Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Finally flying into a rage, the mother suddenly hurled the half-shaved cork at the tatami and shouted, “You brat…!” “You insufferable brat! All you ever do is yammer about school! Can’t you see this downpour?! Stay home today!” “I’m goin’ to school.” Tomiji fled into the narrow kitchen and retorted in that manner. He rattled around there for a while before sliding smoothly through the torn shoji screen, his sallow face breaking into a smirk— “C’mon Mom, I can’t skip school when there’s a lunch made. I ain’t scared of no rain.”

“What?! You earthquake baby—!” the mother snarled with venom, but soon abandoned that approach and instead launched into a litany of sarcastic remarks. Even as she thought—a parent shouldn’t say such things to their child—she found herself unable to stop the words from coming out.

“Fine then, Tomiji! Go be the school’s child and never come back!” The mother glared fixedly at her son’s dirty face as he began to panic. “Listen here, Tomiji—ever since the day I first saw that grubby little mug of yours, nothing but hardship’s come crashing down… Why, if you never came back, just think how much better off I’d be!” When told this, all the child’s courage instantly crumbled, leaving him standing there dumbfounded.

When told this, Tomiji’s courage shattered instantly, leaving him rooted in place with blank confusion. He had known since daybreak about the torrential rain, but when the hour came, he immediately cast aside the hated task. Being forced since dawn to help with the cork-shaving piecework had thoroughly worn down his spirit. And so Tomiji became single-mindedly determined to go to school—not out of any virtuous desire to study, but simply because the vast school felt a hundredfold more welcoming than this gloomy tenement. With a vague sense of being unable to endure the constant quarrels between his bedridden father—sick all year round—and his mother driven frantic by cork-shaving work, yet finding her fury most terrifying of all, Tomiji clutched the satchel with its broken strap tightly under his arm and reluctantly looked toward his father. Stretched out on the floorboards, the man’s bearded face resembled that crucified Christ Tomiji had once seen at school, though his eyes alone glowed with an unnatural bluish intensity. Flustered by those darting eyes, Tomiji quickly shifted his gaze to the wall. There hung a painting of the wrathful deity Fudo Myoo—adhered following the custom of those too poor for medicine to seek divine aid instead.

“School’s not worth going—” The mother’s words abruptly turned gentle. “Listen here, Tomiji—even if you lose out by going, you won’t get a single penny. Better help your mom with work instead, yeah? Then I’ll take you to Asakusa next time.”

“If he hasn’t even finished elementary school, these days he can’t even become an apprentice,” Tomiji’s Father interjected. Tomiji looked at the mother in relief. She scrunched her nose in a way that suggested she wasn’t about to look away. “Look, if I get healthy I’ll manage things somehow—the child isn’t to blame here. Just let him go to school.” “I’ve had enough of your theatrical talk, got it?” “You’d better sort yourself out quick.” The mother said this with a glance at her husband and snapped at Tomiji.

“Get out of here already, you insufferable brat—” Tomiji Kashiwabara clutched his bag in his right hand, seized the umbrella handle with his left, and plunged into the spitting rain. The main street flowed like a raging river. A bearded traffic policeman swaddled in a raincoat shielded school-bound children from automobiles and streetcars, his face breaking into a smile at their salutes.

The reinforced-concrete elementary school, built like a fortress, towered conspicuously in the low-lying district that flooded spectacularly on rainy days. This entire area had been completely flattened by the Great Kanto Earthquake a decade prior. The surviving residents had scrambled back, but they now had to live in houses even more precarious than before. Only the elementary school—truly a testament to government work—stood completed with imposing grandeur. For instance, even on rainy days like this, it boasted lighting facilities designed to protect the children’s eyesight. And so every interior wall had been painted stark white. Innumerable children once again shouted to each other as they were swallowed into the building that morning. Some swung umbrellas wildly, others slapped rubber-lined raincoats against walls—in any case, the entranceway trembled beneath their clamorous uproar. The children found inexplicable joy in this chaos. Yet the teachers observed this commotion with faces growing ever gloomier. Exhausted since dawn, they stood blankly with both hands thrust deep into trouser pockets. A child who came running collided with them—startled—then abruptly straightened up and began shuffling into the white-walled classroom.

The direct management of this building—along with the responsibility of how effectively compulsory education had been implemented—rested entirely on the shoulders of its principal, who received a monthly salary of two hundred yen. This position, which he had attained only after graduating from normal school and through many long years of effort, was the result of such strenuous labor that it thinned his white hair and even carried the risk of making his arms appear bent unless he perpetually clasped them behind his back. Thinking of this, he felt his shoulders stiffened under the weight of responsibility. Yet he too, as one of the imperial capital’s foremost principals, clung to this final ambition: to attain at least the highest salary of 240 yen. To achieve this—he thought, shaking his head—above all else, he had to keep the school building clean for as long as he lived. Needless to say for city council members—even education bureau inspectors first noticed this school building, and only afterward adopted new educational facilities with shield-like duality. At morning assemblies where students were gathered, the Principal would invariably lecture on that theme.

“Everyone—you are model students who follow teachers’ instructions faithfully, and upstanding Japanese citizens!” “Therefore, all of you striving to improve Japan must remember to improve this school as well.” “This school is praised for its cleanliness—how delightful! This is because you clean so diligently. With so many fine students who love cleaning here among us—isn’t that right?” “This school will grow even cleaner than when it was first built—don’t you agree?” “You understand… Ah! Those who understand—raise your hands.” The hands of children filling the auditorium all at once began waving above their heads. The Principal deepened the wrinkles at his eyes’ corners and stole a glance around the walls. The children’s faces swiveled in unison. At that moment, this principal—nearing decrepitude—showed an unguarded smile of satisfaction and barked in a heightened voice, “Very well—”

“Now then, everyone—lower your hands. Good…” “However—” The Principal stopped before the faculty room. The teachers who had been trudging gloomily in a line started and turned to look at his face. He then scurried to catch up with Sugimoto and tapped his shoulder. “You’ll need to pay special attention to your class—they just mimicked raising their hands, but that low-ability group of yours didn’t listen to a word I said.”

When the clock struck precisely 9:00 AM, the entranceway door was left slightly ajar like a narrow passage, and all the rest were shut tight by the janitor’s hand. The child, about to be late, rushed in with a look of terror. Tomiji Kashiwabara was clutching his bag, umbrella, and mud-clogged geta with snapped straps to his chest. The Janitor, who had been hosing down the mud-covered floor, tsked in irritation and barked at him, “Idiot… Wh-what’s with your muddy feet…” Tomiji flinched in surprise, but by then he was already being dragged by the collar to the foot-washing area. “Th-there—” the Janitor barked. “Still got mud caked on your heels! What’s wrong with your legs?” “Don’t you ever soak your feet in hot water even once a damn month?”

“I brought a lunchbox today, you know,” said Tomiji, blatantly displaying his irrepressible joy as he addressed the Janitor with forced composure. “If you think I’m lying, want me to show you?” “Huh?”

The burly Janitor effortlessly carried the child like a bundle to the entrance, then turned away from the homeroom teacher standing there and spoke.

