Pathway to Japanese Literature

The reign of the 116th Emperor, Emperor Momozono.
The realm stood at the zenith of peace under the governance that succeeded Tokugawa's restorer, the illustrious shogun Lord Yoshimune.
In the dawn years of the Hōreki era under the ninth shogun Lord Ieshige.
At Matsumoto-ro—acknowledged as supreme among Kyoto's Shimabara pleasure quarter—there dwelled a courtesan named Mangetsu.
Though sold to Matsumoto-ro at five winters old—bartered for medicine coins during her parents' mortal illness—she bore beauty true to her name: unblemished as the full moon itself.
Word of her nineteenth spring—compared to blossoms that burst forth without reserve yet scatter without trace—had permeated every inlet and shore of Japan, so that when March's flowers bloomed yearly, inns from Kyoto's heart to its outskirts swelled with pilgrims flocking to glimpse Mangetsu's procession grandeur.
This fame was said to eclipse even Hongan-ji Temple's sacred Oeshiki rites—such was its prodigious renown.

At that time, three patrons were attached to Mangetsu.

One was an elderly man called Kinmaru Chōja, who had ventured from Echigo to Kyoto, built an opulent mansion on the outskirts of Sagano, and sought out beauties from Kyoto and Osaka.
Since becoming unexpectedly captivated by Mangetsu, he had forced his stooping back to straighten, dyed his thin white sideburns with ink, dressed in ridiculously flamboyant attire, and spared no expense or effort in his determination not to be outdone by young lords.
All those in the eastern half of Japan—split cleanly down the middle—were so eager they would have bought anything for Mangetsu.

The other was a young samurai named Aoyama Ginnojō.
A guard in the study hall of the regent’s Shichijo family—being what was commonly termed a court samurai—his hairstyle,
the way he carried his formal suō robe and short kobakama trousers,
and even his taste in accessories—from the carved vermilion inro hanging at his waist to the mother-of-pearl scabbards, tea utensils, and white-metal fittings adorning his paired swords—were all refined and elegant. His strikingly beautiful eyes and lips seemed to have stepped straight out of a Tosa painting.
Even for a woman, one might long to gaze upon the line from his jaw to his sideburns—those areas tinged with a bluish bitterness that suggested sharp refinement. Were he dressed in a noshime robe and hemp kataginu, he might splendidly pass for a young lord commanding tens of thousands of koku.
There’s no way Mangetsu wouldn’t fall for a man like me.
I’m Japan’s finest man, and she’s its greatest beauty.
From this delusion—that no world could contain a tale where such a pair would fail to unite—he began straining beyond his station to court her, sealing his fate.
As expected, that she had pretended affection was surely Mangetsu’s artifice.
Could Ginnojō—who had prided himself as Japan’s greatest ladies’ man—possibly be driven to have a courtesan drain his fortune?
He soon ran out of money and began dozing through his duties as a study hall guard. Yet he would steal treasures from the shelves under his care—Rikyū’s famed tea scoops, Ogura poetry cards, Ninsei incense burners, Qin-dynasty vases, and countless other artworks and antiques that had never left the Shichijo family’s gates—selling them surreptitiously to Osaka merchants while regarding it as his rightful privilege, even duty, to lavish everything upon Mangetsu.

The remaining one was Harimaya master Senroku, head of one of Osaka’s foremost shipping agencies.
After losing both parents to an epidemic at twenty-four, he drove out the long-serving clerk who had grown too overbearing and took up the reins of the demanding shipping agency on his own—a commendable start. But then, during a sightseeing trip to Kyoto with companions—inspired by his faint eyebrows and pale complexion—he disguised himself as an actor and visited Matsumoto-ro. Upon glimpsing Courtesan Mangetsu’s form, his actor’s facade vanished entirely. Ridiculed by his peers yet lingering in Kyoto, he remitted funds via money order to appease lower-ranking geisha and grew so deranged for Mangetsu’s favor that he would have leapt backward from Kiyomizu’s stage without hesitation.
Even when meeting the loyal clerk who had come worriedly from his home to fetch him, he wore an expression as if wondering whether such a place as Osaka even existed.

Mangetsu alternately tightened and slackened her grip on these three men, wielding tactics far too vivid for her years, so their rivalry only grew ever more fierce.
The most astonishing aspect of Mangetsu’s renown as a courtesan—her innate cunning—was something all three men remained utterly oblivious to in their infatuation.
They continued their desperate competition, each resolved to seize the full moon in the vast sky—Mangetsu—for himself alone…

However, before long, this competition too seemed about to reach its conclusion.

Aoyama Ginnojō, fearing the exposure of his past crimes as the winter of Hōreki 1 (1751) drew near and the day for inspecting the study hall’s treasures approached, once again seized two or three coveted artifacts for immediate funds and vanished without a trace.

Harimaya Senroku, too—driven by endless revelry for Mangetsu’s sake—had pitifully exhausted his fortune and at last met the wretched fate of bankruptcy. Gone was the splendor of days past; now he wandered Osaka’s streets under a single woven sedge hat, clinging to the shamisen he had barely learned to play. Oblivious to the sneers of those who averted their eyes, tugged sleeves, and pointed behind his back, he stood at household gates with no means to live save singing ballads.

In early March of Hōreki 2.
Around the time when cherry buds began showing white here and there—what manner of Heaven’s design had brought this about?
Harimaya Senroku—long vanished from society—and Aoyama Ginnojō came upon each other suddenly by the torii of Sakura-no-miya Shrine at Osaka’s outskirts.

At first, though both men bore utterly altered appearances, their resemblance in bearing proved so uncanny that each felt compelled to peer beneath the other’s sedge hat—yet when they drew near, they cried out in mutual recognition unbidden.

“Why, Lord Ginnojō...”

“Ah. Why, Lord Senroku…”

Both men lived as fugitives from society, yet seen in their ruinous state, they became like a nostalgic moon reflected in water.
A sense of camaraderie—as fellow lotus-bound souls sharing dissipated lives—overtook them, and their former stubbornness as romantic rivals vanished without trace.
They clasped hands with genuine hearts and rejoiced at their chance meeting.
On a dandelion-strewn river embankment where they sat hip-to-hip against the slope, listening to skylarks rising in song behind the shrine, Ginnojō produced a gourd and cup from his waist while Senroku—with bashful reluctance—opened the wicker basket from his cloth-wrapped bundle and pulled out roasted dried sardines.

