Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was on June 24 that Ishida Kosuke became a Major Staff Officer and assumed his post in Kokura.

The time he disembarked from the steamship operating between Tokuyama and Moji was 3 AM. Knowing that regional military units were quite lavish in their welcoming and send-off ceremonies, Ishida had donned what was then considered standard formal attire and had worn his medals. The veteran captain staff officer had come to the pier on behalf of his colleagues.

The rain poured heavily. The train ride to Kokura would take less than an hour. At a place called Kawau, he had them cook rice and ate. After dawn broke, the captain rushed about handling tickets and luggage. Through the train window, rows of small houses crammed atop a cliff came into view. Every door stood wide open, women and children inside nearly naked. Some households were just then eating breakfast. The officer explained these were laborers' homes doing work like Nakatame's.

They entered the rice fields. The rice planting had already been completed. From time to time, farmers wearing straw raincoats and carrying hand baskets could be seen walking along the rice field paths. Kokura was gradually drawing nearer. The first houses visible were the brothel district of Asahi-machi. Every house had red futons hung on their second-floor railings. It wasn’t as if they’d hang them out on a day like this. Since it rained every day, they must have been airing them out like that. With a clattering sound, the train crossed the Murasaki River railway bridge and soon arrived at Kokura Station. There were many people there to welcome him, starting with the Chief of Staff. After exchanging brief greetings with everyone, they entered an inn called Tatsumi in Muromachi.

With assistance from the orderly attached to his regiment, Ishida promptly changed into full dress uniform and went out to headquarters. At that time, reporting procedures had not yet been standardized, but as it was considered proper when meeting a superior officer, arrival greetings were required to be made in full dress uniform.

The rain was still falling the next day. He went to see a rental house that was said to be available in Kajimachi. Though the ground was sandy, they used lime fragments for road repairs, so ash-gray water flowed through the town.

The rental house was situated on the southern side of the town. Surrounded by a hedge, it was a suitable residence. Because lime debris hadn’t been laid in the garden, the clean sand absorbed all the rain that fell upon it, showing no sign of being wet. At the center stood a large crape myrtle tree. Near the hedge stood five or six oleander trees. Having apparently watched him alight from the carriage, the landlord came out to show him around. He was a shriveled old man with a face the color of persimmon-tanned paper.

Ishida took off his waterproof cloth raincoat and entered through the gateway. As he was about to place the removed raincoat—turned inside out and rolled up—on the edge of the veranda, the old man picked it up. Ishida glanced at the old man’s face, wondering if this was a precaution to keep the veranda dry. The old man spoke as if reciting a formulaic warning: leaving belongings where they could be seen from the thoroughfare was unwise in these parts. When Ishida removed his long boots, the old man gathered them up and led the way. Ishida was guided by the old man through the house. The dwellings in this district varied only in scale—every structure appeared constructed from identical floor plans. Upon passing through the gateway entrance, one found an exterior wall to the left while the building stretched rightward in rectangular form. This rectangle partitioned into front and rear sections, with the rear designated as kitchen quarters.

To Ishida’s eyes, having come from Tokyo, the pillars—painted in red oxide or something of the sort, giving them an ochre-like hue—struck him as peculiar. Yet he found nothing disagreeable about it.

Though this house didn't seem to have been built many years prior, it somehow gave the impression of being old, of having history. And so he felt that were he to live in such a house, his mind might find calm.

The front side had its finest tatami room at the western end reached by turning right after passing through the entrance and adjacent room, complete with a tokonoma alcove. The old man said, “Excuse me for a moment,” went to the kitchen area to leave the coat and boots there, then returned carrying a zabuton cushion and tobacco tray. With a clatter, he slid open the loosely fastened storm shutters facing the garden where the crape myrtle grew. Viewed from inside, the garden appeared relatively spacious. Pointing at the hedge, the old man explained that while authorities strictly prohibited stone or brick walls near the fortress, he had wanted to make at least the front presentable—after inquiring, he learned low walls were permitted and planned to arrange construction eventually.

The main street was a moderately sized side lane, and through gaps in the hedge one could see the low windows of the single-story house across the way. Bamboo blinds hung over the windows. From within came the drowsy drone of spinning thread. Ishida spread a zabuton cushion on the threshold, leaned back against a pillar with his knees raised, took out a Kintengu cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. The old man squatted on the veranda edge muttering something until gradually their conversation shifted from the house to rent, then from rent to personal matters. This old man named Usui lived with his wife in the western neighboring house. A son born late in life had been enrolled at Toyotsu Middle School. He had to rent out this house to make ends meet and fund his son’s education.

Then he looked at the layout of the back section. This side had a small room at the western end. The next one was slightly wider. These two rooms were situated behind the front-side tatami room with the tokonoma. The kitchen, half earthen-floored, lay behind the front-side’s next room and the entrance. The well was dug in the corner of the earthen-floored area.

When he stepped out onto the veranda and looked, the backyard was about three times the size of the front garden. Here and there were citrus trees with many small fruits growing on them. Near the veranda stood a tile-built flowerbed where chrysanthemums had been planted. Beside it was a well constructed from rounded stones, red crabs peeking out from every gap between them. Beyond the flowerbed lay a cultivated field, its western corner occupied by a stable with attached groom's quarters. As bees swarmed over the flowerbed, across the field, and around the citrus trees, Ishida concluded this must be exceptionally rich in honeybees and resolved to ask the old man about it. These turned out to be kept by the old man himself, their hives hung along the eastern exterior wall.