“Good grief, Mr. Sugimoto—what a hopeless child… this brat…” Sugimoto clasped Tomiji’s chilled cheeks between his lukewarm palms. The child looked up timidly from beneath his eyebrows. A jet-black beard covered from his pointed chin to his cheeks, and behind his glasses, black pupils stared. Tomiji finally realized this was his homeroom teacher. Then he smiled—revealing purple gums—and immediately began to speak.

“You know, Teacher—I brought a lunchbox! At my house, yesterday… or whenever it was, we bought this much rice from the ward office, and then—hey Teacher—” “I see—” Sugimoto replied, urging the child—still eager to say more—to climb the stairs. “I’ll ask about it later—they’re probably tired of waiting in the classroom, you know.” Sugimoto was in charge of nearly forty children who couldn’t keep still, their entire bodies brimming with such simple joy. They were fourth-year students in ordinary elementary school—and thus had been organized into this low-ability class as a new educational facility. They too—ostensibly to bring their grades closer to those of regular students, or failing that, to provide them with vocational training as far as possible—but in truth, was this segregated group merely being branded as nuisances, as unnecessary? Or was there a scheme to gather what could not be gathered only to… destroy them? Sugimoto had struggled desperately to make these children ordinary, and now he violently shook his head at the memory of his futile efforts these past several months.

Sugimoto had no particular ambitions or skills for low-ability education. To him, that job had been given as if by chance. Anyone would naturally want to improve their performance in an easy job. So when the start of the school year approached... he furtively visited the principal’s private residence. Without betraying a hint of such actions, when the day came, they were made to listen to the announcement of assigned homeroom classes. "No objections to this decision shall be permitted!" declared the Principal, gripping the teachers by their throats with his high-handed tone—then added a single explanatory remark: "This falls under my authority, and I assure you it was decided after thoroughly and carefully considering both the various traits I have observed in each of you and the unique characteristics of every class." —— There had been a young Sugimoto who resolved desperately to pursue scholarship—a family that had to tearfully beg for favors even to enter a government-funded normal school (he stressed that *even*). A father suffering from asthma and two young sisters—their entire livelihood fell solely on his mother. Whether this could even be called work, she didn’t know—his mother peddled fuki beans from dawn and sold udon dough balls in the evenings. A petite woman wearing a hand towel pulled a grimy cart, ringing a bell as she vanished from one back alley to the next.—Having grown up in such a household, Sugimoto felt this child’s ecstatic joy over his occasional lunchbox sting sharply in his chest. Only now did Sugimoto discover himself suited to being in charge of this low-ability class. Then, feeling that the underdeveloped Tomiji had become as dear as a part of his own body, he pulled the boy—still in his soaked clothes—tightly under his arm and raced up to the second and third floors.

II

On Monday mornings, the first period in every classroom was uniformly scheduled for Ethics class. From the tightly packed square classroom of thirteen tsubo and several shaku, the resonant chorus of the Imperial Rescript on Education overflowed into the hallway. The voices of the children said to be from the well-disciplined class repeated it—marking an utterly monotonous rhythm—

However, Sugimoto’s classroom at the far end of the third floor was seething with a deafening uproar. They remained completely unfazed even when the teacher appeared. On top of the desks, a small swordsman brandishing a broom glared around with bulging eyes—“Come at me! I’m Denjiro Okouchi! Come on, come on, come on!”—challenging all directions. “Hey you! You got slashed—why aren’t you dead yet?” roared Denjiro Okouchi from atop the desk as he stamped his foot and suddenly struck the child below. “Ow!” “If it hurts, die! At least pretend you’re dead!” “What’s that?!” roared the catcher as he leaped onto a desk and began chasing Okouchi. The cluster that had gathered beneath the blackboard began brawling over a single spinning top—and as the blackboard eraser was knocked away, a billowing smokescreen of chalk dust rose up.

The older children who had been fidgeting restlessly at the back of the classroom finally remembered how they were supposed to behave in front of the teacher. They first habitually clicked their tongues with a “Tsk, tsk,” then finally shouted “You idiot!” as a warning. “The teacher’s coming, the teacher’s…” By that warning, the children finally acknowledged the teacher’s presence and, with the sluggish air of resigned acceptance that things were as they were, dragged themselves back to their seats. After a long while, the classroom fell into an unnatural silence—then the children stared at Sugimoto’s face and began snickering.

“Teacher—Ethics!” one child suddenly shouted.

Sugimoto pulled a chair close to the lectern, propped his chin on his hand, and surveyed the children. The windows were divided into numerous panes, and the white walls reflected the light so intensely that the children’s varied faces appeared overly bright within the cavernous space, their features layered with oppressive weight. Some sat gaping at the ceiling; others squinted, shut their eyes tight, or rolled them restlessly; still others perpetually dabbed at runny noses with darting tongues—yet all faced forward with postures feigning readiness for whatever the teacher might say. In truth, this was merely a habit ingrained through years of school life. The low-ability children sat blankly, as befitted their label. The teacher too sat vacantly, absorbing their faces in a single glance.

“Teacher—” Another child shouted again, suddenly remembering. “Come on, let’s do ethics already, Teacher…” “Very well, ethics it is!” Hearing this, the children clattered their desk lids noisily. They dragged out their flimsy textbooks. Some among them stomped their feet gleefully, chanting “Ethiiics! Ethiiics!” in rhythm and whistling. Sugimoto flipped open his lesson plan book to find “Diligence” written as the heading, detailing a certain Mitsui’s wick-peddling business down to the last triviality—even including the maxim “Diligence breeds success.” The day before, Sugimoto had pored over various reference books to prepare these materials. But now, seeing the children’s faces in this cavernous void, his efforts gradually felt pathetic until at last—…………………………—he shut the lesson plan book. Then one child shot bolt upright.

“Teacher!” he shouted, clutching his crotch. “Gotta pee! Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go... I’m gonna wet myself!” One child’s urinary urgency instantly infected them all. “Teacher, me too!” “Oh no, I’m losin’ it!” “Let us go or we’ll flood the place!” “Me too!” Chanting in unison like this, they stampeded into the hallway. There remained no choice but to let events unfold. Sugimoto’s ears rang hollowly as his throat parched. He stood transfixed.

The large-framed janitor, startled by the noise, came leaping in with a fearsome glare; he continued shouting impatiently. This was because the commotion in this classroom was disrupting other lessons through the concrete walls. The janitor—who had been yelling—looked around the classroom that had suddenly quieted at his own voice and awkwardly added: “What’s wrong, Mr. Sugimoto? The Principal’s fuming mad, isn’t he—” Meanwhile, Sugimoto resolved that today’s ethics class would again become storytelling. The children who cheered “Ethics! Ethics!” were also remembering the storytelling that had been postponed with “the rest next time” because of that.

“Teacher—Ōkubo Hikozaemon!” a child urged. “Alright, Hikozaemon,” Sugimoto replied. At that signal, the children adjusted their postures, and the sound of them gulping down saliva could be heard. The teacher, now thoroughly resigned, even added gestures and movements to a segment of his performance. Just as it reached its climax, a child sitting in the middle of the seats sprang up again.

