Pathway to Japanese Literature

In early September of Showa 21 (1946), I received a visit from a certain man.

This incident was neither remotely romantic nor in the least journalistic; yet it was one of those strangely unbearable events that I suspect will leave an indelible mark on my heart until the day I die.

Incident.

But still, calling it an incident might be overstating things.
It was simply a matter of me drinking with a certain man—just the two of us—and parting without any particular quarrel or anything, at least outwardly in harmonious accord.
And yet, I cannot help but feel it as something of such gravity that I cannot let it pass.

In any case, he was an astonishing man.
What a specimen he was.
He didn't possess a single redeeming quality—not even a speck.

Last year, having been bombed out, I took refuge in this Tsugaru family home where I now spent nearly every day piously secluded in the back room. Even when occasionally entreated by local cultural societies or comrades' associations to give lectures or attend roundtables, I would refuse by saying, "There must be far more suitable speakers available," then secretly drink nightcaps alone before bed—living a life resembling that of some counterfeit hermit. Yet during my fifteen prior years in Tokyo, I had frequented the lowest taverns, drunk the cheapest liquors, and conversed with what might be called society's dregs, until I'd grown thoroughly inured to most ruffians.
But that man left me dumbfounded.
In any case, he was preternaturally loathsome.

In early September, I had finished lunch and was idly smoking a cigarette alone in the tsunei room of the main house when a large old man in work clothes lumbered heavily onto the entrance’s dirt-floored area,

"Hey," he said.

That was none other than the so-called "bosom friend" in question.

(I must state this absurd precaution—absurd though it may seem—that in depicting a farmer's appearance here and exposing his detestable character to public view, I harbor no intention whatsoever of supporting those so-called "reactionary forces" in class struggle.)
This should become self-evident to most readers by this memoir's conclusion—such disclaimers can only dampen interest—but given how certain obtuse souls nowadays persist in raising antiquated arguments and tossing preposterous conclusions about, I find myself obliged to append this superfluous explanation for those antiquated dullards (or rather, perhaps cunning tacticians).
To begin with, though he appears here in farmer's guise, he bears no resemblance to those peasants revered by ideologues.
He was an utterly complex man.
At any rate, I had never before encountered his like.
He verged on incomprehensibility.
I even sensed within him an intimation of new human type.
(It is not that I seek to pass moral judgment of good or evil; if I might convey this presentiment of new humanity to readers, I would be satisfied.)

He claimed to be Hirata, who had been my classmate during elementary school.

“Did you forget?” he said, laughing with white teeth bared.
I faintly recognized that face.

“I know. Won’t you come in?”
That day, I was indeed a frivolous socialite toward him.

He took off the straw sandals and stepped up into the tsunei room.

“Long time no see,” he said loudly.
“How many years has it been?”
“No—how many decades has it been?”
“Hey, it’s been over twenty years!”
“I’d heard you’d come back here long ago, but what with the farm work keeping me so busy, I just couldn’t find the time to drop by.”
“You’ve become quite the drinker yourself, I hear.”
“Bwahahaha!”

I forced a wry smile and poured tea to serve.

“Have you forgotten the fights we had?”
“We used to fight all the time.”

“Was that so?”

“Don’t give me that ‘Was that so?’”
“Look at this—there’s a scar on the back of this hand.”
“This is the scar you gave me.”

I scrutinized the back of the hand he had extended, but there was no such scar anywhere.

"There should definitely be a scar on your left outer calf as well."
"There is one, right?"
"It should definitely be there."
"That's the scar from when I threw a stone at you."
"No, you and I sure used to fight a lot."

However, on my left outer calf—and also on my right outer calf—there wasn't a single such scar.
I merely smiled vaguely and listened attentively to his story.

“By the way, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“It’s a class reunion.”
“What do you say? Don’t like the idea?”
“Let’s drink our fill!”
“Assuming ten attendees, two *to* of sake—I’ll handle collecting that.”

“That’s not a bad idea, but isn’t two *to* a bit much?”

“Not at all—it’s not too much.”
“Without two shō per person, it won’t be any fun.”

“But can you really gather two *to* of sake?”

