Pathway to Japanese Literature

The sky remained overcast since afternoon, neither clearing nor bringing rain, gradually fading into a parched haze. The light breeze abruptly ceased, leaving an unusually muggy evening around nine o'clock in mid-July. Though not packed to capacity, a fairly crowded tram threaded through the bustling main street, accelerating as it raced toward the sparsely lit terminus. Conductor Kihara Fujitsugu observed the passengers and streets with vacant eyes, neither particularly motivated by his duties nor burdened by them, continuing to announce station names in a low voice. At that moment, nothing weighed on his mind. He had cast beyond his awareness everything - his father and elder brother's family working with hoes and spades in their rural hometown; his own circumstances at twenty-seven years old, still without a household of his own, living day and night in the company dormitory; today's affairs or tomorrow's. Rather than actively awaiting the moment when his duty hours would end and he could obtain rest, he simply let his thoughts drift toward that time which would naturally arrive on its own.

At that moment, a man in Western clothes who had been clinging to the side of the conductor’s platform since earlier—allowing his body to sway limply with the tram’s motion while obstructing passengers boarding and alighting—caught his eye.
He was a middle-aged man who appeared to be a company employee, wearing a Panama hat with his tie pin gleaming, one hand gripping the window rail while the other thrust into the pocket of linen trousers, the toes of his red ankle boots moving as if keeping time to a hummed tune as he occasionally exhaled alcohol-laden breaths.
When this obstruction of boarding and alighting passengers had occurred about three times and the man still showed no sign of moving from the spot, Kihara Fujitsugu—without any particular thought—mechanically called out from long habit.

“Please move to the inside.”

The man in Western clothes glanced back over his shoulder but turned away again with a dismissive snort.

This slightly grated on Kihara Fujitsugu’s nerves.
At the next tram stop, when an errand boy carrying a large wicker trunk tried to alight, he pretended to steady the trunk while forcefully shoving it against the man’s back.
Then when several passengers began boarding, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke while applying pressure.

“Please move to the inside since there’s space available.”

Instantly, the man let out an extremely loud shout.

“Don’t screw with me! There’s plenty of space right here!”

Kihara Fujitsugu found himself more startled by the unexpectedness of the situation than by the man’s ferocious demeanor. To regain his composure from this shock, he brusquely told the passengers, “Please hurry,” then violently yanked the cord signaling the driver. After the tram started moving, he stared fixedly at the man in Western clothes. The drunken man’s ruddy profile struck him as mocking.

“Since standing on the conductor’s platform violates regulations, please move to the inside.”

“What regulation violation?!” the man shouted back.
“Don’t you let people board when it’s packed?”
“Rules this, rules that—stop spouting such annoyingly pedantic nonsense!”

At this point, Kihara Fujitsugu clearly came to feel his duties as something deeply personal.
Moreover, curious gazes converged all at once from both the two or three people standing on the conductor’s platform opposite the boarding area and those hanging from the straps inside the tram.
He could no longer simply back down.

“Rules are rules,” he said.
“If the interior were full, that would be another matter—but since it’s empty, you must move inside.”
“If you remain standing there, you will obstruct passengers boarding and alighting.”

“Where am I obstructing?” retorted the man in Western clothes as he shifted slightly to one side. “If I stay like this, there’s plenty of space to pass through, see? Try passing through! Where exactly am I obstructing? You impudent—dare to poke my shoulder! If you’re a conductor, act like one and keep quiet! Do you think that’s how a conductor fulfills their duties? Idiot!”

And he drew his strangely contorted face closer to the other man.

Kihara Fujitsugu involuntarily stepped back a pace. And he said while scrutinizing the man’s condition:

“If you have any objections, I’ll have you get off.”

“What did you say? Say it again!”
“How far I ride is my own business.”
“If you’re going to refuse boarding unjustly, I’ve got my own ideas.”
“You poke my shoulder and then have the nerve to tell me to get off?”
“Speak like a human being for once!”

Kihara Fujitsugu turned his face away and let out a strained, bitter smile. He thought the man was thoroughly disagreeable. Then, having loudly announced the name of the next tram stop still some distance ahead, he muttered to himself as if responding to the many gazes fixed upon him.

"What a hopeless drunkard."

The man in Western clothes took exception to this.