“Tea...cher... Wai... Wai... Wait a sec!” “What? Motoki—” However, Takeo Motoki had already jumped out from his seat and planted himself right under the teacher’s nose. Sugimoto had grown thoroughly accustomed to such outlandish actions. He ignored Motoki and continued his story. The child, now at a loss, leaned against the lectern. From there, for a while, he gazed at the teacher’s quivering jaw, and as he kept gazing, a string of drool dripped from the sloppy corner of his lips. Takeo Motoki dropped his head. And he dipped his finger into the pool of drool that had collected on the lectern and began drawing a random picture, but before the drawing was finished, he suddenly remembered his own question. He could no longer contain himself. “Teacher!” he shouted at the top of his voice and suddenly clung to the teacher’s waist. Motoki continued shouting in one breath, “Was Mrs. Hikozaimon of Ōkubo’s household really such a mean old hag?” while shaking the teacher’s waist with shouts of “Hey! Hey! Hey!” The instant this happened, Sugimoto took a step back, trying to evade the child’s overly earnest question. Then Takeo Motoki flew into a rage and swung a punch with a heavy thud aimed at the teacher’s groin.

“Hey—Teacher!” Caught off guard, Sugimoto bent forward, covering his groin with both hands as he tried to regain the breath that had momentarily stopped. At that comical posture, Takeo Motoki once again forgot his own question, eyes crinkling as he continued guffawing alone. The classroom fell uncharacteristically silent. Forty faces in rows were now being drawn into the story with rapt intensity. Sugimoto noticed his own awkward posture and looked around at the children. But their expressions sought nothing more than a response from this teacher. Sugimoto’s face burned with shame. The image of Ōkubo Hikozaimon’s wife—vaguely conjured by the eccentric Takeo Motoki—had struck deep into hearts of children labeled slow-witted. Pierced by forty pairs of fiercely gleaming eyes, the teacher’s face—unable to provide an answer—gradually paled. Then Takeo Motoki burst into guffaws as if a dam had ruptured. The classroom’s tension shattered. Enveloped in the uproar, Sugimoto found himself inexplicably exhaling the suffocating weight in his chest.

This time, Tsukahara, who had been by the window, stood up. He, who spent the entire year fidgeting and glancing about, had the trait of "distractibility" stamped upon him. But at that moment, he, in a fit of righteous indignation, foamed at the mouth and lashed out at Takeo Motoki. “Motoki, you idiot! What kinda Mrs. Hikozaimon does Ōkubo even have?! Shut your trap, Motoki!” Having shouted that much, Tsukahara’s attention shifted instantly to the rain outside the window. The broad leaves of the Chinese parasol tree appeared below his eyes, and the playground, dulled to gray, was spattering in the depths of the rain. And he shifted his gaze back to the teacher, but at that moment, Yoshio Tsukahara’s bewildered black eyes—unusually—had tears welling up in them.

“Teacher! At my house, my dad doesn’t have a wife!” “D-d-dumbass—you!” Motoki shouted from beneath the teacher, waving both hands before his nose in vehement denial. “Idiot!” “My old lady’s a demon hag!” “Tsukahara! All adults got wives, see? And you adults only ever dote on ’em, I tell ya…”

Tsukahara yanked up his eyelids and retorted, “You bastard—I’ll have Hachiman-sama curse you rotten! Just you wait…”.

The children’s thoughts bubbled up without order or connection. However, beneath those dreadfully absurd shouts, glimpses of their lives could be seen. "They called them low-ability children, but through living with them, Sugimoto had come to see through the froth—he couldn’t bring himself to bark 'Stop it! Can’t you stop?!'" If Keisuke Kuji hadn’t leapt out from his seat by the hallway at that moment, mustering his trademark piercing shriek—“Shut up! Cut it out!”—the two children would’ve lunged at each other, fists flying. Kuji, unusually dressed in a neatly tailored kokura cloth uniform, cutely rolled his round eyes and continued, “Well, you see—Teacher...” “Well, you see—Teacher—that Motoki guy, he—well—he scrawled weird drawings all over the wall.” “He went on about my family being… and then he even got into a fight with Tsukahara earlier—that Motoki guy…”

Then, as if swayed by a single force, all the children’s eyes turned to stare at Kuji. He was delighted to be the center of attention in this way. Arrogantly arching his back, he turned his body heavily backward and pointed fixedly at the white wall behind him.

“Seeee?” “Can you see it?” “He wrote it with a red pencil—look! Can you see it? Look!” Guided by that finger, Sugimoto lumbered toward the wall. As he drew closer, the graffiti gradually came into focus. The moment the scribbles resolved into a coherent image, icy prickles raced down his spine. Struck by both dread and shame, he froze rigid. The children too held their breath in tense silence. They suddenly recalled the wall’s sacred status. This sallow-faced teacher might erupt in fury over its defilement. The children—years of compulsory schooling etched into their bones—locked up like startled prey. Yet Sugimoto felt tears welling instead. “Motoki—” he called to the boy without turning from the wall. “You’re... such a gifted artist... yet in art class you...” His voice caught mid-sentence. The graffiti—drawn with a red pencil licked raw—depicted... On the shins of a grimacing man…………………something sprouted. Motoki crept closer to the teacher. “Hey, you!” he shouted, staring up at Sugimoto’s iron grip on his own shoulders. Reading no anger in the teacher’s face, he blurted, “Teacher—ain’t I good at drawin’?” Sugimoto gnawed his lip, features contorted as if choking back a sob.

Then Motoki grabbed the teacher’s arm and pressed again, “Teacher—did I do a good job on my drawing?” However, Sugimoto said while blinking rapidly. “Gotta erase it quick—Motoki! The principal’ll chew us out!” When he heard this, he shouted “Agh!” and jumped up. “Oh no—ah, oh no!” At that single voice, the entire classroom erupted into commotion at once. When they realized “Oh no,” the thought that they had to erase it reflexively arose in their heads. Once that thought struck them, they couldn’t endure staying still even for a moment. A child tried rubbing chalk on it; the one who wiped it with a cloth in a single stroke burst into tears. Two or three children clattered the buckets and dashed out to fetch water.

Shaking the thick concrete walls, this noise once again resounded throughout the entire school building. However, here everyone was working hard. Sugimoto threw off his jacket. He pressed the knife blade against the wall. White powder grated off in coarse flakes, leaving the concrete beneath dented into a mouse-gray hollow. Was it anger at the betrayal of this idea that it must be kept white?—Sugimoto’s forehead streamed with sweat as he grew agitated, all the while growing more irritated by his own exaggerated passion’s absurdity.

At that moment, as if doused with cold water, the noise ceased. Sugimoto—jolted like someone who'd had a pillow kicked from under him—frantically scanned his surroundings until there, right before his nose, loomed the stout white-haired principal. "What are you doing?" the Principal inquired. "The walls must be kept pure white—" The Principal swept his coldly suspicious eyes across the children now seated with exaggerated solemnity. Following that gaze, Sugimoto too looked over his students. "Hey now—" "The walls are important things—"

“Yeah, that’s right, they’re important,” said Abe—still looking like a round-faced doll in the front-row seat—as he sprang to his feet and gave a big nod with his mallet-shaped head. The Principal’s face turned toward that, and with apparent satisfaction, he immediately narrowed his eyes. As if he’d been waiting for exactly that moment, Abe clicked his tongue with a sharp “Tch!” “I’m gettin’ fed up! Quit glarin’ at me with that weird face! Tch! Ridiculous!”