“It might not come together.”
“I don’t know, but I’ll try.”
“Don’t worry.”
“But even out in the countryside, alcohol isn’t cheap these days—so I’m counting on you there.”

I stood up with an understanding look, went to the back room, and brought five large bills,

"In that case, take this much for now."
"The rest... we’ll handle that later."

"Wait," he pushed the bills back at me. "That’s not it."
"I didn’t come today to get money from you. I just came to discuss something."
"I came to hear your opinion."
"Anyway, you’ll have to cough up around a thousand yen from your end, but today I came to discuss things and see the face of an old friend."
"Well, never mind. Leave it to me—put that money away."

“I see.”
I put the bills into my jacket pocket.

“Don’t you have any whiskey?” he suddenly said.

I couldn’t help but take another look at his face.
He, too, momentarily made an awkward, almost pained face, but then doubled down.

“I’ve heard you always have two or three *shō* on hand.”
“Serve me some.”
“Is the old woman not here?”
“Make the old woman pour me a drink!”

I stood up,

“All right.”
“Then come over here.”

It was a hollow feeling.

I guided him to the back study.

“It’s a mess in here.”

“No, it’s fine.”
“A literary scholar’s room is always like this.”
“Back when I was in Tokyo too, I associated with all sorts of literary scholars.”

However, I simply couldn't believe it.

“Still, though—it’s a nice room.”
“I must say, it’s splendidly built.”
“The garden view isn’t bad either.”
“There’s a holly.”
“Do you know the origin of the holly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you know?” he said triumphantly. “Its significance spans grandly on a global scale and modestly within the household—it could even serve as material for you writers.”

His words made no sense at all.
It even seemed as though they might be lacking something.
However，that was not the case.
He did，however，later reveal a rather cunning and skillful side of himself.

“What could it be，that origin?”

He grinned slyly and，

“I’ll tell you next time，” he added pompously．“The origin of the holly．”

I took out a square whiskey bottle about half full from the closet，

“It’s whiskey，but will that do?”

“Absolutely!”
“Is the old woman not here?”
“Make her pour for me, yeah?”

Though I had lived in Tokyo for years and received all manner of guests, none of them had ever said such a thing to me.

"My wife isn't here," I lied.

"Now don't be like that," he plowed through my words, "call her over and make her pour! I came here specially to drink from your old lady's hands."

If he had come expecting some sophisticated, charming city woman, I thought, it would be pitiable for him and humiliating for my wife. My wife is a city woman, but she is rather plain-looking and unattractive, with no particular wit about her. I was reluctant to have my wife come out.

“It’s fine—if my wife pours it, the whiskey will only taste worse,” I said as I poured the whiskey into the tea cup on the desk. “This whiskey would’ve been third-rate back in the day, but at least it’s not methyl alcohol.”

He drank it down in one gulp, clicked his tongue a few times, and said,

“Tastes like mamushi shochu.”

While pouring him another drink, I warned,
“But if you keep guzzling like that, the drunkenness’ll hit you all at once later. You’ll feel wretched.”

“Huh? You’re way off the mark. I’ve polished off two bottles of Suntory in Tokyo before. This whiskey—let me see—is about sixty percent? Eh, average stuff. Not that strong,” he said, and knocked it back again. There was no trace of refinement.

Then this time, he poured me a drink, and then filled his own cup to the brim,

“There’s none left,” he said.

“Oh, is that so?” I said, rising like a refined socialite with a knowing look, retrieved another bottle of whiskey from the closet once more, and uncorked it.

He calmly nodded in agreement and drank again.

Even I was starting to feel somewhat irritated.
I had had this bad habit of wastefulness since childhood, and my sense of frugality—though it was nothing to boast about—struck me as slightly duller than the average person’s.
But that whiskey was, so to speak, my prized possession.
In the past, it might have been third-rate, but now it was undoubtedly first-rate.
The price was exorbitant, but even more than that, the means of obtaining it had been tremendously difficult.
It was not something that could be bought even if one had the money.
I had finally managed to obtain this whiskey—a dozen bottles—quite some time ago, and though I went bankrupt for it, I felt no regret; I had been savoring it sip by sip and treasuring it with considerable care, thinking that when a whiskey-loving writer like Mr. Ibuse came by, I would have him drink some.
However, it had gradually diminished, and by that time, only two and a half bottles remained in the closet.