Ishida, having seen all he needed to, once parted ways with the old man and returned home. However, as he had taken a considerable liking to the house, he asked the innkeeper’s wife to finalize the details, and after two or three days had passed, he moved in.

The horse that had been shipped from Yokohama had also arrived, so he had the groom stable it.

He bought kitchen utensils. He bought dining sets. He bought mosquito nets. It was Orderly Shimamura who went to buy them. The landlord was a diligent old man and came to take care of various things for him. When buying dining sets, the old man asked. “How many place settings will you be requiring?” “Two place settings.” “Will you not be needing ones for the servants?”

“Two place settings—mine and the maid’s.” “The orderly takes his meals with the regiment.” “The groom will handle his own as well.”

He bought three mosquito nets: one for himself, one for the maid, and one for the groom. At that time too, the old man asked.

“Will you not be needing futons?” “I have blankets.”

Everything proceeded in this manner. Even so, it cost around fifty yen.

Because they were hiring a maid, the innkeeper’s wife Tatsumi sent over the labor broker’s wife. Ishida made a request to hire an old maid. A woman named Toki—an old maid around fifty years of age—arrived. The couple were preparing lunches for elementary school teachers, and it was said that this old maid had come from their household. Curiously, she wasn’t one to chatter. She worked in the kitchen without a word.

Two or three days passed.

Every day, the rain fell intermittently. Ishida donned a raincoat and rode his horse to headquarters. When Torakichi, the groom newly hired from Tokyo, accompanied him for the first time, he said this.

“Master. There’s no rain gear for the horse, you see.” “There is one.” “Yes. If you mean a small one that only covers the saddle, there is one. There’s nothing to cover your knees, Master.” “I don’t need such a thing.” “Even so, your knees will get wet. Every master has one.”

“I don’t care if my knees get wet.” “There’s no such thing as a knee cover in horse tack.” “Even if others have them, I don’t need them.” “Heh heh heh.” “In that case, we’ll follow Mr. Nogi’s way.” “I don’t need it.” “I have no idea about Lord Nogi’s affairs.” “I see.”

After that, the groom no longer ventured to bring it up. Ishida presented his calling card at the division commander’s residence and the homes of his superiors on his way back from headquarters. At that time, there being a governor-general in post, he presented his calling card there as well. Among them were some who granted him an audience. When he returned home, there were always two or three calling cards left by subordinates who had come to visit. There were also instances where merchants left behind gifts before departing. In such cases, Ishida would immediately have Shimamura return them. That being why Shimamura found receiving gifts burdensome—when items were brought while he was present, he generally refused them.

One day, upon returning home, he found someone locked in a verbal tussle with Shimamura. The man had the appearance of a farmer. When he looked, the man was holding a live chicken. When the man saw Ishida, he grinned, approached him, and said.

“Major. “You may have forgotten me, but I am Aso, the military porter who served under you on the battlefield.” “Hmm. “The Aso who was at military headquarters?” “Yes, sir.” “Why did you come?” “I’ve been discharged into the reserves and returned home. “My home is in Dairi. “Having heard that you have become a Major and come here, I have come to pay my respects. “This is one of the many we keep, and since it’s just the right age, I’ve brought it up.”

“Hmm. That’s a fine chicken. This isn’t requisitioned goods, is it?” Aso scratched his close-cropped head. “I’m terribly sorry. Since everyone kept saying ‘requisition, requisition,’ I ended up saying such things and was scolded.” “Even so, I must say it’s commendable that you’ve stopped taking the Chinese people’s things since then.” “Truly, thanks to your guidance, I never once strayed from proper conduct, so until my triumphant return, I cannot tell you how proud I felt. Even back in Dalian when everyone’s backpacks were inspected—with silver hairpins and women’s kimonos turning up to their shame—I alone remained unflappable. That chicken back in Kinchou—well, I nearly got scolded again over it. When I found an egg in a house abandoned by Chinese people and said there was no owner, you ordered me to take it back and leave it there. I was truly astonished.”

“Ha ha ha ha.” “I’m stubborn, you see.” “You’re too kind.” “That became the guiding lesson of my life.” “I’ll take my leave now.”

"Why don't you stay the night? My place is just like the battlefield—no feast to offer, though." "Is your wife not at home?"

"My wife died recently." "Oh." "My condolences." "Shimamura knows this - I maintain a battlefield existence here." "That must prove most inconvenient for you." "I've troubled you with trifles during your changing." "I'll take my leave now." Aso handed the chicken to Shimamura and departed, his shoes making wet squelching noises.

Ishida took off his long boots and stepped inside. He removed his raincoat and handed it to Shimamura. Shimamura took the raincoat and boots to the kitchen. Ishida entered the western end room, walked to the front of the alcove, and placed his cap on the officer’s trunk positioned there. He laid his saber sideways in the alcove. On the very day he first arrived, O-Toki had propped it against the alcove wall and been reprimanded. Things propped upright might topple. Should it fall, the blade would be damaged. He had explained that it might also leave scars on the wall.

In front of the alcove stood a desk of the sort children use for writing practice. Before it lay a folded blanket spread out. Still wearing his summer kimono and hakama, Ishida sat cross-legged atop the blanket.

Just then, the old maid came out from the kitchen.

“What will you do with the chicken?”

“Don’t we have anything to go with the rice?” “We have simmered eggplant and green beans.” “That’s fine.” “And the chicken?”

“Keep the chicken alive.”

“Yes, sir.”