III From children who blurted out such truths without a hint of fear, Sugimoto—their homeroom teacher—was frantic to erase the brand of “low-ability children.” If the intelligence testing this elementary school boasted as its special facility was truly scientific, then there could be no reason to scorn the raw truths those children shouted—could there? “Hey...” Sugimoto began. “Answer exactly what you think—hold nothing back.” “What’s your father’s occupation?”

However, Chuichi Kawakami—left alone after school—was already fidgeting nervously from just that. At thirteen by traditional reckoning (twelve years and five months actual age), he was a fourth-year elementary student who’d been held back twice—a chronic repeater. But his father wanted desperately to save him somehow. “No matter what anyone says—I’m the one who really knows this boy!” The guardian father knelt on the school floor pleading. “At home he’s sharp as a tack! But here you slap him with ‘low grades’ this an’ that… Sure our brats got rough manners—but that’s different from smarts, ain’t it Teacher sir? “First they nag ‘bout his dirty kimono, then whine ‘bout no drawing paper—then go fail him? It’s downright criminal!” “I thought an’ thought—figured lyin’s better than no school… Nearly broke my back gettin’ papers from the ward office—but finally got ‘im into this fine place… C’mon Chu!” He yanked his son’s hand—the boy was fiddling shyly with his kimono hem. “Lookit this palace-school we got you into! Bow proper now an’ beg ‘em right!” Yet despite entering mid-term with such hopes, Chuichi Kawakami got dumped straight into the low-ability class. The Principal—exercising his authority—glanced at the grimy transfer papers and marched into class, trying to pass the boy to Sugimoto like handing off a parcel. Sugimoto glared indignantly at the Principal. Then for the first time, the man unclasped his hands from behind his back and began gesturing up and down as he spoke. “We must conduct intelligence tests… Do your duty Mr.Sugimoto—well anyway you…” “Exactly because it’s a kid dumped like this—” Sugimoto burned to overturn the Principal’s careless “low-ability” label using the Binet-Simon method. If this was truly modern psychology’s gold standard— Sugimoto slammed measuring tools on the lectern and rested a hand on the boy’s head.“Hey Kawakami—” “What work does your father do daily?” Though exhausted from workday drudgery, he stared at the boy’s bloodless lips and tensed his trembling body not to miss a syllable.

Chuichi Kawakami drew his neck in, desperately avoiding the teacher's gaze. He gradually let his eyes drift toward the window. The school building after hours lay utterly still—a silence so profound it rang in their ears. "Huh?" "Kawakami?" The teacher pressed him while turning toward the fading sunset beyond the window. Chuichi fumbled with his kimono collar as if reaching some decision, then glared up at the teacher through narrowed eyes.

“Let’s wrap this up quick and get going,” Sugimoto said. The child trembled as he rubbed his face with both palms, then forced a sly smile. The boy was ashamed—so why was the teacher pressing so persistently?—solely because occupation directly determined that child’s intelligence, and because that was the first question listed on the examination guidelines. Sugimoto flusteredly tried to retract it.

“If you don’t want to say…” Chuichi Kawakami impatiently cut him off mid-sentence and barked out his words like he was slamming them down. “It’s a boat!” “Boat?” “What kind of boat?” “Tch—ya don’t get it.” With that click of his tongue, the boy steeled himself. Facing the teacher head-on now that things had come to this, he roughened his tone like he’d spill everything. “A boat’s a damn boat! “One that goes up Taiga River or out to Shibaura! “I’m the one wrenchin’ the helm till it creaks—even I—” Kawakami jutted out his thin lips and sped up his speech. “Don’t get it twisted—ain’t no mud scow. Proper cargo ship—the Agehamaru.” “But why ya askin’ all these cop questions?” Sugimoto turned pale and crushed his half-smoked cigarette. “We’re honest folk,” Kawakami pressed on. “Ain’t told one lie! Just lemme go home already!”

“Does it make any money!” Sugimoto tried to divert the topic with those words. “Like hell it does!” Chuichi Kawakami frowned deeply and immediately denied it. “Pushed out by them engines—jobs just ain’t comin’ around at all! We got plenty days with nothin’ to do—idlin’ around ’cause there ain’t no choice! No work anywhere—Dad’s havin’ it rough, an’ me too—” Sugimoto could no longer bear to listen fixedly to the child’s words, which grew so eloquent and poured forth. He realized the stench of dust and floor oil had become trapped, then clatteringly yanked the cord of the rotating window. The reflection of the sunset bent there and brightened the painted panel. “Teacher—I can’t go playin’ around like town kids! Mom’s damn livestock ran off—yeah, ’cause the boat ain’t makin’ money.” “Even if I told ya it ain’t makin’ money…”

The teacher walked around the lectern to hide his embarrassment, continuing to take quick puffs of his cigarette. This emaciated child—labeled a repeater and thus presumed low-ability before being handed over to him—was now spouting words that flowed so fluently they struck straight to the heart. “Alright then—” Sugimoto turned his bright red face back toward the boy and tried to forcibly stop the mouth that was still trying to keep shouting. “Alright!” Sugimoto stomped heavily on the floor. “Alright! I get it already—in that case—” Chuichi Kawakami—now transformed into a repeat student by that forceful momentum—hunched his neck like a turtle and stuck out his thin tongue with a flick. Oh no—he thought, but it was already too late. And he himself, unaware that from that very moment he had reverted to being a professional teacher, kept saying, “Alright then, Kawakami—from now on, make sure you answer right away when I ask you something.” Then he spread out the measurement sheet and began selecting questions meant for three-year-olds with exaggerated gravity.

“Put this bowl on that desk there, close the window above that desk, and bring the book from the chair over here—got it?” To the teacher glaring at him with terrifyingly earnest eyes, Chuichi Kawakami flashed a smirk and effortlessly carried out the task.

“That’s the spirit!” Sugimoto cheered. That momentum—now use it to smash this pretentious inspection into meaningless pieces, one after another. He thought this and barked, “Alright, next one!” “If you were to break someone else’s property, what must you do?” “What a pain—I’ll just chuck it in the damn ditch—” “Huh?” “What?” “What?” Sugimoto had anticipated seeing the correct answer posted on the board: “Immediately apologize.” But the child’s response had sharply veered off the expected course. Sugimoto flustered as if thrown by a shoulder toss. “Huh? “What?” “What?” he repeated. “Could you say that again?”