When told to serve him a drink—there unfortunately being no sake or anything else—I had brought out my dwindling stock of prized whiskey; however, I had not expected it to be guzzled so voraciously. It may sound like a terribly stingy complaint—(no—let me be clear: I am stingy when it comes to this whiskey. It's precious!) But having him gulp it down so brazenly, as if it were only natural, even I couldn't help but feel resentful.

Moreover, his manner of speaking did nothing to stir any empathy in me.
It wasn’t that I was some cultured gentleman of refinement and he an uneducated country oaf.
Such a thing was absolutely not the case.
I have even had the experience of earnestly discussing what might be called “the truth of life” with a wholly uneducated prostitute.
I have even been moved to tears when receiving counsel from an unschooled old craftsman.
I have even come to doubt what people call “learning.”
That his conversation held no appeal for me was certainly due to other reasons.
What were they?
Rather than pinning it down here in two or three words, I deemed it more fitting as an author—a so-called sound method—to instead vividly transcribe his words and deeds from that day exactly as they were, leaving judgment to the reader.

From the very start, he kept saying things like “Back in my Tokyo days,” but as he grew drunker, he increasingly fired off such remarks with growing frequency.

“You messed up with women in Tokyo too, though,” he declared loudly, grinning slyly, “but I actually came close to danger myself back in my Tokyo days.”
“I almost went and made a major blunder just like you did.”
“It’s true, I tell you.”
“I actually went that far.”
“But I ran away, I tell you.”
“Yeah, I ran away.”
“Even so, women can’t seem to forget a man they’ve once set their hearts on, I tell you.”
“Bwahaha!”
“They still send me letters, I tell you.”
“Heh heh.”
“Just the other day, she sent over rice cakes.”
“Women are such foolish creatures, I tell you.”
“If you want women to fall for you, it’s no good relying on your looks or your money—it’s about feelings, I tell you. It’s about heart.”
“Back in my Tokyo days, I really ran wild, I tell you.”
“Come to think of it, back then you must’ve been in Tokyo too, amusing yourself by making geisha cry and all that, yet we never once met—strange, don’t you think?”
“So tell me—what parts of town did you mostly hang around back then?”

As for "that time," I had no idea which period he meant. Moreover, in Tokyo, I possessed no memory whatsoever of amusing myself by making geisha weep as he insinuated. My Tokyo days consisted mainly of drinking awamori and shochu at yakitori stalls while rambling drunken nonsense. True, I had committed what he called "catastrophic blunders with women"—not mere isolated incidents but repeated failures that brought shame upon my family—yet let me declare this: I was no preening dandy who flaunted wealth to torment geisha while posturing! A wretched defense perhaps, but discovering through his words that even this protest remained disbelieved filled me with profound exhaustion.

However, this bitterness was not something I had first been made to taste by this man alone; it was a gall I had come to laugh off, having been forced to swallow it through Tokyo’s literary critics and all manner of others—even those who posed as friends. What grated was how this man in farmer’s garb seemed to regard it as if it were some great weakness of mine, and the palpable sense that he sought to exploit it made his entire disposition appear to me as wretchedly petty.

However, on that day, I was an exceedingly frivolous socialite.
There was not a shred of resolute bearing in me.
After all, I was practically destitute—a war survivor with nothing to my name, dragging along my wife and children as I forced my way into this less-than-prosperous town where I barely clung to life. Given such circumstances, I had no choice but to play the frivolous socialite toward its long-established residents.

I went to the main house to get water fruits and offered them to him,

“Won’t you have some? If you eat some fruit, it’ll sober you up so you can drink even more.”

I feared that if he kept gulping down whiskey at this rate, he’d soon be utterly plastered—if not outright violent, then at least incoherent—and I’d be left dealing with the mess. With the aim of settling him down a bit, I peeled a pear and offered it to him.

