulty of the project”—was sent to the U.S. Congress, the 1,200 laborers indiscriminately rounded up from native Filipinos to Americans, Chinese, Russians, Spaniards, and other ethnicities had all fled without exception, horrified by the appalling conditions where one death occurred on average for every five meters of construction. However, the home government did not give up. In Baguio—uncommonly cool for the tropics, where winter brought frost—the United States established a summer resort and planned barracks construction; as an ancillary undertaking to these projects, the excavation of Benguet Road became indispensable to American governance following their acquisition of the Philippines.

The construction supervisor was replaced, and a million-dollar budget was added. Perhaps finally realizing the unreliability of these ethnic groups, the newly appointed Major Kennon visited the Japanese consulate in Manila and requested a supply of Japanese laborers. Was it because they knew of the perseverance and hard work of the Japanese who had developed California that they went so far as to bend the laws excluding Japanese immigrants? Japan had also won the war against Qing China... Acting Consul Secretary Iwaya recommended Inaba Usaburō of the Kobe Tōkō Partnership Company to Major Kennon. When Inaba Usaburō visited the government office accompanied by interpreter Nagao Fusanojo, Major Kennon—stating they must not involve immigration laws—entered into an oral contract for a labor supply of 900 general workers, 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 meals and lodging at government expense. Sick workers received free treatment at government hospitals, and the Manila-Dagupan railway fare was covered by the administration—impeccable conditions by any measure.

The first immigrant ship Hong Kong Maru, carrying 125 laborers, entered port in Manila on October 16, Meiji 36 (1903). Some wore work pants, belly bands, gaiters, and straw sandals, with twisted headbands—their disheveled, unsettling appearance resembling charred refugees as they disembarked. White people and Filipinos recoiled at the sight, the Filipino labor union rallied comrades to launch exclusion campaigns, and English-language newspapers sensationalized it as “veterans of the Sino-Japanese War landing to occupy the Philippines.”

Whether aware of this or not, the 125 immigrants rested in Manila for two days before boarding a rickety light railway to Dagupan, from where they proceeded on foot into Benguet’s mountain paths. First, they hired oxcarts to load their luggage and pressed into roadless mountains; with no inns to begin with, when night fell, they sprawled out to camp like refugees. Since they had no pots or pans, they couldn’t cook rice; the bread they’d brought had been mostly devoured by ants, and to top it off, the mosquitoes were relentless.

After enduring two nights of such hardships, when they finally reached the construction site and looked around, the cliffs loomed so close they nearly grazed their noses; below lay nothing but valley depths shrouded in clouds, and at times they were made to work on precarious rocks that served as footholds. Even these men—who had been known as roughnecks on the ship—gasped in shock at the thought of working in such an alien land. But having come this far, they couldn’t turn back to Japan now. They had no travel expenses. Realizing this must be what they meant by clinging to rocks with their teeth, they soon bound their bodies with ropes and descended the cliff.

And then, they would drill holes into the rockface halfway up the mountain and set explosives. The moment they lit the fuses, they pulled on the ropes and clambered up in haste. The instant they did, an explosive roar split their ears, rocks went flying, and already five men—including Murakami Otozo from Wakayama Prefecture—were dead. In a subsequent landslide, thirteen men were buried alive at once.

In November, eight were claimed by cholera. They would dig holes to bury the corpses they found, though sometimes saved effort by burying four or five together in a single hole. It was a simple funeral with neither Buddhist priests nor missionaries present—no incense burned, just pebbles placed as makeshift grave markers while they offered silent prayers. One reason was that holding elaborate funerals daily would have left no time for construction work. Deaths occurred that frequently.

In this manner, their numbers gradually dwindled, and anxious days dragged on—but then, one after another, the second, third... waves of immigrant ships arrived. In Meiji 36 (1903), 648 individuals disembarked in Manila; by Meiji 37 (1904), nearly 1,200 had landed there. With the exception of a few hired by the Manila Railway Company or mines like Marangas and Bataan, nearly all were lured by the advertised daily wage of 1 peso 25 centavos and sent onward to Benguet. In Japan, they had to provide their own meals and could barely earn fifty or sixty sen. One peso was equivalent to one yen. Moreover, in Benguet, meals, lodging, and medicine were all supposedly covered by government expense.

However, upon arriving, they found that what were called lodgings had bamboo pillars with thatched roofs; the earthen floors lacked even a single mat, with round bamboo shelves lined up serving as beds. There were no futons; it was exactly like a pigpen. The food was terrible. The rice was Philippine rice resembling insect-eaten husks, and with no pots or kettles available, they had to cook it in oil cans; even when the bottom burned, the top remained uncooked, casting doubt on whether the promised ration of three-quarters of a pound per person per day was actually provided. The side dishes—promised to include half a catty of beef or pork, half a catty of fish, and a modest amount of onions or other vegetables—amounted to nothing more than two or three small sardines, with eggplant added once every ten days.

They rapidly fell into malnutrition, and worse still, when the rainy season came, their bodies—exhausted from working ten hours daily since dawn while soaked like drowned rats—would collapse onto whole bamboo beds without changing clothes, left exposed to mosquito bites throughout the night. Because of these conditions, those succumbing to beriberi never ceased. In July, August, and September of Meiji 37 alone, ninety-three people died from beriberi—averaging one death per day. Many more perished from malaria, cholera, and dysentery.

There was a hospital as per the contract. But there were no medical facilities whatsoever, and since only quinine appeared to be in ample supply, they were made to take quinine even for dysentery. Moreover, the gruel served at the hospital—which resembled red bean porridge due to being riddled with dead rice weevils—resulted in fewer patients being admitted, while deaths from illness only continued to rise. Everything differed from what had been promised.

Realizing this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, the three hundred members of Tsuruta-gumi finally descended the mountain alongside their foreman. Even so, however, the only places hiring were either the Marabato-Nabato barracks construction projects or unloading coal at Cavite Naval Port—with daily wages a mere eighty centavos, thirty-five of which were deducted for food expenses, making it utterly untenable; moreover, squatting in abandoned Filipino homes to cook their own meals while peddling rice crackers felt akin to begging.

While they were deliberating whether there was any good plan, Sadoshima Tagyoku—who had been dispatched by the Kansai Immigration Association— “Not that I should say this, but us still breathin’ today’s thanks to the gods.” “Thinkin’ on how they dropped dead in that landslide not long back—ain’t it time we head back to Benguet once more?” “If we turn tail here now and let this project go belly-up—how’re them dead souls s’posed to find peace?” “We’re proper Japanese through ’n’ through!”

he said in Osaka dialect. Then, “Damn right! We’ll show ’em how to finish this job proper—the one them Americans, Filipinos, and Germans couldn’t do.” “When we landed at Majida, we should’ve told those bastards causin’ a ruckus tryin’ to drive us out—‘You lot think you could handle this job?’ We’re Japanese, ain’t we!”

Then someone spoke up—and then with the Sanosa-bushi melody,

"One reason was to increase the glory of our radiant nation, Japan—so we braved ten thousand leagues of stormy seas and made our way to Manila." When they began singing this, no one opposed returning to Benguet anymore. And so the construction resumed as before, but Tsuruta-gumi's resolve—to work so their fallen comrades wouldn't die meaningless deaths—quickly spread to the other crews, until a murderous tension hung thick in the air. After burying corpses till dusk, the path back to their hut lay dark before them, and their spirits naturally sank—but when dawn broke with the realization they'd at least survived this day, they silently shouldered their pickaxes with a fierce resolve like men setting out for vengeance.

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

On a night in October of Meiji 37 [1904], a storm swept in. The moment they realized that *Baguio* meant “storm” in Spanish, their hut was blown away, the road crumbled, and the bridge washed out. Still refusing to lose heart, they shivered through the night, then with feet still caked from burying corpses, trudged back to the worksite at dawn—drenched rats with bowed heads. It was during such times that Ota Kyōsaburō, who ran a general store in Manila’s Kappo District, negotiated with American authorities to secure a contract for supplying food provisions to the Benguet immigrants, sending them miso, soy sauce, takuan pickles, umeboshi plums, and other such items.

2

The Benguet Road, spanning a total length of 21 miles and 35 units, was opened on January 29, Meiji 38 (1905)—one year and four months after the Hong Kong Maru had first entered Manila port.

Though there had been over six hundred casualties among fifteen hundred Japanese laborers—all who survived wept on opening day—they took pride that we Japanese had accomplished through our own hands this formidable construction project others failed: Americans spending three years and seven hundred thousand dollars without excavating one kilometer; Filipinos and Chinese faring no better; yet no joy accompanied this pride. To make matters worse when work ended—unemployed all next dawn—their pleas met American authorities' glacial indifference. Descending mountains to Manila inns run by compatriots—idling days drained hard-earned pesos—they wandered Manila’s streets threadbare and stranded until someone’s eyes could no longer endure this sight—

“Everyone, go work in Davao’s hemp fields!” Ota Kyōsaburō had urged them, but Davao was a terrifying wilderness where none lived save the Moro and Bagobo tribes; to make matters worse, the malaria there was even more vicious than in Benguet, and there were no doctors. There were even those who had fled from Davao’s hemp fields to the Benguet Road construction site, so no one was willing to throw away their lives by going to such a place—but Ota persuaded them by insisting, “I’ll bring Japanese doctors along, send miso and vegetables—I won’t do you wrong, so leave it to me.”

“If you think you’ll starve to death like this, then Davao’s a paradise!” When they considered this, they realized their backs couldn’t shield their bellies—survival took precedence. Soon they boarded a battered steamship from Manila, and after nearly twenty days reached Davao. There they began working in hemp fields, their guts chilling at the ominous agong drums echoing from distant forests where Bagobo tribes dwelled. Before long came whispers to their ears: Baguio had been made a Summer Capital, and the Benguet Road now served as a drive route for Americans going to dances.

Realizing they had been wrung dry of blood and sweat for such a purpose, they writhed in bitter frustration; their anger at being abruptly cast aside once the construction ended gnawed at them like grit between teeth, and they seethed—but above all, Sadoshima Tagyoku suddenly turned livid, departed Davao, and rushed into the Manila tattooist Yamamoto Gonnoshirō’s parlor, though what he intended remained unclear. And with the ferocity of the blue dragon raging across his entire back, he terrorized all of Manila—and whenever he saw Americans,

“Hey! The Benguet Road’s got the blood of six hundred people flowin’ through it, I tell ya! You think you can just waltz through here for your damn dances? Think again! Your car tires’ll go flat—be careful, I tell ya! On your way back, a monster like this’ll come slithering out—don’t you dare faint. Want me to chomp your head off in one bite?” The moment he finished demonstrating the monster pose with eerie hand gestures, he suddenly struck the man’s cheek back and forth.

“If you’ve got complaints, come at me anytime. I’m Benguet’s Ta-ayan!” Thus, he was eventually given the nickname “Benguet’s Ta-ayan” and quickly gained notoriety, but because of this, people avoided him, and before long, the small shop he started with his meager savings—selling shaved ice and soft drinks—failed to take off.

Remittances to his hometown weren’t going as planned, and with no clear reason left for having come all the way to the Philippines in the first place, this only drove Tagyoku further into “Benguet’s Ta-ayan”-like behavior. But when influential figures began remarking that “having you in Manila only causes trouble for other Japanese,” he seized on this pretext—claiming concern for the wife and children he’d left behind in mainland 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 money didn't even amount to ten sen, he finally concluded there was no way to return to Osaka where his wife and children lived. Immediately after disembarking, he went to the front desk of a hotel catering to foreigners and begged to be hired as a rickshaw puller—and they, finding value in his ability to speak English, promptly employed him. The wages were meager, but the tips from shuttling customers between the pier and hotel proved unexpectedly substantial. He convinced himself that enduring here for a year would let him bring a proper gift back to Osaka—until then, he'd force himself to forget his family waited just across the bay. But one day about three months later, whether from some aggravation caused by the American he'd picked up at the pier, he suddenly overturned the rickshaw with himself still in it right at the hotel entrance. When he refused to apologize for this outburst, they fired him on the spot.

That night, he returned to Osaka. After six years, he slipped quietly into his home in Kappa Lane, “I’m back now.” However, there was no reply; the house stood hollow and empty, and neither his wife nor his daughter—who should have been eleven this year—were anywhere to be seen.

An ominous thought suddenly came to him, and half-raising his hips beside the fireless brazier, he crouched there when— “Who’s there?” Someone abruptly thrust their face out from the doorway. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Shime?” The face—still plump, with flounder-like puffed cheeks—was one he hadn’t seen in six years, but he recognized it instantly as Shime Danji, who lived next door.

“Well, if it ain’t you? Breaking into someone’s house while they’re out at this hour, rustling around like that—why, I was sure you were a burglar…” Though he only ever served as an opening act, he was still a rakugo storyteller after all—Shime Danji’s way of speaking carried the cadence of the stage, and Tagyoku felt with renewed intensity that he had truly returned to Osaka. “Well, Tagyoku-san, you’ve finally come back. When the hell’d you get back? Well, I say… you’ve been gone nearly six years now.”

“I’ve just got back.” Tagyoku gave a slight gulp,

“―So where’ve they all gone off to? “Not a trace of ’em left, I tell ya.” With a face that seemed to ask if they’d fled in the night, he inquired, “Though your voice I hear, no form appears—truly, you’re like a fart…”

Shime Danji said in a sing-song tone, “'Cause today’s the evening market—they’ve gone there, haven’t they?” “I see.—” Tagyoku—Ah, good—he felt relieved, but suddenly pursed his lips. “It’s so damn cold out—they ain’t gotta go see some night market thing….” “What’re we s’posed to do if the kid catches cold?” “My wife’s a damn fool, I tell ya.” At this, Shime Danji—with a lively expression that seemed to say What nonsense you spoutin’? Listen up, Tagyoku-san!—launched into an animated spiel,

“What do you mean, Otsuru-san’s off gawking at night markets?” “Mrs. Otsuru—she’s gone with Hatsue-chan to sell seven-spice chili powder at the market stalls, I tell ya!” “Huh? Then what’s this?” “They’re runnin’ a stall there now?”

Tagyoku made a face as if he’d bitten into a caterpillar. “Oh, come off it!” “You swanning off to the Philippines and Luzon’s one thing, but you never sent a single red cent…” “I did send money!” “First two-three years, aye?” “After that? Not a damn sen—how’d you think them two left behind kept body and soul together?” “No night stall? They’d have starved clean through!” “Cold-hearted bastard, ain’t ya?” “Even when them fancy double-decker trams started clattering through Minato, Mrs. Otsuru never once went gawking—days bent over toothpick piecework, nights at your precious market, sniffling ‘that miserly old fool’ through her tears while she mixed seven-spice chili powder, I tell ya!”

The moment Tagyoku saw Shime Danji's hand gestures—made with an all-too-convincing expression as he pantomimed mixing seven-spice chili powder—his chest grew hot, and he rushed out into the cold outdoors where pale winds raced. Descending the slope of Tanimachi Ninth District and arriving at the Ogo Night Market in Sennichimae’s backstreets, he found Otsuru perched in a surprisingly tidy stall. Propping up the glass box lid, she sat with her apron-draped knees visible, mixing seven-spice chili powder with reddened, chapped hands. Their daughter Hatsue cradled a white ceramic brazier and gazed blankly up at the sparse foot traffic.

He stood dejectedly before them without saying a word. “Welcome back.”

Having said this and looked up, Otsuru seemed to immediately recognize him as Tagyoku, “You idiot!” “Good day.” “Are you well?” When he addressed her like a stranger, once again— “You idiot!” Otsuru was crying.

That was 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 me letters? If you were coming back, you should’ve just come back…” Otsuru’s hair was dry and disheveled, with chili powder clinging to it. The pungent sting of chili powder hit his nose and eyes, making Tagyoku’s eyes grow moist. “You told me to send them—how the hell was I supposed to? You know damn well I can’t write a single character! Don’t go shamin’ your husband now.”

Tagyoku said in a deliberately angry voice,

“—But Osaka’s cold as hell.” And he approached the brazier Hatsue was holding.

3 From the next day onward, Tagyoku went out alone to the night market and set up a seven-spice chili powder shop. The stall allocation boss, perhaps thinking Tagyoku was a novice,

“The chili stall’s west of the banana pounder’s spot.” When the stall allocation boss tried to assign him the worst spot, Tagyoku suddenly wielded the fearsome presence of “Benguet’s Tagyoku” and got them to switch him to a better location—

“Seven-spice chili here! Seven-spice chili here! Spicy seven-spice chili here! Ah, Japan won! Japan won! Russia lost!” “Ah, seven-spice chili here! Seven-spice chili here!” Because he shouted with a cracked-bell voice—utterly mismatched with the quiet seven-spice shops where elderly couples demurely sold to female customers—the patrons couldn’t calmly specify their preferred spice blends, and naturally, foot traffic dwindled. Perched like a beckoning cat figurine on his stall’s platform, hunched over as he vigorously mixed the seven-spice blend, Tagyoku felt his energy drain away all at once. The brutal labor of Benguet grew strangely nostalgic to him now—this thought, that humans must drive their bodies to work or else their bones would go slack—seared into the blue dragon tattoo on his back until he could no longer bear it. He began stuffing bamboo tubes with recklessly reddened, face-grimacingly spicy chili powder, but soon abandoned the seven-spice shop altogether.

“You’re not planning to go back to the Philippines again, are you?”

Though Otsuru remained anxious, Tagyoku—unable to abandon the two and leave Japan so soon after his return—spent every sen he had saved during three months in Kobe to buy a secondhand rickshaw. With his worn-out body as sole capital, he began pulling the vehicle in a bizarre attire: eschewing the long-sleeved happi coat for a white suit jacket of Manila hemp worn year-round. Even here, the moniker "Benguet's Tagyoku" fit him like a glove. Two summers later, Otsuru succumbed to the cold snap and died.

During Tagyoku’s absence—wondering if the night dew that had soaked her during those four full years of running the stall had settled into her bones, and pitying how she’d never seen the world’s fairs or even known where the double-decker trams ran—Tagyoku wept like a man. But Otsuru, as she lay dying, did not voice those grievances; she merely... “Until Hatsue’s settled proper, mind you don’t go getting swell-headed as ‘Benguet’s Tagyoku,’ strutting about or carelessly skipping off to foreign lands again.” “You’ve always been a right scatterbrain since forever, so watch yourself—no more fool stunts now, you hear?”

In the four-and-a-half-mat room at the back where the western sun blazed in, upon the bedding spread across the floor, she offered her faint-voiced admonitions and breathed her last. When summer came, did Otsuru see through the restless urge in Tagyoku’s gut—incessantly stirred by nostalgia for the Philippines?

Eight years had passed since Otsuru’s death kept him grounded. No matter how many miles he ran pulling his rickshaw each day, he could never escape the cramped streets of Osaka. Every time he took a customer to Tsukaguchi Port, his heart would pound at the sound of the copper gong—and before he knew it, his daughter Hatsue was twenty-one years old. On Setsubun day, Tagyoku caught sight of Hatsue walking shoulder-to-shoulder with a cooper apprentice named Shintarō from the neighborhood up Genshōji slope, her hair tied in a peach-split style that at her age must have felt somewhat self-conscious.

Immediately dragging them into the temple grounds, with the force of having struck Shintarō across the cheek, his hand moved toward Hatsue’s face as well—but thinking it would be a shame to ruin her carefully arranged hair, he managed to hold back his strength this time, leaving Tagyoku so frustrated that his eyes nearly sparked with rage. Tagyoku felt a chill at the thought of what might have become of such a reckless woman left alone had he gone off to the Philippines, but soon after, in the neighborhood marathon competition, Shintarō the cooper took first place.

Shintarō was the caretaker of the youth group, gathering children every night to teach them trumpet in the vacant lot behind Ikukunitama Shrine; the sound of his trumpet carried ten blocks, and besides Tagyoku, he was the only one in the neighborhood who took ten cold baths at the public bathhouse even in winter. Moreover, upon returning from the public bathhouse, he would first drink a glass of ramune at the udon shop—an unexpectedly dutiful man. The day after the marathon race, Tagyoku put an out-of-season folding fan into his usual jacket’s pocket and went to visit the cooper’s master,

“Let’s get right to it...”

...and negotiated the matter of having Shintarō marry Hatsue. "Well, I’ve got no objections myself, but who knows how that Shintarō’s gonna respond."

The cooper’s master said, “What’s there t’say? You—hell, *you*—ain’t even noticed they’ve gone an’ become sweethearts proper behind your back already!” “Ridiculous!” “Honestly—this kinda jingly nonsense you’re spoutin’—”

Tagyoku was fuming, but given that this arrangement hinged on Shintarō’s physical strengths, his expression wasn’t entirely disapproving. Since Shintarō’s apprenticeship period had long since ended, the matter was quickly settled. Before long, Shintarō opened a cooper shop in Tamatsukuri, and as anticipated, he proved to be a hard worker—and of course, the couple got along well. Tagyoku let out a weary sigh and found Kappa Lane growing restless morning and night. But the money Shintarō had borrowed when opening his business still hadn’t been fully repaid. Enduring just a little longer before going to the Philippines, while steadfastly suppressing the restlessness in his gut—a fire broke out next to Shintarō’s house, reducing his newly opened business to ashes.

After being burned out of his home, Shintarō temporarily moved into Tagyoku’s house in Kappa Lane, but he became gaunt, covered his head with a futon, and wore an utterly lifeless expression—like someone listlessly chewing wheat gluten while leaning against a shop curtain. He showed no intention of starting over as a cooper, nor did he make any effort to seek new employment. When someone listened to his incoherent muttering, he was frantically calculating the remaining balance of the loan he had taken for his startup funds.

“You damn fool!” Tagyoku scolded,

“Do you think loafing around at home’ll pay off the debt?” “What the hell d’you plan to do now?” “Show some damn spark!” “Well… what’m I supposed to do?” “At this point, guess I gotta peddle chilled sweets or somethin’—no choice.” “Honest truth—this’s one helluva mess.” In a hollow voice, he mumbled. “Quit your whinin’.” “With that sorry look on your face peddlin’ sweets, they’ll rot clean through…”

Having said that, Tagyoku suddenly made his eyes glint.

“Or if you’re so hellbent on peddlin’ chilled sweets, then haul your ass to Manila.” “Why’d it gotta be Manila…?” Taking the place of Shintarō—who kept silent—Hatsue blurted out in shock,

“Manila’s summer year-round—if you run an ice shop there selling shaved ice and chilled sweets, you could do good business.” “If you’re here in Osaka—you think chilled sweets’ll sell once winter hits?” “In winter, selling sweet sake could work.”

When Hatsue jabbed him with an elbow and Shintarō spoke, Tagyoku made a face as if he'd bitten into something bitter.

“What a spineless thing for a man to say.” “Shintarō—listen sharp now. When you’re young, you gotta haul yourself out to some far-flung place, doesn’t matter where—I’m tellin’ ya.” “I’ll keep Hatsu here under my wing—so get your ass to Manila and make somethin’ of yourself.”

“…………”

As Shintarō hung his head, looking as though he’d been burned out of his home twice over, “You goin’ or not? “Which’s it gonna be?” “Ain’t you gonna answer?” “If you’re sayin’ you ain’t goin’, then I got my own ideas.” “Hatsu, I’ll—”

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

As Hatsue began to say, “Did you forget the will?”— “You shut yer mouth.” “You think I can just stay quiet?!”

Then Shime Danji, who had been listening through the thin wall, entered with shifty eyes and said, “Tagyoku-san, what you’re sayin’ there’s pure nonsense.”

[Shime Danji] threw him a lifeline, but Tagyoku would no longer listen; he forcibly persuaded Shintarō and sent him off to Manila.

Tagyoku went with Hatsue to see him off all the way to Kobe, but “I should get on this ship too…” ……He struggled considerably to suppress his desire to go. Instead, until the copper gong sounded, Tagyoku talked about the Benguet Road and still, “Even if you run an ice shop business, you don’t have to bow your head to American customers.” “Every time you start bowin’ your head all humble-like, remember what I just told you ’bout Benguet.” “And if ya meet that dentist Tatsu the tooth-puller, don’t forget to pay back the two yen I owe ’im.” “Since it’s ’bout that debt from when I had my rotten tooth pulled out, tell ’em Tagyoku-san kindly mentioned it and hand over the two yen.”

he said. “Be careful so you don’t catch cholera, alright?”

Hatsue, flustered, finally managed to say just this much. Through Shime Danji’s arrangements, Hatsue was employed at a vaudeville theater in Shinsekai and worked as a tea server.

Chapter 2: Taishō

1

It was a poverty-stricken, cluttered town—strangely stagnant and as listless as an old hand towel. The corner fruit shop had been in business for generations, its signboard’s characters so faded that even the owner couldn’t make them out.

The liquor store hadn’t moved from that spot for decades.

The public bathhouse never changed hands either. The pharmacy too remained unchanged. A tottering old man was still displaying his pharmacist’s license from decades past in the shop and preparing tonics. 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, it remained the same. The son of the penny candy store now had grandchildren, and the way he planted himself at the storefront to sell his penny treats with prizes had come to take on an air of masterful artistry.

The barbershop’s daughter was already twenty-eight years old and never married. She played the same memorized “Ishidōmaru” on her Chikuzen biwa year-round. She seemed to be doing this to catch the attention of customers coming for haircuts, which only made her seem all the more like a distant, unapproachable girl.

The one-cent tempura shop had been frying tempura at the alleyway entrance for ten years. The old woman from the sweet sake shop had also been running her stall in front of the temple gate for some fifteen years now. Even in summer, she kept it out. The speculators did not flee in the night. The rakugo storyteller too had let six months’ rent pile up and had been settled in the same alley for seventeen years. The alleys were wretchedly numerous—the town must have had roughly seventy or eighty of them. It was, in general, a paupers’ town. More families lived in the back alleys than on the main streets.

Jizō Alley was an eighty-house tenement shaped like the character ※ (an L-shaped right angle). The fifty-house tenement, sandwiched by seven houses in the middle and passing through in a U-shape, was Enoki Alley. There were even tenements with as many as six entrances and exits. Take Tanuki Alley—here, four families shared a single one-story house. Between the Hinomaru Bathhouse and the Asahiken Barbershop lay a cramped alley that dead-ended at a vacant lot. Surrounded in a U-shape by seven rowhouses, this was Kappa Lane.

This vacant lot served as storage for Raoya Pipe Repair Shop’s stalls and night market carts, and the rickshaw left there—despite no sick passengers requiring it—was, of course, Sadoshima Tagyoku’s tool of his trade.

This vacant lot also served as a place to hang laundry. But if the wind blew west, they couldn’t hang anything to dry. The chimney of Hinomaru Bathhouse was perpetually clogged, and in no time at all, the laundry would turn black. The wife of Raoya Pipe Repair Shop, born in Nagoya with a booming voice, once scolded her husband so loudly it carried to the main street, prompting a passing policeman to grow suspicious and peer into the alley—yet all complaints about the chimney fell straight through to Hinomaru Bathhouse’s front desk, whose owner pretended not to hear them.

Moreover, not a single person in the tenement ever formally approached Hinomaru Bathhouse about cleaning the chimney. The owner of Hinomaru Bathhouse had been the landlord of Kappa Lane since the previous generation’s time and was a man who wielded unreasonable authority. Kappa Lane had earned its name from rumors that kappa water imps once dwelled there, though it was also colloquially called Free Alley—a nod to its dirt-cheap rents, as the owner of Hinomaru Bathhouse liked to say. Yet even those paltry sums went perpetually unpaid, and so the tenants could never bring themselves to complain about the chimney either.

In short, it was a paupers' tenement. So, for instance, the only son of the umbrella repair shop was hired as a newspaper delivery boy from his elementary school days and scurried through the town at twilight. If he didn’t finish his deliveries while it was still light, the return through Teramachi would be quietly dark and frightening.

With his ten-year-old legs, on an evening when he descended the stone steps of Takatsu Shrine’s back gate—singing of one day, two days of clear skies, but three days, four days, five days of rain and wind; of paths so rough even a horse would stumble, of field sickness…—he hurried down and arrived before Kuroyakiya’s shop.