The old maid thought to herself that he was still as stingy as ever. According to the old maid’s observations, Ishida had two traits. The first was stinginess. As for fish, women from Nagahama came selling them on bamboo trays carried atop their heads, but he had bought small sea bream only once so far. Because he claimed the vegetables were delicious, he ate nothing but cucumbers and eggplants. He didn’t drink alcohol at all. When told to buy sweets once, she brought back the local specialty Tsuru no Ko, but he ate them all while muttering "Tasteless," and never asked her to buy them again. The second was that he was a fool. He didn’t know the actual price of things. No matter how much they said, he paid without a word. He sent back every gift people brought him. The old maid had first made precisely these observations.

As the old maid stood up, Ishida said, “Is the hot water ready?” “Yes, sir,” replied the old maid, withdrawing into the kitchen.

Ishida went out to the back chamber. Here were placed a water jar, a rinsing bowl, a brass basin used for drawing hot water, and a bucket. This had been arranged since the first day, so mornings and evenings were the same. Ishida first used a toothpick. He rinsed his mouth. He washed his face with hot water. He used imported soap costing about seventy sen. When people asked why he indulged in such extravagance, he would say that soap must be soap—he’d rather not use it at all than use a counterfeit. He washed his buzz-cut head. Then he stripped naked and meticulously wiped his entire body. He used the same brass basin for the leftover water. He washed his feet. When people said something was dirty, he claimed his own body was clean. He dumped the hot water into the bucket. He drew fresh water into it and washed his hand towel. He dumped the water. He wrung out the hand towel and wiped the brass basin. He wrung out the hand towel again and hung it up. He performed this entire routine twice a day. He did not go to the public bathhouse.

Instead, even during bivouacs on the battlefield, he had never neglected this routine. Ishida changed out of his undergarments and under-hakama and put on his summer kimono and hakama. On ordinary days, he would remain as he was until changing into his nightclothes and light cotton kimono. When a guest came and saw this, they would say, “Is this Mr. Nogi’s custom?” To which Ishida would reply, “I know nothing of Lord Nogi.”

He took his seat before the desk. The meal tray appeared. However slowly he ate, it never took longer than fifteen minutes.

When he looked outside, the rain had ceased. Ishida stood up and went out to the kitchen. Seeing the old maid, who was eating, put down her chopsticks, he said, “It’s nothing urgent,” and stepped onto the veranda leading down to the dirt-floored area. In the dirt-floored area, Torakichi was scattering rice for the chickens and crouching to watch them. Ishida also went out to see the chickens. It was a large rooster. Its entire body was covered in reddish-brown feathers, around its neck was a collar of mandarin orange, and it trailed a long black tail. Torakichi raised his villainous-looking bluish-black face and stared at his master with bulging eyes before saying:

“Master.” “This one’s meat’s tender.” “We’re not eating it.” “Oh?” “So you’ll keep it?” “Hmm.”

“In that case, since there’s an empty coop in Ōya-san’s storage shed, I’ll go borrow that one.” “Until we buy one, borrowing will suffice.” With that said, Ishida returned to the parlor, sheathed his sword, put on his cap, and went out to the entrance. At the entrance were the long boots Shimamura had polished and left. He set them down in the courtyard and pulled them on. Hearing the clattering sound, the old maid came out.

“Your overcoat?”

“I won’t be long, so I don’t need it.” Ishida proceeded straight west from Kajimachi until he reached Torimachi. There was the bird shop he had noted when walking around leaving his calling cards the other day. There, he bought a hen and requested that a craftsman be commissioned to make a coop. He selected and bought a chicken with pure white feathers, plump and well-fed. It was arranged to have it brought later. Ishida paid and returned home. The hen was brought. Torakichi took the bird shop staff to the stable and was deep in conversation with them. Ishida released the male and female together and watched as the rooster spread its patchy feathers, circling the hen in a semicircle to challenge her. The hen kept trying to flee, over and over again.

Before long, though it was still light outside, the chickens began to show signs of unease. Soon, they noticed a shelf in the corner of the kitchen’s dirt-floored area and attempted to fly up onto it. They were searching for a roost. Ishida said to the groom, “Put the chickens to bed,” and entered the parlor.

From the next day onward, the chickens began crowing at dawn. Ishida found this delightful. However, when he returned home in the late afternoon, there were now two hens. When he asked the old maid, she said that the groom had asked to be allowed to keep one of his own chickens together with theirs. Ishida made a displeased face but did not reprimand him. Within two or three days, another hen was added, making a total of four chickens along with the rooster. This one too was the groom’s, having been obtained from somewhere—or so it was said. Ishida made a displeased face again but still said nothing to the groom.

Four chickens pecked their way around the entire estate. They would sometimes invade Usui’s eggplant patch, only to be chased back by the old landlord. Because the hens would fight among themselves, the groom would catch the stronger one and confine it to the coop. The new coop had now been completed, so the portion borrowed from the neighbor had been returned. For the coop, the groom had obtained permission from Usui Jii-san, cut out a space beneath the veranda to prepare it, and fitted an awkward lattice door at the entrance—alternately nailing together planks and split bamboo.

One day, the old maid waylaid Ishida upon his return from headquarters and said: "It seems the groom’s chicken has laid an egg, and he says if you’d like it, he’ll give it to you." "Tell him I don’t need it."

The old maid withdrew with a look of surprise. From then on, she frequently brought up the matter of the eggs—how only the groom’s hens laid them, while Master’s never did, or so she insisted. Each time she broached the subject, her voice grew hushed, muttering how strange it was, how strange. She wanted Ishida to uncover what lay hidden beneath her words. Yet he seemed incapable of grasping it—such a fool he was that her efforts proved futile. Impatiently, she repeated herself, though her voice softened further each time, wary of being overheard by the groom. At last, she pressed close to Ishida’s ear and said:

“It may be impertinent of me to say such a thing, but your chickens aren’t laying any eggs either. No matter which ones lay them, the groom claims it’s his own chickens that are the ones doing so.”