“Mangetsu was a more seasoned woman than I had imagined.”

“Indeed. That we would ever be repaid by that dying, shriveled old man—such a thing never even crossed our minds…”

Without reserve, they commiserated openly about the floating world made unmanageable by gold.

“Even so, Mangetsu was indeed a beautiful woman.”

“Ah, indeed… I do wish to see her once more as a memento of this life… but in our present state, such a thing lies beyond imagining…”

“……Ah… That’s it. Regarding that, I have a good idea. On the night of March fifteenth, there should be a procession of Mangetsu in Shimabara. Why don’t we go together to see it as our final glimpse in this life? As there still remains a span of four or five days, I believe the timing would be ideal…”

“Ah, well...
“If you say so, how could there be refusal?”
“But what of the journey’s expenses…”

“What pointless concern.
“I still retain modest savings.”
“If that discomforts you, take up the shamisen here.”
“While I lend my voice to ballads…”

“Ah! Precisely!
“Your ballads—renowned in Gion and Shimabara for their peerless melodies.”
“My shamisen would be beneath them, I declare.”

“Now now.
Don’t push it.
If we’ve fallen into ruin, our voices should calm.
The tunes are just freer and easier than proper ballads…”

“I’m deeply obliged.
Then as they say—‘no time like the present.’
We could leave this very instant—”

“Ah! That’s it.”
“Good deeds brook no delay.”

The sake had likely been flowing well.
Even without that, they were a cowardly samurai—Japan’s most persistent in matters of love—and a spineless townsman.

Along the Yodo River during the long spring day—a stretch of ten-odd ri.
Swaying this way and that, what sort of lyrics they sang and how they plucked the shamisen as they went.
In beggar-like figures—sunburned faces transformed as if from ages past, beards grown wild—they slinked pitifully into a nostalgic self-catering inn on Kyoto’s outskirts, arriving just as the fourteen-day moon began to glimmer in Daimonjiyama’s midair.

When dawn broke, it was the fifteenth day of the third month of Hōreki 2.
Japan’s foremost attraction.
On the day before Shimabara’s courtesan procession, all of Kyoto—inside and outside the capital—was abuzz with an air so buoyant it seemed to rise into the great sky, drifting even onto the straw-matted floor of the firewood-rate inn where the two men lodged.

The moon was full.
People too were a full moon.
Cherry blossoms were in full bloom……

The lights of the teahouses throughout Shimabara were like countless lanterns even before sunset; the spectators who had pressed in from all over Japan until they seemed to bury the earth stood motionless along both sides of the procession route. At the stone-paved crossroads near Matsumoto-ro, a mountain of human faces had formed; even before anything passed through, they held their breath and became as if intoxicated.

Before long, the clappers heralding the procession could be heard approaching. The flapping of straw sandals. With the clattering and clacking of wooden clogs came the procession of courtesans dressed in their finest for the day’s grand occasion—first in line, which house’s courtesan? In the second position, courtesans from such-and-such houses crossed before their eyes one after another in resplendent attire, yet the people merely jostled in silence. They did not even glance at the beauty before their eyes. They stretched their necks toward the back, stood on tiptoes, and were in a state of restless anticipation for Mangetsu’s parasol.

The figures of Ginnojō and Senroku were, of course, standing among them.
The single heart where arrogance—*Surely Courtesan Mangetsu hasn’t forgotten our faces… after all we once were so close…*—and guilt—*If she recognizes us, it’ll be a living humiliation*—merged into one.
Pushing through the crowd, jostling back and forth and stretching up again and again, they heard the clang of an iron staff clearing the path ahead.
The sound of the male attendants’ clappers.
Heralded by shamisen drums, hand drums, and an unprecedented solemn fanfare for the procession, Courtesan Mangetsu’s grand appearance approached—her black-lacquered three-pronged geta clacking loftily, the chime of bells sensuous, swaying rhythmically as she trod the six laws of ceremonial gait.
The crest on the large parasol tilted from behind was none other than Kinmaru Chōja’s clasped ginger buds—recognized only by those in the know.
Combs made entirely of tortoiseshell, a jewel-like face haloed by hairpins, willow-thin eyebrows.
A tapestry brocade vestment with silver six-petaled flowers embossed in foil.
A densely embroidered five-needle pine.
A round obi of imported black silk satin embroidered with two Dutch ships in gold and silver—a sight to astonish the eyes—both figure and garments together forming a dazzling spectacle so extravagant that mouths hung agape, worth thousands, nay tens of thousands in gold.
As the fragrance of Ranjatai incense cleared the surroundings and she approached slowly through the dead-silent crowd like parted water, Mangetsu’s gaze caught on Ginnojō and Senroku—who had lurched forward unsteadily—causing her to halt involuntarily with a start.
While looking evenly at their faces, she let slip a faint, innate charming smile.

The two men’s souls seemed to melt away before their very eyes as if the hinges of their waists had come undone. Their eyes whitened and mouths hung slack as they limply prostrated themselves on the waterlogged paving stones, lying flattened with hands splayed out. They gazed vacantly up at Mangetsu’s form.

Mangetsu’s charming smile had already transformed into a desolate, icy expression without anyone noticing. Tilting her three-pronged geta sideways before them in a motion that seemed to scatter dirt, she spoke with a voice clear as silver bells—

“Learn a man’s shame.”

With just that single terse phrase.
Tilting her white cheek like an inverted crescent moon without moving a single eyebrow.
Without so much as a backward glance, she turned to show the embroidered back of her vestment, swaying rhythmically as she retreated through the crowd.
The sound of shamisen and taiko drums followed after.
A lingering fragrance of orchid and musk.

“Mangetsu… Mangetsu…”

Amidst their whispered exchanges, the surging crowd collapsed and tilted away in a haze of dust and heat…….

Amidst it all, the faces of the two men who stood up while brushing filth from their hands no longer bore human expressions. It was the visage of ghouls that had emerged from beneath graves to curse this world. Their bloodless faces dripped with cold sweat, their white lips trembling as they glared at each other’s faces, they could only breathe through their shoulders.

“C-could we let this insult go unavenged?”

Tears streamed from Senroku’s eyes.

“Th-this… this insult…? Even for my sword’s honor… I cannot… let this stand…”
“Wha—...!”

At the beautiful corners of Ginnojō’s eyes, not tears but blood stained dully.
The two men tightened their grip on each other’s hands involuntarily.
Ginnojō violently shook those hands.