“Jirō-bon! Jirō-bon!” He was called from behind. When he turned around, there was Tagyoku—clumsily stuffing blood-stopping paper scraps into his nostrils—grinning as he pulled an empty rickshaw. “Tagyoku-san, you got into another fight again, didn’t ya? Push sales too hard and who knows what’ll happen.” Having said this while deftly tossing the evening paper into the storefronts of two neighboring Kuroyakiya shops, “Well, they went and said such filthy things—that’s why…”

However—when they called Tagyoku a fool, saying “What idiot would send his daughter’s husband off to Manila without learning his lesson, when even after six years there he couldn’t save a single penny?”—he couldn’t very well explain to a child that this was a fight born of sheer rage at their words, “Don’t go tellin’ Hatsu.” he said in a meek voice. “Well…” “What’re we gonna do?” “Here’s Shian no Yotsubashi...” “Don’t get cheeky just ’cause you’re a kid.—But hey, even if a dog barks at ya now, there’s nothin’ left to scare ya anymore, eh?”

“Dogs? I’m already used to ’em.”

“Oh? That’s good.” “Jirō-bon, work as much as you want.” “You see—people gotta work their bodies raw through hardship, or their bones go all slack.” “Just look at us old men.” “Six years back, in Benguet…” They reached Matsuyamachisuji Street. “Tagyoku-san, can’t ya talk ’bout somethin’ else for once?” “Always Benguet this, Benguet that.” “Mr. Shime’s rakugo stories are way funnier.” “Clumsy as I am, he’s a pro.” “Well—tough goin’, ain’t it?” “Want me to give ya a quick ride? Just a smidge?”

“Oh, what’s this? Smooth talker…” “You don’t gotta lay on the flattery—I’ve kept my trap shut ’bout your fight, Tagyoku-san.” And then, because he had to finish delivering quickly or get scolded, as he rushed off, Tagyoku followed along. “Then how ’bout givin’ this old man one evening paper?” When he said this without any real intention, “Even if I did, could you even read it?” “Even if you look at the paper, it ain’t news to you—just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo Chinese characters, right?”

“That’s cruel.” “Who talks like that—so damn poisonous?” “The truth is... I was gonna use the evening paper for stuffing this nose hole...”

……While stuffing the paper back in, when he returned to Kappa Lane, there was a rare letter waiting. When he saw the stamp, he 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 called Toothless Tatsu only to learn he had long since died—when the first letter in a month arrived—unable to wait for his daughter’s return to discover what news it might contain—Tagyoku immediately set out, thinking Shime Danji could read it,

“Mr. Shime! Mr. Shime! Are you out?” “Are ya there?” “Aren’t ya there?”

He called out to his neighbor Shime Danji. Then, from inside the Rao Shikae-ya house came only a voice,

“Mr. Shime’s at the rakugo theater.” “Oh, ’s that so? By the way, ma’am—strange thing to ask—but how’s your letters?” “You got good medicine or somethin’? ’Cause my piles ain’t the sort that stop hurtin’ no matter how much I jaw ’bout ’em.”

When Rao Shikae-ya’s wife, having misheard "characters" as "hemorrhoids," said this, “If you go yellin’ that loud, no wonder it’d hurt!”

At Asahiken Barbershop, customers overheard this and burst into laughter.

2

At Asahiken Barbershop, the year before last during the funeral memorial service, they distributed two hundred bags of Tomoedō’s monaka rice cakes, earning quite a reputation in the neighborhood.

The bags had "Asahiken" printed on them; where one would normally write "Residence of the [Family Name]," they had deliberately done this—undoubtedly for publicity purposes. The deceased was the head of the household, and though the eldest son Keikichi was to inherit the family business, he was still young. The previous head had been a founding member of the barber training school and had even been commissioned as a teacher, making Keikichi's youth as the second-generation successor all the more conspicuous after his father's death. What's more, Keikichi was arrogant—while his skills were passable, his poor customer service left even his mother O-taka uneasy. This likely contributed to her decision to spend lavishly on the memorial service, though her daughter Yoshie's circumstances may have also played a role.

For some reason, she remained distant from marriage prospects. The neighborhood gossip was harsh, saying it was strange she remained unmarried at twenty-six, and her father had worried about this until his dying breath. Moreover, below Yoshie was Sadako, who at twenty-three was nearly the same age as Yoshie. With two such unmarried elder sisters in the household, Keikichi’s bachelorhood at twenty-nine became all the more conspicuous—unlike in business matters, there his youth held no sway. Moreover, there were seventeen-year-old Hisae, thirteen-year-old Keijirō, and ten-year-old Mochiko still waiting in the wings.

While her husband being alive had been one matter, now that she was a widow—her body shrinking under some oppressive sense of shame—even O-taka’s decision to stage such an elaborate memorial service became something one could nod to understanding.

Whether that was the reason or not, for some time after the funeral, O-taka distributed seasoned rice medleys and assorted sushi to the neighborhood every day. The tenement residents were of course delighted. O-taka’s social standing seemed to have improved somewhat, and in that moment, her daughter’s age was momentarily obscured. Yoshie, whether she knew her mother’s heart or not, busily worked and helped with the cooking. She was petite, dressed plainly in sleeveless garments, hunched her back timidly, and had eyes that looked perpetually startled. She wasn’t particularly attractive.

As previously mentioned, she studied the Chikuzen biwa and played *Ishidōmaru* year-round, which led to the misunderstanding that she used this to captivate customers coming for haircuts. Not long after her father’s forty-ninth-day memorial service had concluded, a man in formal attire bearing family crests suddenly arrived—it was a marriage proposal for Yoshie. There was an air of inevitability about it, and O-taka was utterly flustered. Unable to compose herself in the moment, she responded with awkward formality. If she were to lose composure, she would be mocked for her longstanding shame—she couldn’t even muster a happy expression.

The guest remained annoyingly composed, dragging out his small talk preamble.

Thus made impatient, O-taka deliberately feigned a deep yet natural expression and scowled. Then, she had somehow managed to prepare herself to hear the marriage proposal—but once settled, her resolve had unexpectedly hardened into refusal. Without even inquiring about the suitor’s status, she had made up her mind in that manner—though she herself recognized she was being a stubborn mother—but this hadn’t started just now.

...During the time her father had been alive, there had been three marriage proposals for Yoshie.

The suitors had been a head clerk at a kimono fabric store, a clerk at the public market, and a bill collector for the gas company—each progressively lower in status. The father, at every turn, neither agreed nor opposed—in other words, remained indecisive—merely muttering under his breath; but O-taka stepped forward to face the matchmaker, “Isn’t there a difference in social standing?” And so, always in this manner, she would anger the matchmaker, and each time the talks would simply fizzle out. Even the momentary satisfaction, however, later changed into hollow loneliness. That’s why, to Yoshie,

“If you get taken by some no-account man like that, your whole life’ll be ruined…” She would impress this upon her, using it too as a self-rationalization. If it were another’s daughter, that might be one thing—but Yoshie’s father had been the first to attend barbers’ guild meetings in Western attire, and moreover served as a neighborhood association officer… Yet when she heard this latest suitor was a tatami-maker’s journeyman fresh from completing his apprenticeship, O-taka felt vindicated in having resolved beforehand to refuse.

Barbers and tatami makers were both handicraft trades with little real difference between them, but to O-taka, this felt like a humiliating drop in status—which was precisely why she could refuse with such decisive resolve. The matchmaker left in disgust. O-taka remained sitting where she had plopped down, breathing heavily through her shoulders, breathing and breathing, her gaze fixed on a single spot of the tatami mat. Rather than anger, it was more a feeling of having let something slip away—a hole had opened in her heart, as if she were not herself.

"Why did I decide to refuse?" she wondered. Even as she turned it over in her mind, she found no answer—it was ultimately a belated regret—but truth be told, her father had been the one who'd foolishly gotten himself involved as a town council executive. Perhaps if Yoshie had been younger, she might have readily accepted even a tatami-maker’s journeyman—in other words, was this spite? Before long she rose restlessly and went out to the kitchen, where Yoshie kept peering under the hearth. She stuffed newspaper inside and fed firewood into the flames; they roared loudly, casting bright light on Yoshie’s sun-darkened profile. When Yoshie suddenly turned around—her eyes red and blinking from more than just smoke—O-taka watched with an ache in her chest. Yet somehow O-taka’s voice came out—

“Isn’t it awfully smoky in here?” —her tone sharp, as if scolding. After a considerable time had passed, someone came to ask for Sadako, Yoshie’s younger sister. The suitor was an elementary school teacher who—being twenty-nine years old—was four years her senior. “A twenty-five-year-old miss should be quite mature—just what one could wish for,” the matchmaker said, deliberately framing Sadako’s age as advantageous—having clearly grasped O-taka’s temperament. When addressed this way, even O-taka’s stern expression softened; considering he was an elementary school teacher—even if poorly paid—she could honestly admit his social standing seemed reasonably respectable. Even through biased eyes, Sadako’s looks differed little from her sister Yoshie’s; but compared to Yoshie—stocky and sun-darkened—Sadako appeared somewhat more presentable with her slender build and pallid complexion. With such talk being made, her paleness now seemed almost translucent—enough to make one reappraise her anew. Moreover, the suitor was said to have an interest in the shakuhachi flute, which carried an air of refined elegance—the matchmaker had to cement things with this detail to avoid sounding insincere.

The matchmaker gave a free haircut and left. However, just when matters seemed settled and they reached the stage of arranging the meeting, O-taka abruptly refused. The matchmaker was surprised but showed no anger; being a seasoned negotiator, he methodically reasoned that one couldn’t very well marry off the younger sister while leaving the elder unattended—thus maintaining that the connection hadn’t been entirely severed. Yet those words unexpectedly stung O-taka sharply while paradoxically proving effective.

In truth, O-taka had no clear reason substantial enough to refuse; even if she were to claim that she was simply unaccustomed to the ceremoniousness of her daughter’s matchmaking and had thus become timid, that would only make her appear foolishly girlish. Had the matchmaker pressed just a bit more, O-taka might well have put on even a token show of relenting—but now that her sore spot had been so mercilessly prodded, her feelings settled back into their familiar stubbornness. “Ain’t there a difference in social standing?”

Her voice was stubborn. Even the matchmaker became visibly irritated. Two angry faces glared at each other for a time; then, after the matchmaker had left, a clamor of noisy sounds and shouts arose from the kitchen. When a startled O-taka went out to look, Yoshie and Sadako were grappling with each other. O-taka, realizing something with a start, felt her chest tighten and turned pale; the moment she did, she suddenly flew into a rage and shoved the two apart—and it was Yoshie who went tumbling onto the plaster floor. That hadn’t been her intention, but when they fell apart, it was indeed Yoshie who lay there.

When the neighbors came rushing over at the noise, the three of them fell completely silent.

Sadako stormed out. Yoshie huddled trembling, swallowing her sobs before slipping into the tatami room to pluck at her biwa. The notes carried to the shopfront where a customer getting his hair cut gave a knowing hum. The next day, O-taka handed out okara studded with shrimp to the neighbors. When half a year later a match came for nineteen-year-old Hisae, that same business of passing over Yoshie again stood in the way.

Hisae began working at the Kitahama bank, cinching her drum-shaped obi tightly with its clasp and wearing a red kimono with red-thonged geta sandals—a daughter who stood out vividly from her sisters. Furthermore, she wore glasses.

The suitor was a man working at the same bank; given that he was a bank employee, it should have been an opportunity they would leap at without hesitation. However, if they had been working at the same place, she worried the neighborhood’s gossip would deem it a scandalous affair. O-taka originally felt hesitant about sending Hisae out to work for various reasons. The thought of being seen as a household that couldn’t get by without making their daughter work was deeply painful. Therefore, if she were to marry a man working at the same bank, even more gossip would be unavoidable.

That was what O-taka disliked. That said, it was too promising a match to refuse outright, and after much wavering, she ultimately resolved that she couldn’t marry off Hisae before arranging Yoshie’s marriage. She waited half a year until the next marriage proposal came. This time, the proposal came to Keikichi, but since the other party was the daughter of a scroll-mounting shop owner, this too became unresolved before his opinion could even be heard. The matchmaker, however, persevered and made three visits.

But by the third time, “Who’d want to marry into a house with such an old-maid sister-in-law?”

With that parting shot, he clattered back home.

When it was pointed out, O-taka felt a stinging pain in her chest; counting up Keikichi’s age anew, she realized he was thirty.

After turning thirty, Keikichi’s cheeks had rapidly filled out, becoming plump, and due to his trade, the freshly shaven stubble always left a raw, vivid blue shadow. When Keikichi entered from the shop area and abruptly showed that face, “What business did that customer come here for just now?” he asked in a voice that sounded unexpectedly young. “They didn’t come for anything.” O-taka feigned ignorance, “—Is it okay to leave the shop unattended like this?” When she said in a scolding tone, Keikichi furtively retreated back to the shop.

And then, taking over for the apprentice and shaving the customer’s face, he found himself dejectedly peering at his own reflection in the mirror—a face his mother had long since stopped looking up at without particular reason—and felt inexplicably dispirited. But suddenly— “Ain’t ya got any decent medicine?” “These hemorrhoids o’ mine—just talkin’ ’bout ’em makes ’em ache somethin’ fierce!” the voice of the pipe repair shop’s mistress carried over, “Yell that loud and no wonder they hurt!” As the customer laughed, Keikichi too chuckled behind his black celluloid mask,

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Keikichi had stopped his razor and was waiting for the customer’s laughter to subside when Tagyoku suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“Kei-san.” “Hittin’ me up for money again?” “What’re you askin’ to borrow?” “Nah.” “Today ain’t about no razor.” “I need to borrow your notes.” “What a simple request, ain’t it…” Keikichi would read lecture notes and talk to customers about matters like the Privy Council, and had long been found bothersome for his scholarly air.

“I want you to read this one.”

When he handed over the letter from Manila, Keikichi skimmed through it with a razor in one hand. “I suppose it’s a letter from your son-in-law Shintarō, but what’s it sayin’? Manila’s so damn hot—what’s it sayin’ about that?”

Keikichi, however, did not answer, “Tagyoku-san, this here’s damn complicated stuff—ain’t no way I can read this.”

With that, he looked utterly startled. “Damn, this ain’t like you at all, Kei-san! Here, here—let me take a look. I’ll read it myself.” The customer, still lying face up on the barber chair, took the letter from Tagyoku’s hand but immediately let out a gasp and—

“I can’t read it either. “This is damn difficult…” As he said this, he handed it to the apprentice wearing a pair of exceptionally tall geta. “—You try readin’ it.”

“Uh…”

The apprentice’s voice, having begun to read, was intermittently drowned out by the sound of the Chikuzen biwa but burned its way into Tagyoku’s chest. It was a notification letter from Shintarō’s Manila landlady—the son-in-law who had gone there—stating he’d contracted endemic dysentery and died. “The hell you say?” “Can’t ya read that part again?” “The day before yesterday’s…?” “The day before yesterday at 2 AM, he had ultimately passed away beyond all care.” “What’s this ‘seikyo’ supposed t’mean?”

“He’s dead.” The apprentice was sixteen years old. The gas lamps came on, plunging everything into a sudden blue glow. Catching a pale, gaunt reflection of his wretched face in the barbershop’s large mirror, he shuffled outside just as night came slipping down. Tagyoku walked like a hollow man, footsteps dragging through the dark.

3 About half an hour had passed when Tagyoku—having somehow found a customer—was already pulling his rickshaw through the night streets. The Tsutenkaku Tower's Lion Hamigaki advertisement light blinked blue, blue, yellow, its glow dimly blurred. The customer, suspicious of Tagyoku’s unusual demeanor, “Old-timer—what’s goin’ on with ya? Ain’t ya cryin’?” “I’m cryin’.”

“What?”

The customer was startled by the manner of that reply. “—Well now, I’ve gone and ridden in a damn cursed rickshaw, haven’t I?” “I was just about to go listen to rakugo, and now this absurdity!” “What the hell happened here?”

“Oh. “My daughter’s husband, you see, up and died in Manila.”

“Manila…? Manila’s some place I ain’t never heard of—what prefecture’s that in?” “Quit spoutin’ damn foolishness.” While tears plopped down, he explained Manila was the capital of the Philippines. “That so… but hells, what a far-flung place he went to.” “He’d been a marathon runner, but…”

“Is that true…? But how pitiful…” “So, what then?” “And that daughter of yours… does she have any children…?” When asked if there were any, another tear spilled out.

“Well, you do have some, don’t you?” “Well, you do have some, don’t you? Aren’t there any?” “Is it a boy?”

“That’s just it—it hasn’t even been born yet…”

When he dropped off the customer in front of the Shinsekai vaudeville theater, Tagyoku didn’t head back right away but instead called out his daughter Hatsue, who was working at the neighboring vaudeville theater. “Did you need something, Dad?” The Hatsue who emerged had a body shape that made her pregnancy immediately apparent at a glance. Tagyoku hurriedly averted his eyes, “Yeah. Just...” He started to say, but then trailed off, “I just thought I’d listen to Mr. Shime’s rakugo for a bit...”

He said he’d stopped by, then blurted out something he didn’t mean, “That’s unusual for you. You actually felt like listening to that terrible rakugo? If that’s the case, since you’ve got someone watching the rickshaw, hurry up and go listen to it then.” “Nah, I’ll just drop it. Rather than that, I’ve got something to talk to you about.” 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 fine to say it right here? How strange.”

As she said this, she deftly wrapped her apron around her belly and followed along.

When they passed through the bright Shinsekai street cluttered with painted billboards of activity huts, the road suddenly plunged into darkness, and it was Tennoji Park.

The scent of trees shimmered in the darkness, and the pale gaslight washed over the lawn. The museum building loomed blackly on its slight elevation, took on the semblance of a foreign landscape, and Tagyoku thought of his son-in-law Shintarō.

A man in a white sleeveless undershirt was practicing riding a bicycle under the faint glow of electric lamps on the field. His figure writhed like shadow puppetry through gaps in the leaves. Wild beasts roared from the zoo. On the second floor of Radium Hot Springs, what seemed to be an amateur jōruri recital was underway—the faint strains of Ta’s shamisen reached them. An apprentice-like boy played a harmonica. “Drifting ever onward—oh! Where do we fall? North to Siberia, south to Java…”

That song held a vague melancholy even to Tagyoku’s ears nearing fifty. They lined up on the bench and sat down. “Dad, why’d you have to bring me to a place like this?” “What a weird Dad you are.” “If you’ve got something to say, hurry up and say it already.”

When Hatsue said this with some unease, Tagyoku turned sideways, “If you start crying out here in the open.” “People’ll laugh at you—wouldn’t that be embarrassin’?” Hatsue was startled.

“So, is there something I’d have to cry about?” “…………”

Tagyoku remained silent and handed her the letter from Manila. Hatsue stood up and read it by the light of the gas lamp. The instant she did, Hatsue’s consciousness faded; when she came to, she was already lying on Tagyoku’s rickshaw as a sudden pain stabbed through her lower abdomen. Tagyoku realized she had gone into labor; he returned to the alleyway and, enlisting help from the pipe repair shop's mistress, laid Hatsue down before immediately rushing off to bring back a midwife he transported himself. Though premature, the child was saved—but in its place, Hatsue was taken.

“What terrible karma this is.” “Two death certificates and one birth certificate piling up at once—isn’t that just?” Keikichi of Asahiken arrogantly flaunted his legal knowledge and was the only one making a fuss, but all the others remained quiet; even the wife of the pipe repair shop, upon seeing this, kept her voice down.

Even Shime Danji—that indispensable fixture of tenement meetings— “You—tonight’s no ordinary evening, so don’t go spoutin’ such foolishness now.”

Having been definitively shut down, he was making a sullen face, but finding it unbearable to remain silent after all, he shuffled listlessly toward where Tagyoku stood facing the wall, muttering to himself, “Tagyoku-san, this is truly awful—it’s like you’ve got Obon and New Year’s comin’ at ya all at once…” He inadvertently started to say, “Mr. Shime, stop spouting such nonsense!” Keikichi’s voice came. At that, even Shime Danji shrank back for a moment, but after a while, he opened his mouth again,

“But Tagyoku-san, for humans, you know, resignation is crucial.” “You’re one hell of an unlucky man, but you can’t just roll over and take it.” “Don’t go making that dazed look like you’re stepping on tofu in a dream—try to be more cheerful, will you?” “If even you end up bedridden, what’ll we do then?” When spoken to in that manner, Tagyoku, “What nonsense are you spouting, you damn fool?” “If I were to fall ill, what would happen to my granddaughter?” “The Benguet Ta’yan won’t die even if you beat him to death!”

He glared around fiercely with his eyes, but then his voice immediately turned solemn, “—But I know I shouldn’t say this, Mr. Shime—it’s like I killed Shintarō and Hatsue myself,” he said.

About ten days had passed when one night, a summons came from the Sasahara household—the neighborhood’s wealthy family—saying they had something to discuss with Tagyoku. He knotted together two black military sashes and used them to carry his granddaughter Kimie on his back as he went. Since Sasahara ran a sake shop, the moment he stepped inside, a heady aroma enveloped him. Tagyoku—who had sworn off drink after that final cup during his abstinence vow at Ikoma—recalled the taste of liquor, and his body prickled as if going numb. “Terribly rude to call you out at night like this,” came the voice, “but what I need to discuss… well, it’s about that granddaughter of yours…”

After offering the customary condolences, Sasahara broached the subject. “It’s terribly rude to bring this up out of nowhere, but… have you already made arrangements to send that child somewhere?”

“No, there’s nothing like that.”

“Well then, this makes things easier.” “Straight to it then—Tagyoku-san, won’t you give that child to our household?” “Seriously?”

“Do you think I’d lie? As you know, we ain’t got a single child of our own—and I’m the same way, but when it comes to my wife, she loves kids so much she’ll go out of her way to the public bathhouse even though we’ve got one at home, just to hold someone else’s. We’ve had our minds set on adopting for a good while now. It’s not that we don’t have other prospects, but rather than that—well, we thought it’d be better to take in your granddaughter here, whose disposition we understand well. And besides, since that child’s got no parents left, takin’ her in wouldn’t be any sin—might even be for the best.”

“……” With the weight of his granddaughter’s endearing presence on his back, Tagyoku lowered his head and peered frantically into the depths of his heart. He could not help thinking—though he had never actively wished for his granddaughter’s happiness—how much happier this child might be sheltered under a nursemaid’s parasol in such a wealthy household, rather than enduring their lonely back-alley existence of a grandfather and granddaughter alone. But when he considered how Shintarō and Hatsue’s lives flowed within her, he could never bring himself to let go, and as he wavered frantically—

“I shouldn’t say this, but take this as thanks enough. You can drink your precious sake to your heart’s content.”

Sasahara said. The moment he heard this, Tagyoku’s resolve hardened. “Mr. Sasahara, you might think me a stubborn old fool, but I’ve no mind to trade my granddaughter for sake.” “She’s a granddaughter so dear that even if I were to put her in my eye, it wouldn’t hurt—but if I were to trade her for sake and put that in my mouth, my tongue would burn.” “If you put it that way, there’s no discussin’ it then.—Well now, if you’re sayin’ you don’t want me involved, then so be it.” “But Tagyoku-san, even if you’re fine with that, you ought to at least think about the child.” “Is it happier to grow up in Kappa Lane, or—”

The words hit a nerve, but Tagyoku abruptly—

“I’m well aware of that—I know that well enough,” he said, raising his head.

“But Mr. Sasahara—even if she grows up poor in a back alley like a den for raccoon dogs or river imps, it’s still better for this child’s happiness to be raised by her own flesh and blood.” “No—I’ll surely make her happy.”

Having said that, Tagyoku wept like a man. Eventually, he wiped his tears again and again,

“Well now—just hear me out,” “This child’s father too—just ’cause I forced my stubborn ways and sent him off to Manila—ended up dead.” “This child’s mother too got eaten up by that grief, till finally…” “If you say it plain like that, it’s all my doin’.” “From here on out, I’m givin’ my whole life to this granddaughter.” As he spoke, that resolve came trembling into his knees proper, and when he snapped up his gleaming eyes sharp-like, there was Madam Sasahara sitting beside him—

“I can’t fault you for sayin’ that, but can you really raise her alone with just a man’s hands? You—can you make breast milk come out?” “Can’t make any come out. No matter how much she sucks at my chest here, that’s impossible. Same as tryin’ to cram a kid into a gut-bag.” “There now, you see?” “But Madam, milk’s…” When he said this, Sasahara—

“A child raised on milk grows weak.”

he blurted out, “That’s right…” Madam Sasahara revealed a cruel twist to her lips, “Tagyoku-san—if we were to take that child, we’d plan to provide a wet nurse.” “And Tagyoku-san—do you really plan to pull a rickshaw with that child strapped to your back?” “Well then, I’ll be takin’ my leave here.” “You’ve been quite the meddler.” When Tagyoku bowed his head, the head of Kimie on his back also swung limply into the air before lowering.

4

Before long, Tagyoku sent Kimie to a farming family in Minami-Kawachi Sayama as a foster child, and with those same feet that carried her there, he gripped the rickshaw shafts and ran thirty ri in a day. The foster care fee was a hefty twenty yen per month—a sum they’d extorted by preying on his desperation. Moreover, the debts left behind in Osaka by his son-in-law Shintarō still remained unsettled.

Tagyoku’s rickshaw was faster than anyone else’s, and customers would be startled, “Whoa, old man! If you keep runnin’ like that, my eyes’ll go dizzy.” “Can’t ya slow down a little now?” Even when they pleaded, “I’m built to earn double—triple what others make, so I can’t be goin’ slow like that.” “Endure it,” he said, but when Tagyoku turned around, letting the ferocity of his eyes do the talking, he wouldn’t listen.

Around that time, steamboats began plying Osaka's main rivers.

The steamboats moved at speeds no rickshaw could hope to match, and with fares even cheaper—sometimes offering prizes with tickets—the rickshaw pullers naturally suffered devastating blows. They planted red flags on their rickshaws and stubbornly camped out at the steamboat docks, trying to drag away would-be passengers in confrontational stances; when that failed, they resorted to hurling stones at the vessels in acts of violence. But Tagyoku refused to join such comrades, instead striving to establish his reputation as “Benguet’s Tagyoku.” When it came to competing with his fellow pullers for customers, he would brazenly push himself forward with almost shameless intensity, truly living up to his moniker “Benguet’s Tagyoku.” Yet despite this, he abstained completely from alcohol, claiming a vow made to Mount Ikoma, and whenever he lent twenty or thirty sen in small change to his peers, he always demanded interest.

There were times he sold evening papers received from Jiro-bon to customers for one sen, snarling over a mere five rin. One summer came a sumo tour. The yokozuna and all wrestlers were meant to make greeting rounds by rickshaw, but the grand champion alone proved too massive even for a shared carriage; deeming rounds without one too pitiful, they finally wound a thick rope about the yokozuna’s waist, set two rickshaws to pull it, and had the man himself lumber along with “yoisho” grunts to maintain dignity—leaving all Osaka agape.

The newspapers ran photos of the spectacle that even dogs barked at—the rickshaws had been pulled by Tagyoku and his partner Mazo. True to his status as yokozuna, the grand champion’s way of doling out tips was extraordinary, and when Mazo suggested, “How ’bout we hit Tako Ume or Shoben Tango for a drink with this?” Tagyoku refused, “Instead of that, pay me back the money I lent you the other day.” “The interest is eighteen sen—what?! You think eighteen sen’s too much?” “Go ahead—say that one more time!” At such times, Tagyoku’s eyes gleamed with an unusual intensity, and his slightly soiled hemp jacket—likely brought back from Manila—seemed all the more menacing for remaining on his body.

However, about half a month later, one night—

After delivering a performer to the Goryo Literary Theater and on his way back, he bought his granddaughter a toy at Hiranocho’s night market and followed Yokobori until he reached the foot of a bridge—likely Sujikai Bridge or another slanting diagonally over Yokobori River.