The old maid timidly said this and thought to herself that it would be best if Ishida didn’t get angry and raise his voice. However, Ishida was not the least bit moved. He maintained a calm expression. The old maid was beside herself with frustration. This time, even if the groom found out, she felt she wanted the master to get angry. And she finally resigned herself to the fact that there was no cure for a fool.

Ishida remained silent for a moment, then said with icy detachment: “When I want eggs, I buy and eat them.” The old maid, visibly stifling her vexation, muttered indistinctly under her breath as she withdrew to the kitchen.

July 10th was the third Sunday since Ishida had arrived in Kokura. Ishida woke early and performed his ablutions in the usual cramped space. Though Sundays until now had been occupied with duties, today finally felt like a proper Sunday. Still wearing his sleeping yukata, he wound the heko obi loosely around his waist and stepped onto the southern rear veranda. The southern sky stretched clear in indigo-blue, sunlight filtering through mandarin orange leaves to cast shimmering dapples across the sand encircling the flowerbed. From the stable came the metallic scrape of a comb grooming the horse. At intervals came the clop of hooves shifting position—horseshoes knocking against wooden floorboards. Each time this happened, the groom barked “Hey!” at the animal. Ishida drew a deep breath of morning air, savoring his leisurely mood.

Ishida took the hemp-soled sandals—which had been placed soles together on top of old newspapers in the corner of the veranda—lowered them into the garden, and stepped down from the veranda. He strolled leisurely around the flowerbed. Seeing the usual red crabs on the stone pavement around the garden well, he peered into it from above, and all the crabs hid themselves. A moss-covered well bucket with a short pole attached had been thrown in. Water striders were busily darting between the well bucket and the stone pavement.

Circling east around a single mandarin orange tree brought one to the kitchen entrance. The old maid was simmering miso soup. The groom finished grooming the horse, applied oil to its hooves, and came to the kitchen entrance. In his hands was a feed bucket. He bowed to his master, opened the lid of the wheat box at the kitchen entrance, and poured the wheat into the feed bucket. Ishida stood watching for a while.

“How much does it eat?” “Yes. About three scoops of this would be just right.” The groom glared with wide eyes, glanced sideways at his master, and retrieved from the wheat box a lathe-turned rice bowl with a chipped rim to show him. Ishida silently turned his back and retreated toward the veranda.

When he had returned to the flowerbed, a hen let out a shrill cry and came scurrying to his feet. Along with this came a strange voice. It was a woman's voice - as shrill and insistent as a squalling child's. When Ishida turned toward the sound, he saw a woman of about forty peering over the southern neighbor's hedge from beyond the flowerbed and partitioned field. Her face was pumpkin-shaped at the jawline with a sallow complexion, topped by a small round chignon stiffened with pomade. This was the voice's owner.

She was chattering away about something. Wondering who she was talking to, Ishida looked around his surroundings, but there was no one else. From what Ishida could tell, it didn’t seem she was speaking to him. However, she seemed to be saying it for him to hear. It seemed she had been lying in wait for him to be home on a Sunday and had now started her tirade. It was as if she were proclaiming to the world while simultaneously ensuring Ishida would hear it. He could not quite make out what she was saying. Not limited to this region, dialects manifest themselves most purely when one is angrily cursing. When speaking to or addressing a superior, one modifies their language, causing the distinctive features to disappear. The woman’s current speech was pure Buzen dialect.

Unlike the speech of O-Toki, the old maid in his household, or the old landlord, he could grasp the general meaning but couldn’t catch the finer nuances. From what he could gather, it seemed the chickens were crossing over the hedge and ruining the fields, causing trouble. On that subject, she was delivering a grand philippic (a vehement denunciation). The woman said such things: In Buzen, there was a proverb—one must not keep chickens unless they had several acres of fields. Yet for someone living in a rented house to keep chickens was an act of outrageous presumption. To think that spur-wearing men on horseback could do whatever they pleased was a grave misconception. The substance of her tirade followed this pattern, leaving no room for counterattack. The woman also declared: Not only did he not know what his chickens were up to—he probably didn’t realize the old maid was embezzling kitchen supplies to support her own livelihood either. He likely remained unaware that the groom was skimming horse feed to line his own pockets too. At such points, she raised her voice even louder, trying to make both the old maid and groom hear her. The woman pressed further: A tenant’s actions were the landlord’s responsibility. If spur-wearers were so overbearing that one couldn’t speak out—then one shouldn’t have rented houses to such men in the first place. Her voice grew louder still, now aiming to reach Usui Jii-san’s ears as well.

Ishida stood before the flowerbed like a rod, facing directly toward the chattering woman, listening in silence. On his face, save for the occasional shadow of a smile that flickered like leaves quivering on a windless day, there was no expression whatsoever. It was much the same as when he stood in uniform listening to a superior’s reprimand, differing only in the slight relaxation of his muscles and his inability to suppress the occasional smile.