“...Lord Senroku... let us make a pledge.”
“I-I... One full year from now... I-I... Let us meet here again.”
“By then, both of us shall accumulate gold enough to surpass that Kinmaru Chōja.”
“Even combining our strength, let us ransom that whore.”

Senroku nodded without even attempting to wipe away the tears spilling unheeded from eyes brimming with emotion.
He gripped Ginnojō’s hand even more tightly.
Ginnojō looked back at Mangetsu’s parasol now receding far into the distance.
He gnashed his teeth.

“Damn it… When we ransom her, we’ll make sure she regrets this. Cut her to shreds, spit blue phlegm in her face, and kick her discarded by the roadside—we’ll show her!”

“Shh… your voice…”

The two men blended into the crowd and parted to the left and right.

It was when the full moon in the vast sky hovered above the flowers.

Ginnojō set his course for Edo along the Tōkaidō.

A solitary journey spent wrestling with thoughts—how to earn the desired gold within that brief year of urgent promises...
Licking the mouthpiece of the shakuhachi bought at Kyoto’s outskirts and clutching a torn fan, accompanied by post town courtesans at each station, he did reach Edo—but being a feeble samurai whose sole merit lay in his looks, highway robbery proved beyond his capabilities from the start.
He lacked even the mettle for extortion or swindling.
Gambling tricks or market shrewdness never once crossed his mind; his beggar’s disposition—unshakable after three days—remained unchanged.
Fearing the townsfolk’s boldness so unlike Kyoto’s, he loitered beneath the eaves of samurai mansions, outlying farms, and petty merchants’ shops, clinging to life through pitiful coppers begged as alms—a precarious state indeed.
Far from wealth or status—
Even his gaudy large and small inrō cases were traded for salted sardines and tattered inrō—such was his degradation’s depth.
Occasionally, in what passed for a slum’s pleasure quarter, peering beneath sedge hats would draw jeers from dung-cart whores and Aki geishas—yet sometimes yield unexpected coins—or through such women’s mediation, earn feasts from provincial patrons, returning home with rewards of kimonos, underrobes, or hand towels for trilling a couple of bawdy ditties.
Other encounters came—nearly being adopted by actors, hired as a peddler by picture-book sellers—yet through all these gazes he never once approached feminine charms.
There were days so pitifully rigid they might wring tears—like when a wealthy widow took fancy and hauled him midday to a teahouse, only for greasy arms to encircle his neck before he’d finished two songs, sending him fleeing backward while brandishing salted sardines—until those days streamed by like dreams, ushering in a New Year devoid of mocking demons.
When the promised March drew near, Ginnojō greeted spring as a twenty-five-year-old man.

Under these circumstances, there was no longer any help for it.
To have vowed that we would amass a fortune within a mere year—that was my own folly.
Once exposed to the winds of the floating world, he understood.
Indeed, as others said, the world was apparently not as sweet as he had imagined.

However, since a promise was a promise, there was no choice but to comply. He had to return to his hometown in time for Mangetsu's procession. He had to see Harimaya Senroku's face. Since Senroku was a townsman, it wasn't impossible for him to earn around ten thousand ryō within a year. However, being a townsman, once it came to that, he might well grow reluctant to risk his fortune and lose his resolve—but if such a thing happened, I—penniless as I was—would be the more reliable one. Wouldn't I force Senroku's hand and make him ransom Mangetsu once and for all? If by some chance, even at that critical moment, Mangetsu failed to acknowledge their heartfelt sentiments and let slip even a single hollow courtesan's phrase—showing the slightest hint of trying to manipulate us—that would be the end. My life had already been discarded from the start. It would only be a matter of cutting her down with a single stroke to settle the grudges of these years. In the end, perhaps this was the only role my fate was worth... he mused back and forth, his rōnin appearance clad in nothing but the clothes on his back, requiring no proper travel preparations. Aimlessly setting out along the windswept Tōkaidō. Crossing snow-covered Hakone via back roads, descending brought him to Suruga's sea where spring drew near. Gazing at Mount Fuji's form, he envisioned Mangetsu's collar; envying Hakuryū of old who embraced a celestial maiden at Miho's Pine Grove; leaving Sunpu behind with Okabe and Fujieda at his back, he spent his meager purse on Ōi River's ferry toll and proceeded along mountain paths of the Tōkaidō. Near Kikugawa post station, as Ginnojō walked along half-listening to the horse handlers' nonsensical chatter—some passing ahead, others behind—he suddenly pricked up his ears and approached a horse being led alongside him, keeping to its shadow. Determined not to miss a single word of the loudly talking horse handlers' conversation, he recrossed his arms and tilted his sedge hat as he walked.

From the outskirts of Kikugawa’s houses, he turned right without looking toward Saya no Nakayama.
Heading straight north for about one and a half ri, there lies at the mid-slope of what is commonly known as Mumyōzan (Kurikaga-take) a Buddhist temple called Mumyōzan Iisen-ji.
This temple was originally built by Lord Imagawa Yoshimoto in ancient times on a scenic mountainside specifically to pray for the souls of war dead, and it was granted extensive temple lands. However, as eras changed under Lord Nobunaga, Lord Hideyoshi, and Lord Tōshōgū, those lands were lost, and for many years it became an abandoned, dilapidated temple—so much so that rumors even spread of supernatural apparitions haunting it.

Yet some two or three years prior, a towering monk covered in tattoos—a carpenter-turned-priest from Kōshū named Santara Oshō—had heard the rumors and declared, “I’ll be the one to exorcise those apparitions!” He moved into the temple, personally repaired its crumbling sections, gathered local ruffians to run gambling in the main hall, and swaggered with authority as he amassed temple fees.
It was said he himself, being quite fond of gambling, would often wager temple funds—yet strangely enough, whenever someone defeated this monk, before long, the main hall would creak and sway with ominous groans, sand raining down from the ceiling and roof tiles sliding from the eaves.
When the terrifying phenomenon drove them all to flee in discomfort, and soon after everything fell silent again, they would regroup and return to the main hall—only to find what a sight awaited them.
The temple funds that had been piled mountain-high until now—the gambling money, the rush mats, even the dice—had all vanished into thin air, leaving behind only an immense layer of sand and dust heaped thickly.
Out of both terror and absurdity, everyone took care not to beat the monk even if they forgot, but still, great earthquake-like creakings and tremors would sometimes occur—perhaps it was indeed the work of foxes or raccoon dogs after all.
Even so, the location was ideal, the monk’s management was sound, and as long as they posted lookouts on the single path at the foot of the mountain, there was no worry whatsoever about raids—so people kept gathering in shifts to gamble without end, which made for an amusing scene.
Of course, each time such house creaking and shaking occurred, even if they asked the villagers at the foot of the mountain, they would say they knew nothing of any earthquake.
What an utterly bizarre tale this was!
As Ginnojō carved deeper and deeper into his mind the story—what an incredible sum that would be if one gathered all the gold drained away by that fox or raccoon dog…—he found himself, before he knew it, turning right at the outskirts of Kikugawa and racing frantically down a pine-lined, weed-choked path.
...the carpenter-turned-monk Santara Oshō... Iisen-ji Temple’s trick-filled main hall... an unexpected opportunity for a huge fortune... a life-risking grand adventure... he turned these problems over and over in his mind as...