“You called me a drunkard, didn’t you? Where exactly am I drunk? Go on then—say it! You’re just a conductor! Who do you think you’re dealing with?! Idiot! Prove I’m drunk then—say exactly where!”

And he stomped his feet repeatedly.

“Please keep quiet. You’re interfering with my duties,” Kihara Fujitsugu said, trying to maintain a composed tone. “If you have any objections, I will call the supervisor. Please discuss it with them.”

“What?! Call the supervisor?!”
“Go ahead and call them!”
“Go on then, call whoever you want!”
“What’s your damn name?”
“I won’t stand for this as things are now!”

Then, as he was still trying to launch into a tirade, Kihara Fujitsugu stared at him with a gaze that held back anger.
If he remained silent like this, he would be exposing his own incompetence before the crowd; if he fought, matters would become troublesome and he’d only end up worse off; if he called for the supervisor as he had carelessly suggested, he’d be admitting his own inadequacy as a conductor—so he found himself at a complete loss over what to do.
But then, by chance, an opportunity to vent his pent-up frustration arrived.

The man in Western clothes—
Upon hearing the word "supervisor," he bristled and hunched his shoulders, but then abruptly fell silent, a sneer playing at his lips as he fished out a Shikishima cigarette from his pocket with one hand.
Kihara Fujitsugu thought this was his moment.
And, determined not to let the opportunity slip, he impatiently blurted out in a loud voice:

“Cigarettes are not permitted.”

The man froze mid-motion, halting his fingertips that had been moving toward his mouth at chest level, his clouded eyes locking gazes for an instant before he suddenly arched backward and thrust the cigarette toward the conductor’s nose.

“What’s wrong with a cigarette?”

“Smoking is prohibited inside the tram car.”

“Don’t talk nonsense!” barked the man.
“What’s prohibited is smoking.”
“Where does it say holding a cigarette is prohibited?”
“Where are your eyes even looking?!”
“Go on then, tell me—when did I ever smoke this cigarette?”
“Open your eyes properly when you speak!”
“How am I supposed to smoke a cigarette that isn’t even lit?”
“Or are you saying I must not hold a cigarette in my hand?”
“Well? Try to answer that!”

Kihara Fujitsugu regretted his own hasty words, but more than that, he was infuriated by his opponent’s obstinate attitude.
Just you wait!
Clenching his lips with that resolve, he turned back toward the man.
But just then, the tram came to a stop at the tram stop.
The man was still extending the hand that held the cigarette.
Kihara Fujitsugu stared it down with a fixed gaze.
And because of the two men, five or six passengers found their exit blocked, remaining standing at the tram doorway as they watched how things would unfold.

Holding a Shikishima cigarette in one hand and thrusting it at the conductor while blocking five or six passengers from alighting, this man in Western clothes was Noguchi Shosaku, an employee of the Far East Trading Company.
Though technically incorporated, it was essentially a personal enterprise, and within that small trading firm, he had been a highly capable man relied upon by the president.
His only flaw lay in how poorly alcohol affected him and his quickness to anger.
For this reason, he had often been admonished by the president, and though he himself knew this weakness well, the habit persisted.
When it was decided that an employee would be sent to America combining business affairs with an inspection this time, he had privately expected to be chosen based on both his position and capabilities—yet the president, considering his drinking habits, selected another more temperate employee instead.
From that internal farewell gathering alone, he was now returning.

When heading out to the gathering, he had told his wife, “I might be late tonight.”
In the depths of that resolve, he had intended to drink to his heart’s content at the after-party.
However, after the gathering ended, no one suggested moving on to an after-party, and even when he proposed it himself, no one agreed.
Though he showed nothing on the surface, the alcohol that had been stoking his smoldering resentment now clouded his mind badly, leaving him unable to stay still. He had meant to invite two or three colleagues to slip off somewhere after the gathering, yet somehow ended up lingering strangely late until he stood abandoned alone on the street.
And in half-desperate resolve, he decided he’d go drink and raise hell alone—but just to be safe, he checked his pocket and found only seven or eight yen remaining.
His wife must have once again used her usual method to freely dispose of the contents of his wallet.
He frowned and clicked his tongue, but decided that the lack of funds could be managed somehow, and started walking toward the tram stop, enduring the slight distance to try going to a familiar house.
At that moment, his legs—more unsteady from drink than he’d realized—staggered forward, sending him careening headlong into a utility pole with a sickening thud.
Through his Panama hat, his head rang with a resounding thud, and everything before his eyes went dark.
Everything had become hateful.
Without any particular reason, he changed direction and started heading straight home.