“Tagyoku!” he was abruptly called out to and surrounded by five or six rickshaw pullers. “What business?” In that instant, he transformed back into “Benguet’s Tagyoku” and squared his stance— “You’ve gone and stomped all over someone’s territory, eh?” A fist collided with him, painting his vision blood-red.

“What the—?!” he first shed his jacket and shirt in one swift motion and bared his back, “Come at me!” Had the toy clutched in his raised hand not caught his eye, Tagyoku would have thrashed about until his legs shattered right then and there— If I get injured here now… my granddaughter… Tagyoku merely lost consciousness.

Eventually—how much time had passed?—he awoke from a dream of lying on one of Benguet’s round bamboo beds to find himself back on the same bridge, being shaken as though he’d overindulged in awamori.

And so five years passed. When it was time for elementary school, he soon put Kimie in his own rickshaw and brought her back to Kappa Lane—and there she was: a gloomy girl who had grown thin and pale, her straight sleeves crusted stiff with greenish snot. The lack of parents already seemed to weigh on the child’s heart—perhaps causing this listlessness—and seeing this moved him to pity, so he grilled salmon and fed her, “What kinda dish’s this?” she asked in her country dialect. “It’s a fish called salmon.”

“What’s a fish?” “Oh... Then...” Wondering if they hadn’t even let her eat fish back in the countryside, Tagyoku felt tears welling up,

“They scraped up every last bit they could take—and then did they go and subject this child to such hardship?” As he glared around the area, even his eyes lacked their usual ferocity. Kimie thrust her face into the bowl again and again, wolfing down the food, as Tagyoku, moved to tears, “I’m really puttin’ you through so much hardship.” “Gimme some patience.” “But y’know, can’tcha see how much better it is eatin’ meals with your grandpa here than gettin’ shipped off to some strangers?” “Right? Ain’t that right?” “You think so too, don’tcha?”

Even as he said this—whether his words had sunk in or not—she kept picking up and eating rice grains from her lap. On the day of the entrance ceremony, Tagyoku accompanied her.

Deeply impressed by the principal’s address, Tagyoku grabbed the elderly lantern shop owner beside him, “Yep, that’s the principal for ya.” “He sure knows how to talk.” “When it comes down to it, people need learnin’.”

He kept whispering this repeatedly, but when the roll call of new students’ names began, Tagyoku straightened his collar and grew tense.

“Aoki Michiko.” “Present.”

“Inabe Torakichi.” “Present.” “Udagawa Matsu.” “Present.” “Echi Tora.” “Present.”

The names were read out in aiueo order, but all the children responded clearly and properly. They reached the 'Sa' section. “Sasahara Yukio.” “Present.” Sasahara Yukio was the adopted son the Sasahara family had taken in instead of Kimie. Sasahara in the guest seats flushed slightly, but as the child had answered properly, he began nodding repeatedly as though things weren’t entirely amiss.

“Sadoshima Kimie.” “...” Kimie was looking elsewhere. “Miss Sadoshima Kimie.” Tagyoku poked Kimie’s neck, “Answer them!” he whispered, but Kimie remained listless, biting her nails. “Is Miss Sadoshima Kimie not present? “Miss Sadoshima Kimie!” Tagyoku could no longer bear it, “She’s right here, y’hear! She’s here!” “She’s here.” he shouted, raising both hands. Because his voice had come out so shrill, a burst of laughter erupted from the crowd, and some children, startled by the sudden noise, began to cry.

Even Tagyoku flushed crimson; while all the other children were so capable, what would become of this child if she kept growing up like this? His shoulders slumped in defeat.

5

On the day of the entrance ceremony, since her grandfather had accompanied her, she managed to avoid being bullied by anyone, but from the very next day, Kimie was called an orphan and came home crying. However, Tagyoku was out pulling his rickshaw and not home. To eat alone while he was away, she took the cloth from the meal he had set out that morning, ate furtively by herself in the empty house, went to drink water at the communal tap, and as she pressed her tongue against the spout—glancing up—she saw on the main street beyond the alley,

“Little monk in the middle, “Little monk in the middle, why’re you so short? You ate fish at your parents’ memorial vigil, That’s why you’re so damn short!” Then, spinning around in circles and lightly crouching, “Who’s behiiind?” The girls were playing.

Kimie trotted over, “I’m Gramps Tagyoku’s Kimie.” “Let me join?” she pleaded, though what she meant was, “Will you let me join?” They allowed her into the group, but being unfamiliar with the children’s names, she couldn’t guess who stood behind her. “You’re such a dreary little thing,” one girl said. After that, they refused to play with her. “Can’t get through ee— Can’t get through ee— To the sake shop in the alley to buy vinegar. Going’s smooth, smooth— Coming back’s scary, scary—”

“Here’s Hell’s Third District.” Listening to the children’s song behind her, she slunk back into the alley, where Shime Danji would perform rakugo for her out of pity.

However, Kimie did not laugh. "Ain’t my rakugo funny?"

Shime Danji was disappointed,

“Now listen here.” “This rakugo’s called *The Illiterate’s Burden*, see? It’s about folks like me an’ Tagyoku-san here—no learnin’ at all—who get handed some ad flyer。Since none of us can read a lick，we're stumped an' keep passin' it round，goin’，‘Hey，you try readin' it!’ Funny stuff，I tell ya。” “Alright，let's get on with th' rest! Laugh it up!”

And then, he strained out a hoarse voice.— “Come on, you read it.”

“Um, this might sound terribly foolish, but on account of my father’s dying wish, I’ve been refusing these flyers…”

“Well now, refusing such a strange thing—ain’t that something.” “Ain’t nothin’ to be done.” “Pass it on to the next one, ’ey!” “Huh.” “Alright, it’s your turn now. You can read a flyer, can’t ya?” “Read it already!” “Well, I’d been thinking since last autumn that this flyer would end up in my hands.” “My late grandmother—when she took ill last autumn and her time came—called me to her bedside and said: ‘Boy, next year’s your unlucky year.’” “If I wanted to escape this great calamity, she told me to devote myself proper—but since I didn’t heed her counsel, now I’m caught in this unforeseen disaster!”

“Hey, that guy’s cryin’ an’ refusin’.” “You take over!” “Alright—if I read it, that’ll do, right?” “That’s right—just read how they wrote it down.” “Well now, they sure wrote it up fine.” “Hmm.” “Yep, wrote it real good.” “What’s written there—I know damn well what’s written!” “How’s it written? You askin’ me?” “Askin’ how they wrote it’s already too late.” “This ain’t the place for that—this here flyer’s…”

“Hey.” “That guy’s shady too—enough already, enough! Pass it on to the next one, ’ey!” Shime Danji performed with sweat streaming down his dark face, but Kimie shrank into herself and did not laugh. “What a difficult child you are. Won’t ya laugh even a bit?” “Won’t ya laugh?”

“Where’re my Dad and Mom at?”

“Alright then, guess I’ll have to switch over to a human interest story.”

Shime Danji let out a haggard voice.

When evening fell and Shime Danji left for the vaudeville theater, Kimie trudged down Genshōji Slope and dejectedly appeared at Tagyoku’s rickshaw stand.

“What’s wrong? Were ya playin’ at home?” “……” “Ain’t nobody playin’ with ya?”

Without responding to that either, keeping her hand tucked under her arm, she glared at Tagyoku and remained silent as lead. “You shouldn’t be puttin’ your hand there.” Then, she stuck out her hand and bit her nails. “Don’t do filthy things, you idiot!” When he barked, she kicked off her geta, hurled them at the ground, and—without shedding a single tear—fixed Tagyoku with a wide-eyed glare, her pupils rolled back in defiance. Disappointed, Tagyoku began to scold her for the first time, thinking that you, a child, probably wouldn’t understand even if he told you—

“You’re different from other folks’ children—since you got no parents, you gotta…” “...You gotta behave proper an’ be a good listener—waitin’ at home’s gotta be lonely, but if you keep clingin’ to your grandad’s side like this, what’ll you do if I kick the bucket? You gotta grow up strong enough not to feel lonely even alone. Just one more customer, then I’m headin’ back—‘Go home first an’ wait…’” But however much he tried to keep her there—no matter how he pleaded—Kimie wouldn’t comply.

Tagyoku was half-crying, “If that’s the case, will you follow behind Grandad?” “Can you handle it even if it’s tough?” “If running behind the rickshaw is too tough, won’t you cry about it?” And when Tagyoku picked up a passenger and started running, Kimie toddled along after him.

Tagyoku would look back and, pretending to check the lantern flame, stop to wait for Kimie to catch up. When a sympathetic passenger suggested letting her ride in the corner seat, Tagyoku refused—no, making her follow along like this was better for the child’s sake, he tried to reason that if you let kids endure hardships young, it’ll serve them later—but Tagyoku couldn’t find the right words. Even had he managed—no—even had he explained that half of it was out of pity, that he kept her running because he couldn’t bear leaving her alone to feel lonely, or rather that he sensed her Manila-dead father now running alongside her—whether any of this reached the passenger—on the return trip after letting Kimie ride in the emptied rickshaw, Tagyoku droned on about these things at length, but when he suddenly turned around, Kimie lay snoring atop the rickshaw.

“Once loaded onto the ship, How far must we go? Beneath Kizu and Naniwa’s bridges…………” Tagyoku sang a lullaby as he pulled his rickshaw along the edge of the narrow alleyway, where a dim bare bulb burned at the water station—plink-plonk went the dripping water—and suddenly the night felt deeper, as though it were nearly the hour when night-market vendors would return hunched and silent as always; there on the shoji screen flickered the figure of Shime Danji, a solitary man furtively eating his supper.

At school, Kimie performed poorly and spent all her time in the classroom looking around elsewhere. “Miss Sadoshima! If you’re going to stare outside that much, go wait outside the classroom.” Made to stand outside the window, when she abruptly raised her face that had been meekly and steadily looking down, the teacher was writing on the blackboard with his back turned. When the teacher, having finished writing, looked outside the window to let her back into the classroom out of pity, Kimie’s figure was already nowhere to be seen.

The startled teacher rushed out of the classroom and searched everywhere, only to find Kimie slumped dejectedly against a pillar in the corner of the auditorium, fast asleep.

On the wall—when had they been drawn?—were brown-colored pencil sketches of a woman with her hair in a round chignon and a man wearing a silk hat, each labeled: “Kimie’s Mom” “Kimie’s Dad” they were labeled in right-slanting characters. Before long, there was a promotion ceremony. Tagyoku, pulling an empty rickshaw as he happened to pass by, spotted the figure of Kimie emerging from the school gate, carrying a prize. “Didja get a prize? That’s somethin’. For not skippin’ school? Or for hittin’ the books?”

Since she hated going to school every morning—so much that the old woman running the year-round amazake stall in front of Chōganji Temple often had to carry her there—there was no way she could have earned a perfect attendance prize; wondering if it might instead be an award for academic excellence, he broke into a grin and approached, “That’s not it.” Kimie murmured and, in fact, had been entrusted to bring the prize belonging to the daughter of the neighborhood secondhand clothes dealer, who was absent due to illness. The secondhand clothes dealer’s daughter had only attended for one term and had been absent from school ever since, lying in the dimly lit back room; her father was an influential figure in the neighborhood and also served on the school board.

That night, Tagyoku gave Kimie a harsh scolding. "What a pitiful thing you are." "How'm I supposed to put this?" "Dammit all." "What kinda fool can't even make honor roll yet happily brings home some other kid's prize? Where in hell does that exist?" "You damn idiot!" "Don'tcha know what shame feels like?" "Next year you're gonna be an honor student, got me?" "Huh?" "Become an honor student..." "I can't even...?" "Well?" "Ain'tcha gonna answer?" "I ain't cut out fer no honor student stuff." "'Stead o' that, why ain'tcha buyin' air sandals?" "All th' other kids got air sandals on."

“Damn idiot!” “What kinda pitiful child are you?” “Get over here.” “I’m gonna give ya moxibustion!”

Grabbing her and forcibly stripping her naked as he lit the incense stick，Kimie burst into tears. “Have mercy! “Have mercy! Have mercy!” At the sound of her voice，Shime Danji shambled in， “Tagyoku-san，why you makin’ her cry?” “I was fixin’ t’apply moxibustion when she up an’ started bawlin’.”

“Of course,” “In what world d’you find a kid who wouldn’t cry gettin’ moxibustion burned into ’em?” “Even a grown man like me’d be weepin’, and who in their right mind goes outta their way t’do that?!” “Then what the hell’m I supposed t’apply?!” “You fool.” Shime Danji paused to consider,

“—Idiot! Stop tormenting her. First off, you’ve got this bad habit of treating people’s backs like they’re worthless, and that’s no good. If you were a man, it wouldn’t matter what’s on your back. But if you leave moxibustion scars on a girl’s back, who knows how she’ll resent you when she comes of age? What a piece of work you are.” “Even if you say that—c’mon, just listen—Sasahara’s boy and the used-clothes dealer’s kid, they’ve both become honor students, but this kid hasn’t brought home a single prize. Does such a useless wretch even exist in this world?”

“If every kid got prizes like that, first off, the school’s accounts’d go haywire.” “You—the grandpa—can’t even manage a lick o’ reading or writing yourself, yet you’re ragin’ ’cause your grandchild can’t study? What kinda fool does that?” “Hey now, Kimie-chan—Tagyoku-san here ain’t taught you even one character, has he?”

When Shime Danji spoke, Kimie began crying in an even more piercing voice. “Cry, cry.” “Kimie-chan, let’s sleep together at my place tonight.” “If you sleep at this ogre grandpa’s place, you’ll have hell to pay.” “Come on, let’s go, let’s go.”

Tagyoku lacked even the energy to try stopping Shime Danji from taking Kimie away after those words. As he sat gaunt-faced, wondering whether sending her to foster care or raising her alone had been a mistake, he suddenly noticed he was clutching the still-burning incense stick. Tagyoku carried it to the handmade Buddhist altar.

There was Shintarō’s mortuary tablet. As he lit the ritual lamp and stared fixedly at it, the desire came over him with aching clarity—to send Kimie away somewhere, go to Manila, and visit Shintarō’s grave.

From next door came Shime Danji of Hokke,

“Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō! Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō!” and his chants in the style of winter austerities could be heard. “Thump-thump, thump-thump, Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō, thump-thump, thump-thump.”

The one mimicking the drum sounds was Kimie.

Oh, so her mood had improved already—Tagyoku instinctively looked at the wall—but just as he was about to furtively burrow into the futon, he suddenly felt the loneliness of his granddaughter not being beside him. Quietly, the thought settled in his chest: Nights in Benguet had always been spent sleeping with this same desolate feeling.

However, when he suddenly opened his eyes after who knows how long he’d slept, Kimie—who was supposed to be sleeping at Shime Danji’s place—was stealthily burrowing her way over to his side. Tagyoku let out a sigh of relief, feeling a flicker of warmth in his chest,

“Kimie, you came back?” “Oh.” “Grandpa’s place’s better after all, eh?” “Mr. Shime snores—gets bothersome, right? C’mon, get in, get in—deeper inside.” He pulled the futon over Kimie’s head, “—Where d’you like best?” “Mr. Shime’s or Grandpa’s?” “I like Granny’s place in Sayama best.” “Ah!” Even if she were fostered out—was it still better for a kid to sleep by a woman?—Tagyoku stayed wordless awhile, then—

“Even so, you like Grandpa’s place too, don’t you?” “You ain’t gonna do the moxibustion?” “Ain’t doin’ it, ain’t doin’ it.” “Then I like it here.” “Oh... you like it here?”

As he held Kimie steadily, overwhelmed by affection so intense it made his head swim while breathing in the warm scent of her hair, Shime Danji— “Tagyoku-san, this is bad. “Kimie-chan’s gone missing in the middle of the night!”

Wondering if she’d run away from home, he came rushing over in his pajamas, his face drained of blood. “Mr. Shime, what’re you playin’ dumb for?” While deliberately pushing Kimie further under the futon, he said—and Shime Danji finally noticed— “What’s this—she was here after all?” “Ah! I was startled.” “What a terrible child, honestly!” “You snore, so she says it’s awful.” “Grandpa’s place is better, ain’t it, Kimie?” “That’s so cruel—”

As he said this and stepped outside, the splashing sound of Hinomaru Bathhouse draining their tubs and washing the floors reached his ears, and Kappa Lane had deepened into late-night stillness. Was the chicken kept by the old woman from the sweet sake shop deranged? Though dawn had not yet broken, it suddenly let out a shrill, discordant cry. As he listened to that sound, Shime Danji tried to burrow back into his futon when his foot touched something chillingly damp. When he looked, there was a bed-wetting stain.

Ah, so that’s why she’d fled back—Shime Danji suddenly recalled Tagyoku’s delighted face.

6

Late one night, the silent film narrator who rented a room in the lacquer box artisan’s house came in smirking and said in a gravelly voice— “Tagyoku-san, didn’t you give a ride the other day in Shinsekai to a fiftyish woman carrying a shamisen?” “What’s this, talkin’ like some detective? Creepy bastard.” “Mr. Gyokudō, don’t go gettin’ all high and mighty just ’cause ya wear glasses!” “Ha ha ha…”

While pushing up his thick celluloid glasses with his left hand, Tachibana Gyokudō let out a samurai-like laugh, "What do you mean I'm some detective?" "Today, I'm here as a matchmaker!" "Matchmaker...?" "Look here, you've got the wrong house—my granddaughter's only ten, see? If you wanna play matchmaker, go on over to the barber's wife's place." "You can hear me, right? If she does, the woman from Asahiken'll get another headache." Gyokudō, born in Hiroshima, said in his clumsy Osaka accent and blushed slightly.

Recently, Otaka of Asahiken had developed a headache and been bedridden for three days. The Miyake Pharmacy across from Hinomaru Bathhouse had already passed to his son Gisuke’s generation, but when Gisuke’s wife died, leaving behind three children, Otaka immediately rushed over to assist with all the funeral arrangements—so zealously it looked absurd to outsiders. 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 served as an officer in the neighborhood association like Keikichi did. Moreover, being forty-two—the same age as Keikichi—and three years apart from Yoshie, Otaka considered them well-matched in that respect. She secretly observed Yoshie’s small frame while wondering how she’d fare suddenly becoming mother to three children. For years Otaka had forbidden shogi-loving Keikichi from neglecting his business by putting out a bench in front of his shop. But when summer came, she herself carried out the bench. Gisuke was fond of shogi. Though Keikichi held a rural first-dan rank, having been persuaded by Otaka, he let Gisuke win one match out of three.

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 Omi Province. Despite her flat, unattractive face, she slathered on white powder, yet it was said she had graduated from a practical girls’ school.

When the time came for the bride's car to arrive, Yoshie went with Sadaye and Hisae to see it, trailing along in a group. When the car stopped in front of the pharmacy, Yoshie’s eyes opened wide in surprise, taking on an even clearer blue. Her dusky yet fine-pored skin flushed crimson from excitement, giving off a clean impression.

When they returned home, Otaka said, “You don’t need to go see such a pointless thing.” “What an idiot.”

With a sudden flare of heat, she burrowed into the futon.

However, within barely an hour, Otaka stood up, took celebratory food and drink to the pharmacy, and busied herself with helping prepare for the wedding in the pharmacy’s kitchen until late into the night. Then, starting the next day, she claimed to have a headache and stayed in bed for three days. When Otaka saw the Miyake Pharmacy label on the medicine bag Yoshie had bought out of concern, she wept and scolded Yoshie without reason... Gyokudō had mentioned this incident, but he blushed because lately he’d been visiting Asahiken’s back room frequently without any real purpose.

When Gyokudō visited, Yoshie would grow flustered and bring tea. Gyokudō was still thirty-two, while Asahiken’s youngest daughter was twenty; whenever she saw his face, she would jerk her chin up and walk away, leaving him feeling somewhat lonely… Recalling this made Gyokudō blush, but he immediately reverted to his usual smirking face. “So did you give her a ride or not? Which is it?”

he said. “What’re you gonna do askin’ that for, huh?”

As he protested, Kimie, who had been inside the kotatsu, sat up abruptly. "If it's the auntie with the shamisen, she did ride, she did ride."

Kimie said.

“Did I? You’ve got quite the memory.”

When Tagyoku said this, Kimie— “Well I remember. She said I looked pitiful running after her from behind, so she gave me acorn candy.” It was an uncharacteristically clear and brisk voice.

“So it really was like that after all.” Gyokudō nodded exaggeratedly,

“Actually, Tagyoku-san, that old woman is the one who plays shamisen accompaniment at the hall where I’m staying.” “What’s that got to do with anything? Or what—did she leave something behind in the rickshaw? I couldn’t find that thing at all.” “Well, now, listen here.” She was a woman living quietly alone on the second floor of the geta straps shop at the Okura Site, without a husband, children, or any relatives... “Even though she rarely ever rides rickshaws, the fact that she happened to ride yours the other day must be some kind of fate…”

Seeing Kimie toddling after Tagyoku’s rickshaw, she was moved to shinpa-style tears, thinking how her only daughter—lost in the Matsushima fire long ago—would have been about this age, and found Kimie so dear it nearly drove her to steal the child away. She had been thinking all night, and the next day she came to the shack, grabbed anyone she could find, and started talking about the strange rickshaw man and his granddaughter. When Gyokudō heard this and said, “Oh, then I know that man—he lives in my alley,” she thoroughly questioned him about Tagyoku and learned of his lonely life with just him and his granddaughter. She flushed crimson and murmured, “I’m all alone too.” And she said to ask if he would take her as his second wife—she had some savings, she could return to the shack as before or teach shamisen to the neighborhood girls, she would never impose on his household—“Mr. Gyokudō,” please, she pleaded…

“…Despite my age being unbecoming, I’ve been asked to play matchmaker—but with you, Tagyoku-san, it’s no good.” “Taking pity on Kimie-chan’s circumstances—isn’t it admirable she wants to share hardships with you?” “Though mind you, that bitter edge of yours… she’s got quite discerning taste.” When Gyokudō said this, Tagyoku puffed out his cheeks. “When y’say ‘unbecoming for your age,’ yer talkin’ ‘bout yerself.” “Spoutin’ nonsense and mockin’ an old man.” “I’m fifty-four already!”

“But she’s fifty-one herself—I don’t think you need to be so embarrassed about it.” With that, Gyokudō said he’d come again tomorrow, told them to think it over until then, and left. The old woman’s name was Otra. Tagyoku was left dumbfounded. He felt less anger than embarrassment. He felt he had been made fun of, and he had no desire to try recalling what sort of face that old woman had. “Is that Auntie from the other day coming to our house?”

To check the kotatsu’s fire, when Tagyoku peered out from behind the futon, Kimie said softly. “Quit talkin’ like a grown-up and get to bed already.” As he placed Kimie’s small feet on top of the kotatsu, Tagyoku suddenly thought—if that old woman really came out of affection for Kimie, how much happier this child would be. Then he grew strangely restless. Tagyoku imagined what it would be like when that old woman came.

In the morning, the old woman woke while it was still dark and did the cooking. When smoke from the stove began to fill the room, Tagyoku crawled out from under the kotatsu. He lit a lamp at the Buddhist altar, woke Kimie, washed their faces together at the communal water area, and when they returned home, the old woman had already prepared breakfast. When they finished eating, she had Kimie prepare for the day’s lessons. (The old woman might be able to read a little.) Once that was done, Kimie was taken to school by the old woman. (Up until then, the sweet sake shop’s old woman had been taking her, but her back had grown bent with age, and she sometimes found it bothersome.) During that time, Tagyoku maintained his rickshaw. In the alley, the morning bustle began. After attending to this for a short while, Tagyoku pulled his rickshaw and went out. As he passed by the elementary school, the children’s singing could be heard. In the midst of it, he stopped for a moment, trying to catch Kimie’s voice, and listened intently. And then, he went to the rickshaw stand.

During Tagyoku’s absence, the old woman would tidy up around the place, do the laundry, and mend the tears in Kimie’s kimono. When Kimie came home from school, the old woman would play with her. She would take her to the public bath as well. She would oversee her studies. At night, she would sleep beside her. Even when Kimie fell asleep, the old woman would not go to sleep. She was waiting for Tagyoku to return. When Tagyoku returned, they would eat supper together while looking at Kimie’s sleeping face. At times, they would invite Shime Danji from next door and treat him to a meal. When supper ended, they would light a lamp before bed at the Buddhist altar…

Tagyoku's imagination stretched like a rokurokubi's neck, but when it reached the matter of the Buddhist altar, a pang shot through his chest. "This ain't somethin' I can decide alone." "Gotta consult the tablets now."

Tagyoku sat before the Buddhist altar. Among the three mortuary tablets of Otsuru, Hatsue, and Shintarō, for some reason it was Shintarō’s tablet that stood out most vividly to his eyes. Thinking of how Shintarō had died alone in Manila made his chest ache with sorrow. The memory of punching Shintarō’s face at the temple atop Genshōji Slope also resurfaced. “Well then, if you’re tellin’ me to go like that, I’ll head to Manila.”

The obedient words Shintarō had spoken in compliance abruptly echoed in the depths of his ears. The parent and child’s emotions pierced his skin. Then, Tagyoku no longer wanted to let a single other soul into this house. It seemed to him that Otsuru and Hatsue must also be wishing for that.

These three live on within Kimie—this thought came to him anew. “It’s only by living just the two of us, Kimie and me, with no one else, that Shintarō’s death in Manila will come to mean something.”

Tagyoku muttered.

The next day, when Gyokudō came, Tagyoku— “I’m also a man who was called Tagyoku of Benguet.” “If I can’t even raise a single granddaughter properly, havin’ people think I took some troublesome old woman as my second wife would ruin my reputation.” —and with that, he refused.

However, the next morning, as Tagyoku squatted in front of the stove cooking rice,

“Is this Mr. Sadoshima’s house?”

Along with that voice, the old woman came in. And pushing aside the dumbfounded Tagyoku, “I’ll cook.” Squatting in front of the stove, she pulled out a cord from her kimono fold and tied a work sash across her chest, “You step back and keep your hands in your sleeves.” He had heard she was fifty-one, but with the stove fire casting its glow on her face, she looked much younger than that. “You—bargin’ into someone’s house first thing in the mornin’—what d’you think you’re doin’?”

When Tagyoku finally managed to say just that,

“I came to help,” she feigned ignorance. Since his opponent was a woman, he couldn’t very well show his “Benguet no Ta-ayan” side, “I don’t recall hiring any help.” “Ah, I don’t recall being asked either, but it’s not like I’m after your money. No need to keep barkin’ at me like that.” Old Woman Otra was half-ready for a fight. In the midst of their back-and-forth, Kimie opened her eyes. A small yawn suddenly stopped.

“Ah, Auntie.” Kimie had remembered through the candy. “Kimie-chan, you awake?” The old woman had somehow come to know Kimie’s name, “I’ll cook up some rice now, so you wait here, alright?”

“Auntie, are you coming to our house from today on?” Kimie got up and came out. “Well…?” The old woman looked up at Tagyoku’s face. Tagyoku wiped his nose in a deliberately messy way and turned away. “Kimie, it’s still early. Go back to sleep.” “Go back to sleep!” Tagyoku scolded Kimie, but when she received the candy that had been tucked beforehand in the old woman’s sleeve, he no longer scolded her. When the rice was cooked, Otra tried to transfer it to the rice tub. Sadoshima Tagyoku, 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—won’t you get out?!” he said. Because his demeanor was quite harsh, Otra—startled—went home.

But it seemed she had come stealthily after Tagyoku went out pulling his rickshaw. According to what Tagyoku clearly overheard in the men’s bathhouse—where the old woman from Rauchikae-ya was telling Taneguchi’s wife from the one-cent tempura stall in the women’s bath at night—Otra would wait for Kimie at the alley entrance when she returned from school, enter together with her, feed her meals, take her to Sennichimae, and keep her company until just before Tagyoku came home.

“Did you go to Sennichimae today?” As he washed Kimie’s belly, Tagyoku asked, “I did.” “Where in Sennichimae did you go?” “I went to a place called Rakutenchi.” “Was it fun?” “Yeah, it was fun.” “Auntie was crying.” “Why’d she?” “She said the play was pitiful and cried.—But it was really fun.” With soap applied under her chin and being washed, Kimie said.