“If I chuck it in the damn ditch—ain’t nobody gonna know who broke it, right?” Kawakami shot back. “Then just one more—” Sugimoto recited the question he had asked repeatedly while now fixing his gaze on the boy’s face. “If your friend accidentally steps on your foot, what will you do?” “Tch! I’ll knock ’em flat…” Startled by the boy’s fierce tone, Sugimoto involuntarily cried out, “I see…,” and snapped the inspection sheet shut. Then Chuichi Kawakami’s gaunt, sharp-featured face became entirely shrouded in a different kind of melancholy. He began staring at the window where dusk was closing in. The concrete classroom sank into an ash-gray twilight. He shuddered, licked his bloodless thin lips, and looked around the classroom as if only now realizing his surroundings. Then he stood up promptly, now completely ignoring the teacher’s presence. “It’s getting dark—” Sugimoto muttered under his breath. Chuichi Kawakami, seemingly suddenly reminded of school by that voice, peered uneasily at the teacher’s expression. However, now that evening had come, he felt he could no longer concede to the teacher’s will. “I’m gettin’ outta here—my old man’ll worry,” he muttered, pulling his bag close. He tried pulling it closer, but this child—tormented by the school for so long—kept stealing glances at the teacher’s expression even as his body moved toward the doorway, his neck stubbornly turned backward. Sugimoto stared blankly at the mouse-gray classroom wall. Chuichi Kawakami, who had finally grabbed the door handle, shouted with resolve. “I’m goin’ home, okay?

“I gotta cook Dad’s dinner—and my house’ll be gone if I don’t!” No sooner had he finished shouting than he threw open the door, leaving behind a habitual perfunctory bow. As soon as he stepped outside the classroom and escaped the teacher’s gaze, the child felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted—then, with the ferocity of a beast whose ropes were severed, he charged down the long staircase in one breathless rush.

Sugimoto remained in the darkened classroom for a while, resting his cheek in his hand and absentmindedly thinking. Despite his efforts, Chuichi Kawakami’s intelligence quotient still fell short of eighty. The murky, elusive unpleasantness that followed the measurement now sank its teeth into his head with particular intensity. If this could truly predict the children’s fates—as contemporary psychologists authoritatively declared, citing experimental results—then those who fell short of this index would be deemed incapable of becoming socially useful individuals in the designated society. “This society! “This society! This society!” Sugimoto repeated. The “this society” that distinguished psychologists and educators had established as their standard, and the “this society” inhabited by the low-ability children—now entrusted to him after being sorted out as defective rejects from that very society—shared the same name but differed fundamentally in their societal essence. What that society demanded… Chuichi Kawakami had flatly rejected. And he protested—Why’re you asking me all these cop-like questions? Sugimoto self-deprecatingly chanted his profession’s essence through three words—“Thou shalt not,” “Don’t,” and “You mustn’t.” Protesting vehemently against this, Chuichi Kawakami bolted out of the classroom. Sugimoto, reeling as if struck head-on, felt an urge to shout—“…! …!” Sugimoto grinned, baring his teeth in the dim light, then slowly rose to his feet. Then he discovered that the nerves frayed continuously since eight that morning had finally snapped, leaving his body utterly exhausted. The burly janitor, equally irritated, had tracked down Sugimoto.

“Mr. Sugimoto, we got a problem!” barked the janitor. “Don’t get cocky with me!” Sugimoto barked back. The janitor, who had been standing like a wrathful guardian statue at the entrance, glowered. Sugimoto, who had already finished preparing to leave, grew even more irritated upon seeing this. Year after year, they were constantly being pushed around, and in that very moment when the one thing they believed to be their own free will was violently blocked, they were stirred by unimaginable hostility. With a clear sneer that seemed to say *Who does this mere teacher think he’s looking down on?*, the janitor tapped his own neck and jeered, “Heh heh… this is what it is, Mr. Sugimoto.” “A child’s gone missing—the old man’s come here bawling.”

“What the—?!” Sugimoto stood rigid. “If you ain’t gonna care about the kid, then I gotta report this to the principal…” “No—” Sugimoto stopped the janitor and barked, “I’ll find him myself!” And he rushed into the janitor’s room—but suddenly finding his own actions detestable, he turned back and raised his voice. “F-fine... Do whatever you want!” But Kawakami’s father, who had been dejectedly waiting in the janitor’s room, suddenly snapped back to attention and let out a desperate cry—“Teacher—!” “He’s my only son—now and always—Teacher…”

Having said this, he directed the pent-up anguish in his chest toward Sugimoto, frantically bending his salt-tinged body. It was said that the responsibility for ensuring children reached their respective homes after leaving the school gates still lay with the teacher. However, precisely because today’s responsibility had kept that reluctant child until sunset, Sugimoto now fidgeted restlessly, unable to sit still. “Teacher—!” the father continued to plead as if the child were already gone. “That boy’s always been so devoted he’s never once given me cause to worry, but ah… what could’ve happened on a day like today…”

The town had grown completely dark. The two walked side by side. The old man kept talking about his precious child—the one who gave his life meaning—while peering into the face of every passing kid. “Seein’ as I’m in the boat trade—when I went back to Eitai Bridge, there weren’t no sign of the boy.” “Figured he might be crouchin’ under the railings or somethin’, so I went back ’n’ forth across that long bridge three times or more.” “We was s’posed to meet at three, but… Well, I got greedy ’cause work finally came my way after so long—reckon this is heaven’s punishment or what?” From Asano Cement, they crossed Shin-Ohashi Bridge, and the boatman said he wanted to walk all the way to Shibaura again. When Sugimoto suggested, “Shouldn’t we report it to the police box first?” he waved him off. “Police boxes—” “—just ain’t for folks like us.” This time he pleaded with Sugimoto, who’d proposed taking the train from Eitai Bridge. “The boy walks every day—didn’t have a single sen today neither, so he must’ve walked again.” “Can’t just overlook him—that’d be too cruel, see?” And whenever they neared a bridge, the old man’s pace slowed sudden-like, and he’d peer hard at the boats moored in the canal water. After wandering awhile with no trace found, the old man pictured his son floundering in the city’s unfathomable depths and sighed from his gut. In Ginza, a human river washed over the pavement. Pressed tight against each other, the two pushed upstream through the crowd. “Teacher—!” The old man kept talking while scanning passersby’s faces. “My boy Chu—he studyin’ proper?” “Ain’t nothin’ more important than learnin’ to survive these days—hell, even I tried becomin’ an engine driver. Took the test sixteen times or so, but hah… No learnin’ means you ain’t worth squat.” “I done made up my mind!”

“Even if my boy Chu has to drink water to survive, he’s gotta stay in school, right?” “Please, Teacher, I’m countin’ on you—ah, look at all these fine folks walkin’ around… bet they’re real educated, ain’t they?—Teacher?” The old man, halted by the traffic light, let out a desperate, booming cry—“If only he had an education!”—amidst the stagnant crowd, as the garish light of frantically flickering neon signs painted the gaunt boatman’s face in grotesque hues.

IV

To bring a modicum of happiness to Yoshio Tsukahara—one of the children raised in misfortune—one approach to mitigating his tragic characteristic of distractibility was to compensate for his 0.5 visual acuity with nearsighted glasses. For the sake of the child, this much was only natural—the teacher resolved, then proceeded to write a letter addressed to his father. “That your child’s studies will progress even further is as clear as day, and since Yoshio-kun is also absolutely delighted—” But that very day, the father came roaring in with a terribly adept, voluble tongue, steaming with rage.