However, he seemed disinclined to sober up, paying no attention to the water fruits and reaching only for the whiskey-filled teacup.

“I hate politics,” he suddenly declared, steering the conversation toward that subject. “We farmers don’t need to know a thing about politics. If someone does something—anything—that benefits our daily lives even a little, we’ll side with them. That’s how it should be. Bring actual goods before our eyes, make us grasp them in our hands—we’ll side with them. Isn’t that how it should be? We farmers have no ambition. The favors we receive, we’ll repay in full. That’s the honest truth of us farmers. Progressive Party or Socialist Party—makes no difference. We farmers need nothing else—work our rice paddies, cultivate our fields, that’s all.”

At first, I couldn’t understand why he had suddenly started saying such a strange thing.
However, with his next words, the true intent became clear, and I let out a bitter smile.

“But in the recent election, you campaigned for your brother too, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t do anything—not a single thing.
In this room every day, I was doing my own work.”

“You’re lying.”
“Even if you’re a literary man and no politician, that’s where human compassion comes in.”
“You must’ve worked your ass off for your brother.”
“I may be an uneducated farmer with no learning to speak of, but I do have human compassion.”
“I hate politics.”
“I have no ambition or anything like that.”
“Whether it’s the Socialist Party or the Progressive Party, I don’t see anything to fear from them—but I do have human compassion.”
“I have no particular connection with your brother, I tell you, but at least you and I are classmates—no, close friends.”
“This is human compassion.”
“I voted for your brother without anyone asking me to.”
“We farmers don’t need to know a thing about politics or anything else.”
“As long as we don’t forget this one thing—human compassion—that’s all we need, don’t you think?”

Does that single vote translate into a right to whiskey?
It was all too transparent, and I could only grow more disillusioned.

However, he was by no means a simple man.
He seemed to suddenly sense something with acute sensitivity.

“However, I’m not saying I want to become your brother’s retainer or anything like that.”
“I can’t have you looking down on me so utterly.”
“If you trace back your family’s ancestors, they were oil peddlers.”
“You know that, don’t you?”
“I heard it from the old woman in my family.”
“For anyone who bought a sho of oil, they’d give out a piece of candy as a prize.”
“That worked.”
“Even someone like Saito across the river—sure, he’s acting high and mighty as a big landowner now—but three generations back, they were just gathering brushwood that drifted down the river, whittling it into skewers, catching minnows from the water, roasting them on those sticks, and selling them for a penny or two to scrape by.”
“Then there’s the Ooike family—they lined up buckets by the roadside to get passersby to piss in them, and once a bucket was full, they’d sell the urine to farmers. That’s how their fortune started.”
“Rich people—if you trace their origins—they’re all nothing but this.”
“Listen—my clan is considered the oldest lineage in this region.”
“Well, supposedly our ancestors were from Kyoto—” He started to say, then gave an awkward chuckle. “It’s just the old woman’s stories, so you can’t take it seriously. But anyway, we’ve got a proper family tree.”

I said earnestly,

“In that case, you might indeed be descended from courtiers,” I said, indulging his vanity.

“Well, it’s not entirely clear, but that’s roughly how it stands.”
“I’m the only one out here in the fields every day dressed like this, but my brother—you know about him—graduated from university.”
“Wasn’t he a baseball player whose name kept appearing in the papers?”
“My younger brother’s at university now too.”
“I became a farmer through personal conviction, but now neither my older nor younger brother can look me in the eye.”
“Tokyo’s starving, see? My brother works as a section chief after graduating, but he’s always writing to beg me for rice.”
“Sending it’s a pain though.”
“If he came himself, I’d make him carry as much as he wants—but a Tokyo office chief can’t exactly haul rice sacks, can he?”
“You too—if you need anything these days, just come to my place.”
“I’m not looking to drink your whiskey without paying you back.”
“Farmers are honest people.”
“We return every favor exactly as we received it.”
“No—I won’t drink if you’re pouring!”
“Call your wife here.”
“I won’t drink unless your wife pours!”
I felt a strange sensation.
It wasn’t as if I particularly wanted him to keep drinking.
“I’m done drinking.”
“Bring your wife here!”
“If you don’t fetch her, I’ll go drag her out myself.”