Mumyōzan Iisen-ji Temple stood as a grand ruined temple surpassing all rumors.
When viewed against the starlight, what seemed like a burial ground had transformed into an expanse of bamboo thicket. A centuries-old ginkgo tree thrust upward like an ink-black giant, fracturing the Milky Way into shards, while weeds such as shepherd's purse and asters sprouted from the main hall's roof—their tendrils entwined with vines and kudzu creeping from below, layering densely enough to form a shadowy forest even to night-adjusted eyes.

Having evaded the lookouts' vigilance, Ginnojō peered through gaps in the tightly shut storm shutters at the flickering firelight within—there unfolded Enkendō's gambling den in its full notorious splendor.
Rugged men with overgrown forelocks—professional itinerant gamblers by appearance—mingled with grubby elders and youths from nearby villages who huddled in cheek-wraps and forehead bands.
Before the cross-legged priest who bared one tattooed arm displaying a cloud dragon, temple fees rose in mountainous stacks.
The pungent aroma of food and drink arrayed behind the gamblers encircling their rush mats seeped through the shutter cracks, clawing mercilessly at Ginnojō's hollow stomach.

When the dice cup lying face-down at the center of the gambling mat overturned, it appeared the monk had lost. The piled temple coins clattered down amid the crowd’s raucous laughter. Seeing this, the monk fixed his sullen, glazed eyes and—

“...This won’t do.”
“Ugh.”
“Drunk...so drunk...”
“Well then—maybe I’ll go have a sip of water.”

As he stood while muttering these words, Ginnojō caught the faint smirk flickering at the corner of the monk’s lips—illuminated by bare candlelight and accentuated by those fearsome eyes.

Ginnojō quietly stepped away from the shutters, listening intently to the thudding footsteps of the monk to discern their destination.

The monk’s footsteps crossed the covered corridor and faded away toward the kitchen quarters.
From the shadows there came the clattering sound of a ladle drawing water, but soon—this time without a noise—he stealthily retraced his steps across the covered corridor, leaving behind the gamblers’ uproar of raucous laughter as he vanished into the darkness of the main hall’s outer veranda. No sooner had this occurred than a strange phenomenon unfolded.
The grand structure of the main hall began to creak and groan as it shook violently from around the Kamoi area, growing increasingly severe until a deluge of sand poured down across the entire hall. Roof tiles clattered down in cascades, crashing against the garden’s surface with thunderous cracks. At this commotion, the gathered itinerant gamblers and farmers cried, “Earthquake! Earthquake!” In their panic, they kicked over candle stands and tore open shutters to flee outside, leaving the hall plunged into utter darkness. Now audible was only the sound of dust settling heavily onto the tatami mats.

However, Ginnojō was not surprised in the least. Stealthily crawling up the corridor railing and circling around to the outer edge of the main hall, he found Santara Oshō at the forefront—now stripped to the waist—rhythmically pushing and pulling against the main pillar facing the inner sanctum behind the hall. Though he made no vocal sound, his exertions came in measured heave-hos as he tested the structure’s resistance. So it was just as he had deduced earlier—this monk bastard, capitalizing on his own carpentry expertise, had loosened critical joints and fittings throughout the main hall, rigging it to gradually sway when ordinary men synchronized their force to shake it. He had piled sand in the ceiling rafters and, seizing the moment when the guests grew careless in their gambling fervor, stealthily activated his contraption to intimidate these ignorant fools and swindle them out of their ill-gotten coins—there could be no doubt of it. This was truly fortune bestowed by heaven. Resolved not to let him escape, he sneaked up behind the priest with silent steps, slowly and quietly drew the rusted short sword at his hip, firmly aimed its tip at the center of the priest’s back, and with a shout thrust it through with both hands—hilt-deep. The priest let out an unbearable, bestial shriek—GYAAH!—his final farewell to this world as he collapsed backward and breathed his last. Startled by the scream, the villagers who had fled outside came clamoring back. Ginnojō looked down at them with one foot planted on the priest’s corpse. While gripping the bloodied sword he had drawn, he let out a resounding shout in a dignified voice.

“Quiet, quiet! You peasants! Listen well. I am Yoshoka Tetsunoshin, a palace samurai who has come here by command of His Highness Prince Ichibō Yakushiji of Kyoto. To begin with, after Lord Imagawa Yoshimoto’s downfall, this temple had been placed under Prince Yakushiji’s governance through Lord Tōshōgū’s gracious consideration. Yet this wicked priest usurped it, performed nefarious deeds, and amassed the impure gold you brought forth—a rumor that most grievously reached His Highness’s ears. By his gracious decree to swiftly execute said priest and relieve the common folk’s hardships, I have been dispatched here from afar. Now that this wicked priest has been successfully dispatched, all impure gold and coins within this temple shall henceforth be confiscated by the imperial house—you are to understand this. Furthermore, if you all obey my commands to uncover hidden gold and silver and execute thorough documentation as I instruct, not only shall I return without fail the gambling funds you brought today to each of you, but wages shall be granted as you desire. If there are any who refuse, I will not hesitate to mete out His Highness Prince Ichibō’s punishment myself. As I am one who will cut down and discard you with a single stroke just like this priest, you are to understand this.”

Several days later, Ginnojō disguised himself as an offering collector for Prince Ichibō Yakushiji’s temple, placed the impure gold piled beneath Iisen-ji into twenty-two straw money sacks, loaded them onto eleven horses, had the villagers lead the horses by their reins to Nagoya, reorganized the funds through provincial exchange brokers and tea trade intermediaries into money orders worth over nine thousand ryō, sent the villagers back with generous wages, then transformed himself into the unmistakable traveling guise of a court samurai and raced toward Kyoto, pressing onward night after day without pause.