Ishida was thinking such things. The chickens appeared prone to crossing hedges. While it was common knowledge that monks called sake "Buddha's broth," few outside literary circles knew chickens were dubbed "*hedge vegetables*." When I received those birds without any appetite for eating them, I'd resolved to let them live. Let them live, and they'd inevitably cross boundaries. That I hadn't anticipated this hedge-leaping possibility might suggest poor preparation—yet no endeavor could proceed if one accounted for every *éventualité*. That chicken-keeping should provoke this woman's fury hardly surprised me. Still, there was something undeniably entertaining about that absurd head atop the hedge—its facial muscles twitching unrestrained as it orated so grandly. Back in Tokyo, I'd witnessed a spectacle where reflected light made a disembodied head on a table seem to speak. That showman's *prétentieux* airs had bred antipathy rather than amusement. This performance here proved far more diverting. Ishida continued these musings.

The woman on the hedge was indeed an eloquent speaker. However, even the most eloquent speaker has only so many arguments they can expound on a single topic. The woman on the hedge had finally exhausted her store of ideas. Presumably, she could not help but feel the depletion of her ideas and succumb to disappointment. She had learned from experience that whenever she launched into such eloquent tirades, someone would engage her. At least someone would say something in response. If that were done, like water striking rocks and growing turbulent, the debate would gain vigor. If her opponent were also to engage in eloquence—making it a battle of equals—then her heart might find satisfaction. She had likely never before encountered an opponent like Ishida. And she must have felt the unpleasant sensation of pushing against a flimsy curtain. She declared “Fine! I’ll lock them up next time they come,” and withdrew her pumpkin-like head into the shadow of the boundary hedge. The conclusion, for all its weighty substance, lacked force in her voice.

“Master. “Your meal is ready, sir.”

Called by the old maid, Ishida returned to the sitting room to eat breakfast. While serving the meal, she spoke of how Mr. Kamiya from South Alley was a notorious troublemaker whom no one would associate with. Ishida ordered that the chickens be kept confined in their breeding cages as much as possible. At that moment, the old maid lowered her voice and said: "The white hen you bought has been sitting on eggs since this morning. Even the groom finds it hard to claim another hen laid them—that’s why he’s keeping quiet. Since hatching just one egg would be wasteful, shall I go fetch it?" Ishida replied, “If she’s brooding, let her be.”

After finishing his meal, Ishida went out to the kitchen area. The shelf on the kitchen’s dirt floor—where they had kept the chickens before completing the underfloor coop—remained spread with straw. The white hen was perched atop it. The normally plump bird had erected her feathers and puffed up her body to twice its usual size, moving only her head to look around. The old maid who was washing dishes came over and poked the hen’s flank. The hen let out a cry. Ishida looked toward the old maid and said.

“What are you doing?” “I thought I would show you the egg, sir.” “Stop. No need to show me.”

As if suddenly remembering, Ishida posed the following question to the old maid. "When setting up this household," he began abruptly as though recalling something long forgotten, "we were supposed to buy a measuring box—so why isn’t the groom using that to measure wheat?" The old maid said she had never seen the groom use the measuring box. Ishida said, “I see,” and abruptly returned to his room. And he opened the lid of the officer’s trunk and took out a box wrapped in a half-cut blanket. It was a Havana cigar. Ishida, who usually carried himself with arrogant confidence, declared that with these cigars, no matter how remote the countryside he might march to, he would never lack replenishment. He occasionally smoked high-quality cigars. And when chatting with friends, he would say: “Novelists know nothing—making their diamond-ringed wealthy protagonists smoke Manila cigars!” He would utter such remarks with a laugh. The reason Ishida wrapped his occasional cigars in a blanket was that he applied gunpowder preservation methods. Ishida was saying this: “If I ever became a general, I’d open a fresh tobacco box daily.” “As things stand,” he continued, “since I must preserve them for a full month after opening a box, I need ingenuity.”

Ishida lit his cigar and, with evident pleasure, took a puff before turning to his usual writing desk.

In the north-facing front garden, sunlight streamed through the sparse leaves of the crape myrtle tree while oleanders already bore scattered blooms here and there. The spinning wheel in the house across the way hummed steadily today as well. Ishida pulled out a book titled *Characters* by La Bruyère from among the Western volumes leaning in the corner of the tokonoma alcove, read one short incisive chapter, and fell into silent contemplation. He would read another and stare fixedly in thought. He had barely finished five or six chapters when he set the book aside.

Then he took out a box containing imported ivory stationery and envelopes and began writing letters with a pen. Ishida handled all matters with pens and pencils and did not use an inkstone. If there were occasional petitions or similar documents, he would have the clerk handle them. Since he had not once been confined due to illness since joining the army, such requests were rarely necessary. As for the letters from others that required replies—since these were kept in his map case—he would take them out and write responses one after another. In Tokyo, he had left his son—who was attending middle school—in his mother’s care. First, he wrote a letter to his mother. Then, without setting down his pen, he wrote two or three more. And he stored only the letter to his mother in the officer’s trunk and tore up the rest.

Noon came. After finishing his meal, he lit the cigar stub he had placed on the ashtray when starting to write letters earlier and went out to the north veranda. The sky had turned a pale gray without him noticing. The sound of a train could be heard. “Umbrella repairs and re-coverin’ done here!” called someone passing by the front street. The hum of the spinning wheel continued its steady drone as always. Ishida thought of going out somewhere, but as the sky had taken on an unsettled look, he decided against it. After a while, he entered the sitting room, spread out a large map of South Africa, and began studying the geography of Transvaal, where war seemed likely to break out around this time. Thus the day came to a close.

It was three or four days later. The government office was already in afternoon dismissal.

Since Ishida had sent his horse to have horseshoes fitted, he was walking from headquarters along the narrow path on the left bank of the Murasaki River toward Tokiwa Bridge when he encountered a man named Nakano, whom he had been on familiar terms with since the campaign. Nakano called out.