Tagyoku tightened his grip on the hand towel and, "Why'd you keep quiet about it till now?" "Did she say that...?" "Auntie told you to keep quiet about it, didn't she?" Kimie nodded. "What a hopeless old woman." "It hurts! If you scrub like that, it hurts!" When Kimie cried out, Tagyoku loosened his grip and resigned himself to letting matters with Otra take their course. Then, considering how Kimie had finally grown attached to Otra and become fond of her, he thought it too cruel to tear them apart heartlessly; when Otra came again the next morning to cook rice, Tagyoku no longer spoke harshly.

Otra was efficient and, before transferring the cooked rice to the rice container, did not forget to make an offering at the Buddhist altar. Otra also took Kimie to school.

As Tagyoku was leaving, “Old woman, I’m countin’ on you to look after Kimie.” he said. “Don’t you worry, don’t you worry.” Otra’s eyes sparkled as she resolved to take another day off from the theater. “But I’ll have you leave before I come back in the evening. And there’s the neighbors to consider.”

Tagyoku said without looking at her face. Thus he couldn't tell what expression Otra had made. This continued for five days. Okata of Asahiken had long been plagued by a troublesome habit—whenever she witnessed a neighbor taking a bride or marrying off a daughter on any given day, she would invariably develop a headache. When this happened over Otra's situation, she took to her bed for two days. Because Gyokudō had pitifully served as matchmaker, it soured Okata's disposition; even when he went to Asahiken's back room, he wasn't met with welcoming faces.

7

It was the day when Otra was finally going to bring her belongings from Mikuraato the next day or so.

Even Tagyoku felt restless; having wrapped up his rickshaw earlier than usual and returned to the alley before evening, he heard the sound of a shamisen. “From a high mountain, When you peer into the valley’s depths, Melons and eggplants’ ……………” When he realized that the one singing along to the shamisen was Kimie, Tagyoku suddenly rushed into the house and struck Otra. “Do you intend to make this child a geisha?” “What kind of nonsense are you pulling here?” Otra turned pale.

“Ah, it hurts! That’s too rough! Ain’t nothin’ wrong with teachin’ her shamisen?” She glared fiercely and lashed out, “Ain’t you heard ‘a skill saves your skin’? If I teach her the shamisen proper like this, then when this child grows up and the time comes…” “……Are you sayin’ she can become a geisha or Yotona? Idiot! You damn fool!” Tagyoku flew into a fiery rage. “So you went and did this with such a half-baked idea? Listen up. This child here—come hell or high water—is Benguet Tagyoku’s granddaughter. Even without that, I’ll raise her proper so she can make her way just fine. I can’t leave this child’s matters to a pathetic wretch like you anymore. Get out. Get out! If you leave after dark, people’ll mistake it for fleein’ under cover of night. Take your belongings and get out while it’s still light.”

“Oh, I’ll go then.”

Otra packed her belongings and truly left. “Auntie, where are you goin’?” As Kimie tried to follow after her, Tagyoku said in a voice more terrifying than ever— “Idiot! Don’t you dare follow her.” “I’ll make you regret it!” After that, Otra never showed her face again, and Tagyoku remained unbothered. Asahiken’s Okata, agitated about something, cooked okara and brought it over. However, because Tagyoku had spoken ill of geisha and Yotona, a dispute arose between him and Taneguchi from the same alley.

Taneguchi fried one-sen tempura—burdock root, lotus root, potatoes, mitsuba, konjac, red ginger, dried squid, sardines, and more—at the entrance to Kappa Alley. Though his flavor had earned him quite a reputation, it seemed this very quality was causing him losses. Whether it was lotus root or konjac, they were cut quite thick—it appeared they wouldn’t meet his wife Otsu’s standards—but Taneguchi set aside his abacus and considered, “There’s no way I’d lose money selling something that costs seven rin for a sen.” However, the cost of charcoal and soy sauce had not been included in his abacus calculations.

Naturally, tempura alone wasn’t enough to get by, so whenever there was a funeral in the neighborhood, he was hired as a palanquin bearer. At the summer festival of the Ikukunitama Shrine—their local guardian deity—when he wore a suikan hunting robe and paraded carrying the shrine’s large lantern, his daily wage became ninety sen; when he wore armor, it rose by thirty sen. While Taneguchi was away, Otsu fried the tempura, but since she economized on ingredients as much as she pleased, when Taneguchi saw it on his way by during the festival day, he felt ashamed, and sweat ran beneath his armor.

Because of this disposition, Taneguchi was perpetually poor, and loan sharks came in and out every day. Borrowing 100 yen with thirty days’ interest deducted upfront left him receiving only 60 yen, and when night fell, they would come by bicycle and seize the day’s earnings. They were what people called loan sharks. When Taneguchi saw the loan sharks, he would look down and suddenly pretend to knead udon dough, but the neighborhood children also, “Uncle, hurry up and fry the burdock already!” Without even a moment’s pause,

“Alright, I’ll fry ’em up now!” Even so, he just kept scrubbing vigorously at the bottom of the mortar, not even noticing the snot that had fallen. Since Taneguchi was hopeless to deal with, they went to the back alley to confront Otsu, who—unlike Taneguchi—kept sharp watch on every move the moneylenders made. When their collection gestures went too far—if they so much as tapped the floorboards—Otsu would snap, “You go tappin’ the floorboards of someone else’s house—you think that’s proper?”

Her face twisted in anger.

“That’s where the household god resides, I tell ya.”

She had intended it as an act, but grew so agitated that her voice quivered with tears, leaving the moneylender somewhat startled. "Quit your yappin'. I never knocked nothin'," "I ain't done no knockin' at all, I tell ya."

Rather than backing down, he switched to defiance, and after two or three rounds of heated exchange, Otsu found herself outargued. Unable to send him away empty-handed, she had no choice but to hand over fifty sen or one yen—each coin feeling like a slice from her flesh. Even so, just once, there was a debt collector who—when confronted on the spot about the floorboards—suddenly prostrated himself in abject apology, fleeing in disarray out of sheer mortification. Without fail, Otsu would later direct her complaints about such matters to daughter Chōko.

Chōko found her mother both embarrassing and pitiable. So when she graduated from elementary school and was immediately sent off to work as a maid at a secondhand clothing store in Nihonbashi-suji, she didn’t voice a single complaint. On the contrary, for over half a year—it’s remarkable she endured as long as she did—she worked diligently of her own accord. Otsu would occasionally come by to ask for ten- and twenty-sen coins.

However, one winter morning, after making a detour on his way back from shopping at Kuromon Market, Taneguchi happened to pass by the secondhand clothing store. There he saw Chōko’s hands—chapped and bleeding—as she swept the storefront, a sight that pained him deeply. Without hesitation, he marched inside to confront them and brought her back home. “You’ve endured enough.” “I won’t make you suffer through such work again.” Though Taneguchi kept repeating this to Chōko, she was soon made to work as a maid where demanded—of all places, at a teahouse in Kitashinchi. Unlike most tenement children, Chōko’s delicate features were neatly proportioned, her complexion fair—the labor broker’s sharp eye proved accurate indeed. After several years of apprenticeship as a junior maid, she made her formal debut. That had been three years prior.

However, Taneguchi had never intended from the start to make Chōko do such things—in fact, when Chōko herself expressed a desire to pursue that path, he had been so shocked he opposed it—which made Tagyoku’s words to Otra cut even deeper into Taneguchi’s ears.

Taneguchi slid open the door to Tagyoku’s house and immediately bellowed, “Tagyoku-san, if you’ve been sittin’ there listenin’ all this time without a word, you’ve been spoutin’ some pretty high-and-mighty talk.” “What the hell’re you yappin’ about outta nowhere?” “Soundin’ like some hag from a secondhand pipe shop…” “You were takin’ digs at my family, weren’t ya…” “What’re you on about?” “The hell… I can’t make heads or tails of this.” “Well, enough already!” “Enough already!” He remained standing rigidly,

“Put your hand on your chest and think real hard.”

He had meant to put on his fiercest glare, but Taneguchi was at heart a timid man—his voice quavered helplessly, face twisted halfway to tears. “Well? What’d I say?” “You went on ’bout geisha comin’ or not comin’, didn’tcha? Tagyoku-san—you holdin’ some grudge ’gainst me? Huh?! Did I ever palm off rotten tempura on ya?” “Ah, so that’s it.” “That’s what I said.”

Tagyoku remembered, “What’s wrong with that?” “What’s wrong with geisha? —See, Tagyoku-san and I are cut from a different cloth.” “But there’s no call to be makin’ digs at me just ’cause I had my daughter become a geisha, now is there?” “First off, what didja say back then…?” ……When Chōko made her debut, Tagyoku volunteered to pull a rickshaw for free to help reduce the costs as much as possible, but at that time, Tagyoku……,

“...I’ve carried plenty of geisha in my rickshaw before, but never one as pretty as her—ain’t that what I said back then, Mr. Taneguchi? I tell ya, she was truly a beauty.” “That’s right.” As he smiled, recalling what had happened three years ago, “For you to say such harsh things now, after all this time—that’s downright cruel from the get-go, ain’t it?”

Taneguchi’s voice had returned to normal. He was a man who couldn’t bring himself to get angry at others, after all. “Callin’ it harsh? That’s just your jumpin’ to conclusions, Mr. Taneguchi.” “I didn’t say that with any such intention at all.” “I wasn’t insinuating anything.” “Don’t you go thinkin’ bad of me now.” “If you think I’m a heartless old man, would I have pulled that rickshaw for free back then?” “In the first place, you didn’t force that daughter of yours to become a geisha, did you?” “Well… if ya put it that way, sure… but…”

“Right? If you’d forced your own unwilling daughter into that, my words would’ve gotten under your skin for sure. However, didn’t you end up being the one who opposed that daughter of yours becoming a geisha in the first place? If you say that, then your faction and mine are the same. When it comes down to it, you really don’t want to put your precious daughter into the water trade, do you?”

“That’s right.” “You’ve put it well.” “Tagyoku-san, you’re absolutely right.” “I ain’t got no intention of sellin’ my daughter to live in luxury.” “In fact, when she made her debut, I went to great lengths so she wouldn’t be saddled with debt—you know that, don’t ya?” “’Course I know.—Quit makin’ such a fuss. Quit standin’ there like that.”

After brushing the dust from the entranceway and laying out a zabuton cushion for him, Taneguchi, “Ah, no need, no need.” “I don’t need nothin’ like a zabuton.” “Oil stains’d ruin it for sure!” He waved his hand dismissively but ultimately settled down,

“Tagyoku-san, you really said somethin’ right there, I tell ya.” “Speakin’ of this matter… truth is, I went along with that girl’s wishes and made her a geisha, but I’ve come to think I did somethin’ terrible…”

Chōko was billed not only for her beauty and fine voice but also her spunk (tomboyishness), and took up with the young master of a cosmetics wholesaler in Umeda Shimmichi. Yasuyama Ryūkichi—a man who loved cheap eateries, particularly the two-sen dote-yaki at night market stalls—had been given the nickname “the Mr. Dote-yaki,” but—

“My Pa also struggled all year round with that one-sen tempura stall.” As he said this, it was all well and good that their bond deepened while accompanying her to cheap eateries like “Shiruichi,” “Sushisute,” “Shōben Tango,” “Izumoya,” “Yudōfuya,” “Takoume,” and “Jiyūken,” but Ryūkichi was not unattached. It came to light that Ryūkichi had failed his bedridden, stubborn father suffering from paralysis, leading to his disownment and leaving him dependent on Chōko. Yet Chōko herself, desperate to live with Ryūkichi, incurred debts to pull him close, renting a second-floor room in a tenement within Kuromon Market where the two settled together.

But Ryūkichi, with his pampered upbringing, had no inclination to work, so in the end it fell to Chōko to earn their keep. While supporting the idle and spendthrift Ryūkichi, if she hoped to repay their debts, she faced two choices: work a second job or become a yotona hostess. Of course, she chose the latter. Carrying a small trunk containing her shamisen, she would bustle off to locations designated by the club, and when the three of them took on everything from serving meals at banquets for fifty guests to heating sake and providing shamisen accompaniment for naniwabushi ballads, being a yotona hostess was no easy trade.

To make matters worse, she would return late at night on the last red streetcar, getting off at Nihonbashi 1-chōme where—aside from stray dogs and scrap pickers rummaging through garbage bins—the streets lay deserted. With shoulders slumped, she would trudge through Kuromon Market, its dead silence pierced only by the raw stench of fish entrails. On snowy days, even her endurance faltered. When she reached the alleyway, a flicker of relief would lighten her heart and quicken her steps—but after calling “I’m home!” and climbing to the second floor, Ryūkichi was often nowhere to be seen.

Since Ryūkichi used up every bit of what she earned, there was no telling when they could repay their debts, and moreover, Ryūkichi’s loyalties wavered between his family home and Chōko…… “...He keeps going this way and that, dawdling around without a shred of reliability.” “However, Tagyoku-san, this can’t be helped.” “After all, on his side there’s already a proper wife back home.” “That Chōko girl has committed a grave sin herself—and even with all that hardship she’s enduring, there’s no telling when she might have to part ways with that man. All her struggles end up being for nothing.” “Speaking of this matter—that Mr. Ryūkichi has a stutter, you know? They say there’s no bad person with a stutter, so he’s decent at heart. But what with him being a pampered brat and all, Chōko’s had to endure extra hardship.”

Taneguchi spoke earnestly, the aggressive demeanor he’d had when entering now nowhere to be seen. “This whole mess started ’cause they all became geishas.” “Honest truth, Tagyoku-san—even if I had a daughter, I couldn’t put her in the water trade nohow.” “Say what I will, in the end you were right.” Having forgotten he’d come to pick a fight, Taneguchi trudged home dejectedly.

8

When Otra was gone, Kimie became a dejected girl once more.

Following behind Tagyoku’s rickshaw and running along, she kept biting her gloomy lips, never once showing a smiling face.

However, it was on a certain day about half a year later.

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

And as they drank the Iron-Cold Mineral Spring water at the gate of Chikurin-ji Temple and stood eating grilled rice cakes, from the razor shop across the street— “Sh-Sh-Sh-Mr. Shime, i-i-isn’t that you?” As he said this, a man emerged. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Yasuyama.” “Fancy meeting you in a place like this.” Once, Ryūkichi had come to Kappa Alley with Chōko, and they had become acquainted with the people there at that time. “—What’ve you been up to lately?” When Shime Danji said this, Ryūkichi looked embarrassed and,

“I-I-I-I’m w-workin’ at the r-razor shop across the way here now.” “Is that so? Good for you.” “Ms. Chōko must be pleased as punch, you finally workin’ proper...” “How ’bout it?” “Care for a rice cake?” “N-no—seein’ it across the way every day... I-I just can’t stomach eatin’ no more.” “T-T-T-Taneguchi-san—g-give ’im my regards, would ya?” “Righto.” “Do come visit the alley sometime again.” “And my regards to Ms. Chōko.”

After parting with Ryūkichi, when Shime Danji came to the front of the Electric Photo Studio, he suddenly peered into the display window—wondering if his own promotional photo might be there—and shouted loudly. “Kimie-chan. Take a look! Your dad and mom’s photo’s right here, I tell ya!” The commemorative photo from eighteen years ago—taken when Shintarō won the neighborhood marathon competition—was displayed amidst disguise photos and actors’ photos, with a sample tag reading *three for forty sen*. It appeared to be an on-location shoot at Nagangwanji Temple’s grounds serving as the finish line—there stood Shintarō in his running shirt holding the victory flag, while from behind a draped curtain, Kimie’s mother Hatsue happened to peek out by standing on her tiptoes, half of her face having accidentally entered the lens.

It seemed they weren’t yet married at the time, and Shime Danji felt a pang of nostalgia, wondering if perhaps that was how the two had grown so close. Hatsue had her hair styled in a peach-split hairstyle, but everything below her mouth was not captured. “Dad’s here, but he hasn’t grown a beard, has he?” “Of course. It’s only show-offs growin’ beards around twenty-six.” “Oh! Dad! Dad!”

Kimie had jumped up in excitement, but suddenly— “—Mom isn’t here.”

She deflated.

Then Jirō said, "She’s here, she’s here! Look close right here—see? She’s peekin’ out a bit from behind this curtain, ain’t she?" "I knew Kimie-chan’s ma real well, I tell ya." "Here it is! Right here! Eh, Mr. Shime?" "That’s right," Shime Danji agreed. Kimie kept staring at the photo until— "Ah! There she is! Ma’s got her hair done proper!" "Pa’s here too—both of ’em right here!"

And in a clear voice, “—I ain’t no orphan no more.” “No one can call me orphan and bully me no more.” From that day on Kimie grew brighter by degrees until at next month’s athletic meet second-grade footrace she shot forward eyes wide chin up—my pa was a marathon runner she told herself—swinging round bends quick as light till she took first place. Tagyoku watched from parents’ seats wrinkles all creased up glad. But then sudden-like,

“That girl’s always running behind the rickshaw, so it’s only natural she took first place.” When that whisper reached his ears, Tagyoku—

“That’s right. “See? My way of trainin’s different, ain’t it?” Before he could puff out his chest in pride, something—a distant memory—made his chest burn with such fierce tenderness that he nearly crushed Kimie in his arms, hugging her so tight her bones might creak, this child who stood there beaming with her pencil prize. He went numb with love. However, that night, Tagyoku said to Kimie, “Since you’ve got enough pep in ya to take first place in the footrace now, starting tomorrow when you come home from school, you’ll work as the shoe attendant at Hinomaru Bathhouse. “’Cause I’ve already gone and asked the manager at Hinomaru Bathhouse.”

With an astonishingly harsh command that Shime Danji had overheard, “Tagyoku-san, what kinda cruel thing are you sayin’? A child so precious you’d cradle her in your eyes without a blink… Have you lost your damn mind? There’s no need to make this child work as a shoe attendant—you can get by without that, can’t you?”

When he said that, Tagyoku— “You shut up.” “You should just chatter away at the vaudeville theater.” “Stop blabberin’ ’bout things that ain’t worth a penny! You’ve always gone against every damn thing I say since way back—you’re a real pain in the ass, y’know that?” “Some fine guy I ended up livin’ next to.” he said.

Even Shime Danji bristled, “Look here—sure, I’ve lived next to ya for years, but I never knew you were such a goddamn unreasonable man.” “Yeah, right—I’ll keep my trap shut.” “You think I’d speak up ’fore you lot now? Wouldn’t even let out a fart in your face!” He stormed out, but came right back, “—Tagyoku-san, c’mon now—think it through.” “This kid ain’t even ten yet.” “At her age—you really think she can handle shoe duty?” “I’m beggin’ ya—show some mercy.”

“Mr. Shime, I’ll tell you this—it’s not like I’m making this child work as a shoe attendant ’cause I hate her.” “It’s ’cause she’s dear to me that I’m making her do it.” “Kimie, you listen up good now.” “You think life’s about takin’ it easy? That ain’t how it works.” “Only if you work hard from childhood will it all be for your own good when you grow up.” “Confucius himself said so.” “Seriously, Tagyoku-san? Confucius said that? That’s news to me.” “You’re some scholar, ain’t ya?”

“He did say it, didn’t he? ‘Pleasure’s the seed o’ pain; pain’s the seed o’ pleasure,’ Confucius said.” “You daft or what?”

Shime Danji was appalled, but Shime Danji, for his part, “There—that’s Ōishi Kuranosuke’s saying, you.” “Well, whichever it is—doesn’t matter. Anyway, people ain’t supposed to take it easy.” “If I’d wanted to make life easy for her, I’d have sent this kid off to Sasahara ages ago.” “But Mr. Shime, you look at that young lad from Sasahara—a kid raised all pampered-like in a rich household just ain’t right.” “At around ten years old—they say he spends twenty sen a day on pocket money! Just the other day he went alone to see moving pictures at Sennichimae—drank five sen worth of chilled syrup candy and ate thirteen sen worth of tempura at Tanesan’s stall—ended up with diarrhea! Had injections and bamboo-skin charcoal powder—what an uproar! But once you let your kid turn out like that—there’s just no helpin’ it.” “Parents will be parents—must be nice having that kind of money.”

In comparison, their child was different—from when school let out until the bathhouse attendants finished scrubbing the baths, taking care of footwear for eighty sen a month including dinner—and with that determination fixed in Tagyoku’s mind, starting the next day Kimie began working at Hinomaru Bathhouse. When school let out and she returned home, she would dejectedly finish her homework in the empty house. After that she would go to Hinomaru Bathhouse and take over shoe attendant duties from the pregnant wife of a bathhouse attendant. Receiving footwear and handing out tokens, taking tokens and returning footwear—this simple routine she executed flawlessly and briskly, her small frame making her movements appear agile. Yet she had been strictly instructed to use as loud a voice as possible—.

“Welcome.” “Thank you kindly.” At first, even these two phrases drew complaints from the master. During the busy evening hours, she could hardly see the customers’ faces; with bloodshot eyes, she stared hard at the numbers on the shoe tags and kept floundering in panic. On rainy evenings especially, she had to handle umbrellas as well, and the clammy feel of the wet umbrellas was unbearable.

Winter was the hardest. The tips of her hands and feet stung with pain. Every time a customer entered, a gust of cold wind would blow in. The customers forgot to close the door. Each time, she stood up to close it. Each time, the tip of her nose stung sharply. Still, it was so sad. However, when Tagyoku hunched his way through the noren of Hinomaru Bathhouse late at night, he put away his sandals himself and hardly even looked properly at Kimie’s face.

Tagyoku would humbly receive the shoe tag Kimie handed him; those hands, bloodless with bulging veins and parched like earth, made the child Kimie's heart ache, yet she couldn't believe she was being treated as harshly by her grandfather as people claimed. Rather than resenting it, Kimie seemed to have resigned herself to this way of working as her fate, but there was one thing—the boredom during the sparse daytime hours held an unfamiliar sadness, and when she gazed absently through the glass door at the street outside, listlessly letting out a yawn, she would feel like crying.

And so she would eventually doze off while whimpering, but what always roused her at such times was the sound of the evening paper being thrust through the gap in the glass door. “Ah, Jirō!” It was cold outside, but when she stepped out front, the wind was blowing, Jirō’s figure had already vanished around the street corner, and the sound of a dog barking echoed through the evening gloom. However, Jirō was no longer at an age where he feared dogs, and soon quit delivering evening papers to leave for Tokyo and enter service.

9

Society finches became all the rage—every last soul kept them now. The toothbrush handle craftsman of Enokijii Alley chased an escaped finch, tripped, broke his leg, and was left permanently lame. Shime Danji kept two birds only to have them die straight off—a loss of two yen and fifty sen. Yet many turned profit too; word spread how an apprentice at Tanimachi Ninth District’s metalwork shop had caught a pure white finch, made his fortune, dressed himself in Oshima tsumugi finery, and gone back to Tanba—the talk of the town it was.

One day, as Tagyoku pulled an empty rickshaw over Kuchinawazaka slope, from below the slope— “It’s a society finch!”

“It’s a society finch!” Raising their voices in unison, the people came running up the slope as if piling over one another.

“What fools they are.” “What’re they makin’ such a ruckus for?” Tagyoku muttered as if tearing off and discarding a wad of cotton, but the moment he did, the chased society finch came flying into his chest. It was pure white.

He instinctively reached out his hand, but the society finch darted away. “Darn it!” Tagyoku shouted, abandoned his rickshaw, and chased it from Suidera-chō all the way to Ōe Shrine’s grounds—but distracted by the air sandals he’d bought for Kimie tucked in his breast pocket, he couldn’t run properly and ultimately let it escape. When he returned to where he’d started, the rickshaw was gone. Tagyoku turned pale. That night, Tagyoku didn’t come to Hinomaru Bathhouse. In the morning, when he was supposed to set out,

“Today I’ll buy them air sandals, I tell ya.” “I’ll bring ’em to Hinomaru Bathhouse, so you wait there, I tell ya.” Relying on her grandfather’s words, Kimie kept stretching her little neck in the shoe storage area of Hinomaru Bathhouse, wondering if he would come now, if he would come now—but he did not come, and she heard the hollow toll of midnight. “Grandpa, you cheapskate!” Kimie handed over every bit of money she earned—her wages along with Bon and New Year’s gratuities—without touching a single sen, passing it all directly to Tagyoku. Yet he would silently accept it, tuck it into his money belt, and never once gave her even a sen or two to buy herself something like a fried egg. Though she knew nothing else about him, she understood from a child’s perspective how his temperament transformed entirely when it came to money. So when she dashed home through the noren of Hinomaru Bathhouse, those words slipped out unbidden.

"If you lie, Enma-han will pull out your tongue." And when she went upstairs, Tagyoku was already asleep under the futon, with konnyaku-shaped air sandals lined up beside his pillow. So then, thinking that Grandpa must have wanted to surprise her by deliberately not coming to Hinomaru Bathhouse—leaving the sandals by his pillow while pretending to be asleep—Kimie quietly slipped the air sandals onto her feet and began walking around the room,

“Ah, they make such a nice sound—pat, pat, pat, pat. Can’t the person sleeping hear this noise?”

When Kimie tried to rouse Tagyoku indirectly, he— “I can hear you, sure enough…”

With a spiritless toss of his body, he lifted his dejected face from the futon. And then he said: “Kimie, you’re one admirable kid, I tell ya.” “Without a single complaint, you work hard for me every day.” “And yet, what a fool I am.” “I’m truly ashamed before a child like you.” “Grandpa, what’s wrong?” “Did you forget to buy the sandals and get your change?” “You think that’s all there is to fuss about?”

Tagyoku adopted a tone as if speaking to an adult,

“Like a damn fool, while I was chasing that society finch, my rickshaw got stolen.” “It’s turned into a real mess.” “Starting tomorrow, I can’t work.” So muttering that he couldn’t muster the energy to show his face at Hinomaru Bathhouse and had been lying under the futon like this, Tagyoku’s words made Kimie plop down on her backside—and “Ah, it’s turned into a real mess,” struck her child’s heart, it seemed. Without the rickshaw, he couldn’t work, and for two full days, he wandered around like a soul drained from his body, searching everywhere,

“Ah, damn it all.” “Burnt Kanhachi, sun-scorched eggplant, I tell ya.” As he said this, he lay on his back atop the tatami and rolled about restlessly.

But on the evening of the third day, as Kimie attended to the footwear with a sullen expression, “Heyyyy, udon balls! Piping-hot udon balls, fresh and steaming! Wearing a white kimono, bathing from morning till night With skin so smooth, Pretty little darling udon balls “Ten pieces for five sen!”

A voice calling out as he made his rounds reached her ears, and when she listened carefully, it was Tagyoku’s voice. He was already at an age where his back was bent; the load was heavy, and his voice had gone hoarse. “Thank you very much!”

After handing over the footwear and dashing out following the departing customer, Tagyoku smiled and, “How’s it look? Suit me?” “It suits you well.” In unison with Kimie’s voice, Taneguchi too, while frying tempura, “Tagyoku-san, that really suits you.” “Your voice sounds good too.” “You think so?” Tagyoku said happily, “Mr. Taneguchi, you know, people can always find a way to put food on the table, no matter what.” “People mustn’t give up.”

This was half meant for Kimie too, and then, shifting the carrying pole to his left shoulder, "Heeey, udon balls—…"

Before long, both his voice and figure grew smaller. As she stood buffeted by the wind watching him go, the tōzaiya town crier came from the opposite direction and stopped at Kappa Alley’s entrance. When he began his announcement, Taneguchi dashed into the alley’s depths and soon emerged with Otsu. From what she overheard, Kimie vaguely understood that Yanagiyoshi and Chōko had likely hired this tōzaiya to promote their newly opened razor shop—a cramped space rented at Takatsu Shrine’s slope base measuring one ken frontage by three-and-a-half ken depth—which they’d started.

“How about giving us a lively show in front of my dad’s tempura shop?”

Chōko must have told the town crier—for he now delivered his spiel just as elaborately and boisterously as he had done that morning in front of Chōko’s shop.