Meanwhile, Harimaya Senroku, who had parted from Ginnojō, arrived in Nagasaki without any delays along the way.

Senroku began purchasing smuggled goods immediately upon arriving in Nagasaki.
Smuggling—what would now be called contraband trade—involved the secret buying and selling of jade, crystal, and other gemstones; damask, satin, woolen fabrics, and similar textiles; along with prohibited goods like opium. This occurred during the period when governance had begun to slacken following Shogun Yoshimune’s administration, making it profitably amusing.
From the beginning, Senroku had been born with unmatched business acumen; he had simply lost sight of priorities after becoming infatuated with women. Now, throwing himself wholeheartedly into work—eschewing both women and drink, driven to desperate extremes—he demonstrated an intuitive brilliance that even the most cunning Chinese merchants could not rival.
Not only that, but Senroku also seemed to possess a genius for gambling. His methods of seeing through opponents’ hands and turning their strategies against them were remarkably brilliant and astonishing, making him not only the star of his social circle but also swelling his personal fortune ever larger.
Within less than half a year of arriving in Nagasaki, he had already amassed over ten thousand ryō. To ensure he would never forget the events of that night, he organized the funds under the house name San’go-ya and deposited them with Miwatsuru, an exchange house in Osaka.
Thus, while the name San’go-ya was recognized in Osaka as a reputable major merchant house, in Nagasaki it was nothing more than a petty broker smoldering in an insignificant merchant inn.

It was the beginning of autumn that year.
Senroku happened to pass through Nagasaki’s Chinatown when he abruptly caught a faint whiff of miso and halted.
When he looked around, there were Chinese houses in every direction—front, back, left, right—so it should have been no surprise at all to smell leeks or garlic. But to detect the scent of barley miso, which until then only Japanese used… *Hmm… How strange…* Even someone as sharp as Senroku likely didn’t yet realize this fleeting thought would become the thread leading to a vast fortune.
As he sniffed repeatedly and drew closer to the source of the odor, the scent of miso gradually grew distinct.
Before long, he realized the smell was emanating from a small window in the basement at the back entrance of Fukushō-gō—Nagasaki’s foremost Chinese trade merchant—which loomed before his eyes.
When he peeked in quietly, within the dim, faint light, ten new miso barrels—apparently holding a hundred kin each—were neatly arranged in two rows atop sawdust scattered across the floor.
In the stifling basement sweltering in lingering summer heat, someone had apparently opened a small window to let in air—likely because the miso was on the verge of spoiling.

There, Senroku crossed his arms and pondered for a while, then suddenly slapped his knee and stuck out his red tongue.

“Ah, of course… Disguised as miso barrels, but anyone could tell what they’ve stuffed at the bottom.”
“The devious scheme that’s had all Nagasaki’s smugglers baffled lately—’tis these miso barrels without a doubt.”
“Yes! Here we go!”
“Then I’ll put some muscle into it and outwit those Chinese folks once and for all.”
“The shipment’s destination must be your usual route since…”

Even as he muttered these things, Senroku had already begun scurrying about like a frantic mouse.

First, he went to the front entrance of Fukushō-gō and meticulously copied the shop’s product seal—a 福 character within a circle—onto a sheet of folded paper, matching the stroke thickness and exact character shape without error.
From there, he visited every miso dealer in Nagasaki to inquire whether any had sold miso to Fukushō-gō—yet aside from a single shop called Yamaguchiya that had sold them 350 kin of miso, he found none others.

Then, after similarly combing through every cooperage in Nagasaki—searching even the farthest corners of back-alley tenements—he discovered the workshop that had crafted new miso barrels under Fukushō-gō’s order. Upon confirming they had produced ten lidded barrels with a hundred-kin capacity, Senroku let out a relieved sigh and rejoiced.

There we go.
Just as I figured!
Ten barrels that hold a hundred kin each, but only three hundred fifty kin of miso… They’ve got sawdust and gold coins sunk at the bottom—has to be!

Muttering this, he suppressed the urge to leap up and, feigning nonchalance, hurriedly ordered ten lidded barrels of the same design.
Then he went to a hardware store this time, purchased about six hundred kin of semicircular lead castings, took them exactly as they were to a metalworker on the outskirts of town, and requested they be specially and meticulously processed with utmost haste as they were an order from a ship that had come from Hōkyō Island.
At the home of Bankōsen—the wealthiest family even on Hōkyō Island—they say that to celebrate a baby born this June, they’re hanging Japanese koban coins from the ceilings of every room, using them exactly as they are for fly repellents.
Where ordinary households would hang brass plaques, the wealthy alone had devised an elaborate scheme—or so it seemed.
“Though it may be troublesome, I need you to swiftly punch out all these lead castings into koban shapes and hammer on gold foil.
They say the hole for threading the string will be opened once they arrive there,”
he implored with plausible insistence, saying something like, “A genuine koban specimen is right here...”

Because the wages were favorable, the old metalworker accepted the job without much suspicion, rubbing his hands together.
After three days and nights of labor, they punched out nearly ten thousand koban-shaped pieces from six hundred kin of lead castings, engraved them with the woven mat pattern, applied gold foil, and handed them over to Senroku.

Senroku packed the counterfeit koban into new Tang rice bags, had the handcart pulled, received ten barrels from the cooperage on his return, purchased four hundred kin of miso from Yamaguchiya and five bales of sawdust from the lumberyard as well, had them loaded onto the same handcart, and brought everything to the wharf by evening that day.
There, he located a smuggling-specialized sailing ship called *Genkaimaru* with a 100-*koku* capacity, tipped a familiar boatman with drinking money, ordered dockworkers to load all the cargo from the handcart aboard, then disembarked once more as a precaution, headed to Fukushō-gō’s back entrance from before, timed his approach for when foot traffic had ceased, pressed his nose close to the basement’s small window, and peered inside one final time.
Inside, the miso barrels were lined up just as they had been four or five days prior, and the musty stench of miso hung so thickly it seemed to suffocate the air.

He smirked and stood up to gaze at the sky. In this area, an unrelenting southeasterly wind had been blowing ceaselessly for several days now, and given his line of work, Senroku understood well that only a supremely confident boatman could set sail against such headwinds.