“Where’s your wife?”
“The bedroom?”
“The room for sleeping?”
“I am a farmer who rules this realm.”
“Don’t you know the Hirata clan?”
He grew progressively drunker—making an absurd scene—and staggered to his feet.

Laughing all the while, I soothed him and pressed him back into his seat,

“Fine, I’ll bring her then.”
“She’s such a bore.”
“Alright?”

With that, I went to the room where my wife and child were,

“Hey, an old close friend from elementary school has come to visit. Come out and greet him.”

I instructed her, putting on a convincing face.

I still didn’t want my wife to look down on my guest.
Whenever a guest comes to my home—no matter what kind of guest—if I detect even the slightest hint that my family looks down on them, it becomes unbearably painful for me.

My wife entered the study carrying the younger child in her arms.

“This gentleman is my close friend from elementary school, a Mr. Hirata.”
“Back in elementary school, we often fought, and there’s still a scratch mark I left on the back of this gentleman’s right or left hand. So today he’s come for revenge, you see.”

“Oh, how terrifying!” my wife said with a laugh, then bowed politely. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Our frivolous social ritual as a couple didn’t seem entirely displeasing to him, and he beamed with pride,

“Ah, spare me the stiff formalities.”
“Now, Mrs.—come right over here and pour me a drink.”

He too was a shrewd socialite. In private he called her “old woman,” yet face-to-face addressed her as “Mrs.” With my wife pouring, he took a forceful swig.

“Mrs.,” he began, “like I was just telling Shuji here—if you need anything inconvenient-like, come to my place. We’ve got it all. Potatoes, veggies, rice, eggs, chickens even. How ’bout horse meat? You eat that? I’m a damn artist at skinning horses—want some? I’ll make you haul back a whole leg. Pheasant do? Or maybe copper pheasant’s tastier? I’m a gunman, see? Ask anyone round here ‘bout Hirata the Gunman—they all know me. I’ll shoot whatever tickles your fancy. Ducks? Hell, I’ll bag ten in the rice fields tomorrow mornin’ if you want proof. Once dropped fifty-eight ’fore breakfast! Think I’m lyin’? Go ask Kasai Saburō at the bridge smithy—that bastard knows my every move.” He leaned closer, whiskey sloshing. “When Hirata the Gunman speaks, every young buck in this region jumps. Right! Tomorrow night—hey, writer boy—wanna see Yawata-sama’s eve festival with me? I’ll come fetch ya.”

“There might be a big fight among the young men.”
“I tell you, things are looking pretty dicey.”
“Then I’ll charge in and shout, ‘Hold it!’”
he said.
It was just like Banzuiin Chōbei himself.
“I don’t care about my life or anything anymore.”
“Even if I die—I’ve got property—so my old woman and kids won’t suffer.”
“Hey, literary man.”
“Let’s go together tomorrow night without fail.”
“I’ll show you how great I am.”
“Even if you dawdle every day in this back room, you won’t produce good literature.”
“You need to broaden your experiences greatly.”
“Just what kind of things are you writing, anyway?”
“Heh heh.”
“Geisha novels?”
“You’re no good because you don’t know hardship.”
“I’ve already gone through three old women.”
“The later old women are even cuter.”
“What about you?”
“You’ve had two yourself!”

“Three?!”
“Mrs.—does Shuji dote on you?”
“I’ll have you know I’m a man who’s lived in Tokyo.”

Things were growing dangerously awkward.
I instructed my wife to go fetch some drinking snacks from the main house and made her leave the room.

He leisurely took out a tobacco pouch from his waistband, then from the drawstring bag attached to it produced a small box containing tinder and flint, and began click-clacking away as he tried to light his pipe—but it simply wouldn’t catch.

“Tobacco—there’s plenty here. Help yourself to this.”
“That pipe must be such trouble.”