“Bullshit! If we had that kinda money lyin’ around—I mean, we’re parent and child here, y’hear me, Teacher?!” “We’re barely scrapin’ together meals for three days as it is!” “You think this brat can wear somethin’ as damn fancy as glasses?!” “If the school needs ’em, then you buy ’em yourself!” Turnin’ even the skin of his baldin’ scalp bright red and spittin’ through his splayed teeth, he put on this big show—but truth was, this father had gone to an optician once himself. But in front of the teacher, he just kept screamin’ like a madman—*Do whatever the hell ya want!* “That’s too cruel—” Sugimoto slipped out, tryin’ to stick up for Yoshio. But this time, the old man really laid into the clueless teacher with a roar.

“Y-you think I ain’t the one sufferin’ here?!” “Ain’t I the one with arms I can’t even use, stuck survivin’ in this damn world?!” “I don’t need no complaints ’bout the kid too!”

He sent his child to school only because it was said to be a rule that children must be enrolled. Several years ago, when rice shops still used wooden measuring boxes, he had been a renowned craftsman in the masu-making trade. With his skill, he could measure one to of rice as one to five shō or eight shō as needed. Yet by what twist of fate had every last rice shop suddenly been forced to use kilograms one day? “This arm of mine—you—” he finally lamented. “Ain’t got no damn use!” “Hey Yoshi—” he turned to his son, who was darting his eyes around restlessly, “you’re one pitiful brat too. In the Earthquake disaster, your mom got crushed and all.” “But listen—glasses’re too damn pretentious for you to wear!”

The kamishibai clappers clacked loudly, and children streamed in from the back alleys—but even there, a child without a single one-sen coin was excluded. The tenement was dark and dank. Compared to that, the school was spacious—a place where they could indeed jump around freely. After school ended, driven from the downstairs playground by janitors who regarded nothing as more terrifying than having the school building dirtied—a fear equal to losing their jobs—the children fled up to the wind-swept rooftop playground. There, children who lingered with thoughts like Going home would be so boring frolicked aimlessly like stray pups. “Teacher, I wanna go play too—” Yoshio Tsukahara parted from his father and clung to the teacher’s arm. Spiraling up the dimly lit staircase and emerging past the ceiling, they came out onto the splintered concrete rooftop. “Hey!” Tsukahara shouted, leaping up. Then many children came scattering in from all directions. They saw the teacher who had appeared there and found the prop for their pent-up hearts, becoming unbearably happy. “Waaah! Wah...!” they cried, biting wherever they could latch on—whether it was his neck, his shoulders, any part of the teacher they could reach. They smeared saliva, snot, and grime, and for some reason satisfied by this, frolicked wildly about.

The rooftop playground, surrounded by a towering metal mesh that stretched high around its perimeter, evoked nothing less than a large zoo cage. This place alone had become their sole play area until sunset. Yet if they began to rampage there, the early winter sun would immediately sink lower, and the wind whistling through would grow noticeably colder. The children’s lips uniformly turned purple—they lacked even the energy to fight back against that chill. They simply pulled strange faces and fell silent before clinging to the wire mesh as if resigned to their fate. Through those diamond-shaped gaps, they could see the homes they were obliged to return to. Under the blackened roofs of grimy houses in the shabby outskirts—thinking of their own homes waiting there—their sullenness only deepened. Whether this brought them any happiness remained unclear, but Sugimoto tried to keep them in this child-only world for even a moment longer—

“Abe! Abe—” The playful hammerhead Abe turned toward the teacher while answering “Huh—” and asked, “Where’s your house?”

“My house?” “I don’t got a house,” said Abe, wanting to get even a little higher for a better view. He clung to the wire mesh and dangled like a bat. “Look, over there—see the white roof? And then there’s Fukagawa Hachiman Shrine. Between that spot and that one over there…” He stretched and crouched, desperately trying to pinpoint it, but in the end all the roofs blended into the same black mass. With a tsk of frustration, he spat out, “They’re all too damn tiny to see, Teacher!”

“Teacher—I’ll show you my house!” declared the next child, eagerly joining in. “Look, there’s a big pond over there, right? “That’s Kiba over there, right next to it… But the ironworks factory’s in the way—can’t see it proper.” Next, at the wire mesh facing Tsukishima, a child stomping his feet desperately explained as if this were the crucial moment. “My dad works at that huge factory—hey—everyone, come look—see! The smoke’s belching out all black and thick!” “Hmph, my dad’s something else, workin’ at that factory every day…”

The factory’s black smoke alone blended tenaciously into the murky air toward Kyobashi. Smoke caressing the city’s rooftops drifted against the wind from across the river toward this side. The Sumida River meandered palely between them, swollen with tidal waters. “It’s getting cold—let’s head back,” Sugimoto said, scanning the children’s faces. The group of children—those who found going home utterly uninteresting—startled at his voice and clouded their faces once more.

“Teacher, are you heading back too?” one of them asked. “Waaah! Teacher! Help me!” With that scream, Takeo Motoki came running up to the rooftop at that moment. He leaped over the gaps between the startled, scattering children in a single bound and clung to the teacher’s midsection with a cry. His usually slack lips were now tightly drawn at both corners; his pale cheeks twitched spasmodically. The intense breathing that had busily moved his shoulders up and down took a while to subside.

“What’s wrong?” Sugimoto asked. His partner Yoshio Tsukahara, who had been nearby, placed his hand on Motoki’s neck and peered into his face as he declared: “You got bullied by your mom again, huh? You’re such an idiot—tch—who even skips school?—” Then, with a deadpan expression, he muttered one of those accursed phrases: “Hachiman-sama’s cursed you, I tell ya!” Takeo Motoki blinked his droopy eyelids beneath an elongated, flat face. The surrounding children nodded fervently in agreement, muttering low under their breaths. “That’s right,” said Yoshio Tsukahara as his bony hand pressed down on Motoki’s shoulder. He gave it a few gentle shakes. “Didn’tcha swipe turtle eggs from Hachiman-sama’s pond way back? Yeah! That’s why you’re cursed!” “Ain’t wrong!” “Scary stuff…” Tsukahara affirmed, trailing off.

“D-damn it!” Motoki suddenly shouted. “I hate goin’ to be an apprentice, I tell ya!”

In the mere single day this child had been absent，Takeo Motoki’s destiny—now that he was twelve years old—was beginning to pivot.

As he thought—Maybe this reversal was for the best—the unmanageable child writhed and declared, “I ain’t gonna be no apprentice, I tell ya!”, but Sugimoto resolved not to let him go. It’s compulsory education—he thought he must say that and rebuff those cruel parents. Takeo Motoki’s parents appeared on the rooftop while rubbing their hands.