However, inside the tram, he himself—meekly shuffling back before his wife so early—had begun to seem like a foolish, clueless man.
If it was a matter of lacking tact, then his wife who had tampered with his wallet, the president who hadn’t sent him to America, today’s pointless farewell party, the colleagues who hadn’t organized an after-party, the overcrowded tram—absolutely everything lacked tact.
And furthermore, all those things made him feel even more tactless.
He filled his gaze with loathsome resentment and watched the streets pass by.
Thereupon, being spoken to by the conductor, jabbed in the back by the corner of a basket carried by a young porter, and having his shoulder pushed by the conductor, he grew intensely irritated. His innate drunken temper flared up, and his anger-driven mood clung thickly toward the conductor. Further incited by the passengers' gazes, he found himself cornered with no way to retreat.
Partly wanting to deceive himself about it, he kept shouting with inflated bravado until—having nearly lost his composure over that troublesome mention of a supervisor—he ended up committing the cigarette blunder to regain control.
He had somehow managed to extricate himself from that predicament, but under the conductor’s unusually intent gaze and at a loss for how to handle the proffered cigarette, he swept his eyes over the five or six passengers who were blocked from alighting.

At that moment, from the crowd of people standing packed tightly together, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a straw hat and yukata emerged abruptly and suddenly grabbed Noguchi Shosaku by the shoulder.

“Cut the crap! Get the hell off!” bellowed the man in a gut-deep roar, swinging his head toward the conductor. “You’re properly executing your duties, aren’t you? Enforcing the regulations as written?” He wheeled back toward Noguchi Shosaku. “What do you take yourself for, drunkard?! Quit dawdling and get off! You’re blocking everyone’s way! Once you’re down, I’ll settle this myself!”

Noguchi Shosaku stood speechless, eyelids fluttering rapidly. Before he could respond, the straw-hatted man’s brute force pressed him down onto the street as though hurled from the tram. Earlier, the man had stood rigid with arms crossed over his chest.

“If you’d been listening quietly this whole time—what the hell are you? While the conductor’s meekly backing down, you’re getting carried away and pulling off a textbook obstruction of duty. If you’re looking for someone to fight, I’ll take you on. Well then? If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

By now people stood encircling them completely.
"What a mess!" rang out from somewhere.
From the tram's front descended another conductor and the driver.
Kihara Fujitsugu stood slightly apart, tersely relating events' progression.
The tension honing people's emotions showed plain upon their faces.
Noguchi Shosaku—flustered by this unforeseen foe—scanned his surroundings sharply when something weighty anchored itself in his chest.
Whether born from the crowd's ill-willed curiosity, his opponent's multiply-stronger arms, or the murmuring street shadows clustering about—he couldn't tell—but regardless it pressed down upon him.
He took one step then another forward recklessly seeking to cast it off.

“What the hell are you? Barging in from the side—how insolent! Get out of there!”

“What the—!
“Say that again.”
“Idiot!” the man bellowed outright.
“You blocked passengers from boarding and alighting, and on top of that tried to smoke inside the tram—yet you had the gall to confront the conductor instead, as everyone here can see!”
“Don’t think you can act all high and mighty and then blame it on the booze.”
“If you want to run away, apologize to the conductor first, then scram!”
“I won’t let you move an inch from there until you apologize—you’d better believe it. ……Hey, where’d the conductor go?”

However, by that time, Kihara Fujitsugu had already boarded the tram after being whispered to by another conductor and the driver.
And then, leaving behind several passengers driven by curiosity, they started moving the tram.
The man in the straw hat watched it depart and stood dumbfounded, as if taken aback.

Noguchi Shosaku almost instinctively seized that opening.

“Look, you idiot! Who the hell would bother with trash like you?”

Having thrown out those words, he began to retreat two or three steps from the spot.

The man started at the voice and whirled around, but when he saw the profile of Noguchi Shosaku walking away insolently, his thick eyebrows twitched as he clenched both fists.
Noguchi Shosaku sensed that presence and paused his steps for a moment, casting a sidelong glance.

“Stop!” the man shouted.

Struck by the earnest tone of the voice, Noguchi Shosaku came to a halt there, but as if forcibly steeling himself—who had flinched at the man’s roar—he spat vehemently and took another step forward.
In that instant, as he realized spitting had been a mistake, he simultaneously felt his right shoulder being grabbed.