After returning to the wharf, Senroku grabbed the boatman and asked whether the ship could depart early the next morning. “Can you make it as far as Jōgashima in the Gotō Islands?” “I’ll pay whatever fare you ask…” When he posed this question, the indifferent-seeming boatman replied, “If it’s Jōgashima, there’s nothing to worry about.” “You’ll arrive before there’s even time to worry.” “With other ships, you might have to pay wages worth risking lives, but with this Genkaimaru alone, don’t waste your coin.” “If we set seven-tenths of the sail to this wind, I’ll have us cross thirty ri on the sea by tomorrow evening…” he boasted, twitching his nose with pride.

Senroku rejoiced at heaven’s aid.
He immediately gave generous drinking money to the boatman and had everyone from the crew to the helmsmen go ashore, then arranged to remain alone on the ship throughout the night.

When the ship had emptied and dusk fell, Senroku lit a single lantern and busily began working.
He evenly distributed counterfeit koban coins at the bottom of each of the ten miso barrels, covered them with sawdust from above, then packed miso over them while adjusting the weight to total exactly one hundred kin.
After tightly sealing and taping the lids, he threw all the remaining miso and sawdust into the sea.
After thoroughly cleaning up the remnants and eating two bowls of Chinese soba being hawked along the shore, he feigned ignorance and went to sleep.

The next morning, before dawn had broken, the boatmen returned.
Likely invigorated by the previous night’s tip, they worked briskly and soon raised the sail fully. Becoming the focus of the entire port’s attention, they ostentatiously exited the harbor—only to immediately lower the properly filled sail to seven-tenths once clear.
Chasing past towering storm-wrought waves again and again—gnawing at white foam, kicking up spray—like a heavenly steed galloping across the skies, the Genkaimaru raced straight toward Jōgashima at the northern tip of the Gotō Islands.
That evening, while the sun still hung high, as they rounded Nozakijima and cut into Kōnoura, they spotted a Dutch ship—mountainous in size—anchored there, waiting for favorable winds.

“Well I’ll be! Lord Senroku’s eyeballs ain’t off by one bit. From Nagasaki, nestled in its bowl-shaped terrain, you could already spot this ship waitin’ for favorable winds, see? Ha ha ha…”

Silencing the boatman’s admiring laughter with a look, Senroku hoisted the triangular Fukushō-gō flag he had prepared beforehand at the ship’s prow. Gliding smoothly near the windless, shadowed island coast, they approached the Dutch ship, lowered their sails, and pulled up snugly alongside.

From the ship’s deck, the sinister-looking faces of red-haired men peered out, lined up in a row. They shouted in Dutch in unison.

“Who the hell are you… What’s all this…”

By the time he had come to Nagasaki, Senroku had already become proficient in the languages of various countries. Among these, Dutch was where he excelled the most.

“I have come to collect cargo from Fukushō-gō.”
“Lately, Nagasaki officials have suddenly intensified their inspections, making our work perilous—yet with this wind preventing ships from departing, everyone turns pale with panic.”
“Since all Chinese people are cowardly, I was entrusted to load four hundred fifty kin of koban coins and braved the storm to come here.”
“Please hand over the cargo.”

He explained smoothly and so skillfully that it left almost no room for doubt.

“Hmm.”
“I see, I see.”
“Then come aboard.”

When they said this, they lowered a ladder from the ship, so Senroku, trembling inwardly, climbed up with the boatman, just the two of them.
And then, in the captain’s cabin, they met the captain and were treated to wine, coffee, and delicious fruits they had never seen before.

Senroku was surprised by Fukushō-gō’s remarkable credibility.
All ten miso barrels they had brought were loaded onto the Dutch ship without proper inspection, and in exchange, a vast quantity of woolen cloth and glassware packages were loaded onto the Genkaimaru.
Over half of the woolen cloth, silk damask, and jade packages still remained, but given this wind and Genkaimaru’s hold capacity, they likely couldn’t load everything—and truth be told, they weren’t just reluctant about the wind; they were in a tremendous hurry—so they left them on the opposite shore.
After instructing them to return once more to Nagasaki, check the wind, and come back for loading, they let Senroku and the boatman disembark—whereupon the Dutch ship, gnawing at white foam, ventured out into the open sea that very night.

After seeing it off, Senroku hurriedly brought his mouth close to the boatman’s ear.

“Can you get this ship moving right away?”
“Cut through this wind and make for Yobuko?”
“If they notice those fake koban halfway and turn back, we’re done for.”
“Dutch ships don’t mind headwinds... I’ll pay 100 ryō to reach Yobuko.”
“100 ryō...”
“Kinokuniya Bunzaemon.”
“For such a short run, proportionally that’s like a thousand ryō, eh?”
“A man’s guts...”
“The rest hangs on Konta’s skill.”
“I’ll throw in another fifty ryō as drinking money...”

Genkaimaru resolutely pulled up the anchor.
After a Kinokuniya Bunzaemon-style voyage of extreme peril and adventure, it entered Yobuko Port the following evening.
There, having abandoned Genkaimaru, Senroku skillfully eluded officials' eyes to unload the cargo and had dozens of pack horses carry it.
After entering Nagasaki through arduous mountain paths from the overland route via Imari and Ureshino, he immediately gathered his smuggling associates, had them sell off the goods from one hand to the next, and within moments sent the entire profit—tens of thousands of ryō—again converted entirely into money orders, to Miwatsuru in Osaka.

Senroku’s work during this period was executed with truly daring, lightning-swift speed for that era.

Sure enough, honest fishermen from Gotō and Kōnoura subsequently reported finding such cargo abandoned on the shore—after loading their boats with vast quantities of woolen cloth and jewels—to the magistrate’s office, creating a scandal that set all Nagasaki abuzz.
Convinced this must be remnants of smuggling dealings, the yoriki magistrates and dōshin constables suddenly had fire kindled in their eyes.
Ultimately, suspicion fell upon Fukushō-gō due to the flag bearing a ‘fuku’ character within a circle reportedly seen by Gotō fishermen—but by that time, Senroku had already vanished from Nagasaki.
Together with his smuggling associates, he hastily prepared for travel and entered the shogunate-controlled territory of Hita in Bungo Province, immersing himself in a little-known mountain hot spring called Kawazoko—literally “Riverbed”—where few ventured.