Keikichi from Asahiken came out, "Mr. Taneguchi, you must be relieved now that things've settled down here." As he said this,

“Ah, well… It’d be grand if they sell well, I tell ya, but when I finally open up, bet I’ll only move ear picks or such.” Taneguchi flushed slightly. Otra cut in— “Kei-san, if you ever need razors or shampoo, you’d best put in an order with us now.” Otra said.

After the town crier had been treated to some tempura and left, dusk suddenly began to fall. Returning to Hinomaru Bathhouse, she happened to look up at the red, purple, yellow, and blue colored glass panes set into the women’s bath shoji screens, where the bathwater’s wavering reflection appeared hazy, and found it possessed a profoundly moving beauty unlike its usual appearance. “The upper bath’s lukewarm, you know.” The voice of the mistress of the Rao Shikae Shop rang out, and after a while, the sound of a Taisho koto, out of season, could be heard. The song was the counting song “Hitotsu Toya.”

Yoshie of Asahiken had died the previous year; the one now playing was her youngest daughter Mochiko, twenty-two years old and, like her sisters, still unmarried. Her elder brother Keisuke worked for a shipping company but drank three *gō* of milk daily due to his lung problems.

Chapter 3: Shōwa

1

Ten years had passed.

Kimie was twenty years old, having grown into such beauty that it proved true the saying about a woman's looks being unpredictable from childhood. Her complexion had become so fair that one could hardly believe she was Tagyoku's granddaughter—the same girl who'd been described as dark-skinned even before Manila. "If only her hands didn't have those chilblains, cracks and red sores, she'd be perfect..." These murmurs circulated through the neighborhood. With her remaining quite charming nonetheless, when the owner of Hinomaru Bathhouse proposed having her sit at the counter rather than tend to footwear, Tagyoku grew flustered and—despite the thoughtful offer—made her quit.

And so, when she was hired at a dispatch office for telephone disinfectant workers called Namiō Corporation in Terada-chō, she realized for the first time just how meager the wages she had received at Hinomaru Bathhouse truly were. That Tagyoku—who had always been the fussiest about money matters—had never once mentioned this until now seemed almost unbelievable, yet Kimie too had been careless enough to obediently work as a footwear attendant for ten years at practically no wages.

In other words, had Tagyoku’s oft-repeated maxim—that the Benguet Road construction could never have been completed if they’d only focused on the daily wage of one peso and twenty-five centavos—somehow seeped into Kimie’s very skin over time? Kimie understood that the only medal hanging from Tagyoku’s chest was the memory of him gritting sand in Benguet, suffering until he coughed up blood, never yielding to any hardship, and seeing the construction through to the end.

“Don’t complain and just work your hardest—that’s all there is to it.” “Humans are born to work—that’s all there is to it.” “If you think about takin’ it easy, that’s no good.”

Because Tagyoku’s recent words weren’t mere abstract reasoning, they sank all the more deeply into Kimie’s very core. Uneducated Tagyoku—incapable of elegant logic—had raised Kimie by relying on instinctive wisdom like a snail’s antennae probing its path. Through this crude method, one might say Kimie had ultimately been steered down a single narrow road. Yet undeniably, the wages at Hinomaru Bathhouse had been pitifully low. At Namiō Corporation, probationary wages stood at twenty-five yen—barely covering boxed lunches—rising to thirty yen after two months passed. Moreover, besides biannual raises and bonuses, according to the supervisor,

“After all, Osaka’s a big place—there’s bound to be households that don’t know about this handy service where, long as you apply, we’ll send a disinfectant worker proper, like havin’ a telephone right at your fingertips.” “If you go into those houses and aggressively secure contract applications, we’ll give out special allowances based on your performance—so give it your all and get those contracts signed!” Though the value of money had changed between ten years ago and now, Kimie was astonished at how good the treatment was for something just beyond ordinary—but unlike her time as a footwear attendant, the work was far from easy.

At eight in the morning, she would first show her face at the company and receive that day’s visitation schedule and disinfectant. After that, she would go around cleaning telephones; in addition to collecting payments, she was also required to seek out houses likely to have telephones and enter them to provide three cleanings and disinfectant refills per month for 1 yen and 50 sen. It might seem trivial, but she was made to understand that nothing becomes filthy as easily as telephones, and on top of collecting payments, she also had to secure contracts—compared to her time as a footwear attendant, where simple greetings like “Welcome” and “Thank you kindly” sufficed, the mental strain was immense.

Of course there was the shyness typical of her age, but on top of that, she was beautiful. After completing the disinfection, receiving the verification seal, and stealthily stowing the disinfectant equipment into the furoshiki bundle to leave— “Thank you kindly for your business.” There were times when her face burned so fiercely with embarrassment that she couldn’t utter a word, leaving her boiling with anger. On top of that, she spent the entire day scurrying from one end of Osaka to the other—so much that she marveled at how quickly geta could wear down—leaving her utterly exhausted.

After disinfecting countless telephones while making rounds to every stockbroker in Kitahama once the afternoon trading session closed, her hands went numb. “Aah, this’s too much,” she blurted out with an involuntary sigh, leaning on her parasol as she paused in a shaded alleyway—yet in such moments, what spurred Kimie onward was “Folks ain’t worth squat ’less they drive their bodies to work,” that familiar refrain of Tagyoku’s—or rather, the actual sight of Tagyoku himself whom she sometimes chanced upon around town. He’d peddled udon dough balls for a spell, but when the rickshaw he’d held as collateral for a loan to his pal Suekichi’s boy Masazō came back his way, Tagyoku took to pulling it again. But soon came the en-taku cabs craze. Squeezed out of business, he got hired at the local clinic only to be fired pronto for refusing to take off that peculiar coat, then tried his hand as a department store handyman.

However, these days, thanks to gasoline rationing leading to an increase in customers using rickshaws, “The world’s done a damn fine job of workin’ things out.”

And so, rejoicing, he once again pulled his rickshaw out into the streets. “Grandpa, you’re old enough now—you should really retire.” “For one thing, isn’t pulling up slopes getting too hard for you?” Even when she tried to stop him, “You fool! It’s precisely because there are slopes that people ride my rickshaw.” “If ya idle around, your bones’ll fall right out of your flesh.” Unheeding, Tagyoku shuffled along, his mind racing with thoughts of *“Compared to the hardships of Benguet, this ain’t nothin’ at all,”* and while Kimie could understand his feelings, seeing him like that still made her chest sting and her eyes burn,

“It’s because I’m no good that Grandpa still has to work.” As this thought grew stronger, Kimie found herself unexpectedly unable to remain indifferent to money matters, and desire welled up within her. However, for instance, in the water trade establishments she visited to disinfect telephones, they would say— “With your looks, you don’t have to do this kind of work—there must be other jobs that pay better.” To such offers, Kimie naturally had no intention of acquiescing; resigning herself to earning whatever extra she could through improved disinfectant sales quotas and special allowances, she walked diligently even after sunset along the remaining four kilometers of her route, sweat streaming down her unpowdered face.

One morning after she had been working there for about half a year, the supervisor,

“Today, don’t forget to make your rounds to Ōnishi Pawnshop in Hagi no Chaya.”

“Make sure to stop by Ōnishi Pawnshop in Hagi no Chaya today,” said the supervisor. “But I just went there five days ago…” Though her task was disinfecting telephones, it wasn’t merely embarrassment about passing under a pawnshop’s noren that made her hesitate. As she spoke, “I know that,” “I know you went five days ago,” the supervisor replied with a smirk. “Just go anyway.” Kimie found this odd, but asked, “Have you already handled even the desk telephone?” Following orders regardless, she resolved to go.

“Here, take this with you.” The supervisor, unusually, tore off two streetcar coupon tickets for her. After alighting from the streetcar at Zoo-mae, passing through bustling Daimon Street with its jumble of food shops and sundry stores, and turning right near Daimon, there stood—just before the Nankai Electric Railway’s Hagi no Chaya stop— “Hichi, Ōnishi” A blue shop curtain bearing “Hichi, Ōnishi” hung there. At the entrance, she hesitated for a moment, cast a quick glance around the area, and then—

“Good day.”

With that, she entered, “Welcome.” The apprentice—who had a face like a Bunraku puppet with a shaven pate and was sitting behind the lattice—no sooner saw Kimie’s face than “The telephone lady’s here!” He turned toward the back and shouted loudly.

In that instant—Kimie thought—there had been some swift commotion in the back room. “Mr. Hideo, why’d you have to shout so loud? You fool.” While saying this, the mistress—who usually sat motionless like an ornament by the long brazier in the back room, her pale face with a headache plaster stuck to her temple—unexpectedly came bustling out, “Well now, you’ve come all this way for us. Please, come in. Please do come in.” She was all smiles, as if about to take Kimie’s hand, with not a single wrinkle between her brows.

Kimie felt uneasy. “Well then, pardon the intrusion.” As she unfolded the small Moss-patterned furoshiki bundle, took out the absorbent cotton from the disinfector, deftly disinfected the telephone, and poured disinfectant into the disinfectant container, several pairs of eyes seemed to bore into her back, her face, her every movement. “You’re still so young, yet here you are working like this.”

The mistress stayed close by and kept talking incessantly. “Oh, not at all.” As she gave an evasive response, “What did you do before this job? Were you at home all along…?” “I worked as a footwear attendant at a neighborhood bathhouse.” She answered plainly.

“Footwear attendant?…” The mistress seemed to grunt slightly, but, “And your family?”

"...?" she asked. Why was she asking such things—it angered Kimie more than made her suspicious. “It’s just Grandpa and me.” “Oh, is that so? “You must be lonely. “And what does your grandfather do now?” “He pulls a rickshaw.” Kimie struggled to hide her irritated expression. “Is that so? “My, my... “Did your parents pass away young?” “Yes...” “Long ago, right? “Is that so? “My, my... “And your father...?”

The mistress persisted in asking what he had done for a living. "He had a cooperage in Tamatsukuri, but it failed, so he went to Manila and died."

Kimie’s tone was earnest, but her face showed anger toward the persistently nosy mistress.

“Your personal seal.” As she was leaving, Kimie thought she felt a young man’s bloodshot eyes glaring down at her from above.

After making her rounds disinfecting and soliciting at various places, when she returned to Tera-machi,

“Good work today. How’d it go with the pawnshop…?” The Supervisor said. His face had stayed as smooth as an eggshell ever since he’d shaved off his mustache. “……?……” She couldn’t grasp why he’d bring this up. “They’ve got a son there, yeah?” “…Well…?” “‘Well…’ That’s one flimsy answer.” He laughed and knocked her shoulder lightly. “Might be your luck’s turnin’ soon… Heh, heh, heh…”

The supervisor let out a bizarre laugh from between his missing teeth. Kimie grew even more perplexed, but upon hearing from her colleague Harui Motoko on her way home, she finally grasped the meaning behind the supervisor’s order for her to visit Onishi Pawnshop.

“Yesterday, while you were out, the Mistress of Nishiya Pawnshop came to the office.” “I happened to be back, so I listened in from nearby…” “…The Mistress said—though it’s rather abrupt to bring this up out of nowhere—that there’s someone working at your establishment: fair-skinned, petite, charming… Ah, you’re called Sadoshima Kimie, aren’t you?… Now, about this Ms. Kimie—to speak frankly, my son has, to my embarrassment… well… taken a liking to her—so one might say…”

“…graceful, every bit the proper young lady, yet so brisk and efficient in her work—her demeanor’s so pleasant, not showy at all—and that’s where my son took a liking to her, they say…” …he refused to marry any woman but that girl—and since he’s her only son, spoiled rotten from birth, once he set his mind on something, he wouldn’t budge. Truth be told, as his mother—with no husband and no other children—she’d been secretly searching for a bride, wanting him to marry soon. “To be clear, this isn’t about forcing you to obey my son’s whims… nor does it mean we’re rushing into anything immediately. But as his mother, I do want to respect his feelings—though ‘respect’ might sound odd here—and at least understand what kind of person this girl he’s fixated on truly is. I trust you’ll sympathize with that. My request is… well, while I’ve gotten a vague impression of you from seeing you disinfect our house once or twice, I’d like you to stop by tomorrow—just once—so I can observe you working as you normally do. No tests or formal meetings or anything like that—nothing showy at all. Just a simple visit. And please… keep this confidential for now.”

“...That’s why you were specially dispatched there today.” As they walked side by side from Tera-machi to Tennōji West Gate, Motoko chattered on by herself. “Oh?” Realizing such matters had unfolded without her knowledge, Kimie felt her heart pound with unease—the age of twenty struck her afresh with an awkward self-consciousness, yet there was no sweetness in her feelings. Rather, she felt a strong sense of having been deceived. The fact that she had been persistently questioned about various things by the mistress of the pawnshop was also recalled with an unpleasant feeling.

"So, how'd it go when you went there?" Motoko asked something similar to what the supervisor had. "What was their son like?" "Well...?" All she remembered was a young man with an oddly pale face resembling his mother's, restlessly flipping through a newspaper by the long brazier and peering furtively in her direction—though even that impression remained quite vague. "I don't know what kind of person he is." "I wasn't thinking about anything like that."

When she answered fairly honestly while blushing despite herself, Motoko poked Kimie with her elbow.

“You’re such an unreliable child.” “If you charge into enemy territory and just dawdle around, that won’t do.” “You’ve got to be more reliable!” If it had been her, she would have at least pieced things together the moment the supervisor ordered her to go—assessing at a glance what school the man had graduated from, whether he had any refinement, even his taste in neckties—so thought twenty-five-year-old Motoko, pursing her thick lips. Motoko prided herself on having attended a practical girls’ school for two years and was, if anything, rather plain-looking.

When they arrived in front of the coffee shop, “Why don’t you have some coffee? It’d be a waste not to have me treat you today.”

Motoko said and stepped forward into the shop.

Kimie briefly recalled Tagyoku’s face, but deciding that even if it was a luxury, thirty sen for two cups of coffee was acceptable once a month, she followed her inside. After facing each other and sitting down, Motoko continued talking. “I really will treat you. You see, after you went to that pawnshop today and spent some time there, it seems the mistress called the supervisor.” “Hmm.” “What a flimsy reply.” “Are you even listening, you?” “You better listen up!” “About that call—she said, ‘Thank you for taking the trouble to come today. I’ll come by soon to properly express my gratitude, but truly, you’re a better girl than I ever imagined—I’m thoroughly impressed,’ that’s what she called to say.”

“Nothing but lies.” “Don’t get all shy about it now.” “Ah, you’ve got it made.” “Pawnshops—you can’t run ’em without money, yeah?” “You’ll be some rich guy’s wife soon.” “Lucky duck.” “If I ever stash cash there, I’ll loan you loads.” “Askin’ this favor upfront.” There, Motoko dropped her voice to a murmur,

“This is just between us here—my boyfriend’s a newspaper reporter, but he only gets forty yen a month.” “How pathetic.” “You know I’ve been taking that one-yen-fifty-sen circulating monthly magazine, right?” “When I lent it to him, no matter how much I tell my boyfriend, he just keeps it with a straight face.” “I need to swap it with another magazine soon—I’m in a real bind—but since he won’t give it back, I can’t help thinking he must’ve sold it to a used bookstore… Makes me so mad and miserable… But you—you’ve really got it good.” “You’ve got a proper suitor from a decent family, and…”

Kimie couldn't help finding Motoko's complaints amusing. She had never once given marriage any thought, and even now that such matters were coming up in her life, they held no sense of reality. She too had reached that age where her heart would momentarily stiffen at the thought—but whenever she imagined what would become of her grandfather if she were to marry and leave him behind, this concern grew so overwhelming that it overshadowed everything else.

Moreover, around her were the daughters of Asahiken.

Literally, it was a matter far removed from her. "There’s nothing good about it at all." Kimie said flatly, her voice devoid of any flavor or warmth. "Why’s that?" "I’m not doing anything like getting married." Such feelings of Kimie’s were beyond Motoko’s comprehension. "Huh? What’s that all about now? Don’t you like him? Is it that the son from that pawnshop gives you a bad feeling?"

Having decided on her own, “Now that you mention it… Sure, it’s men’s right to choose brides. But summoning someone to secretly test and observe them—that’s downright presumptuous.” “If you were doing this because you wanted to, that’d be one thing—but them taking someone like you who doesn’t know anything, just arbitrarily casting you as a bride candidate and testing you… when you think about it, it’s a bit unpleasant.” “It’s no wonder you’d get a bad feeling about it, I guess.”

After each contributing fifteen sen, paying the bill, and leaving the coffee shop, it was already dark.

After parting with Motoko and boarding the streetcar, Kimie had already forgotten about the matter and hadn’t told Tagyoku about such a conversation having taken place, but the next day she was forced to recall it against her will. Because the supervisor had brought it up again. “Did you make it back by five today?” “Huh…?” “Mr. Onishi says he and his child would like to have a meal with you sometime.” “I’ll be coming along too, so...” “But, something like that…. “Grandpa…”

“I’ll talk to Grandpa about it later.”

Hearing this, anger surged through Kimie.

Thinking he was just a rickshaw puller, they were making a fool of him. My grandpa wasn't the kind of person to be made a fool of by people like that. Moreover, I was the eldest daughter. It wasn't like I was marriageable material. Knowing that and still deciding such a matter on their own—they must have been looking down on me, thinking I was just some tenement girl. I didn't mind being looked down on myself, but it was pitiful for Grandpa. Thinking this, Kimie heard the grinding sound of her own back teeth.

Kimie did not return to the office that day. The next day, she took off work and walked around looking for a job. When she returned home that night, a special delivery had arrived. It briefly instructed her to report to work the next day. In the morning, she went in, stated her intent to quit, received her pro-rated daily wage, and immediately headed 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, working there from morning till night—once she started the job, it turned out to be a workplace befitting the daughter of Benguet no Ta-ayan after all. Before long, a shared taxi system was implemented. Who came up with it? If passengers heading in the same direction were packed into a single vehicle under a split-fare system, gasoline could be saved, customers would wait less time in line, and fares would cost less—it was a practical idea so quintessentially Osaka.

During busy periods, Kimie would guide passengers under this system, “Is there anyone heading to the XX area?”

She kept shouting this line incessantly until her voice grew hoarse. With unaccustomed customers floundering and drivers none too welcoming of the system, the dispatcher girls had to work exceptionally hard. Kindness, politeness, and speed are essential—that was the supervisor’s constant refrain. Yet Kimie—so diligent that even the supervisor remarked she didn’t need to push herself so hard—with her earnestness, charm, and flawless handling of customers, soon became Namba Station’s darling. When a local newspaper reporter came during Kindness Week to take photos and gather impressions, her beauty only amplified her popularity.

Whether it was her petite stature, her agile movements, or her voice—unnecessarily shrill—the customers found no opening to casually crack a joke, even if they thought her quite pretty. Even she herself found lining up the customers spilling out from Namba Station’s concourse and efficiently processing them one after another to be indescribably pleasant. However, having finished processing thousands of customers—her shift ended, the sun set—as she listened to the roar of the final car slipping out the moment she closed the doors, letting out a sigh of relief while tightening her garter, suddenly—

“Grandpa’s a rickshaw puller, and his granddaughter’s a car dispatcher—now that’s quite the elaborate setup they’ve come up with, eh?” She recalled Shime Danji’s offhand remark—unlike automobiles that ran on machinery, rickshaws required hauling with one’s entire body—and thinking of her grandfather’s hardships, her heart suddenly clouded. Unaware of Kimie’s inner turmoil, however, Tagyoku had been hired to work as a laborer for the procession at Ikukunitama Shrine’s summer festival on July 9th, going together with Taneguchi the tempura vendor.

When wearing the heavy armor, the daily wage was two yen and fifty sen—thirty sen higher. “Grandpa, please—this year, just give it up and stop wearing that armor-like thing." “Since I’ll be praying, you don’t need to wear something so sweltering…” Kimie tried to stop him tearfully, but Tagyoku wouldn’t listen,

“Don’t be daft—treating me like some decrepit old man… What’s this about not being able to wear what I wore last year? Even if you call it hot, Osaka’s summer’s Manila’s winter.” “Say what you will—age catches up. Even that old coot from Rao Exchange collapsed mid-shift t’other day. If something happened to you, Grandpa—what’d we do then?”

“Don’t go spoutin’ ill-omened talk.” “Don’t lump me with some coffin-dodgin’ old man who’s got one foot in the grave….” “You think anyone in Ikukunitama-sama’s sacred procession’d drop dead? The kami’ll watch over us proper—ah, ‘Benguet no Ta-ayan’s back again this year,’ they’ll say, an’ keep us safe as houses.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry”—Tagyoku once again turned toward the armor. That very day happened to be Kimie’s scheduled day off. That it had to be on such a day she found herself idling made Kimie feel somehow remiss; even as the sounds of pillow drums and lion dances reached her ears, she had no mind to watch the sacred procession. After preparing chilled somen to have ready for when Tagyoku returned that night and soaking it in well water, she paid her respects at Ikukunitama Shrine—whereupon her feet naturally carried her down the slope of Shimoderamachi toward Senrichimae’s Electric Photo Studio.

The disguise photos and kabuki actor portraits that had once filled the studio had vanished completely. Amidst the conspicuously multiplied military departure commemorative photos, by some miracle, a twenty-year-old marathon commemorative photo—still faded, displayed as a sample priced at three for one yen and eighty sen, its cost alone now inflated—caught her eye. The sight filled her with such dizzying nostalgia it nearly stole her breath. That Grandfather had declared “Osaka’s summer’s Manila’s winter” suggested Manila must be a place of unbearable heat. Staring at her father’s yellowed face in the photograph—grinning bare-chested in nothing but a running shirt, victory flag in hand, his features pressed so close they might lick the display glass—this face of a man who had died in such a place, she was suddenly—

“Kimie-chan—isn’t that right?”

She was called out to. She turned around and, after staring at his face for a while,

“Ah! Jirō-bon!” Nine years prior, he had gone into service in Tokyo; then, two years later, upon receiving news that his only remaining blood relative—his father—had died of a stroke while repairing umbrella frames, he had returned to Kappa Alley. Having met him only once then, Kimie now quickly calculated that he must be around thirty by now—and realizing she had addressed someone of that age as “Jirō-bon,” she flushed abruptly—when Jirō,

“It was Kimie-chan after all.” “Well, you see—since you were looking at this photo, I thought it might be you.” mixing Osaka dialect with Tokyo dialect as he spoke, “I was brought here by Mr. Shime to look at this photo together—that was nearly ten years ago now. Do you always come to see this, Kimie-chan?” “Yes. “Not even ten days pass…” Not only because of the heat—sweat wrung the entire body. Jirō was tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp-featured. Thick eyebrows suited his tanned face well.

With a slight movement of his eyebrows, Jirō let out a quiet laugh, “But if that’s the case, you should just tell the photo studio owner and have him give it to you…” “You’re more reserved than I thought, Kimie-chan…” he said. “But still, it’s just so presumptuous…” “Then I’ll go tell them and get it for you.” “Wait a moment, please.” “You mustn’t go anywhere…” “If you go and do that, it won’t do at all.” With that, Jirō began climbing the stairs two steps at a time.

Kimie forgot the heat.

After a while, they came back down together with the photo studio man in half-pants.

“This is it.” When Jirō pointed at the photo in the display window with his thick, short hand, “This one?” “Hey now, you—this here’s an antique!” The photo studio man said, “Well, if that’s how it is, I’ll let you have it.” With that, he removed the display glass and took out the photograph. Jirō’s unexpected kindness filled Kimie with such joy that she recalled how, when bullied as an orphaned child, he alone had stood up for her. Unable to refuse his suggestion, she followed him into the café across from the photo studio for something cold to drink.

As they drank coffee, the conversation turned to Tagyoku.

“He’s still pulling that rickshaw.” “Today, he said it’s the Ikukunitama Shrine’s procession, so…” “……Did he go out wearing armor?” Jirō had a slightly surprised look but “All of this too... on account of my own lack of capability...” “Now now,” he said steadying the despondent Kimie then deliberately smiled and added “Even if he’s aged ‘Benguet’s Tagyoku’ is still full of life eh?” “So what do you mean? Even now he’s still maintaining that principle of driving people to work by punishing their bodies huh?”

his tone shifted to one defending Kimie. “Now that you mention it, I too have occasionally recalled that habitual phrase of Tagyoku-san’s.” “In fact, even now…” Jirō explained that his job in the diving profession relied solely on his physical strength—having started down this path at twenty-two years old, he had dived in nearly every sea around Japan over seven years, and since yesterday had come to Osaka’s Ajigawa for work with Tsurutomi-gumi.

“Well, truth be told, this current job isn’t anything major—just dismantling a ship so small it’s hardly worth mentioning. I wasn’t particularly keen on it, but when I heard it was Osaka, I got all nostalgic and ended up wandering over here without thinking.”

Jirō’s way of speaking seemed uncertain about how much familiarity to use when talking to Kimie. But Kimie found reassurance in his blunt manner, felt a surge of nostalgia whenever his Osaka dialect slipped through, and flushed with inexplicable embarrassment whenever he lapsed into polite speech. Jirō refilled his coffee multiple times, gulped it down in one go without using a straw, and swallowed the ice cubes in an instant.

As she watched this hearty way of drinking, Kimie suddenly recalled how Jirō used to run wild alone in the men’s bath at Hinomaru Bathhouse and often get scolded by the attendant, so when she mentioned that, “Oh right, there was a time I stayed underwater in Hinomaru Bathhouse the whole while Mr. Shime counted to fifty,” he said. “One time, when Mr. Shime was counting way too slow, I nearly passed out and grabbed onto his leg—he jumped up so startled that I managed to get my head above water. If he hadn’t jumped then, I would’ve drowned right there.”

Jirō was unexpectedly good at talking, and “But now that I think about it, I guess I’ve liked diving ever since those days.” So after three years of apprenticeship at a camera shop in Shinagawa, Tokyo—where I learned the basics of developing work—I soon 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 Fura, Bōshū Province, and began training as a diver. Typically, diver training involves one year each as a pump operator, air hose handler, and rope handler, taking about four years total to become a sogurī (assistant diver). But whether through natural talent or sheer dedication, I became a sogurī in my second year of apprenticeship.

Generally speaking, divers' work includes salvage operations (ranging from simple tasks like retrieving cargo to large-scale projects such as explosive dismantling and raising massive ships), underwater civil engineering work like port construction, bridges, and docks, as well as marine product collection. However, salvage operations are primarily limited to calm seas from spring through summer, and marine product collection naturally has its fishing seasons. Therefore, unlike land-based factories where work remains constantly steady, to secure livelihood stability during these intervals, one must become accustomed to two or three types of these specialized skills—but...

“I don’t mean to boast, but once I became a full-fledged diver, I completely mastered all the necessary skills within three years.”

With that, Jirō continued. “But it ain’t like I’ve gone and forgotten all about developing neither,” he said. “Even now, I still develop photos my mates snap from time to time—oh right, Kimie-chan! If you want, I could fix up that photo of yours proper-like. It’s gone all faded, see…” “That’s awful kind of you, but I couldn’t put you through such trouble.” “Trouble my foot—quit actin’ so damn formal! Weren’t we neighbors back in Kappa Alley?”

Kimie felt herself blushing inexplicably at the word “connection.” “Anyway, I’ll leave the photo with you.”

Jirō received the photograph and, “The sooner the better,” “I’ll have it enlarged by tomorrow,” “I’ll give it to you in the evening,” he said in crisp Tokyo dialect. “Oh, that’s very kind.” “Where should we meet?” “……?……” “Nakanoshima Park would work,” “I’ll hand it over at Nakanoshima Park,” “Can you make it?” Jirō paused briefly before speaking.

Kimie suddenly released her mouth from the coffee straw, looked up at Jirō’s rugged face, and sensed something distinctly masculine there. “Well, but…” When they were children—thirteen and seven—it might have been one thing, but now that they were grown, meeting at a park felt like an audacious act, their hearts tensing up abruptly. Kimie stated that she was working as a taxi dispatcher, “Today’s my day off, but tomorrow…” When she looked down, saying she couldn’t go out because of work, Jirō—

“But your work ends by evening, right?”

he said briskly. Pressed, “Well, my shift changes at five, I do.” “Then, can you come around five-thirty?”