“Heh heh, well now, Teacher…” The wife with a protruding chin put on an ingratiating smile and created a pretext. “We’ve come to consult with you about a small matter…” said the father, who bore a strong resemblance to his child, continuing after her. Takeo Motoki hid himself behind the teacher. Then, the father’s face turned sharply. “You—” he snapped at Sugimoto. “I’ve got no right for outsiders to stick their noses into my son’s business!” “We need to explain things proper-like—even for you, Teacher. Now, you—” The wife said this and shot a fierce glare at the child clinging ever tighter to Sugimoto. “These days, it’s a damn terrible recession, y’know? Heh—for someone like you, playin’ around with kids and still gettin’ a fine salary, I bet that recession just passes right by, huh?” Then the old man interjected with a shout. “We can’t take this anymore!”

Their arguments meandered, fragments of words occasionally scattered by the wind, but the day laborer father insisted they couldn’t survive without even one less mouth to feed, while his stepmother spun lofty arguments about how utterly ungrateful this child was to his parents. For two or three years now, the old man hadn’t even managed a single glass of electric brandy—yet here he was, insisting Takeo wouldn’t possibly refuse such a good apprenticeship opportunity. When they pressed him all day—“You can’t just turn this down!”—Takeo Motoki fled to the school in a fury, just like this. “That brat’s actin’ all high-and-mighty for a snot-nosed kid—like hell there’s any right…—‘I’d like you to hear me out.’” “For me, this is a matter of life and death!” declared the old man, puffing out his chest as he stepped forward one pace, then darting a glance at his wife’s expression. “What ever are we to do, Teacher sir?” This time, the woman suddenly put on a sorrowful look and stared intently at Sugimoto, whose face was framed by stubbled cheeks. Sugimoto’s body began trembling. Against those parents—now changing tactics and approaches, convinced that everything would fall into place if they could just get this teacher to nod in agreement—his defenses seemed utterly useless. However, in the arms of Takeo Motoki—who trembled as he clung to him—desperate strength was gradually mustering. Though a frail child, he had managed to escape here without being crushed by these violent parents—and for his sake. Sugimoto turned around with that thought.

“And what does *he* have to say about it?” “Well, you see—” the woman promptly replied, “if only we can get you to agree…”

“I don’t wanna!”

Takeo Motoki’s voice sliced sharply through the evening wind.

But at the same moment as that shout, the woman tousled her hair. “Y-you brat!” she groaned. “You—you spat out that you agreed before the gods earlier! Think I’m just your stepmother and you can look down on me?!... Damn you! Takeo!” As the turbulent sky seemed ready to flip over, the father also bellowed, “Damn brat! Don’t you even see us as your parents?!—” On top of that, the father flared up in anger and tried to lunge at his son to use violence. Takeo Motoki fled across the cold concrete. Flat, bare feet slapped against the exposed rooftop with an eerie clatter. The children who had been watching swiftly parted the path and cheered, “M-Motoki—run! Run!” “Don’t let ’em catch ya!”

V

The school doctor, having dipped his hands in mercuric chloride solution and meticulously wiped them, leaned back in his chair and beckoned a child with a jerk of his chin. The completely naked child visibly stiffened his body and stood before the doctor. He first glanced briefly at the head and said, “Tinea capitis.” Then he stroked the chest—“protruding chest”—and pressed the lower abdomen before declaring in a low but clear voice, “Hernia.” The nurse standing by ran her fountain pen across the physical condition ledger and proceeded to write smoothly.

“Alright!” The dismissed child formed a relieved smile and leapt back from the doctor. and searched for his discarded clothes in the corner of the examination area; the dirt-stained shirt lacked even a single button. The doctor rose from his chair and, while slowly disinfecting his fingers in mercuric chloride solution, addressed the principal standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “What do you suppose that child’s home situation is like?” The principal shot a sharp look at Sugimoto, who stood among the children, and asked, “You—er… What does that child’s family do?”

The child who had been wrapping the tattered three-shaku cloth around himself suddenly stopped his hands and glared sideways at the homeroom teacher, gauging his reaction. Sugimoto shook his head. “Well—” he said, but gave no answer. Then, the nurse, in an attempt to be helpful, reported the family occupation recorded in the ledger. “It’s written with the metal radical and 芳—the ‘splendid’ 芳—but I can’t make it out.” With that, she too raised her pale face and looked toward Sugimoto, seeking an answer.

The child found it unbearable to have their family’s humble occupation probed in front of so many people in such a manner. He was looking down. Sugimoto crouched down and firmly tied the child’s three-shaku cloth. Telling him to go to the classroom and say “Alright,” he let him out of the room. Then he had to satisfy the adults’ curiosity. “They’re metal ornament craftsmen.” “In other words, scaffolding laborers—though nowadays, as you’d expect, half of them are effectively unemployed…”

Sugimoto answered thus and began assisting the next child in removing his shirt. The school doctor returned to his chair, sharply pulled back his angular face, and called for the next child.

“Alright, next!”

As if he’d been waiting for this moment, Keisuke Kuji stripped completely naked and stood energetically before the doctor.

“Cerumen impaction, adenoids, pectus carinatum—hmph!” The doctor’s glasses glinted as he raised a joyful voice infused with emotion for the first time. “Oh, this is an excellent case of pectus carinatum! Observe this—what do you think?” The nurse nearby stood up, and the principal tightened his sagging eyelids.

“My family works at the Tokyo Municipal Electricity Bureau!” Kuji shouted shrilly with forced cheer.

The doctor ignored that voice. His interest lay not in family circumstances but rather in Keisuke Kuji’s chest, which bordered on deformity. He peered at it and measured its depth. Growing increasingly impressed, he snorted through his nose with a “Hmm—.” From among the children waiting their turn came a voice tinged with jealousy. “Kuji—your little pecker’s all swollen up! You’re blocked up back there!” “Kuji—your backside’s all blocked up! Hurry up and deal with it!”

When he heard that, Keisuke Kuji suddenly turned crimson from head to toe. He shook off the doctor’s hand that kept insistently stroking him. The shame of his father’s mocked occupation merged with his sudden awareness of his own physical repulsiveness into one overwhelming flood. Still completely naked, he burst into loud sobs. When stripped bare, all the children’s miseries were exposed at once. Complicated medical terms filled the page until it turned black with ink. The doctor pretended fresh admiration through this spectacle. “A sound mind dwells in a sound body… How aptly our ancestors phrased it, eh?” “Wouldn’t you agree?” Then the Principal offered his response. “With such unsound physiques, their stunted mental development is inevitable—no, entirely attributable to defective home environments!”

It was a cold day, and goosebumps had risen on the children’s napes. They of course had no proper trousers. They couldn’t even get indoor shoes bought for them, so they walked stickily across the oil-smeared floorboards. Fortunately, they had become completely accustomed to misfortune. As soon as they escaped the unpleasant place, they immediately forgot about it. And they went tumbling into their classroom, making utterly meaningless noise—shrill voices reverberating off the ceiling, whistles blown in haphazard melodies.

When they entered this classroom enclosed by white walls on three sides, they felt a sense of relief as if they had reached their own home, humming as they looked around their surroundings. Sugimoto, who had propped his cheek on the lectern, exchanged fresh glances with the children—Takeo Motoki’s seat yawned empty like the gap left by a missing tooth. The powerless teacher frowned and stared blankly. Seeing that face, the children began acting especially silly, pulling their eyes wide and baring their teeth. The children too grew impatient, desperate to somehow become cheerful.