“Hey. Walking today?” “Yeah. Sent him to get shod. What about yours?” “Mine’s gone for a sea dip.” “That so?” “They love it.” “Then I’ll try mine too.” “Your groom needs swimming chops.” “Claims he can paddle.”

Nakano was an officer who had graduated earlier than Ishida. He was now an infantry major like Ishida and served as a battalion commander. He was a slightly overweight man and, by nature, honest. He excessively doted on horses.

Nakano continued talking.

“I’d been meaning to mention this when I met you—there’s a spot round here with a large ditch that’s been covered over with stones laid out.”

“That’s the path leading to the horse handlers, I suppose.” “That’s it. Fish Market District. You mustn’t ride your horse over that. Horses don’t weigh the same as people, you know.” “Hmm. That might be true. I hadn’t noticed at all.”

As they had this conversation, they reached Tokiwa Bridge. Nakano, appearing to have remembered something, slowed his pace and said: “Hey. There’s one more thing I wanted to mention to you. It’s a foolish thing, though.” “What is it? I’ve only just arrived and don’t know anything yet, so please go ahead and give me all the advice you can.”

“The truth is, from the veranda of my house, your gate is visible, so my wife discovered something peculiar.”

“Hmm.” “Whenever you leave for work each day, that old maid comes out of the gate carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle.” “But just the day before yesterday—she said that bundle was so large my wife grew terribly worried.”

“I see.” “Now that you mention it, I do recall something.” “Since we were always running out of pickles, I told them to prepare plenty of eggplants and cucumbers pickled for that day.” “Then they must have pickled plenty for your own household as well.”

“Hahaha.” “But thank you all the same.” “Do give my regards to your wife.”

While talking, they came to the entrance of Kyōmachi, but Ishida stopped.

“I have somewhere to stop by. I’ll take my leave here.” “I see. Goodbye.”

Ishida crossed Tokiwa Bridge and retraced his path. Then he stopped at Tatsumi in Muromachi and asked Madam to replace the maid. Madam stroked her lapdog's head and said with a laugh: "You were the one who said the old maid would do."

“The old maid won’t do.”

“Did she do something?” “She didn’t do anything. But since she’s acting rather high and mighty, please ask the employment agency to send over a sturdy young girl instead.”

“Yes,yes． “I’ll have them send over a special-grade maid．”

“No, I can’t have a special-grade maid.” “Goodbye.”

Ishida then stopped by his neighbor on the way home and requested of Usui Jii-san: "Since a young maid will be coming, please have your maid come stay overnight just for the evenings." And then he returned home and remained silent.

The next day, Madam from the employment agency came and spoke to Old Maid O-Toki. It was said she had told her this because the master had stated it was pitiful to make an old person work so hard. The old maid, unexpectedly, accepted this obediently and ended up leaving.

Though it was still the middle of the month, Ishida paid her a full month’s salary. When evening came, Madam from the employment agency returned and brought a maid for an interview. She was a woman in her mid-twenties with thinning hair who bowed while glancing sideways at Ishida’s face. The pale greenish-blue merino of her underrobe sleeves peeked out about an inch from the cuffs. Ishida sent Shimamura to the employment agency the next day and had him order the replacement of the maid. This time, a petite girl of around sixteen with large, round eyes arrived. Her disposition also seemed brisk and lively. This pleased Ishida.

After waiting two or three days, Ishida settled on this one. She was from Hinanako, and her name was Haru, it was said. She spoke in a masculine Higo dialect, and her movements were lively. Her skin had an amber sheen, and her muscles were taut. Ishida thought her a spirited one.

The trouble was, she always wore the same tea-colored vertically striped unlined kimono, with two patches applied around the knees. And so she served. She smelled of sweat. “Is that the only kimono you have?” “Don’t have any.”

She answered calmly with a smile. Ishida gave her one of the three yukatas he owned.

About a week had passed. The maid from Usui’s household, who had been staying overnight with Haru, took her leave and moved into the division commander’s residence. It was said that upon hearing Haru’s wages were double her own, she had grown envious and switched employers. At Usui’s place, they decided not to send over the substitute maid to stay overnight. Ishida called for Madam from the employment agency and said he wanted to hire another maid. Madam said she would send her own daughter over, then left.

The employment agency’s daughter came. She was thirteen years old and called Hisa. She was a girl of jet-black complexion, exceedingly dirty and exceedingly ill-mannered.

Around five o'clock the next morning, a peculiar popping sound woke Ishida. Later he learned that in the kitchen they had kept a lantern lit from morning until closing the doors as standard practice. Haru had apparently always hung the hook at the end of the lantern’s handle on a decorative nail. But when he told Hisa to hold it, she found this troublesome and instead used the handle to poke a hole in the shoji screen before hanging the lantern there. Ishida detested holes in his shoji and had been painstakingly patching each one himself, so upon hearing this story he made a thoroughly displeased face.

Ishida called for Madam from the employment agency and said he wanted to send Hisa back. He intended to send her back and hire a replacement. However, Madam asked what was wrong and said she would have it corrected. There wasn’t a single thing about her that wasn’t problematic. Ishida was cornered—there was nothing wrong with her.

“One maid is sufficient,” he said.

Ishida went to Tatsu-ken and requested the hiring of a second maid. Madam, playing with her spaniel, listened to Ishida’s story and smirked repeatedly. And then she said. “You ought to just take on a proper mistress, and that’d settle things nicely.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

In any case, Ishida left after stating his request. However, the second maid was nowhere to be found. Ishida ended up employing only one young maid.