When I said this, he looked at me, grinned slyly, put away his tobacco pouch, and declared with evident pride,

“We farmers have things like this.”
“You people might laugh at them, but they’re useful.”
“Even in the rain—just click-clack away and you’ll get a fire going.”
“Next time I go to Tokyo, I’ll bring this along and click-clack away right in the middle of Ginza.”
“You’ll be heading back to Tokyo soon yourself, right?”
“I’ll come visit.”
“Where in Tokyo was your house anyway?”

“Bombed out—still haven’t figured where to go next.”

“Oh—so you were bombed out.”
“First I’m hearing of it.”
“Then you must’ve gotten all sorts of special rations.”
“Seems there was a blanket distribution for war survivors lately—hand it over.”

I was flustered.
I struggled to grasp his true intentions.
However, he didn’t seem to be joking at all as he kept insisting stubbornly.

“Gimme.”
“I’m gonna make a jumper.”
“Seems like a pretty good blanket, don’t it?”
“Gimme.”
“Where is it?”
“I’m takin’ it when I leave!”
“That’s my way.”
“If there’s somethin’ I want, I take it!”
With that, he helped himself to it.
“In return, when you come to my place, you do the same.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Take whatever you want—I won’t care.”
“That’s the kinda man I am.”
“Can’t stand bothersome crap like manners.”
“Listen—I’m takin’ that blanket!”

That single blanket was something my wife treasured like a precious object.
Because we now live in a so-called "impressive" house, does he think we have everything in abundance?
We are like hermit crabs inhabiting an absurdly oversized shell—should we slip out of this carapace, we become pitiful naked insects, and then this couple with their two children must wander about outdoors clutching their special-ration blanket and mosquito net, crawling through the dirt.
The misery of families without homes is something people who have country houses and fields can never understand.
The majority of people who lost their homes in this recent war—I’m sure of it—must have at some point envisioned the act of family suicide.

“Enough about the blanket.”

“You’re so damn stingy!”

Just as he was trying to press on even more stubbornly, his wife came in carrying a tray.

“Ah, Mrs.,” he redirected his attack toward her, “don’t go to any trouble.”
“I don’t need any food. Just come here and pour me a drink.”
“I don’t feel like drinking if it’s Shuji pouring.”
“He’s such a cheapskate—it’s insufferable.”
“Shall I beat him up for you?”
“Mrs., back in my Tokyo days, I was quite a fighter, you know.”
“I also dabbled a bit in judo.”
“Even now, someone like Shuji here is no match—I could twist him around my little finger.”
“Whenever Shuji acts high-handed toward you, let me know.”
“I’ll give him a good thrashing.”
“What do you think, Mrs.—whether back in Tokyo or since coming here, there hasn’t been another man who could speak to Shuji as familiarly and without reserve as I do, right?”
“After all, we’re old fight buddies—Shuji can’t put on airs with me.”

Here, upon realizing that even his rudeness was clearly a conscious effort, I found myself sinking ever deeper into a sense of desolation.
Was he planning to turn this into some idiotic boast—how he made me treat him to whiskey and came here raising hell?

I suddenly recalled the story of Kimura Shigenari and the tea attendant.
Then I also recalled the story of Kanzaki Yogoro and the horse driver.
I even recalled Han Xin’s humiliation of crawling between another man’s legs.
Fundamentally—whether considering Mr. Kimura, Mr. Kanzaki, or even Han Xin’s case—rather than admiring their forbearance, I could only feel something gratingly affected when contemplating the wordless, bottomless contempt those men harbored toward their respective troublemakers.
You often see it in barroom brawls: one man trembling with righteous fury while his opponent smirks with performative calmness, shooting glances at bystanders that scream “What an embarrassing drunk,” then turning to his enraged counterpart with declarations like “Alright—my mistake, I apologize profusely.” That’s truly vile.
I consider it cowardly.
Confronted with such an attitude, the aggrieved man would have no choice but to rage even more wildly.
Mr. Kimura, Mr. Kanzaki, and even Han Xin likely avoided such vulgar theatrics—no sleazy winks at spectators while mouthing “My bad,” instead offering apologies with dignified postures where sincerity itself seemed to radiate forth. Yet even so, these moral parables repulse my ethics.
I detect no true patience there.
Patience isn’t some fleeting dramatic gesture—or so it seems to me.
The endurance of Atlas bearing the heavens, Prometheus suffering his eternal punishment—true virtue manifests through such sustained forms.
Moreover, in these three gentlemen’s cases, one glimpses hints that each great man nursed an oddly inflated sense of superiority during their trials—so much that you’d want to thrash them whether they played tea attendant or horse driver, making me sympathize more with those ruffians instead.
Particularly with Mr. Kanzaki’s horse driver—though they extracted a meticulously worded apology from him, he found no peace afterward, likely spiraling into wilder excesses and drowning himself in drink over the next four or five days.
Thus had I always believed myself utterly unmoved by these paragons’ magnanimity while nurturing profound sympathy for the troublemakers—yet now, facing this extraordinary guest, I found myself compelled to drastically revise my longstanding views on Kimura, Kanzaki, and Han Xin.