“Teacher—” Bloop—like a bubble surfacing from an ancient marsh, Yoshio Tsukahara abruptly stood up. “Teacher—ethics class, ethics class—let’s do ethics class again, c’mon!” Then Takeo Motoki—who would usually start talking with a grin—was no longer there. The usual Keisuke Kuji, who would pompously thrust himself forward, had not yet fully shaken off the shock from earlier—he simply sat there with reddened eyes in a daze. Children dribbling drool, children licking blue snot little by little, children leaning back in their seats, lying face down on desks, or sliding their legs out sideways to precariously prop up their slumping bodies—they all gradually began to murmur. The large-framed child at the very back desk suddenly let out a “Hwaaah—” yawn. The children all turned in unison toward that direction. The child who had suffered meningitis at three years old had miraculously survived, but he always stared at the ceiling. Exceptionally model-quiet, he took in nothing of what he heard and had nothing he wished to say. Finally Tsukahara grew impatient and stamped his feet.

“Teacher—ethics class, I said! C’mon!”

Chuichi Kawakami stood up from the corridor side. "I'll teach ethics class myself!" "Tch, I don't wanna hear your damn stories!" shouted the metalworker's son, eyes bulging. "Come on, come on," Tsukahara chanted rhythmically. "Teacher—you're in the way! Kawakami's runnin' ethics now! Get movin'!"

Chuichi Kawakami stiffened his right shoulder, assumed a rigid stance before the lectern, and bowed his head low. He smacked his thin lips wetly as he surveyed the room. “I was three years old when it happened—there was this earthquake, see? The Great Kanto one. Houses kept burning down one after another.” At the word “earthquake—” the children’s murmuring ceased abruptly. A silence fell as though some hidden thing lodged deep in these unfortunate children’s hearts had been violently upended by that single word, leaving them stunned by its uncanny weight. Sugimoto leaned away from the window—wondering whether this ominous sky with scudding clouds had stirred such memories in Kawakami, or if it was the lingering discomfort from their annual physical exams that provoked it—and studied the storyteller’s face anew. Chuichi Kawakami’s sharp features bore deep shadows as he glared white-eyed at a ceiling corner. He remained thus for some time before finally reconstructing the scene he meant to describe. Baring his gums in a sly grin, he—

“You know, back then my original Agemaru burned up too.” “I jumped into the river in a life-or-death frenzy.” “They said Fukagawa wasn’t dangerous—don’tcha know about that?” “I took refuge at Tosei Warehouse, you know.” “That place was stone, so it didn’t burn.” “And then a whole bunch of people came fleeing in, and I had my Mom with me back then, y’know.” “I tell ya, Tosei Warehouse was swarming with more people than Hachiman’s festival!” Kawakami abruptly fell silent and glared at the ceiling, beginning to visualize his next memory. The listening children took satisfaction in visualizing—and being terrified by—that gruesome scene conjured from the clumsy storyteller’s words, its horror now ingrained through generations. “A scary man with a Japanese sword went, ‘You…’ like this.” Kawakami swiftly showed the stance of delivering a single sword strike. “And then with this huge wire…………………………………………………, ……………………………………………………” However, his gestures began trembling halfway through, and he turned pale, sighing involuntarily. “Ah, that’s so scary—”

“You saw it?” Tsukahara pressed urgently.

“You bet I did—” Kawakami answered, suppressed his excited breathing, and declared arrogantly. “I was three years old back then!” “Th-then?” “What happened next?”

“And then you… into the big river………………………………” “So they died—” Dejectedly dropping his head, another child muttered in a pained voice. Chuichi Kawakami didn’t even glance at him, now fully engrossed in his own story. “When they said ‘You must’ve… too—’ I damn near jumped outta my skin!” “Nothing like those flickering pictures they show at the cinema!” Just then, hammerheaded Abe—perched at the window’s edge—clattered upright and blindly shouted toward Sugimoto.

“Teacheeer? Teacher!” “Shut up and stay down—Abe!” Tsukahara, buzzing with excitement, snarled at Abe who had heckled. No sooner had he rushed out than he knocked down the small child. “Hammerhead, stay down!” After shouting this, he spun around to face Kawakami and urged him vehemently. “And then… and then, what happened next?”

However, Abe—who’d been knocked down—heaved himself back up and scanned the entire classroom with sharp eyes. He spotted Sugimoto sitting primly at a desk in the back. Abe sprang up and latched onto Sugimoto’s head with reckless haste.

“Teacher! Teacher! Oh no! Kashiwabara has—he’s pooped himself! Poop—!” When Sugimoto finally rose to his feet, Abe began rhythmically stamping the floor and shouting in a singsong voice. “Ah, poop! Poop! Kashiwabara’s poop!” When everyone clattered to their feet at once, Yoshio Tsukahara was punching Chuichi Kawakami. “Hey, you’re lying! My Mom was crushed to death, I tell ya!”

“Mr. Sugimoto, this is downright disgraceful! Ain’t these supposed to be fourth-year students in the standard curriculum? Sure, if ordered to clean, we’ll clean—but honestly—” Having said that, the janitor didn’t even try to remove the smoking pipe clenched in his teeth. “Even working like this, our hands are full—what with guests from the ward office coming for the principal…”

“I see. Then I’ll clean it up myself.” Sugimoto scooped ashes into the dustpan, then carried a rag and bucket as he ascended from the janitor’s room to the third floor. The children had put away the unsoiled desks. They had drawn a large circle with chalk. Tomiji Kashiwabara, who had unwittingly soiled himself at the center of that circle, remained exactly as he had been earlier—utterly still in his seat. “That’s all for today. Those who want to leave can go home quietly.”

But at the teacher’s words, not a single child stirred. The children encircled the chalk-drawn ring like a sumo ring and crouched on the floor. Swallowing discreetly with perfect manners, they sat wordlessly as if grieving a comrade’s plight. Sugimoto hoisted Tomiji upright by the waist. “Stomach trouble, eh? Let’s get you out of that kimono... Come now, this way. Serves you right for stuffing yourself?”

“No—” Kashiwabara denied in a single word as he was being moved. “I wasn’t scared of the earthquake disaster.”

Tomiji Kashiwabara—stunted like weeds growing in perpetual shade—stumbled and clutched Sugimoto’s shoulder. He pressed his snot-clogged breath against the teacher’s warm neck. After having his soiled buttocks and thighs wiped clean, a sudden flush of bodily comfort spread across his face as he began speaking in a hushed tone. “Our house burned down in the quake disaster, see—they say it was a proper shop back then. And Mom—she got so scared during all that ruckus, she popped me out right then an’ there. That’s why they call me earthquake baby.” Tomiji had wound his spindly arms around the teacher’s neck while talking. His eyes stayed glued to the classroom’s dust-choked white walls as he kept spinning out this pitiful future. “An’ if Dad croaks, Mom says she’ll find some new Dad who ain’t got lung rot… then open up shop again… a shop, oh…” Tomiji abruptly dropped his voice and leaned his mouth toward Sugimoto’s ear.

“The Principal’s come in, oh no… can’t stand it.”