Three or four days passed. July 31st arrived.

When he got up in the morning and went out to wash his face, Haru informed him that the chick had hatched. Ishida hurriedly washed his face and went out to the kitchen to look. From between the white hen’s feathers, the yellow chick’s head peeked out. Since it was the day merchants came to collect payments, he left instructions to tell them that the master would pay upon his return, then headed out to the office. When he returned in the afternoon, there were those waiting. Ishida wrote them down in his notebook with a pen and paid them off one by one.

In the evening, Ishida checked the accounts. Since coming to Kokura, this was the first time he could examine a full month’s expenses. When he called Haru and inquired about the rice, she replied that the rice chest had just run empty and the rest would be brought tomorrow. So Ishida sent Haru to the kitchen and measured out what remained. It far exceeded the army’s established ration of six *gō* of polished rice per person per day. Ishida thought. I don’t even eat half what a soldier consumes. Neither Old Maid O-Toki nor Haru seemed to eat as much as soldiers. Ishida immediately recalled Old Maid O-Toki’s brazier cloth bundle. Then he slowly put the notebook away into his officer’s trunk.

August arrived, and the members of the headquarters each took their leave. The division commander departed for Funagoya Hot Springs with his family. Ishida decided not to take a full vacation and instead take days off every other day. In the front garden, flowers began to bloom sporadically on the crape myrtle tree. From time to time, the voices of cicadas mingled with the sound of the spinning wheel from the house across.

The sixth was a Sunday, and many visitors came to Ishida’s residence for summer greetings. When first establishing his household, he had bought three zabuton cushions made from something like stiff bark paper. Though barely used, the cotton stuffing inside had already clumped into lumps here and there. He could lay out zabuton for up to three guests, but when four gathered, they had to sit on folded blankets. Today there were even guests who ended up seated on blankets. The visitors generally arrived wearing hemp katabira robes with hakama trousers and light haori coats over them. Of course, Ishida possessed neither haori coats nor anything like hakama trousers. On such days, Ishida would don his summer uniform from morning to receive visitors.

The visitors would generally say the same sorts of things before leaving. “This year’s heat seems milder than last.” “Kokura is unpopular and prices are high.” “Especially starting with rent, it’s inconvenient that prices differ by officers’ ranks.” “Even if you were to take a vacation, there’d be no way to spend the day in a place like this.” “There’s nothing to see in the entire town.” “Even if one goes to a hot spring resort, places like Futsukaichi are too close to be enjoyable, and distant ones are inconvenient and troublesome.” In short, it was always these sorts of remarks. Ishida simply responded with vague “Hmm, hmm’s.”

Among them were those who viewed things with cultivated taste. They would gaze toward the garden and lamented the absence of a sea view, or examine the hanging scrolls and discuss calligraphy and paintings. Ishida had hung in the alcove a rescript bestowed upon military personnel, which he had commissioned to be written in fine script. He carried this in his officer’s field trunk wherever he went and owned no other hanging scrolls. When talk of calligraphy arose, he would refuse to engage, saying he didn’t understand such things.

From around the next day, Ishida too went out to the office and submitted name cards at the residences of the division commander, brigade commander, division chief of staff, infantry regimental commander, governor-general, and governor-general’s chief of staff—thereby completing his summer greetings.

The season grew steadily hotter. The cicadas’ drone mingled ceaselessly with the whir of spinning wheels from across the street. On evenings when the wind died at sunset, the heat grew so oppressive that remaining indoors proved unbearable. Even Ishida changed into a summer kimono and wandered outside. At first he roamed Kokura’s streets in widening circles to learn their layout. He knew the southern districts from Bashaku to the northern limits well—the latter being where the Special Forces Unit was garrisoned. Eastward he walked to Nagahama’s fishing village outskirts, where boats lay hauled up on sandy banks. Westward he traced a townscape where coal cinders for road repairs dwindled into patches of natural sand, all the way to Nishikajiya-machi’s edge. Finally he settled on the old battery grounds at Murasaki River’s eastern mouth—behind Asahi-machi’s pleasure quarter—as his ideal cooling spot. Perched atop stacked lumber there, he endured the swelter’s peak during windless dusks. At such times he mused about buying a three-legged camp stool in Tokyo next visit and bringing it here.

The hatched chick was female. It was extremely robust and grew rapidly. As it grew larger, its feathers turned black. In about ten days, it turned completely black all over. It looked exactly like a crow chick. When Ishida tried to grab it, the parent bird cried out, so Ishida stopped.

The eleventh was the eve of Tanabata by the lunar calendar. “Need bamboo for the festival?” vendors called as they made their rounds. The next day revealed bamboo branches adorned with five-colored paper strips standing at every household—Kokura still preserved the ancient Kikkōten customs of the Star Festival. By mid-month came new cries: “Bamboo vases for Obon?” peddlers announced, preparing for the Buddhist memorial rites approaching on the eighteenth—the thirteenth day of the seventh moon. Rain spattered intermittently over crape myrtle blossoms while cicadas faltered in their drone, though the spinning wheel’s clatter persisted across the street. Barefoot children dashed past hedgerows shouting “Shikimi for sale!”, hawking sacred altar greenery through humid lulls in showers. Ishida swore this marked summer’s fiercest heat—a conviction reinforced next day under identical drizzle and mugginess. At dusk, every home glowed with Obon lanterns; some flung open upper floors to hang scores overhead without gaps. Venturing to Nagahama’s shore revealed dancers spiraling on sand—men and women alike wore cheek-wrapped towels and kimonos hitched into sashes. Though some sported half-removed tabi socks, most feet stayed bare beneath hems flapping like moth wings in salt air.