I didn't care if it was cowardly or whatever.
I was beginning to lean toward a morality of avoiding unruly horses.
I had no room to dwell on virtues like patience.
I asserted.
Kimura, Kanzaki, and Han Xin were indeed weaker than those desperate ruffians; they had been overwhelmed.
There had been no chance of victory.
Even Christ—when he saw the time was not advantageous—did it not come to pass that "thus the Lord withdrew".

There was no other choice but to withdraw. If I were to anger this dear friend here and now by putting on a show of smashing the sliding doors, this would cease to be my house, and things would become quite turbulent. Even without that, the children tear the shoji screens, rip the curtains, scribble on the walls—I’m always on edge. In this situation, I must strive by all means not to upset this dear friend’s mood. The legends of those three men become so profoundly misleading to us seekers of truth precisely because ethics textbooks and such treat them under titles like “Patience” or “Great Courage and Petty Courage.” If I were to include that story in an ethics textbook, I would title it “Solitude.”

I thought that now I truly understood the loneliness those three men had felt in their moment.

While enduring his bluster and privately wrestling with these thoughts, he suddenly—

He released a bone-chilling "Gwah!"

Startled, I looked at him—he was
“I’m getting drunk!” he bellowed, resembling a Nio guardian deity in his immovable stance—eyes tightly shut as he groaned “Ugh!”, arms braced against his knees, mustering every ounce of strength to battle his intoxication.

He was bound to get drunk.
He had already consumed over half of the new square bottle by himself.
Greasy sweat glistened on his forehead—a fearsome visage worthy of comparison to Kongo (Vajra) or Ashura (warring demigods).
My wife and I exchanged truly uneasy glances at this sight, yet thirty seconds later he had recovered completely,

“After all, whiskey’s the real thing.”
“It really gets you drunk.”
“Come on, Mrs., pour me a drink.”
“Get over here.”
“No matter how drunk I get, I never lose my senses.”
“Today you’ve treated me, but next time I’ll treat you for sure.”
“Come to my place.”
“But there’s nothing at my house.”
“I keep chickens, but I ain’t slaughtering those.”
“They ain’t ordinary chickens.”
“They’re called *Shamo*—fighting cocks.”
“This November’s big *Shamo* tournament—gonna enter ’em all, training ’em now—but any that lose shamefully get their necks wrung and stewed.”
“So you’re waiting till November.”
“Well, I’ll give you two-three daikon radishes.”
His talk dwindled.
“No whiskey, nothing here.”
“That’s why I came drinking.”
“If I bag a duck soon, I’ll give it—but on condition.”
“Us three—me, Shuji, Mrs.—eat that duck, then Shuji brings whiskey—and if either says ‘this tastes bad,’ I ain’t having it.”
“You call this foul? I ain’t having it.”

“It’s a duck I went through hell to shoot down.”
“I want to hear ‘Delicious!’ outta you.”
“Got that? That’s a promise now.”
“Delicious!”
“Good!”
“You better say ‘Good!’ when the time comes.”
“Bwahahaha!”
“Mrs., this here’s what farmers are like.”
“Look down on us, and I ain’t handin’ over so much as a scrap o’ rope.”
“There’s tricks to handlin’ country folk.”
“Listen up, Mrs.”
“Don’t you go puttin’ on airs—I said no airs!”
“Hell, Mrs., you’re no different from my old woman once night falls—”

My wife laughed while,

“It seems the child is crying in the back.”