Senroku then parted from his companions and began making rounds to the hot springs of Musashi, Beppu, and Dōgo in Chikuzen Province.
Even if Kinmaru Chōja’s botched death had driven him to utter desperation, he could never have amassed thirty chests of thousand-ryō coins from Osaka’s Miwatsuru in one place.
If I were to throw in even Lord Ginnojō’s savings on top of that, there would be nothing I couldn’t do—not even uprooting the very foundations of Matsumoto-ro.
If, by some chance, even then Mangetsu were to despise me, it would be no loss to join forces with Lord Ginnojō, bind her in paralysis, and hand her over to him.
If only I could settle last year’s March 15th grudge… If that arrogant whore would just understand that a man’s pride is never to be trifled with, there would be nothing left to concern myself with.
From the very beginning, he had made an uncharacteristically resolute decision—unbecoming of an Osaka merchant—that if by some chance things were to go his way, he would not let her linger by his side even three days before selling her off to wear red aprons at Amanohashidate, exposing her to public humiliation…

Even upon arriving in Kyoto, they showed no trace of Mangetsu in their expressions or words. Ginnojō and Senroku, who had been single-mindedly searching for each other’s whereabouts, unexpectedly encountered one another at a teahouse in Gion. They rejoiced at each other’s safety, shared their tales of hardship thus far, and resolved that come what may, they would no longer be swayed by a woman’s affections. They would not fall prey to Mangetsu’s schemes again. They would surely join forces to kick Mangetsu down into the mud, trample her until she could no longer show her face in society, and astonish the denizens of Kyoto and Osaka’s pleasure quarters. They solemnly and resolutely vowed that they would make every heartless woman across Japan tremble in fear.

In any case, strike while the iron is hot.
With the two now gathered like this, there was no need to idly wait until March 15th… So they stormed into Matsumoto-ro in Shimabara, faces set in unison, mustered every last geisha and attendant to flaunt their vigor, and demanded, “Well then—bring out Mangetsu!” But the owner, who had hurried over to thank them for the tea money, wore a peculiar look as he guided them to a separate guest room.
As they listened to the brothel owner’s tearful account over the pale tea he served, their gaping mouths could no longer close.

Mangetsu was already no longer in this world.

“Please hear me speak of last spring.”
“When Mangetsu uttered those improper words to your lordships—her longtime acquaintances—during her cherry blossom procession, bringing shame upon you, it spread through Kyoto and Osaka like wildfire before anyone could trace its source…”

“Yet as this notoriety grew and your lordships vanished from Kyoto and Osaka’s streets—perhaps due to the elderly lord’s apprehension—”
“Lord Kinmaru became so distraught that none could fathom the depth of resentment Mangetsu might have incurred from you.”
“Fearing harm might befall both Mangetsu and himself ere long, he gathered the sum we had humbly proposed, redeemed her contract, and transformed his Sagano estate into a fortress-like enclosure. Within it, he built a villa of exquisite taste—diverting streams, planting gardens—and installed Mangetsu there.”

……It was a splendid structure.
“The esteemed scholar from Edo, Lord Hanamagari Sanjin, who once graced us as a guest, has also left writings about it.”
“When we came to pay our respects, there were Nebukawa stepping stones leading through the garden—a three-foot shoe-removal area paved with Tokuyama granite finished in crinkled silk plastering, and lattice-patterned shoji screens with black borders.”
The screens opened without a sound to reveal a verdant three-tatami room.
A five-bu-wide border of Nankin chintz fabric lined the floor.
Walls of dragging-sleeve sand plaster stretched smoothly.
A camphor wood ceiling arched above.
Two sliding doors spanning one ken were covered in silver-painted Karakami paper depicting Musashino fields.
Raku-ware handles adorned their frames.
When opened, they revealed an eight-tatami parlor encircled by south-facing verandas.
Crimson quince floorboards gleamed beneath black persimmon lintels.
Pillars of nandina wood startled the eye with their refined elegance.
“You could search all Kyoto and find no parlor to rival this.”
“I had imagined Lady Mangetsu’s contentment must have been boundless—but such is the world’s way when fullness turns to waning.”
Patchy clouds drifted across the moon’s face.
“Though ‘storms assailing flowers’ sounds antiquated as metaphor—now that it’s come to pass, the pity of it wrings tears from stone…”

“What could I possibly conceal?
From the time Lady Mangetsu was still serving at our establishment, she had contracted a grave chest ailment—thus, regardless of circumstances, she was never destined for a long life.
Thus, when Lord Kinmaru proposed redeeming her contract, we set aside all mercenary concerns and fully disclosed this matter to his lordship—even requesting the attendance of her attending physician, Dr. Jun’an—for it would have been unconscionable to allow the redemption of one afflicted with such an incurable illness.
If Lord Kinmaru truly holds Lady Mangetsu in such esteem, then had he but bestowed upon us even the funds for her medicine to allow her convalescence at our establishment, it would have been the greatest fortune both for her sake and ours.
In the end, we humbly sought pardon, insisting that to deceptively present a patient whose future cannot be predicted as a sound person and have her redeemed would mark the ultimate reward of our trade—but indeed, the resolve of one such as Lord Kinmaru, whom they call a magnate, was extraordinary. Should we attribute this to the elderly lord’s obstinacy? No—no, such considerations are unnecessary.
We are deeply grateful for Lord Kinmaru’s consideration, but were we to simply withdraw our involvement now, not a single shred of our sincerity would reach you.
Business is business.
Compassion is compassion.
If they were flawed dishes or bowls, one could discard them once the flaw is noticed—but the illness of a living person cannot be treated as equivalent to such things.
Even a chance encounter is ordained by karma from a past life.
If her illness was that severe, then taking her in and caring for her would be an act of human compassion.
Lord Kinmaru declared that he could not possibly take Lady Mangetsu’s person without compensation—a matter that brooked no refusal.
We too found ourselves yielding to his lordship’s earnest devotion and just reasoning, resulting in us handing over Lady Mangetsu in such a manner.
…But…”

……Now then, as for Lord Kinmaru’s devotion after taking in Lady Mangetsu—it was something that could not be fully encompassed by heart or word.
He sought out every reputable doctor in Kyoto and Osaka, and separately dispatched people to procure every possible remedy for consumption throughout Japan.
Beyond this, he spared no effort—grand rituals, secret rites, every possible incantation and prayer—exhausting every means and varying every method in his care, but a life destined to end cannot be helped. When last summer passed as usual and autumn winds began to blow, she reluctantly closed her eyes to this world’s light at the age of twenty-one, her single lifetime concluded.
What strange twist of fate had brought it about? That night—a pristine mid-autumn full moon night—found Lady Mangetsu, now a human too weakened to lift her heavy pillow, feebly waving her emaciated right and left hands that held both Lord Kinmaru’s flustered hand and my own rushed-over one. Beneath breaths finer than the scattering insect voices across the garden, she uttered these final words:

“…How can I possibly express my gratitude for all the kindness you have shown me until now?”
The splendor and glory were too much for this humble body.
Dreadfully terrifying—there was nothing but concern for what lay ahead.
“I beg your forgiveness.”
“Even should I be reborn as a dog, a beast, or a lowly insect through endless lifetimes, I shall never forget the depth of your kindness, Lord Kinmaru and Master of Matsumoto-ro.”