Jirō’s Osaka dialect softened Kimie’s hardened heart somewhat. “Well, there’s no reason I can’t go, but…” “In that case, I’ll be waiting.” Jirō grabbed the bill and,

“Shall we go?” he said as he stood up.

“Alright.” The way she nodded could easily be taken as consent to meet at the park, making Kimie flustered—yet, “No, I can’t go. I’ll refrain.” Those words simply wouldn’t come out in that critical moment. “It’s not like I’m going with frivolous feelings—I’m just going to get Father and Mother’s photo enlargement.”

As Kimie waited outside the coffee shop for Jirō, who was paying the bill, she used this sudden thought that had surfaced as an excuse to herself. "Coming to see the photo today and meeting Jirō—maybe that was all arranged through the photo as a pretext, and I might not even realize it." At her own involuntary whisper, she felt a sweetness so intense it made her head spin—but then, the drums of the sacred procession pierced her ears with painful clarity. The western sun glared harshly. As Kimie recalled Tagyoku’s dust-caked feet—likely shuffling in his armor—she found herself unable to forgive having momentarily indulged in such sweet thoughts. A stinging pain rose through her chest, tightening her brow. Just then, Jirō came bustling out and—

“Let’s walk this way.”

He moved toward the shaded side. He thought Kimie’s furrowed expression was due to the harsh sunlight. Next to the photo studio was a vaudeville theater. Next to the vaudeville theater was a razor shop.

Jirō peered into the depths of the narrow, elongated razor shop, but the figure of Yanagikichi who had been there ten years ago was no longer visible there. But across from the razor shop, the iron-cold spring shop remained as ever. Next to the razor shop was a photo studio. Next to the photo studio was a beef shop. At the Iroha Beef Shop, whose name remained unchanged from the old days, Jirō was about to pass by, thinking that Sennichimae hadn’t changed at all, when Kimie—prompted by some thought—

“Wait…” With that, she came to a halt and turned into Iroha Alley. It was an oddly desolate alley—grimy and cluttered. On the second floor of a house to the left hung a “Massage” sign, where five or six masseurs kneaded each other’s shoulders. A morning glory planter perched unassumingly on the small roof, adjacent to a shabby dental clinic sign. Were it not for that sign, no one would have recognized it as a dentist’s office—a cramped, aged house resembling a storehouse, its low-ceilinged second floor jammed with dental equipment that crouched dimly under the oppressive overhead space.

To the right stood a grimy red brick wall; passing through the gate revealed a darkness as though the ground had collapsed even at midday, where large lantern lights and candle flames flickered amidst wafting incense smoke—this was Jian Temple. There lingered an atmosphere reminiscent of theatrical stage scenery. As Jirō stood marveling at discovering a temple’s back gate in such an unexpected place, Kimie— “Wait…” —told him to wait there before squatting before the Jizō statue at the temple’s corner. She bowed her head, scooped water with the provided ladle to pour over it, then began earnestly scrubbing the statue’s feet with a brush.

While vaguely taking in the name Jōgyō Daibosatsu inscribed on the Jizō statue, “Kimie-chan, you’re quite the devout one, aren’t you? What exactly does this Jizō cure?” As he stood idly by, feeling out of place and asked, Kimie— “It’s a Jizō that works for anything.” With that, she put strength into her hands and voice,

“If someone’s eyes are bad, they can pour water on this Jizō’s eyes and wash them to get better—and if someone has chest troubles, they can scrub the chest part with a brush, and that should help.”

she said while scrubbing vigorously. Now that he mentioned it, the Jizō statue was indeed covered in limescale, its entire body rusted red, its facial features so worn down they were barely distinguishable, and the kasaya robe pattern around its chest had completely faded from view. The Jizō statue must have been quite popular.

Jirō found such superstitions foolish, and Kimie—who seemed to believe in them—struck him as pitiable instead, “Does it really work?” “I think it’s suspicious.”

He had blurted out bluntly, but when he suddenly noticed that the part Kimie was scrubbing was the Jizō statue's feet, something occurred to him, "Tagyoku-san—hasn't his legs been troubling him lately?"

he asked. "No, there's nothing wrong with them, but since Grandpa's in a job that uses his legs, I'm doing this thinking it might keep the fatigue at bay..." Through her earnest hand movements, Kimie demonstrated that this was how one made a wish. Jirō felt suddenly struck through the chest and abandoned any thought of reproaching Kimie's superstitions. "Thank you for waiting." When Jirō saw Kimie's face—flushed from rising yet now clear and bright—a surge of Osaka nostalgia gripped his heart without reason, and with that momentum, days spent in Kappa Alley came back to him with aching vividness.

From the second floor of a shabby house in Kanteki Alley—visible from the backstreets—during summer evenings, someone would endlessly rehearse a jōruri passage: “Behold, Mitsuhide Takechi…” Her father would mimic it while repairing the ribs of a Western-style umbrella—even such memories resurfaced as they exited through Jian Temple’s main gate.

“Kimie-chan, why don’t we go see Bunraku?” he said. “That’s true…”

As she hesitated, “Have you ever seen Bunraku? I haven’t seen it either, but since I’m back in Osaka after so long, I thought I’d take the chance to savor something quintessentially Osaka.”

Jirō said. "I'll hear you out if it's something good..." Yet Kimie hesitated - was it truly proper to go to such a place with Jirō? "Doesn't matter anyway - it's festival day today, right?"

When Jirō invited her again, Kimie—her spirits having lightened from visiting the Mizukake Jizō—nodded. Turning onto Midosuji from Sennichimae’s tram street and walking side by side toward Shinbashi—Kimie, “Speaking of Bunraku—Ms. Chōko has been learning jōruri these days.” She talked about Chōko. “Ms. Chōko—you mean the one from that Mr. Tane’s family?” “That’s right.” “What’s happened to Mr. Yasuyama? When I peeked into the barbershop in Sennichimae earlier, he wasn’t there, but…”

When Jirō said this, Kimie— “That place being closed down—well, that’s already an old story.” “It’s been ten years already, hasn’t it?”

And so she began to speak...

3

He started a small barbershop at the foot of Kōzu Shrine Hill, but it didn’t thrive. On the morning they hired a town crier and opened the shop, Chōko sat in the storefront with her headband tied determinedly around her forehead. Around noon, “Not a single customer’s coming in.” Ryūkichi said in a timid voice, but Chōko didn’t respond, her eyes wide like saucers as she glared at the people passing by. In the afternoon, a customer finally came, resulting in the pitiful state of sales being a single safety razor blade for six sen.

“Thank you kindly.” “Please favor us with your patronage.” Working together as a couple, they provided disconcertingly thorough service, but whether due to poor reputation or being a new shop, that day only fifteen customers came—and even those were mostly buying replacement blades—with total sales not even reaching two yen. In this way, customer traffic never picked up at all, and with even a single Gillette blade sale counting as a good day, day after day brought pitiful sales—mostly ear picks or replacement blades.

As they ran out of conversation topics and exchanged pitifully bored looks while minding the store—feeling thoroughly ashamed—Ryūkichi proposed going to jōruri practice for an hour or two during daytime to kill time, and Chōko could not summon the will to stop him.

Ryūkichi became a disciple of Takegumi Shō—who ran a practice hall in nearby Shimoderamachi—for five yen a month, scoured Tentō Bookstore in Futatsui for old lesson books, and set out each day carelessly. Even though Ryūkichi threw himself into the business, when minding the store with a look that said there was nothing to be done if customers didn’t come, he would open his practice book and mumble. His voice sounded utterly pitiful, and Chōko somehow felt reluctant to praise him for his improvement.

As they fell deeper into debt each month, Chōko returned to working as a yotona hostess. She couldn’t help but grow somber, realizing this was what hardship truly meant, yet at banquets she still strove to prioritize her trade, working the rooms alone as duty demanded—such spirit rarely left her. For one thing, Ryūkichi’s legal wife had died some years prior, and Chōko’s hardships had finally borne fruit. Yet whether Ryūkichi understood Chōko’s feelings or not, whenever she went out in the evening carrying the small handbag with her shamisen inside, he would fidgetingly close shop early, head to a stall in Futatsui Market to eat seasoned rice and red miso soup with scorpionfish, drink sake with cockles in vinegar miso, pay a sixty-five sen bill—muttering “cheap stuff”—then order beer and fruit at “Ichiban,” lavish tips on the woman he was involved with there, and squander ten days’ earnings in a single night.

Although they managed to get by on the yotona earnings, Ryūkichi’s spending was so reckless that their debts to the wholesalers kept mounting. After enduring it for a year, they seized the opportunity when a buyer emerged for the shop’s rights and resolved to close it down for good. After using the 220-odd yen—made up of over 100 yen from the closing sale and 120 yen from selling the rights—to settle payments with the wholesalers and other creditors, not even 10 yen was left…….

“……Ms. Chōko’s such a poor soul.” “She went through all that trouble to make Mr. Yasuyama respectable—trying to get his father to acknowledge her as a proper woman, not some nightlife worker—but Mr. Yasuyama stayed a pampered heir. Even after being disowned, he kept counting on his family’s wealth in the back of his mind. So despite all their efforts with that barbershop, before even a year had passed, they ended up closing it down and renting some second-floor place near Tobita, I hear……”

When Kimie spoke thus,

“Huh?” “I see.” “And then what happened next?” Jirō said this not so much from wanting to know about Chōko and Ryūkichi’s situation as from wanting to hear Kimie’s story while walking alongside her. Kimie’s voice was beautiful. Moreover, to Jirō, it was her Osaka dialect after so long.

“Then with money Ms. Chōko had scrimped and saved through three years of hardships—eating when she could—and what Mr. Yasuyama managed to borrow from his sister, they started a new business.” “What kind of business…?” “An oden shop…” They resolved to open an oden shop and began searching for a suitable storefront to purchase. They found a small oden shop for sale on nearby Tobita Daimon Street. The elderly couple running it were struggling with staffing—the location’s rough clientele made timid maids quit quickly, while strong-willed women would look down on them instead. At their wits’ end, they’d put the shop up for sale. When negotiations began, they surprisingly agreed to transfer everything from fixtures to utensils for 350 yen—a bargain.

Since the entire downstairs was plastered for business use, their living quarters were limited to a single four-and-a-half-tatami room on the second floor—with ceilings so low they bumped their heads and an oppressively gloomy atmosphere—but its location along the red-light district’s thoroughfare ensured steady foot traffic, and being a corner shop, its layout—from the counter arrangement to the entryway—was exceptionally well-designed. Upon hearing the price, they immediately seized the deal and shook hands. Prior to opening their new shop, they randomly visited oden shop curtains—starting with Shōben Tango-tei in Hōzenji Temple grounds and Takofuku in Dōtonbori—learning flavor balancing, the condition of sake bottles’ contents, and business techniques.

And so, taking one character each from their names to create the shop name “Chōryū,” they finally prepared to open for business. Since they had taken the plunge to stock barrels of draft beer while the summer heat still lingered, they found that—contrary to their initial fears of the beer going flat if not sold quickly—it sold surprisingly well. Since they ran the shop by themselves without hiring help, the busiest hours from around ten to twelve at night were so hectic it made their heads spin, leaving them no time even to visit the restroom.

With the red-light district nearby keeping customers coming until late at night, by the time they brought in the signboard, the eastern sky had already deepened to purple. Exhausted, they would collapse into the second-floor four-and-a-half-tatami room and barely start dozing off before the alarm clock's j-j-j-j... rang out. Still in their sleepwear, they stumbled downstairs and put up the standing signboard reading "Breakfast Available - Four Dishes 18 Sen" without even washing their faces. Though they'd counted on morning stragglers ordering the miso soup, simmered beans, pickles and rice set—assuming small profits from these eighteen-sen meals—the customers who added beer orders made business decent enough that they could push through their drowsiness.

As autumn deepened and the wind grew chilly, it became the perfect season for the oden shop, with sake often replacing beer. They paid the liquor store promptly and properly in cash—so reliably that the main branch of Meishu Brewery even considered donating a signboard—and this time, Chōko’s shamisen was left unused and stored away in the closet. This time around, it wasn’t just that Ryūkichi had contributed more than half of his own money; his dedication was beyond reproach.

They didn’t set any public holidays and worked diligently every day, so without any wasteful expenses, their momentum only continued to grow. Ryūkichi went to the post office every day. Because it was a strenuous business, Ryūkichi would replenish his energy with alcohol when tired. Chōko knew Ryūkichi’s tendency to grow bold and recklessly spend large sums when drinking, so she felt anxious—but since it was alcohol meant for sale, Ryūkichi drank in moderation. But even that way of drinking became another source of worry for Chōko, and ultimately, whichever way things went, her worries never ceased. When he drank heavily, he became foolishly cheerful, but when he sipped slowly, his inherent stutter made him even more silent than usual. Seeing him sitting vacantly on a chair during lulls in customers, seemingly lost in thought, Chōko wondered if he was thinking about his family home in Umeda—and once again, she remained uneasy.

Sure enough, when Ryūkichi was refused attendance at his sister’s wedding to welcome a son-in-law, he became disheartened, took out around two hundred yen from their savings, left, and did not return for three days. Chōko scolded Ryūkichi. “Even if you’re fine with that, I’ll be laughed at by your father. The two of us worked so hard to become proper people—to stand tall before your father someday—and here I am striving desperately. Don’t you understand a damn thing about how I feel? When the hell are you gonna start acting like a proper human being?”

“I-I-I get it already.” “O-O-Oba-han, I-I get it.” Ryūkichi vowed never to fool around again, but Chōko’s scolding had no effect. After a while, he started carousing again. They seemed utterly incapable of embracing the resolve to build a proper household. Chōko, who had gradually grown obese, became short of breath each time she gave him a scolding. Since Ryūkichi spent a considerable amount on his indulgences, even he turned pale the day after carousing, silently stirring the pot without touching his cup. But after four or five days, he started grumbling that merely warming customers’ sake wasn’t skill enough, then filled a flask to the brim with undiluted liquor, submerged it in a copper pot, sipping it little by little.

Clearly growing weary of the business, when drunk, his spirits swelled, and his feet naturally turned toward carousing. It was beyond even the shoemaker’s children going barefoot—Chōko began to gradually regret starting the oden shop, feeling as though they were running the business solely to fuel Ryūkichi’s carousing. As things went on, their payments to the liquor store began falling behind more often, and when she concluded they had no choice but to quit and told Ryūkichi so, he agreed immediately.

They put up a sign saying “This shop for sale” and kept the store drearily closed ever after. Ryūkichi began attending Jōruri recitation lessons. Their savings were gradually thinning, yet no buyers appeared for the shop. Chōko was beginning to consider returning to yotona work for the third time. One day, when Chōko looked out from the second-floor window at the passersby below, they all appeared as potential customers, making it all the more regrettable that they weren’t open for business. The fruit shop five or six stores down on the opposite side was bursting with reds, yellows, and greens, showing lively activity. There were many customers coming and going. The moment Chōko thought, “A fruit shop would be a good business,” she couldn’t sit still. As soon as Ryūkichi returned from his lessons, she immediately proposed, “Why don’t we start a fruit shop?” But Ryūkichi merely muttered “Nah…” and showed no enthusiasm whatsoever. He had convinced himself that if things got truly desperate, he could always go to Umeda and ask his family for money.

One day, it appeared Ryūkichi had actually gone to Umeda. When he returned, he recounted his attempt to borrow money: his brother-in-law had received him—a stubborn man who seemed convinced this household’s assets would eventually belong to him as the adopted heir—and proved so miserly he didn’t give even a single brass coin. Ryūkichi grew increasingly agitated as he spoke. Then he showed a face twisted in bitterness that seemed to say, “We’ve no choice but to start a fruit shop.” They renovated the shop using funds from selling their oden equipment. Still short on money for inventory and other expenses, they pawned their clothes and hair ornaments before visiting Okin—an old acquaintance now running the Yotona Club—to borrow more. Okin spent an hour berating Ryūkichi before finally saying, “Ms. Chōko, I pity you,” and lending her a hundred yen. “I’ll be waiting for your proper wedding day with Mr. Yasuyama.” Chōko wept at Okin’s words.

Straight from there, she went to her father Taneguchi’s place and asked him to lend a hand for two or three days since they were starting a fruit shop. Since Ryūkichi didn’t know techniques like how to cut watermelons, he needed to learn from Taneguchi, who had experience. In his youth, Taneguchi had once bought a cartload of watermelons from Otsu’s hometown of Yamato and sold them sliced at the night market on the sixteenth. Back then, Chōko was just two years old—Otsu carried her on her back—and all three of them worked together through the night: parent and child selling two hundred watermelons in total. Taneguchi recounted this old story as he happily offered his help.

Taneguchi had an unbearably happy demeanor as he helped his daughter and son-in-law with their business. On the day of their grand opening, when he saw that there was already a fruit shop across the street, [Taneguchi] began reciting a line from Awazu-bushi: “A watermelon shop across from a watermelon shop—watermelons facing each other as comrades.” That fruit shop’s strength lay in half of it being an ice store; since they attracted customers with ice-cooled watermelons, Chōko and her group had to counter by making their slices thicker. However, even without being told, Taneguchi’s cuts were remarkably generous. As Ryūkichi nervously calculated how many ten-sen slices they could get from an eighty-sen watermelon, Taneguchi said, “We take a loss on the slices but make it up on whole melons. “Take a loss to make a gain,” he said. And then,

“Watermelons! Watermelons! Delicious watermelons at a bargain price!” he let out a boisterous call. The calls from across the street were not to be outdone. Chōko couldn’t stay silent either, “Bargain-priced watermelons here!” and let out a shrill cry. Their lively banter drew in customers. Chōko slung a large satchel-like purse around her neck, handling both sales proceeds and giving out change. Because Ryūkichi applied himself with relative diligence, within four or five days he had mastered the techniques of cutting watermelons. Taneguchi, having been hired as a laborer for the annual procession of the Ikukunitama Shrine festival as usual, took the opportunity to withdraw. Upon leaving, he emphasized: apples must be thoroughly wiped with a cloth to bring out their luster; hands must not touch the honey peaches; and since all fruits detest dust, they must constantly be flicked with a duster.

They did their best to follow those instructions, but somehow the fruits spoiled so quickly that the honey peaches rotted away almost immediately. Since they couldn’t keep them displayed in the shop, they threw them out with bitter reluctance. The amount they had to discard each day grew larger. Reducing their stock would leave the shop looking pitifully bare, so cutting back on purchases wasn’t an option either. When sales refused to pick up, anxiety started creeping in. There were profits to be made, but losses piled up too—and as they slowly grasped how grueling the fruit trade truly was, Ryūkichi abruptly lost all his energy.

Chōko began to worry that Ryūkichi had already grown tired of the fruit shop business. But before she could dwell on that worry, Ryūkichi fell ill. For some time now, Ryūkichi had been suffering from stomach issues—likely from overeating greasy dishes—and making repeated visits to Futatsui no Jippi Hospital, but this time there was blood in his urine, and he let out a pained cry when relieving himself. When they had him examined at Futatsui no Jippi Hospital, they were told it would be best to see a urology specialist. Hearing that K Hospital in Shimanouchi was renowned, they went for a consultation where he was diagnosed with a bladder condition.

He had gone for about ten months but showed no real improvement. He grew visibly thinner. Though Chōko herself had put on weight, her eyes grew shadowed at the rims as she fretted endlessly over Ryūkichi's illness. Thinking there might have been a misdiagnosis, they had him examined at the municipal hospital—and indeed found something different. An X-ray revealed kidney tuberculosis. From that day onward, he was hospitalized. With no way to keep shop while tending to him, Chōko reluctantly closed it. She'd meant to ask Taneguchi to mind the store—it pained her to watch the fruit rot—but when luck runs sour there's nothing to be done: her mother Otsuru had taken ill four or five days prior. Her uterine cancer made each day precarious.

The morning after Ryūkichi underwent major surgery to remove one of his kidneys, Otsuru died. Chōko stayed constantly by Ryūkichi’s side and couldn’t be there for her mother’s final moments. That Ryūkichi’s life had been spared was her only consolation, yet the guilt of being an unfilial daughter still pricked her heart. Otsuru didn’t resent Chōko’s absence in the slightest—rather, she told Tagyoku, who had suggested sending a rickshaw to fetch her, “Mr. Yasuyama has endured much hardship for Chōko’s sake. If his surgery succeeds, I could die without seeing her face and still be satisfied.” When Chōko heard this, even she writhed in anguish.

She attended only the funeral, and when she hurried back to the hospital, a young woman had come to visit, bringing along a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl. The moment she saw her face, she realized it was Ryūkichi’s sister. She suddenly tensed up, “Thank you so much for coming.”

She forced a polite smile in place of formal greetings. Though it pained her to smile on the day of her mother's funeral, making a grim face simply wasn't in her nature. The girl brought along was Ryūkichi's daughter. She'd been attending girls' school since April that year and wore a sailor uniform. When Chōko patted her head, the girl grimaced. They spoke mainly about his illness, and after half an hour Ryūkichi's sister left. When Chōko saw them out to the hallway, Ryūkichi's sister,

“The hardships of your household—even your husband has come to understand them well these days.” “He’s been doing his best for you, dear—that’s what he says.” With that, she quietly pressed some money into her hand.

Chōko wanted to believe these words were true. She wanted her dead mother to hear them. Two years earlier, someone had come from Ryūkichi’s house to propose a separation—this too flickered briefly through her mind.

Ryūkichi was eventually discharged from the hospital and went to Yuzaki Hot Springs to recuperate. The expenses were covered by Chōko, who earned the funds through Yotona and remitted them. Because renting a second-floor room was uneconomical, Chōko stayed at Taneguchi’s place. Tagyoku said to Taneguchi,

“Mr. Taneguchi, you’ve got yourself a good kid.” “I said some harsh things about Chōko-san in the past, but don’t take it badly.” “No, actually, she’s a truly admirable daughter.” he said. However, Ryūkichi was squandering money every day in Yuzaki. Chōko, who had gone to Yuzaki to visit him, learned that Ryūkichi had also been secretly having his sister send him money and went into a frenzy.

“There’s nothing wrong with you having your sister send money—we’re siblings after all—but this makes all my struggles meaningless.” “If you’d just stopped wasting money, I could’ve managed your recovery on my own.” When Chōko returned to Osaka from Yuzaki with Ryūkichi, she rented a second-floor room behind Matsuzakaya. She kept working at Yotona as usual. The thought that if she could stop renting rooms and instead set up a proper business—then even Ryūkichi’s father would praise her as an exceptional woman, allowing them to finally become a proper couple—kept her motivated. This father had been bedridden with a stroke for over ten years; most would’ve died long ago, but he clung to life, making Chōko anxious to act before his time ran out. But Ryūkichi still needed post-illness care—tonics, injections—all requiring steep expenses, so even after six months, they couldn’t save up even thirty yen.

4 “……After all that hardship she endured, they do say the world isn’t entirely heartless—see, there was this old friend of Chōko-san’s, a Mr. Kinpachi who’d made something of himself. After ten years apart, he suddenly ran into Chōko-san, and when he asked how she’d been getting on, she told him everything—‘Oh, this and that’—and he took pity on her and lent her the money. With that as capital, Chōko-san opened a salon called ‘Chōryū,’ a café and bar down in Shimoderamachi, and it’s still thriving grandly to this day……”

Kimie recounted. “Oh…?” “That’s good to hear.” “Mr. Taneguchi must’ve been pleased too, right?” “And what about Mr. Yasuyama’s father…?” When Jirō asked, Kimie— “Well, about that…” —and with emphasis— “They’d hoped to make things official while Mr. Yasuyama’s father was still alive, but he ended up passing away at the end of the year before last…” “Chōko-san had prepared mourning clothes intending to attend just the funeral, but when they told her she wasn’t qualified to go, she cried out ‘How could they be so cruel?’ and caused a huge uproar.” “Well, I suppose that couldn’t be helped.” “After all, Chōko-san had worked her whole life not wanting to end up in the shadows—only for Mr. Yasuyama’s family to treat her that way just when her efforts were about to pay off…” “But there’s no more of that now. With Mr. Yasuyama’s parents gone too, no one’s left with any right to oppose them. They say they finally registered their marriage not long ago and are getting along well.” “This spring at Tenushi in Futatsui—when Mr. Yasuyama performed jōruri recitations on the second floor—I got an invitation and went. Chōko-san played shamisen for him there, and they looked so perfectly in sync.”

Kimie flushed slightly. “But Mr. Yasuyama has a child, doesn’t he? Did they take in that child?” “Well, that’s…”

Kimie made a face 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 her deceased mother had drilled into her—that her father had been stolen away by a wicked woman—lingered in her ears, leaving her with no fondness for Chōko and an absolute refusal to leave Ryūkichi’s sister’s side. Part of it was also that she disliked Chōko and Ryūkichi’s line of work.

That was a source of headaches for Ryūkichi. Even if he had no lingering attachment to the property taken by the adopted child, he still found it hard to forget about his daughter, and perhaps his jōruri lessons were also a way to distract himself from such gloom. Considering this, while Chōko now had no need for formalities or worries about her livelihood, her heart was not entirely free of clouds either; and precisely because Kimie knew Chōko’s usually cheerful and bright disposition, she found Chōko’s loneliness all the more deserving of sympathy.

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

However, Bunraku-za was not showing puppet plays; it seemed they were screening old films instead, with movie stills on display. The puppet troupe had gone to Tokyo for their summer tour, it was said. "What the hell? I finally got myself all set to see some Bunraku here in Osaka, but with this setup, there was no need to come all the way here—might as well have stayed in Tokyo to see it." Jirō was slightly disappointed. "Let's just catch a flick then."

“Today’s a special discount day—it’ll be packed, won’t it?”

Kimie seemed to have no intention of watching. Somehow she appeared to want to part ways and return home right then, which left Jirō increasingly disappointed, but he suddenly remembered something and his eyes lit up. "Oh right, there's something good." "I'll show you something you'll like." "What is it?" "Something that would make *me* happy..." "Just follow along quietly." "It's right around here." "I saw it yesterday and really thought, 'Ah, if I show this to Kimie-chan, she'll be happy.'"

“Oh?” “What in the world is it?”

As she spoke while following Jirō, he arrived at the front of the Yotsubashi Electric Science Museum,

“Here it is.”

and came to a stop. There was one of Japan's only two Carl Zeiss planetariums there, and while listening to Jirō's explanation that according to this machine, one could view not only every sky from every time across all lands from the North Pole to the South Pole but also past, present, and future skies without leaving one's seat, 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 machine, with chairs arranged in a circle around it.

When they sat down, the spring-loaded chair backs tilted backward. “It’s like Asahiken’s chairs,” she said. When Kimie said this,

“Since it’s projected on the ceiling, they’re arranged so you can look up easily.” Jirō said,

“Is everyone at Asahiken doing well?” “I know Yoshie-san died, but…” “Yes, they’re all well.” “So they’re still not married off?” “It’s a troubled household, Grandpa says.” Kimie remembered Tagyoku again. Where could he be wandering around now? The hall felt pleasantly cool, perhaps due to its air-cooling system. First came a cultural film, followed by the planetarium demonstration.

“This month’s planetarium program is ‘Star Journey: Around the World.’” When the female voice finished this announcement, beautiful music began, and the hall gradually took on the hues of dusk. In the western sky, the first and second stars glimmered faintly until finally a starry sky that seemed to pour down was projected across the ceiling. By now, the surroundings had sunk into such profound darkness that even the outline of Jirō’s face beside her became indistinguishable. Nighttime hours seeped through the shadows, and from among the crowd of group visitors came the sound of snoring. Those gazing upward at the ceiling must have mistaken this for true nightfall. The spring-loaded chairs were designed for easy napping.

When the quiet sound of the planetarium's machinery stirred, the starry sky shifted. They had already left Osaka's skies behind as their celestial journey began, and soon the Southern Cross appeared, glittering with beautiful radiance. A meteor crossed the Southern Cross. They streamed like rain. It was like a magic lantern.