Among the women, some wore marked happi coats fastened with three-shaku belts and went without their usual leggings. They sang kudoki ballads in unison, chanting “E-tosa-sa!” as they moved. This was likely a dialectal rendering of “E-tosa.” Ishida watched for some time before returning.

The chick grew bigger day by day. At first, the parent bird had vigilantly protected it, but as it grew larger, gradually ceased to pay attention. Ishida brought the chick onto the tatami and fed it rice. Gradually growing accustomed, it began pecking rice from his palm. A few more days passed, and when Ishida returned from work and settled at his desk, the chick—which had been playing in the garden—would come running up onto the veranda, rhythmically bobbing its head in a sagittale direction as if wielding a pickaxe, and draw near to his knee. Every day on his way back from the government office, as Ishida neared home, he would remember the chick.

At the end of August, the division commander returned from the hot-spring resort. The summer vacation dwindled to its final days.

On the 29th, hearing that all the locals were visiting Jizō-sama, Ishida too went to Teramachi to see. In front of the Jizō Hall, tattered Bon lanterns had been hung in a row, with sand piled mountain-like at their center. Men and women alike brought lit incense sticks, planted them in the sand, and departed. After a day's interval, on the thirty-first, the merchant came again to collect payment. When Ishida tallied the accounts as he had the previous month, the rice was still being consumed in quantities matching June's usage. This month saw no old maid removing brazier setup bundles. Ishida pondered awhile—Haru hardly seemed inclined toward Old Maid O-Toki's brand of mischief. So he summoned Haru and inquired what she made of this persistent rice surplus.

Haru looked at her master with bright, round eyes and laughed. He found it only natural that the rice was being consumed in large quantities. He knew precisely why so much was being consumed. Yet he hesitated—unsure whether voicing this reason was permissible—and pondered awhile.

Ishida heard something interesting from Haru. It was the fact that Groom Torakichi had been putting his own rice into his master’s rice chest. Torakichi’s salary included food provisions. Ishida knew that Torakichi was making a considerable profit from the fodder funds—since they worked at headquarters where horses were seldom used yet still paid the standard rate to the fodder merchant. However, thinking it was fine as long as the horses weren’t allowed to grow thin, he saw no need to reprimand him. Despite this arrangement, Torakichi had taken to putting his own rice into his master’s storage chest and helping himself to measured portions as he pleased—a development that even Ishida could not help but find astonishing. Torakichi had no idea how much rice he was putting into the storage chest or how many times he added it. Once he had put it in, he could measure out as much as he wanted whenever he pleased. As he continued listening to Haru’s account, he realized that the miso and soy sauce were also being consumed through the same method. As for the pickles made in-house, Torakichi would take them out, declaring, “These larger ones are my eggplants,” and eat them. Torakichi would take his allotted provisions yet in practice was eating his master’s food. Haru laughed and said: “Even the groom’s firewood is ‘just for show,’ so no matter how much time passes, it never decreases.” “The kitchen tools are the same way.” “There are two clay stoves in the dirt-floored area.” When Haru arrived, the groom said: “The broken one is Master’s, and the satisfactory one is mine.” Eventually, the broken one became completely unusable, so Haru ended up cooking with the same clay stove as the groom. The groom was saying: “Since it’s for Master’s sake, I’ll lend it to you—but you’d better bow properly when you use it.”

Ishida felt as though his eyes had been opened for the first time. And toward the groom's resourcefulness, he could not help but feel no small measure of respect. Ishida had known about the chickens and the eggs. He had known and had been silently permitting it. Yet this was not limited to chickens and eggs alone. The groom had developed a peculiar method of accounting—*systématiquement*—and was applying it universally. Keeping the chickens together and devouring every egg they laid was merely an application of this *système* to the poultry.

Ishida thought this and couldn’t help but smile. He reassured Haru—who worried that if the groom were to discover she’d spoken of such matters, it would cause trouble—telling her there was no need for concern.

The next day, Ishida had Shimamura purchase various items: rice chests, pickling tubs, charcoal stoves, and more. Then he called Torakichi and handed over all the existing tools—the rice chest still containing rice, the pickling tub still holding pickles—and with a composed expression said:

“Until now, it seems the rice and such were mixed with yours—that was my oversight,” said Ishida. “I bought new tools, so I’ll give you the old ones. If there are any more of your things that have found their way into the kitchen, take them all without hesitation.” He paused briefly before adding, “Then there are four or five chickens—I’m giving them all to you. Eat them, sell them, do as you please.” Torakichi listened to Ishida’s words with a dumbfounded expression. When Ishida finished speaking, he looked as though he was about to say something. Ishida cut him off and said.

“No. You may have your circumstances, but since I’ve settled it thus, there’s no need to hear your talk.”

Ishida abruptly stood up and went into the back. Torakichi asked Haru, “Go and ask Master whether I’ve been dismissed or not.” Ishida laughed and said, “Tell him I never said such a thing.”

That evening was said to be the Twenty-Sixth Night Moon Viewing, so fireworks went up in Asahi-machi. Ishida stood on the front veranda, watching the fireworks scatter above the crape myrtle's dusky blossoms. Then Haru came and said: "Right now, the groom's tying up the chickens and taking them away." "He says, 'Should I leave the chicks?' but do you want me to tell him to leave them?" "Tell him we don't need any damn chicks." Ishida kept watching the fireworks.