…Ever since I lost both parents in my childhood—being one who could offer no filial devotion to my own kin—I had resolved that my sole path lay in wholeheartedly repaying the Master of Matsumoto-ro’s nurturing kindness, clinging to that alone as my purpose as I grew… when from my own flesh and blood came this grave illness.

Once I resigned myself to having no long lifespan, I piled sin upon sin—first for the establishment’s sake, second to repay my debt to the Master of Matsumoto-ro—manipulating every last one of those esteemed patrons.

For that alone, I will likely fall into hell in the next life.

Yet even amidst all that, what I could not forget was the matter of Lord Ginnojō and Lord Senroku.

That I spoke such heartless words during this year’s cherry blossom procession was solely because I had cherished your futures from the depths of my heart.

How I had longed—from ordinary days onward—to counsel you both: “Cast aside a woman like me sooner, and embark on honorable lives befitting men.” Yet this sorrowful thought—that I could never voice it—became unbearable all at once when I looked up at your transformed figures. Clenching a hot lump in my chest, I finally managed to utter those words… What sentiments did you take them to hold?

After that, your lordships’ figures abruptly ceased to appear in Kyoto and Osaka—or so it was said.

The agony and bitterness within my chest—with no means to learn of your subsequent circumstances.

Are your lordships somewhere in Japan at this very moment—thinking of me as a hateful woman to resent—cursing me even in sleep and wakefulness?

Or perhaps—driven by the helplessness of your young hearts—have you despaired of this fleeting world and met an unseemly end?

Is this my body’s vanity?

Am I overthinking?

The depth of my sins.

The more I dwell on my wretchedness—this crescent moon of a body and soul withering away—clinging to a withered branch while sinking into the earth’s depths—such is my life.

…Above all, what feels most wasteful is Lord Kinmaru.
Though I humbly acknowledge Lord Kinmaru’s grace in redeeming me—a kindness deeper than even my master’s or parents’—this ailing body I entrusted to him proves unworthy of such devotion, more loathsome than a shed cicada husk. To depart this world receiving inverted care—where I should instead be serving—leaves me with unbearable shame.
Dread.
In my next life, may I be reborn as a cow or horse—even while grazing on grass and drinking water, let me become one who carries you upon my back—so I prayed fervently to every god and buddha in my heart, yet in this world, how pitiful that not even a dewdrop’s worth of gratitude can I repay.
Is this what a woman is? Like an evening cicada clinging to the tip of a grass leaf, my heart spends its days weeping into the void.

...To say nothing of the grace from gods and buddhas—to all who cared for me in this world, and to those who granted even transient kindness to this unworthy self—I press my hands together thus. Let all matters be deemed the meager karma of my past lives—pray grant me forgiveness...

Her faltering voice faded as crystalline tears—two streaks—trailed left and right down the satin pillow, and in that liminal moment between being and void, her breath ceased. This occurred precisely when the full moon in the cloudless sky crossed the rooftop ridge of the sickroom.

…Lord Kinmaru’s grief goes without saying.
It must be said he had profoundly grasped this world’s impermanence.
Not long thereafter, he had his magnificent residence rebuilt into a single temple structure, bestowing upon it the name Mumyōzan Mangetsu-ji Temple.
From some time earlier, he had invited a revered Buddhist scholar to serve as chief priest; conducted an elaborate Segaki ceremony for Lady Mangetsu; shaved his head to take monastic vows under the dharma name Tomozuki; and from dawn till dusk struck the prayer bell while chanting sutras through Kyoto’s streets to mourn Lady Mangetsu’s departed soul.
“Even we—who for generations have regarded the abacus as our lifeblood—find our eyes dazzled to blindness, our hearts utterly unstrung each time we behold Venerable Tomozuki’s piteous figure…”

As he spoke these words, the Master of Matsumoto-ro held back his tears and choked back a sob.

Ginnojō and Senroku had both collapsed in tears, utterly bereft of composure.
Above all, Harimaya Senroku—being a self-made man of the merchant class—began to wail uncontrollably, his voice breaking forth without restraint.

In the depths of Sagano, behind Mumyōzan Mangetsu-ji Temple, stood a splendid new grave surrounded by a blizzard of cherry blossoms. On its front face was carved "The Grave of the Renowned Courtesan Mangetsu" in gold characters; on the reverse was engraved "Hōreki 2 (1752), Mid-Autumn—attained age twenty-one years."

Before it stood an old monk and two novices who offered incense and flowers and completed their worship.
The old monk was Lord Kinmaru’s later incarnation, Tomozuki.
One novice was Ginnojō in his secular life, now Tomogin; the other was Senroku, now Tomoun.
It was March 21st for them all—the seventh day since that deeply memorable procession in Shimabara—when they resolutely donated their entire wealth to Mangetsu-ji Temple, shaved their heads under the presiding abbot’s guidance, and alongside the senior monk Tomozuki, paid respects to Mangetsu’s transformed appearance for the first time in a full year.

The three of them, now belatedly recalling the dreamlike past and contemplating the present, took turns wringing the sleeves of priestly robes.
For a time, they showed no sign of rising from before the grave, but eventually the three staggered out from Mangetsu’s graveside into a swirling blizzard of falling petals.

The three exited through the temple gate side by side and formed a line along the desolate rural path through the fields—now at the rear, now at the front—as they struck their prayer bells.
They raised their tear-choked, clouded voices and began chanting Buddhist prayers.

Namu Amida Butsu

Naaan… maaai… daaa—aaah

“Naaa—mooo—daaa—aaah”