With that, she fled.

“No good!” he bellowed, rising to his feet. “Your wife’s no good!
My old woman ain’t like that. I’ll go drag her here.
Don’t act superior!
My household’s a proper one.
We’ve got six kids, but our marriage is solid!
If you think I’m lying, go ask Saburo at the blacksmith’s near the bridge.
Where’s the old woman’s room?
Show me the bedroom.
Show me the room where you all sleep.”

“Ah, letting these people drink precious whiskey is such a waste!”

“Cut it out, cut it out.”
I stood up too, took his hand, and no longer able to force laughter, said, “Don’t engage with that woman.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
“Let’s drink and enjoy ourselves.”

He thudded down into a sitting position,

"You two don't get along well, do you?"
"I had it figured."
"Something's off."
"Something's up."
"I had it figured."

There was nothing to suspect or not suspect.
The cause of that "offness" lay in my friend’s reckless drunkenness.

“This isn’t fun. How ’bout I belt out a song or somethin’?”

When he said that, I felt doubly relieved.

First, that singing might resolve this immediate awkwardness; second—though this was my last desperate wish—in any case, from noon until nearly sunset, for five or six hours, I had been keeping company with this "childhood friend with whom I’d never actually associated," listening to his various stories all the while unable to think of him even for a single moment as someone worthy of affection or admiration. I realized that if we parted like this, I would forever remember this man with nothing but fear and loathing—and for both his sake and mine, there could be nothing more pointless than that. Just one thing, I pleaded: show me some word or deed that might become a joyful, nostalgic memory. Please, at our parting, sing a Tsugaru folk song or something in a sorrowful voice and make my eyes well up—this desire seethed within my breast, stirred by his proposal to perform a song.

“That’s fine.
By all means—I ask for one thing.”

It was no longer a frivolous social courtesy.
I genuinely pinned all my hopes on that single thing.

However, even that final hope was cruelly betrayed.

Mountains, rivers, plants, and trees grow ever more desolate.

Ten ri of fresh blood trampling through weeds—the new battlefield

Moreover, he said he had forgotten the latter half.

“Well, I’m heading back! Your old woman’s run off on me, the whiskey tastes awful when you pour it—it’s about time I headed back.”

I did not stop him.

He stood up, putting on a serious air,

“Well, if that’s how it is with the class reunion, I’ll handle the arrangements. You take care of the rest.”
“I think it’ll definitely be an interesting class reunion.”
“I’ve been well treated today.”
“I’ll take the whiskey.”

That, I had braced myself for.

I was adding the whiskey he had left in his teacup to the square bottle—about a quarter full—when:

“Hey. Hey.”
“Not that one!”
“Quit being stingy!”
“There’s another new bottle in the closet, right?”

“You knew damn well.”

I shuddered, then laughed with a sort of grim satisfaction.
Bravo—there was no other word for it.
In Tokyo or anywhere else, there was no man of this caliber.

Now, even if Mr. Ibuse came or whoever came, I could no longer enjoy drinking with them.
I took out the last bottle from the closet, handed it to him, and seriously considered letting him know just how much this whiskey cost.
Even if I told him that, he would either remain unfazed or say he didn’t want it out of pity—I wanted to find out which, but I gave up.
In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to mention the price after treating him.

“What about cigarettes?” I tentatively asked.

“Well, that’s necessary too. I’m just a man of tobacco, you know.”

Though we had been elementary school classmates, I’d had five or six true friends back then—yet I retained almost no memories of this man. He likely had scarcely any recollections of me from that time either, apart from those supposed fights he kept mentioning. And still, we’d spent a full half-day engaged in this charade of intimate friendship between close companions. To me, even the word “rape” rose unbidden—so extreme did it feel.

But this was still far from over.
Furthermore, a single crowning touch was added.
He was a man who could not be described as either exhilarating or gratifying.

I saw him to the entrance, and just as we were finally parting, he whispered fiercely into my ear.

“Don’t act superior!”