As she was entranced by its ethereal beauty, the commentator directed a blue arrow of light toward the Southern Cross, “Now, everyone, with the Southern Cross appearing here, we have finally arrived in the southern skies.” “The time in Manila is 1 AM—exactly midnight.” “The hushed town of Manila—its fields, its mountains, its palm fronds—this beautiful Southern Cross gazes down upon them all in silence.”

Hearing Manila, Kimie awoke from her drowsiness.

“Ah.”

Kimie cried out—so Grandfather had worked under those stars in Benguet, and Father had died alone beneath them in Manila! Tears streamed down her cheeks, blurring the shooting stars in her eyes. In the darkness, Jirō’s understanding of her heart—his act of showing her this planetarium—came to her with a warmth so intense it made her limbs tingle.

After parting ways with Jirō and returning to Kappa Alley, she found the neighborhood had taken on the air of a festival night—Shime Danji, the stock trader, the old woman from the pipe shop, and others had brought out benches to the vacant lot in front of their houses and were cooling off while eating a watermelon that a tailor from Yamato’s village had supposedly sent them. When they saw the watermelon’s round face, Taneguchi—the one who should have fetched a kitchen knife—had gone out with Tagyoku for the procession and hadn’t yet returned. “These days,” Shime Danji spat out a watermelon seed, “rakugo’s been crushed by manzai—we’re finished.” “Manzai’s a two-person act, see? I’m just one man here.” “If they’d let us keep just one showhouse a day, that’d be something—but that’s only for the popular acts. People like me get left in the cold year-round.” “And even if I wanted to switch sides now—who’d take me into their manzai duo?”

As Shime Danji, wearing a half-sleeved shirt, spat out watermelon seeds while speaking, the still-down-and-out stock trader swatted at the air with a fan and grumbled, “Goddamn jungle mosquitoes!” Then he jabbed, “Say, Mr. Shime—you coulda tossed me some rakugo tickets just once, eh? I’ve been hangin’ around you forever—you ever given me squat? Tightwad bastard!” “Ain’t no call for that poison tongue,” Shime shot back, seeds dribbling down his chin. “I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

“You keep sayin’ you’ll do it, but your mouth’s all business—don’t know how much it’s worth. You’re just like Hinomaru Bath’s kettle, spoutin’ nothin’ but hot air! Ain’t that right, granny?” “Exactly.” “Basically, Mr. Shime is downright terrible at promoting himself.” “You need to hand out tickets to everyone, get them to come to the vaudeville theater, and when you come out, make sure they properly call out ‘Mr. Shime Danji’ and clap their hands for you.” “With that kinda attitude, you’ll never get past bein’ an opener, y’know? Plus, what’s with stickin’ to nothin’ but ‘Muhitsu no Kataho’? That ain’t gonna cut it forever.” “If you keep spoutin’ that ‘illiterate’ nonsense these days, you’ll never get anywhere in life. Right, Kimie-chan?”

The Pipe Shop Woman was already advanced in years, her voice grown so deep it seemed to belong to another person entirely. At that very moment, Kimie had plopped down barefoot on the plastered edge of the water spigot and was scrubbing her feet with such vigor that the rushing water drowned out the Pipe Shop Woman’s voice. The dim light of the bare bulb above the spigot cast a white glow on Kimie’s feet.

“What? Auntie. Auntie, what did you just say?” “Didn’t you hear? Troublesome girl you are—Mr. Shime’s still going on about…”

The Pipe Shop Woman started to say something but changed the subject, “How long you gonna keep washin’ your feet there? The water ain’t free, y’know. If you catch a chill, what’re you gonna do?” “Even if you say that, it’s a good feeling.”

With that, Kimie rubbed her feet together, “Since tomorrow’s another day of standing all day, I need to give myself a massage…”

While saying this, she suddenly looked up at the sky—it was a starry expanse. Kimie suddenly raised a shrill voice,

“Mr. Shime, do you know about the Andromeda constellation?” “What’s that? Anro...ro...? What a tongue-twister—never heard of it from the start. You can make Western food like that now?” “What an idiot. It’s not Western food—it’s the name of a star!” Kimie wriggled her shoulders and laughed, “Then, what about the Southern Cross…?” “Since I’m uneducated, don’t pick on me so much. But you’ve really gone and become quite the scholar, haven’t you?” “Oh, stop it…”

While wiping her feet, Kimie stuck out her tongue—tomorrow evening she would be meeting Jirō-boy at Nakanoshima Park. As she eagerly slipped into her geta sandals, a sweet feeling welled up inside her—Oh no, is this what they call love or something like that? Hugging her chest as she murmured to herself, she noticed the shrine procession must have ended when Tagyoku and Taneguchi came trudging back. Kimie suddenly felt a pang in her chest and began washing Tagyoku’s dust-caked feet.

Perhaps Tagyoku was utterly exhausted when Shime Danji, “So then—which direction’s that Southern Cross star show up in, you reckon?” kept asking while craning his neck skyward, “You damn fool! The Southern Cross can’t be seen in Japan!” “Shouldn’t be sayin’ this, but that star there—I saw it every night when I was in Benguet and Manila.” “Ain’t many folks in all Osaka ’sides me who’ve laid eyes on that star! Wanna see it? Head south—keep goin’ south!”

After saying this, he didn’t even attempt to join in the evening chat. Crawling onto the tatami mat, he flopped down without touching the chilled somen noodles Kimie had prepared and immediately began snoring. Kimie had failed to mention that she had met Jirō today.

She thought that if she told him, Tagyoku would be both surprised and pleased, but she couldn’t shake the guilt of having met Jirō behind his back. Yet despite this, she couldn’t stop herself from wanting to talk about Jirō. As she hung the mosquito net over Tagyoku lying there, she nearly resolved to wake him—to eat somen together, to speak of Jirō, to tell him about the planetarium—but seeing his sleeping face, limp with exhaustion and snoring, she couldn’t bring herself to rouse him.

"I'll tell him tomorrow morning." Kimie muttered to herself, but upon waking in the morning—when the thought that she would meet Jirō today suddenly floated into her head—once again Kimie ended up failing to mention Jirō.

5 After participating in the procession and being completely exhausted, Tagyoku still did not skip the morning radio calisthenics held in the vacant lot of the alley at daybreak.

And then, as usual, he went out pulling his rickshaw from evening and, while passing by Naniwa Bridge, spotted Kimie’s face—she was riding in a boat with some young man—by the light of the boat’s lantern. If he hadn’t had a passenger, he would have abandoned his rickshaw then and there, leapt into the river, and sunk his teeth into the boat like a lion—but suppressing this urge, Tagyoku returned straight to Kappa Alley after dropping off his fare. “Ah, just as I thought—a daughter without parents is no good. “No matter how well I tried to raise her proper-like, in the end she’s gone and degenerated.”

As he sat there clutching his head in a daze, about an hour passed before Kimie returned home fidgeting restlessly. The moment he saw her face, Tagyoku raised his voice without caring about the neighbors' opinions. "You idiot! What time do you think it is now? It's nearly time for the radio to sign off, and here you are—a young woman—prancing around at night. I didn't raise you to be such a shameless girl. Look at Asahiken's daughters. They're all proper girls. Women—even if they're slow to find husbands—still need to stay respectable. Where've you been all this time?"

“I went to Nakanoshima.” “Just as I figured.” Tagyoku’s eyes flickered with disappointment, “You were out there jangling around in a boat at the park with some young man, weren’t you?”

As he glared, “Grandpa, you saw me?” Kimie’s heart pounded, but now that he knew, she thought it actually made it easier to talk about Jirō, “If you’d called out to me then, that would’ve been nice.” “Mr. Jirō would’ve been happy too……” “What kind of riffraff is this Mr. Jirō?” “He’s the son of the person who was kind enough to repair the ribs of my Western umbrella.” Kimie let out a stifled laugh. “So it’s Mr. Jirō… is it?” “That’s right.”

“Is it really Mr. Jirō?” Tagyoku’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean I’d lie about something like that?” Kimie explained the circumstances of how she had met Mr. Jirō yesterday. “This... Mr. Jirō was kind enough to enlarge for me.” When she showed him the marathon race photo, Tagyoku also knew about that photo, “Well now, this has been stretched out real big, hasn’t it?” “So you’re really sayin’ Mr. Jirō was the one who stretched this out?” “Hmm.” “So then, Mr. Jirō’s already become a full-fledged photographer, hasn’t he.” “Did you give him the money?”

“Do you think he’d accept something like that?” “Why’s that? Why’s he not takin’ it? It’s a business, isn’t it? If we’re the only ones gettin’ it for free, that’s not right, is it? You should’ve made sure to pay him proper! After all, it’s a low-margin business anyway…” “What’re you talkin’ about? Photography isn’t his business at all. He just does it as a hobby.”

When Kimie said this— “A hobby…?”

he pressed, “Then what’s that guy’s real job? How’s he making a living…?”

“He’s a diver.”

When she finished telling him everything she had heard from Jirō, Tagyoku groaned.

“He’s quite the impressive one. People who don’t drive their bodies to work end up spoutin’ nothin’ but lies. That guy’s been pushin’ himself raw since his evening paper rounds, y’know—all ’cause I hammered some sense into ’im back then.” Tagyoku’s face broke into an unreadable grin, but then—if that were true—why hadn’t that Jirō bastard bothered to show his face in the alley? Skulkin’ around meetin’ Kimie alone—outrageous! His eyes narrowed to slits, “Even so, Kimie—no proper reason for a young man ’n woman to be clingin’ like glue in some boat. Whatcha gonna do if it flips over, eh?”

“That’s not a problem at all. Mr. Jirō’s a diver, ’cause even if it does capsize… From a diver’s perspective, he said Nakanoshima’s river is like a back-alley gutter—something like that. He said Ohama’s seaside swimming is just like a pond…”

“You shouldn’t go contradictin’ an elder every damn time. Whether it’s Mr. Jirō or Mr. Tarō, a young girl like you shouldn’t be frivolously meeting up with men. For one thing, it’ll interfere with Mr. Jirō’s work. You hear me? If you meet him again after this, I ain’t gonna stand for it.”

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

Kimie was bowing her head and fanning Tagyoku, but when she suddenly raised her face, she blushed to the roots of her ears, “Um… Mr. Jirō… today, he said he wants to… with me…” The fan stopped moving. “He said he wants to marry me.” “…………”

The muscles in Tagyoku's face twitched faintly. A silence continued for a while. The buzzing of mosquitoes was relentless.

Kimie hurriedly recalled on her lap the conversation she had exchanged with Jirō today at Nakanoshima Park. “Tagyoku-san… How long does he plan to keep pulling that rickshaw?” “No matter how impressive-sounding things he says, he’s still getting on in years after all…” “Even if you tell him to retire, he just won’t do it.” “It’s because I’m not capable enough…” “That’s probably not true…” “From Tagyoku-san’s perspective, wouldn’t he want you to quickly find a good husband so he can retire after that?”

“Well… “He did mention that once…” “He said… ‘Once your situation’s settled, I’m thinkin’ of headin’ back to Manila one more time…’” “In that case, all the more reason to get married sooner, don’t you think?” “Well… “You sure do say such spiteful things…” “But still, ain’t that how it is?” “If you’ve got someone you like, you oughta marry quick and put Tagyoku-san’s mind at ease, don’tcha?” “I don’t know.” “I ain’t doin’ any marryin’.” “Don’t got nobody like that—someone I fancy—not even a bit.” “Besides, even if it were just me alone, there ain’t nobody these days who’d take care of Grandpa too.” “I won’t marry while Grandpa’s alive.”

“If you say that, you’ll only make Tagyoku suffer more.” “I wonder if that’s really how it is…” “But there’s nothing else to be done about it.” “There ain’t no other way.” “It’s not like there isn’t a way…” “For example, say…” “For example… if you were to marry me…” “You sure do joke around without a care, don’tcha?” “You think I’m jokin’ here?”

“Well then…?” “...Yeah.”

Kimie, who was recalling, raised her face again, "If it's Mr. Jirō..." she fidgeted and said he would take care of Grandpa and that the three of them could live together, "You fool!"

A voice came from inside the mosquito net—Tagyoku’s. “From now on, no matter what happens, I ain’t havin’ nothin’ to do with Jirō.” “I’ll tell Jirō the same myself.” “Where’s that Jirō livin’ nowadays?” Then five nights later, Tagyoku—who knows what came over him—abruptly brought up the matter. “You’re of age now.” “Before some no-good lout snatches you up, marry the fella I’ve got picked out.” “Likin’ him ain’t got nothin’ to do with it—marriage ain’t for sweethearts to decide.” “Gotta do things proper-like, parents talkin’ it through ’stead of some back-alley fling.” “Fixed tomorrow mornin’ for the meetin’, so get yourself to bed early tonight.”

“I don’t want to.”

Kimie was already half crying. "Why don't you want to?" "Is there something lacking?" "That's just it, see." "Even if you spring this matchmaking on me outta nowhere, I don't even know what kinda person he is..." "You don't need to understand—long as Grandpa does, that's enough." "You ain't gone and got fat now, have ya?" "I haven't even seen his photo yet..." "Photos photos photos—what's so damn special about photos?" "That Jirō's put fool notions in your head with his picture mania..."

He was scolding her, but only his eyes remained gentle. “It don’t matter. Anyway, go through with the arranged meeting.”

“…………” The salty tears caught in her throat, Kimie sat dejectedly, lingering on their bitterness.

“Will ya do it or not? “Which is it?” “Answer me already!” “Will ya do it?”

Kimie nodded.

6

The next day, it rained as if on purpose. "What cruel fate makes me do this arranged meeting on a rainy day like this?" Kimie sat dejectedly, regretting having obeyed her grandfather's orders and not met Jirō these past five days. No—the day after their meeting at Nakano-shima Park, once work ended, she had rushed to their agreed-upon place—but Jirō hadn't come. The sadness she felt when returning crestfallen—likely because Grandfather had gone to confront Jirō—now came pouring into her chest like rain.

But Tagyoku was in high spirits, “Even if it rains, since the meeting place is inside the subway, you won’t get wet. How’s that? Your grandpa’s pretty sharp, ain’t he?”

“…………” Tagyoku wore tall geta and seemed to be having difficulty walking.

However, when they descended to the subway level of Namba Station, it was unexpectedly Jirō who had arrived first and was waiting at the ticket gate, with the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi accompanying him like a surrogate parent. Kimie stood stunned, utterly unable to believe Jirō could be today’s prospective match—her face paled ever so slightly. Yet there wasn’t a trace of resentment in Jirō’s eyes; having settled matters, his expression twitched with an incomparably cheerful air that left no doubt—he was indeed today’s arranged meeting partner.

When she realized this, Kimie abruptly regretted not having applied even a dab of cream for today’s meeting. Overcome with both joy and embarrassment, she looked down and noticed a single soiled commuter ticket lying on the ground—this moment of seeing it now, she thought, would remain unforgettable throughout her life. After completing the greetings at the ticket gate with the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi at the center, they all descended the stairs together. Jirō and the Master boarded the Umeda-bound subway. Kimie and Tagyoku saw them off, bringing the arranged meeting to a simple conclusion.

“If you’d just told me that from the start, it would’ve been fine…” Without needing to add anything more, Kimie pouted slightly as she climbed the stairs,

“With such a dirty face, even the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi would laugh at me.” She had said this while secretly imagining Jirō would likely be laughing, but afterward there was no farcical scene of uproarious drinking—and while young Jirō was one thing, both Tagyoku and the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi wore unexpectedly solemn expressions befitting men of rigid propriety. Above all, Tagyoku behaved as best as he could, and his anxiety—worrying about what would happen if Kimie didn’t please the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi—was plainly visible on his face.

Even in Tagyoku’s eyes, Kimie’s looks appeared outstandingly above average, but such things should be of no concern to the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi, let alone Jirō. So, from Tagyoku’s perspective, his belief that he had raised Kimie as a daughter without a single flaw might well have been nothing more than arrogant self-delusion. By contrast, according to what the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi had told him three days prior, Jirō was first and foremost a man who conducted himself appropriately for his age. His diving skills were unmatched, his discernment remarkably sharp, and in every salvage operation he had personally selected with the thought *“If Jirō dives here…”*—they had never once failed.

“The job we’re having him do now is just some penny-ante work—must feel downright pitiful for Mr. Hanai—but once this wraps up, there’s a big one coming.” “Can’t go into details here and now, but it’s not something anyone but Japanese salvagers could handle… Yeah, a sunken ship floating.” “For this one, we absolutely need Mr. Hanai’s physical capabilities.”

“Hmm,” Tagyoku said admiringly, and promptly resolved to conclude the matter. “And another thing—” “With how things are changing these days, someone like Mr. Hanai isn’t meant to stay forever at a small company like ours.” “There may come a time when we’ll have to send him overseas to put his skills to work salvaging sunken ships.” “That’s why we need her to be an exceptionally dependable wife.” “No need for that worry,” Tagyoku replied. “I may look like this now, but I’m someone who worked in Benguet back in the Philippines days.” “I even had my son-in-law die in Manila.” “On that count, I’ve drilled those lessons proper into Kimie.”

Even if it was merely a formality, the reason Tagyoku had gone through the procedure of an arranged meeting was partly out of confidence that they would at least see his granddaughter—but even he couldn’t help feeling anxious.

However, the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi, who had a distinctive perspective, was most pleased above all with the fact that she had come to the arranged meeting still wearing her taxi dispatcher uniform. The Master of Tsurutomi-gumi was a man who managed grand enterprises and had considerable wealth, yet he always rode third class on trains. “Even if you ride first or second class, it doesn’t mean you’ll arrive any faster.” That was his pet theory. And so Jirō and Kimie began their new household in the newly developed area of Ichioka, but on the night of the wedding held at their new home, there was a bit of a commotion.

When the festivities concluded and Tagyoku tried to leave with Shime Danji, Jirō and Kimie stopped them, "Grandpa, won't you stay at our place tonight?" "Well, obviously!"

In place of Tagyoku, Shime Danji answered. “Having an old fossil like Tagyoku here at the young couple’s place would be…” “He’d just be gloomy and in the way.” Shime Danji had a sharp tongue, but Tagyoku didn’t get angry tonight. "Hmph, hmph," he nodded cheerfully. “Oh, you horrid Mr. Shime!” Beneath her white powder, her face flared red. Jirō also looked slightly embarrassed, but “There’s no need at all to stand on ceremony like that. “I thought you’d stay tonight—even went through the trouble of preparing bedding properly… but now… the last train’s already gone, hasn’t it?”

“If there’s none left, I’ll walk back.” “How many miles d’you think it is from here to Kappa Alley? Grandpa, if you feel bad lettin’ Mr. Shime go back alone, we could squeeze in and have ’im sleep here with us…” “Nah, I’m goin’ back.” “Don’t matter how many miles—easier than pullin’ a rickshaw and runnin’.” “Hey, Mr. Shime.” “If we get bored, we’ll walk while listenin’ to your lousy rakugo.” “Wanna get smacked once?” Shime Danji clenched his fist and held it over Tagyoku’s head.

Jirō laughed, “In that case, let’s have you do us a favor just for tonight, and starting tomorrow, you should come live with us for good.” “It’s about time we had Grandpa retire too, don’t you think, Kimie?”

Then, Tagyoku hurriedly waved his hand. "Don't talk nonsense. I'm still nowhere near retirement age. Like I said before, I'm thinkin' of headin' out tomorrow or the next day to Manila. Kimie's fully recovered now, got nothin' left tyin' me here. Benguet no Tagyoku can finally fulfill his life's wish and die in Manila!" When he clenched the hand he'd waved, his veins bulged painfully. Catching sight of this out of the corner of his eye, Jirō,

“What nonsense are you spouting? I get that you want to go to Manila, Grandpa, but at your age, can you really make it all the way there alone? Right, Mr. Shime?” “That’s right.” “And Grandpa—now that times have changed like this, do you really think Japanese people can just waltz over to the Philippines that easily? The immigration laws are quite strict as well…” “Is there any law that says Benguet no Tagyoku can’t go to the Philippines?”

“Even if you say there isn’t one, the law’s set up that way—can’t be helped.” “If you think I’m lyin’, go ask that office yourself.” “That so?” Tagyoku looked disappointed. “Besides, even if you could go, Grandpa—if you left us now—it’d be so lonely I couldn’t stand it.” “Right, Mr. Shime?” “That’s right, Tagyoku. Manila’ll manage fine without you goin’. Hell—even if you did go, I’d be left without a single friend.”

When even Shime Danji told him, “Well, I suppose that’s true…”

With that, Tagyoku let out a lifeless voice. “You’ve all ganged up on me with your smooth talk and gone and made it so I can’t go to Manila after all.” “But I’ll tell you this—this ain’t nothin’ but for right now.” “When the time comes that I can go, no matter what anyone says, I’ll be rushin’ there first thing—that’s what I’m set on.” This slightly comforted Tagyoku’s heart. “That’s perfectly fine—we’ll deal with that when the time comes. For now, at least you’ve given up on going to Manila.”

Kimie looked alternately at Jirō and Tagyoku’s faces while, “Then, as I just said, starting tomorrow, come and stay at this house.” “As for your belongings, we’ll ask a handyman to bring them over, so…” With that, Tagyoku, “Now even you’re tellin’ me to retire?” “What cursed fate’s makin’ me slink outta Kappa Alley like some night-flecin’ rat?” It was an unusually strong tone of voice. “But even so, when we got married, wasn’t the promise that you’d retire and the three of us would live together? If you’re still gonna have Grandpa stay in Kappa Alley…”

Starting to say “I shouldn’t have gotten married,” Kimie caught sight of Jirō’s face and froze. Jirō’s face had paled. Keeping his face averted, Jirō spoke in a quivering voice. “There—see? Comin’ from Kappa Alley to this filthy house must be embarrassin’, ain’t it? You wouldn’t show up ’less it’s practically a midnight flit. If that’s how ya feel, don’t bother comin’ at all.” Jirō had always been hot-headed by nature. “Anyway—I’m just worthless through ’n’ through. If ya hate it that much—I’ll send Kimie back where she came from.”

Jirō truly liked Tagyoku and had wanted to live together with him, but part of it was that he wanted everyone to see he’d become man enough to take Tagyoku in. That was why having Tagyoku refuse him right in front of Shime Danji cut so deep. If Shime Danji hadn’t been there, Jirō wouldn’t have gotten this furious. “What’s that?! Say it again!” The voice of “Benguet no Tagyoku” resurfaced after so long.

“So you took it that way when I said I wouldn’t burden you? Damn fools!” As the atmosphere turned stormy, Shime Danji rushed to intervene—

“Now, now.”

With that, he inserted himself between them, chattering away despite not even understanding his own words, until he finally softened the tension in the room. "Who ever heard of folks makin' sour faces at each other on a weddin' night? Come on now—laugh! Pull a face like this!" When Shime Danji grinned broadly and demonstrated his own comical expression, Tagyoku's stony look dissolved first, then Jirō's followed suit. Urged by Shime Danji, Tagyoku trailed behind him outside where moonlight bathed the alleyway. The crisp autumn air seeped deep into their bones.

“Tagyoku, just how old are you?”

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 damn stubborn about refusing to let those two take care of you? Kimie-chan’s gotta be frettin’ too, thinkin’ there ain’t no time left to be filial now.” “I didn’t raise her just to have her take care of me.” Tagyoku muttered. “I see. So you’re saying if you become a burden and make Kimie-chan feel obliged, that’d be pitiful.”

“That’s part of it, but…” After that, Tagyoku didn’t answer.

The next day, it was raining.

Through the rainy town, Tagyoku pulled the rickshaw with a bobbing gait.

7

Half a year later, when work at Aji River had reached a temporary conclusion, the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi commenced the planned salvage operation of the sunken ship off △△ that he had long prepared for. Though he asked Jirō to go on-site for the job—thinking he would naturally dislike leaving Osaka so soon after his wedding, and considering he had served as a parental figure during Jirō’s marriage to Kimie—Jirō balked.

“That place certainly had fifty fathoms, no question.” “Up until now, with no family to speak of, I’d have gladly taken the dive, but now that I’ve got a wife… fifty fathoms feels a bit—” The salvage operation for the sunken ship off △△ had previously been attempted by another salvage company, which ended in failure, so Jirō had heard about it. “That’s certainly dangerous, no doubt about it…”

said the Master of the Tsurutomi-gumi. “It’s dangerous, no doubt about it—but that’s exactly why there’s worth in doing it.” “And, you—this might sound like a lecture, but nowadays, salvage operations aren’t just about the Tsurutomi-gumi making money anymore.” “Your wife must be dear to you, but just this once…” “When you put it that way, it’s painful for me.” “You don’t need to tell me—I know full well salvage work’s a matter of national duty.” “I do understand that, but…”

“After all, your wife’s dear to you, huh?” “Well, if it were just my wife, that’d be one thing—but when I think about Grandpa, I might end up…” “Given it’s Grandpa we’re talking about, he’d manage fine even if I died—but he’s already lost one son-in-law before, so…”

And Jirō was half using this as an excuse for himself. In truth, Jirō had lately come to dislike the work of a diver more than fear it.

Just the other day, at the Sakurabashi intersection, he ran into a man he’d once served with at a camera shop in Shinagawa. From their standing conversation, he learned that the man now ran a considerable camera shop on Sakaisuji.

“If you’d just endured through it back then, things would’ve turned out better.” When he heard this, Jirō thought there was truth in it—and that feeling took such hold within him that ending his life as a day-labor diver struck him as utterly pitiful. He hadn’t forgotten Tagyoku’s teaching that one must drive their body to work relentlessly. But no matter how persistently Tagyoku urged him, seeing the old man still refusing to retire and instead shuffling along pulling his rickshaw made it all seem like some obstinate sickness. And so Jirō began to think he should pursue a more carefree trade instead.

Since realizing that the international situation would not permit his return to Manila, Tagyoku had become so listless he could barely raise his voice. One reason was the relief of having settled Kimie’s affairs. From Tagyoku’s perspective, Jirō was a hard worker and appeared to be an impeccable son-in-law. However, when Tagyoku heard that Jirō had refused the Master of Tsurutomi-gumi’s request, he became twenty years younger. Tagyoku came rushing to Jirō’s house with a look of fury, “What kinda spineless man says he’s sick of bein’ a diver?!” “The Master of Tsurutomi-gumi himself said it—just you wait, Japan’s gonna go to war with America ’n England.” “When salvagin’ enemy sunken ships, no matter how many bodies you got, they won’t be enough!” “What’ll you do if you’re scared of fifty-fathom seas?” “Just think once ’bout what kinda dangerous scrapes I faced every day back in Benguet!” “If your old man were alive, he’d whack your head with an umbrella!”

he barked, “Don’t you worry about us.” “Even if something were to happen to you, I’d take care of Kimie.” “After I die, Kimie will keep up her role as a widow with dignity.” “That’s the way I’ve raised Kimie—should’ve been.” “Don’t you worry.” “If you go worrying about that sort of thing—that’s exactly why I’m thinking of managing on my own without being any burden to you all…”

“Look at me still pulling this rickshaw!” Tagyoku droned on, but Jirō was as stubborn as his father. Realizing words wouldn’t get through to such a man, Tagyoku nevertheless held back from laying hands on his granddaughter’s husband. Instead, for reasons only he knew, he took Kimie back to Kappa Alley. It happened so fast that Jirō had no time to get angry or even say “Wait”—he could only stand there dumbfounded. Kimie was used to Tagyoku’s ways.

When Kimie got married, Otake of Asahiken had come down with her customary headache and stayed in bed for three days. Therefore, under normal circumstances none would have rejoiced more than Otake at Kimie’s return to Kappa Alley—as if to say “I told you so”—but precisely then the Asahiken family no longer resided at Kappa Alley’s entrance. There had been a reason they could not remain. To state it plainly: Mochiko, their youngest daughter (though already thirty), had become pregnant. Put another way, she had conceived while disregarding her elder sisters’ precedence.