“What are you doing?!”

Before he knew it, his voice came out first—and in that moment of lost self-control—he tried to kick his opponent’s shin with the toe of his right shoe.
As his foot swung through empty air, he took a thunderous punch to the left side of his face.
His vision swam; for an instant he saw a small face baring white teeth.
When he thought Huh? and straightened up—there before his eyes were a white uniform and sword scabbard.

“Now, wait a moment there!”

The police officer was restraining the arm of the man who had raised his fist for a second strike.

And so the three stood frozen for a second or two—the man in the straw hat glaring at Noguchi Shosaku, Noguchi Shosaku gazing blankly at the police officer, and the police officer looking up at the man in the straw hat.

The man in the straw hat and summer kimono who had struck Noguchi Shosaku—this self-righteous figure was Takakura Genzo, a youth not yet thirty, judo instructor at Kitano Middle School and holder of a second-degree certificate from the Kodokan. At that Kitano Middle School, there had been an elderly Chinese classics teacher. Though old-fashioned and narrow-minded, he was an incorruptible, unyielding old man who would not compromise his beliefs by an inch. He had always clashed with the newly appointed principal, a Bachelor of Letters. Then from somewhere, rumors began circulating without reliable basis that he would be dismissed immediately after the semester ended and vacation began. The one who had been more indignant than anyone about those rumors was Takakura Genzo, who respected the elderly teacher's character. After first hearing the rumor at school, he had turned red from five or six cups of sake during dinner while venting his righteous indignation to his good-natured wife. Still unsatisfied even with his wife's sympathetic agreement, he had visited the home of a colleague—a retired military officer turned physical education teacher—where the two vigorously debated their school's cultural decay. However, in the end, talk of dismissing the elderly Chinese classics teacher had proven nothing more than baseless rumor, and devising countermeasures came to seem not only a hasty folly but an unnecessary matter bearing no direct relation to himself. He had returned home nursing an unfulfilled heart. He felt that he himself had been rash and foolish. And in reaction to that, a vague sense of justice swelled in his chest. Planting himself solidly in the tram seat, bracing both elbows on his knees with a gaze that lamented societal trends—while harboring self-deception about his own foolishness—he had glared around at his surroundings. Then the incident involving Noguchi Shosaku and the conductor occurred.

What first grated on Takakura Genzo was Noguchi Shosaku’s overly clever sophistry.
Next, what grated on him was the tie pin glinting on his rayon tie.
A crescent-shaped gold base adorned with a star-shaped diamond—it was an object of oddly effeminate taste.
From the moment he glanced at it, his sense of justice began taking on hues of antagonism.
He could no longer contain himself and finally shoved Noguchi Shosaku down.
And just as he was filled with a sense of victory, the tram and conductor made their escape; the moment he snapped back from that dazed state—feeling he could no longer maintain his dignity—his arms began itching, and he struck his opponent with all his might.
The only misfortune was that he had unwittingly failed to notice Noguchi Shosaku had tried to kick him first.
And with his arm restrained by the police officer, he found himself momentarily at a loss for words of explanation.

“Cut it out,” the police officer said sharply.

Takakura Genzo lowered his hands obediently but turned toward Noguchi Shosaku, who still stood dazed, and declared:

“For a lowlife like you, an iron fist’s the only language that sticks.”

“Enough,” the police officer cut in, restraining him.
“Talk it out calmly and we’ll sort this.”
“What exactly happened here?”

At that moment, Takakura Genzo grasped that the officer remained clueless.
Feeling he’d found justification for his actions, he launched into an explanation from the beginning.
But when he reached the part about the conductor fleeing, his words grew tangled.
He forced himself to continue.

“I thought keeping the conductor detained would trouble the other passengers, so I had the tram depart right away.”
“But when this man tried to flee along with him, I held him back.”

“That’s a lie!” Noguchi Shosaku spoke up for the first time, as though suddenly reinvigorated.
“You struck me out of sheer frustration after losing your grip on the conductor!”
“It’s precisely because the conductor was at fault too that he ran off, isn’t that right?”
“So you lay your lawless fist on me—what explanation do you have for this outcome?”
“Apologize! Apologize this instant!”

“Now, settle down,” the police officer said.