If Gyokudō the benshi had heard about this, he would have been disheartened—but he had fled Kappa Alley in the dead of night seven years prior. After talkies came into existence, he could no longer make a living as a benshi; for a time he worked in paper theater and such, but when that too fell out of favor, he idled about in poverty until one day suddenly vanishing from Kappa Alley. Recently, someone had seen him selling magic trick toys at a street stall near Umeda. Along with the pregnancy came a marriage proposal. Of course, it was the man in question—but without involving a matchmaker, he boldly came himself and asked if he might have Mochiko-san.

“There is such a thing as proper order in this world!” Otake exploded in fury. It was absurd to bring up proper order now. From the very beginning, that order had been too thoroughly shattered. But after a moment’s thought, the man turned his friend into a matchmaker and sent him over. Yet this supposed friend proved to be another cast metal worker like himself—a man devoid of etiquette, what you might call ill-bred through and through. “Our Mochiko’s a graduate of girls’ school, you know.”

Otake spoke in that manner. In that neighborhood, there had been only a handful of households that sent their daughters to girls’ schools during the Taisho era. “We didn’t send her to girls’ school just to have her help with cast metal work.” “Is that so?”

The matchmaker promptly went home.

Mochiko pressed Otake in tears.

Otake also realized the situation for the first time and regretted having turned away the matchmaker.

Thereupon, Keisuke met with the man in question anew.

However, the man with an artisan temperament flew into a rage, saying that his friend—whom he had gone to the trouble of enlisting as a matchmaker—had been humiliated.

“Indeed, I am a cast metal craftsman. But you’re also a craftsman who cuts people’s hair, aren’t you? It’s just five minutes each time, isn’t it? And what’s more—I’m the father of the child in that person’s belly.”

Keisuke returned and asked Otake to apologize to the man who had become the matchmaker.

“At my age, I won’t have myself bowing my head to others.”

Otake was quite reluctant to agree. “This isn’t the time to be saying such things,” he pressed. “Think about Mochiko’s belly!” After being persistently urged—and just as Otake had finally steeled herself to apologize—whether by fortune or misfortune, Mochiko’s suitor came down with appendicitis and dropped dead. Otake’s hair turned completely white. Mochiko’s belly became noticeable.

The Asahiken family had moved to the Tanabe area. “Our new place is in the suburbs, you see.” “There’s a river flowing in front of the house—a real nice view, I tell ya.” “Living in the suburbs ain’t such a bad thing either, I tell ya.” The term “suburbs” had slightly satisfied Otake’s vanity. Keisuke took the opportunity of moving to Tanabe to quit the barbering business. He might have also intended to avoid having people come and go from the house. And now, it was said that he had become a broker for barbershop cosmetics.

“It’s Mr. Ryūkichi’s recommendation, I tell ya.” Taneguchi said to Kimie with evident pride. Kimie recalled that Ryūkichi’s family home had been a wholesaler of barbering cosmetics, and she found it amusingly clear why Taneguchi had gone out of his way to mention the Asahiken family to her. Even after parting with Jirō and returning to Kappa Alley, Kimie showed no sign of sadness on her face. Instead, she laundered the accumulated dirty clothes Tagyoku had stockpiled over the past six months and re-sewed the futons with help from the old woman at the pipe repair shop.

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

“Here’s Hell’s Third Block—easy to enter, scary to leave,” she hummed. And then, at the water’s edge,

“I’ve ended up back home again.” Kimie herself was the one who brought it up, wearing an unbothered expression, which surprised the neighbors. Yet she too harbored Tagyoku’s simple reasoning: if they brought Jirō back to the alley, he would no longer cause worry and would likely regain his drive to dive again. Of course, with the carefree optimism that if Jirō resumed diving, Tagyoku’s resolve would soften and they could live together again as before, she worked diligently now to fulfill her filial duty to her grandfather.

However, one day, Chōko unexpectedly showed up in Kappa Alley, grabbed Kimie, and said: "You can’t keep dawdling around like this, I tell ya." "What on earth are you talking about?" "What’re ya talkin’ about? This is a real mess! Your husband came to my shop last night and went on a spending spree." "What?!"

Kimie was surprised. Jirō had always said alcohol was the root of diving sickness and hadn't drunk a drop until now - how had he started drinking? She couldn't quite grasp it. "We're running a business here, so we can't very well not serve alcohol - but then again, we can't let your husband go throwing his money around like that either. It's a real problem," she said. "This cursed business I've gotten myself into." Chōko told her to apologize.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I’m truly sorry for causing you trouble.” When Kimie said this, Chōko made a “well then” face and— “But you can’t let your guard down either. My husband’s been getting much more serious lately, so after letting yours drink his fill, I took him upstairs to have a proper talk and ask what’s going on—and turns out it’s no wonder he’s hitting the bottle like that.”

Having quit diving with the intention of finding another job, he searched everywhere but couldn't find anything suitable. Yet out of pride he couldn't bring himself to return to diving, and on top of that Kimie had left him. Naturally disheartened, he had started drinking. "More than anything, it seems he's been holding quite a grudge against Tagyoku for taking you back," "My husband said it too - apparently there's nothing lonelier for a man than being left by his wife." "You've got to really chew over this part carefully now, Kimie-chan."

“Then he’s got no mind to dive at all anymore?” Kimie let out a deep, despondent sigh, her hopes thoroughly dashed. “Doubt he’s got any such intention left,” “Way I see it—long as you’re back here—he won’t dive again even if pride drives him.” Chōko spoke in the earnest tone of one who’d weathered life’s storms. “Leave him be like this, he’ll only stray further down that wayward path.” “Truth is—you’ve got to go back to him...”

As evening fell, Chōko made her way home through the fine snow. Kimie tucked her hands into her obi and stood lost in thought for a while, but when she eventually left the alley, her feet carried her toward the streetcar stop. As the streetcar passed Taishō Bridge, the snow turned into large, wet flakes falling steadily. She changed trains at Sakagawa and got off at Shiokawa 4-chome. The three-block path from there was already faintly white. She hadn’t brought an umbrella, so her eyebrows were soaked, but her heart burned fiercely with longing for Jirō.

However, it was locked. Because she had a spare key, she opened it and went inside. Fumbling to turn on the light and looking around, she found not a single trace of fire, leaving the room chillingly cold. She lit a fire and waited by the brazier for some hours, but Jirō did not return. Wondering where he was wandering drunk on this snowy night, Kimie did not move a muscle. The distant howl of a dog reached her ears.

The night grew steadily deeper.

As she was putting charcoal briquettes into the kotatsu, there came a violent knocking at the door. When she went to the entrance, there stood a stranger who informed her that the master of the house had been struck by a truck and was at Ōno Hospital. Kimie remained standing and plopped down on her backside.

8

His life had been saved, but it was a severe injury that would require three months before he could be discharged. "You good-for-nothing bastard! It’s that spinelessness of his—not working a lick, just lazing around drinking—that’s why he got careless and hurt himself, I tell ya." Upon hearing the news, Tagyoku said this, but even he couldn’t bring himself to show an angry face and visited the hospital every day. Kimie, of course, stayed overnight in the third-class ward, and though her sleepless nights continued for five days straight, after about two weeks, she could manage to step away a bit.

Instead, she found herself hounded by hospital payments. Due to the divers' habit of spending whatever they earned as soon as it came in, they had no real savings to speak of—and what little they managed to set aside had been frittered away during their idle hours. The Master of Tsurutomi-gumi, their usual lifeline, happened to be away on business near △△ Bay. To compound matters, the truck driver who'd struck Jirō turned out to be a forty-year-old widow raising her child alone—a fact that made it impossible for Kimie to accept any condolence money when she learned of it.

“It’s not your fault at all, is it? My husband’s been living in the water all this time, so he’d gotten clumsy walking on land—and on top of that, it was a snowy road, wasn’t it?” She forced a smile and pushed back the condolence money. The female driver, overcome with guilt, came to visit every day. “If you come every day like this, I’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude. You must be busy yourself, since…” As she spoke, Kimie suddenly thought she might try helping out at the delivery service during her nursing breaks.

Near Kappa Alley, there was a tiny delivery service called Benriya. They handled deliveries of items such as moving equipment and goods from furniture stores, scroll mounting shops, and Buddhist altar shops, but Kimie had heard they were frequently forced to turn down earnest requests due to both having lost their small trucks and a recent staff shortage—so she promptly approached them to negotiate. “Huh? A pretty lady like you…?” The master of Benriya was taken aback, but since Kimie seemed unexpectedly serious—reasoning that delivery assistance wouldn’t tie her to fixed hours and could be done between nursing shifts, plus she had confidence in her legs—

“Then how ’bout you ride a bicycle for us?” The pay was naturally meager—hardly more than a drop in the bucket against the hospital bills burning through her savings—but since having even that was better than nothing, Kimie immediately began practicing how to ride. Part of her felt that by working during this labor shortage, she could somehow stand in for Jirō, hospitalized and unable to earn. Yet the moment she gripped the handlebars, Kimie tumbled backward onto her rear, drawing an instant crowd before Benriya’s storefront.

Kimie, sweat beading on her nose and her lower lip thrust out persistently, straddled again and again until finally she began to move. “Get outta the way!” “I’ll crash into you!” “Danger here!” she shouted in a piercing voice, then fell down and burst into hearty laughter.

Even though her husband lay injured in the hospital, the master of Benriya marveled at her undimmed cheerfulness—where could it possibly come from? From the next day onward, whenever the hospital called Benriya, Kimie would eagerly set out with a trailer hitched to her bicycle to make deliveries.

One day, she loaded a Buddhist altar and went as far as Hagihara Tenjin in Minami-Kawachi. After passing Mikuni in Sakai, it became a two-ri uphill road; though she had left Osaka at nine in the morning, even past one in the afternoon, she was still in Nakamozu. While recalling her childhood spent in foster care, she opened her lunchbox in the shade of a tree when pattering rain began to fall, suddenly turning into a downpour. She covered the Buddhist altar with her raincoat; pedaled on even as she became drenched like a rat; finally reached her destination and delivered the altar. Though the rain still poured down on her way back, she refused to yield—perhaps because she had endured countless hardships since childhood.

When she returned to Osaka, the sun had set. Where a man would have taken a breather, she went straight to Jian-ji Temple in Sennichimae to pray. As she scrubbed the Mizukake Jizō statue with a stiff brush,

“Kimie-chan.”

She was called out to. Otake, formerly of Asahiken, had come with her three daughters—Sadaye, Hisae, and Mochiko. Mochiko was holding a baby. "Oh, you've had a baby?"

When Kimie said this, Otake broke into a broad grin, “Go on, take a good look.” She looked genuinely happy. “Ever since this child came along, you should see how my daughters all fight over them—my, how lively it is!” The sight of Sadaye and Hisae, both over forty, vying for the baby every day as if it were a novelty came vividly to mind. “They never let me hold my own baby for even a moment!”

Mochiko’s voice was bright. “Even if you say that, you’re the one who gets to hold them whenever it’s feeding time… Right, Hisae-chan?” Sadaye flitted her clean, clear, beautiful eyes around and said.

“It’s always like this,” Sadaye said, her clean eyes darting between Mochiko and Hisae. “Even today—you coming to get this child’s insect-charm turned into a whole family uproar, it did.” As Kimie listened to Otake’s words, she thought Mochiko’s unexpected misfortune must instead be brightening the household. “Let me hold them too,” she asked. They let her take the baby. “My, what a sturdy little thing,” Kimie observed. “Oh my,” Otake beamed. “The air out in them suburbs does wonders, you see.”

Otake said.

After parting ways and returning to the hospital, at night, Kimie sewed swaddling clothes by Jirō’s bedside. The midwife had said it would be born seven months later. Jirō saw this, and his eyes grew hot, “Ah, I was under a spell. Thinking of quitting diving—that was just a moment of weakness. The injured leg’s crying out. When I get my body back, it’s crying out—telling me to dive soon.”

He said as if talking to himself, then with deep feeling— "I’ve put you through so much." "I’m sorry."

He clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t go saying stranger-like things.” Kimie said in her usual tone, and then kept nodding off. Tagyoku saw Kimie begin working in such a manner and was glad that a poor man’s child was truly different,

“Work harder!” He kept repeating this while nodding with an air of self-assurance, but when about half a month later he happened to see Kimie sewing diapers one day, he suddenly shed tears and muttered, “Ah... I hadn’t known.”

Then, taking out the post office passbook from the belly band, he said: "I couldn’t tell you how many times I thought about takin’ this out—no—wait—if I take it out now and the two of you get complacent, it’ll all go to waste, turn into dead money—thinkin’ like that, I kept pretendin’ not to see your hardships, Kimie—but turns out I was a damn fool all along." "I had no idea Kimie was pregnant." "Forgive me." "Don’t go thinkin’ I’m some cruel grandpa now." "If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have let you ride a bicycle." "I couldn’t just sit back and watch you work so hard like that." "You’ve endured so much, haven’t you?"

Tagyoku quickly sniffled but soon wiped his tears with his dry, rough palms and, “There’s eight hundred yen here.” “I saved this money for emergencies—no—rather,I kept it aside for travel expenses，thinkin’I’d go tae Manila after seein’through Kimie’s future—visit ma dead son-in-law’s grave while I was at it.But now that things’ve come tae this，it’s time tae use it.” “Use this money tae pay th’hospital bills，an’put what’s left toward Kimie’s childbirth an’Jirō’s recovery expenses.”

“No—if you go and do something like that for us, we’ll be in a real bind.” “Keep that for Grandpa’s funeral fund.”

As Jirō waved his hand, “Don’t go spoutin’ such damn awful things. “You think I’m some Benguet no Tagyoku who’d save up funeral money?” Tagyoku glared. “Then, for the travel expenses to Manila—” “It ain’t some foreign land—even without travel money, when push comes to shove, I’ll swim there if I have to, I tell ya.” Jirō laughed with his toothless face, but Tagyoku soon grew somber,

“And besides, this money includes what Kimie earned workin’ as a shoe attendant.” “This ain’t money to be shy ’bout usin’, I tell ya.” Tagyoku shed tears he’d never shown before, fallin’ in a steady patter.

9 Jirō was discharged from the hospital before long. And by the time Kimie had given birth, he had completely regained his health. The child was a boy, and when they named him Benkichi, “That’s Benguet’s Ben-kichi for ya.” Tagyoku was pleased.

The Tsurutomi-gumi’s sunken ship salvage operation had not yet been completed. When Jirō sent a telegram, the reply was “Come immediately,” so as he was about to set off happily, Kimie fidgeted and—

“I’ll go with you as a pump operator for the salvage ship.”

“I’ll go with you as a pump operator for salvage ships,” Kimie said.

Jirō was surprised. In shallow underwater construction work, pump operation was typically handled by about three women workers, but at ten or twenty fathoms, the task exceeded female strength and required six to eight men’s combined effort—a job so grueling it was colloquially called “pump operator’s one-shō rice.”

“Women can’t possibly do that.” When he said that, Kimie responded, “I’ve been pumpin’ air into Grandpa’s rickshaw tires every day till now, so I’m good at workin’ the pumps. Though sayin’ it like this makes it sound like I’m just makin’ excuses ’cause I don’t wanna be apart from you or somethin’…” She flushed red.

To Jirō, that side of Kimie was unbearably adorable. “Then you should come with me. Even if you can’t work the pumps, you could manage holding the hose, couldn’t you?” Hose handling was a crucial role involving receiving signals about air pressure levels, and in the past, it had been divers’ wives who performed this task. The master of the Tsurutomi-gumi had been struggling due to the lack of skilled divers, so when Jirō and Kimie appeared at the site, “Well, I’m glad you came around after all.”

he exclaimed with joy.

Jirō laughed and said, "Humans sometimes gotta get hurt to learn their lesson, y'know," before diving into the fifty-fathom depths.

With a laugh, he dove into the fifty-fathom deep sea. When he imagined Kimie holding the hose, Jirō felt ready to disregard any danger—then abruptly, like a wave crashing against his diving suit, came the emotions of Kimie’s father who had died in Manila. Even as he kept diving like this—picturing Grandpa still trundling along in his rickshaw, those swollen veins bulging painfully in Tagyoku’s limbs rising vivid in his mind—Jirō thought that if Grandpa were to tell him now to go to Manila, just as he’d told Kimie’s father, he could no longer refuse.

When the sunken ship salvage operations were completed and they returned to Osaka, that year too soon hurriedly drew to a close, and the Greater East Asia War began. And then—the Imperial Army had landed near Lingayen Gulf in the Philippines. Though he couldn't read the newspapers, the radio news reached Tagyoku's ears. "Ah... My life's been worth livin' till now, I tell ya." "The grandchild's doin' splendidly." "My great-grandson's growin' up strong—no regrets left." "My corpse'll go into the same grave as my Manila son-in-law, I tell ya."

With that, Tagyoku rushed to the prefectural office while shouting at the top of his lungs—declaring himself to be “Tagyoku-san of Benguet,” and that there was no one besides himself who could guide them along the Benguet Road. “The Imperial Army that landed near Lingayen Gulf will likely take the Benguet Road toward Manila, but I know every bump on that zigzag path and which turns are fully visible from the cliffs across! There’s American barracks in Baguio—it’s dangerous to go through Benguet carelessly! Please let me guide you!” he pleaded.

“If you don’t hurry quick, you’ll miss your chance! Hurry up and get me on a plane already!”

“Old man, just how old are you?”

The staff member, having asked Tagyoku’s age, stopped dealing with him. Then, Tagyoku suddenly snarled,

“You lot wouldn’t understand. Get me someone who knows what they’re talkin’ about! Is the Governor here or ain’t he?” Striking the pose of “Tagyoku-san of Benguet,” he suddenly felt dizzy—*Even now*, he thought deliriously, *tanks are passin’ that bend on Benguet Road… Where’d Shintarō’s grave end up if they loaded it on a ship?… Give back two yen to the toothless dragon… Manila’s my town… And then—off to the shinin’ nation of Japan and the nation of Manila*—Tagyoku collapsed without a sound.

The doctors had said he wouldn't survive, but whether through Jirō and Kimie's blood transfusion or sheer willpower, Tagyoku clung on tenaciously to life. Where did such persistence come from? On a day in the second month of this stubborn persistence, Shime Danji came to visit Tagyoku lying bedridden at Jirō's house. Yet while it was remarkable enough that Shime Danji wore a Western suit he'd never donned before, he now shivered violently in peculiar shorts despite the lingering cold. "Mr. Shime, has a spring come loose in that head of yours?"

Despite her nursing duties, Kimie showed no signs of fatigue. When she posed the question in this manner, Shime Danji— “Not at all. “See here now—I’ve gone and joined this rakugo entertainment troupe from XX Kōgyō that’s headin’ down South. Heard it’s scorchin’ there, so I’m breakin’ in this outfit early.”

he said, sniffing back a runny nose, "My rakugo'll go over well in the South, don't you think?"

he said happily. “Even a useless old fossil like you gets to go South?” Tagyoku listened bitterly, “Manila’s already fallen anyway—so you’re headin’ there too, eh?” “Clever trick you’re pullin’.” “Apologies for arrivin’ ahead of ya.” “Ahead? Don’t make me laugh!” “I’m flyin’ by plane—I’ll overtake that tub you’re on and get there first!” “When I land in Manila, Tagyoku-san himself’ll come greet me—better wipe the sleep from your eyes and look sharp!” “So—when d’you ship out?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

When Shime Danji answered, Kimie— “That’s awfully sudden again, isn’t it? If Grandpa were healthy, he would’ve taken you to the station in his rickshaw and seen you off…”

“Nah, don’t make such a fuss,” he said. “If that were to happen, I’d have my once-in-a-lifetime ride in a rickshaw—which’d be a real honor—but why’d Tagyoku-san have to go and get sick at a time like this? My teacher Shodai Harudanji toured vaudeville houses in a red-lacquered rickshaw and lived in grand style—but me, I’ve ridden elevators by this age, yet never once ended up ridin’ a damn rickshaw.”

“On the flip side, your rakugo never once took off here in Japan either.” Even weakened by illness, Tagyoku remained as sharp-tongued as ever when facing Shime Danji. “But over there, it’ll go over well, I tell ya.” “After all, there ain’t no competition over there.” “Plus, this dark mug o’ mine’s just right for headin’ south!” “Headin’ south? What’re you on about—sounds like you’re house-huntin’ or somethin’.” Kimie laughed. But when she saw Tagyoku’s painfully gaunt face, she immediately stopped laughing.

“When I get there, I plan to go see the Southern Cross first thing, I tell ya,” said Shime Danji. “I ain’t askin’ which direction the Southern Cross appears in or spoutin’ such nonsense,” Tagyoku retorted. “Actually—if you go over there and look at the sky and can’t tell which one’s the Southern Cross, you’d be embarrassed—so yesterday I had some guy from our company’s arts department take me to Yotsuhashi Electric Science Hall to see the Pla… Pla… Planetarium...”

“Planetarium.” Kimie said and blushed. She recalled the day she first met Jirō. Jirō was away working at the port again today. When he came back, she would tell Mr. Shime about going to the planetarium, Kimie fleetingly thought. “There, there—at that planetarium, I got to see the Southern Cross.”

When Shime Danji said this, Tagyoku’s eyes gleamed.

Around the time Shime Danji was leaving, Tagyoku remembered something— “By the way, Mr. Shime—when you get to Manila, look up a dentist named Tatsu the Tooth-puller and pay back the two yen I borrowed from him long ago. “This here’s the debt from when I got this tooth pulled.” He opened his mouth to show his back teeth, but was out of breath and looked truly pained. “Alright, alright. “Tooth-puller Tatsu-san, right?” Shime Danji agreed, but even though he should have known—from a letter his son-in-law Shintarō had sent from Manila twenty-odd years earlier—that Tooth-puller Tatsu had long since died, he couldn’t help but feel a pang at seeing Tagyoku in this senile state.

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

10

Two days later, after the planetarium’s “Southern Sky” demonstration had concluded at Yotsuhashi Electric Science Hall’s Star Theater, the auditorium lights brightened and the crowd exited—yet in a corner seat remained an elderly man in a soiled white jacket, his posture slumped. “Oh, he’s dozed off again.” Thinking it was one of those common cases where someone had mistaken the starry sky for nighttime and fallen asleep while gazing at it, the attendant girl approached— “Hello? Hello? The demonstration has ended. “Hello? Hello?”

She shook him, but he remained heavy and unmoving, his face deathly pale. He had died.

After hearing Shime Danji’s story about seeing the Southern Cross at Yotsuhashi, Kimie had gone to see off Shime and the comfort troop—and during her absence, it was Tagyoku who had dragged himself out of his sickbed. Because there was a faded letter sent by Shintarō from Manila in the coat pocket, his identity was quickly determined.

Tagyoku’s corpse was returned to his original bed.

From within the commemorative marathon photo framed on the wall by the pillow, Hatsue peered out with half her face visible.

Tagyoku’s corpse was serene. The old woman from the Rao Exchange Shop came to offer her condolences and rang the Buddhist hymn bell over Tagyoku’s chest, “Tagyoku-san, go to a good place now.” When she said this, Kimie, who had been pressing her face against the edge of the futon, raised her head and— “Auntie, Grandpa’s already gone to a good place without you even having to say it.” “He passed away while looking at the Southern Cross, you know.” “While looking at the Southern Cross he’d wanted so badly to see, he finally made it to Manila he kept saying he wanted to go to.” “Grandpa’s soul has already made it to Manila faster than Mr. Shime.”

“she said.”

The sound of the bell quivered. Jirō suddenly saw Kimie’s profile and—ah, how she resembled Tagyoku—and in that startled instant, the thought that it was now their turn to go to Manila abruptly flooded his chest. Tagyoku had never once put it into words—had never explicitly told him, “Go to Manila to salvage that sunken American ship”—but seeing how, on the very day Shime Danji departed for the South, nostalgia for Manila had driven Tagyoku to drag his gravely ill body to the Star Theater and die beneath the Southern Cross, it was as good as a command: *You too must come to Manila*. No—rather, it had been decided from the moment he married Kimie. This was the Sadoshima family tradition. The thought that this was the Sadoshima Tagyoku family tradition surged through him viscerally, and as he puffed out his excited chest, the framed photo on the wall caught his eye.

The sound of the bell quivered incessantly. “Go to a good place now.” The old woman from the Rao Exchange Shop was crying as she—

“Even though you died in the cold, Tagyoku-san, you must be nice and warm in that hot country by now,” she said. No one laughed. At the sound of the bell, Benkichi—who had been put to sleep—woke up and began to cry. Kimie picked him up and sang softly: “Once it’s loaded on the ship, How far must it go Under Kizu and Naniwa Bridges—” As she sang the lullaby Tagyoku had let her hear as a child by taking her on his rickshaw, tears trickled down.

“Good evening…”

A woman’s voice sounded. Though she spoke in a reserved, lowered tone, her voice still rang out clear and penetrating. As soon as they heard it, they knew it was Chōko. “It’s Ms. Chōko.” Kimie wiped away tears and, “You—Ms. Chōko has come for us!”

she said to Jirō. “I see.” In the instant Jirō briefly recalled having fooled around at Chōryū and been scolded by Chōko and Ryūkichi— “That’s right—let’s go to Manila.” He muttered aloud.

“Of course you’re coming too, Kimie.” After offering her condolences, Chōko—mindful of the others present— “Um…” said and exchanged a glance with Kimie.

Kimie went up to the second floor. Chōko followed her up and, “You probably don’t have anything to wear to the funeral, so I brought this for you,” she said, handing the furoshiki bundle to Kimie. “I’ve caused you so much worry. I’m sorry.” Kimie knew about when Chōko had made that mourning dress. When Ryūkichi’s father’s illness took a critical turn, Chōko had made it intending to attend the funeral. But when they refused to let her participate, how bitterly Chōko must have grieved over it.

But that too was now a distant event, and the daughter of Ryūkichi—who had been a source of worry for Chōko—had married at last year’s end, and it was said that Chōko had attended the wedding together with Ryūkichi. As Kimie accepted it, she thought that in Chōko’s present state of mind—loaning out this mourning dress—there was likely not a single dark shadow cast.

“You’ve had little connection with your parents, and now Tagyoku’s been taken from you too—you really have had terrible luck.” “But since Jirō’s so dependable, that must be a comfort.” Chōko, having said that, “Lately, my husband’s become completely serious—he doesn’t drink anymore, doesn’t indulge in fancy foods. Well, except he still craves Western-style grilled food from night stalls every single evening.” She spoke happily about Ryūkichi. Thinking how typical it was of Chōko to come offering condolences and then start boasting about her husband, Kimie, who had lost the strength to laugh all day, smiled for the first time.

“Well, just something like Western-style grilled food…” “That’s how it is—really pathetic! My husband’s pushing fifty already, you know? Still craving those kiddie snacks every night. Downright shameful!” Chōko spoke like this but then seemed to remember something— “Any night stalls ’round here?” “Hmm…?” “What day is it today?” “Let me see…” She paused mid-thought before slapping her knee—

“Oh right—today’s the Day of the Horse.” “It’s the Day of the Horse night stalls.” “I’ve got to pick up some Western-style grilled food on my way back, or I’ll get an earful again.” Looking at Chōko—her plump figure radiating carefree ease—Kimie felt momentarily comforted and forgot Tagyoku’s death, but when she suddenly heard a distant train whistle, tears surged up. “You just keep blabbering whatever you please…”

Seeing Kimie’s tears, Chōko finally realized she had spoken too carelessly. “I should be taking my leave now.” She stood up and began descending the stairs, but then spoke again. “Oh, and my husband might come by later, so if there’s any bookkeeping work to do, you should hold off. If it’s about writing, he can manage it just fine.” Chōko had always boasted that Ryūkichi’s handwriting was skillful.

“Oh, thank you. But your household must be busy as well, and besides, the neighborhood association people said they’d handle the bookkeeping and such.”

When she stood in the entranceway, Chōko said, "Then I'll take my leave here and put this on."

and draped on the black velvet coat. Kimie thought Chōko’s happiness showed in that coat and felt a sense of relief. “Goodbye now—make sure you handle things proper like Mr. Seiraku would, hear?” As Chōko opened the entrance door, the sky reflected in Kimie’s eyes. It was a starry sky that seemed to pour down.

It was a pouring starry sky.