“Like hell this can just be settled as-is!
“You hit someone on the head and then act like nothing happened without even a word of apology—just think about whether that’s acceptable!”
“If you can’t understand, then it’s just a matter of taking you to the police. Hey—say something!”
“Why the hell are you clamming up?”

And he advanced toward Takakura Genzo.

Takakura Genzo, having been cornered in explaining the conductor's escape, had been twitching his thick eyebrows; but when his opponent closed in on him now, he lost all restraint and raised his right fist again.
The moment the police officer grabbed him, he shot out his left hand, and as soon as his fingers snagged Noguchi Shosaku's collar, lashed out with a leg sweep.
The technique connected flawlessly, sending Noguchi Shosaku sprawling onto his back.

“Stop the assault!” shouted the police officer.

“What assault?” Takakura Genzo parroted back. “A bastard like this deserves to be thoroughly punished. It’s because frivolous sophists like this run rampant that society gets corrupted. Even you’ve been fooled by this bastard, and you think that qualifies you to be a police officer? Go wash your face and come back when you’ve got your head straight!”

The police officer forcefully grabbed his wrist.

“You commit assault and then spout abuse?”
“Fine—you’re coming with me to headquarters. Let’s go.”

“What? Taking me to the police... I’ll go.”
“Don’t you regret this later.”
“Come on then.”

Takakura Genzo stepped forward to take the lead, but at that moment, he thought he glimpsed a familiar face in the crowd. He halted and sharply scanned the surrounding throng, but no such face could be found. Yet this sent a sliver of caution into his mind. The possibility that school students might be among this crowd triggered thoughts of school... his teaching position... reputation... until the stigma of being dragged to the police station suddenly struck him. He stood frozen there, trapped between action and retreat.

“What are you dawdling for?” urged the police officer.

Takakura Genzo paid no heed to that.
He stared fixedly at the ground, lost in thought for a while. Then suddenly, a good idea came to mind.
If he took that man along with him, his justification would hold.

“Let’s have this bastard taken along too,” he said.

“Of course,” the police officer responded.

And the two men turned back toward where Noguchi Shosaku should have been standing upright.
However, there was no one there.
Even when they scanned the area, not a trace of him remained.
The two men stood dumbfounded.

"He got away!" someone from the crowd called out.
Then came mocking laughter.

It was the police officer who felt particularly struck in the chest by that mocking tone.

Numata Eikichi, a police officer affiliated with Fukusaka Police Station, had a particular worry that day.
For four or five days now, his child had been running a fever exceeding thirty-nine degrees Celsius daily.
The doctor could not definitively diagnose any specific illness.
Given various symptoms and seasonal factors, there was suspicion of typhus.
When he heard this, Numata Eikichi was deeply troubled.
If it indeed proved to be typhus, there would be infection risks for his two other children—particularly high for his wife nursing the sick child—and their impoverished family’s collapse seemed as clear as day.
Moreover, should an infectious disease patient emerge from a police officer’s household—one responsible for overseeing neighborhood sanitation—he felt he could never face his station colleagues or neighbors again.
The typhus diagnosis was supposed to be confirmed that very day.
His wife should have delivered the child’s stool and urine samples to the doctor that morning; test results were expected by noon or evening at latest.
He had considered taking the day off until knowing the outcome.
Yet unwilling to tarnish his hard-earned reputation for diligence or betray his sense of duty, he steeled himself and reported for work.
If confirmed as typhus, his wife was to notify him immediately per their arrangement.
He had waited for that message all day in anxious trepidation.
But come evening—through cruel coincidence—an abrupt staff shortage saw him ordered onto night watch duty.
Though he accepted the command briskly, standing before the police box made his heart churn with restless agitation.
Two thoughts roiled violently in his mind: first, the tormenting uncertainty about typhus; second, whether to beg the doctor for concealment to protect his reputation if confirmed, or sacrifice everything to follow protocol—this agonizing conflict between private and public duty.

Meanwhile, time passed.

And he had come upon the fight between Takakura Genzo and Noguchi Shosaku.

Initially, he had intended to approach with as mild an attitude as possible and safely reconcile the two.
However, the smile he tried to muster and the gentle tone he forced into his voice—worn down by the anxiety and fatigue that had plagued him since morning—stiffened awkwardly mid-attempt, freezing into unnatural rigidity.
While distracted by this effort, the two men’s argument continued to escalate until the first act of violence occurred.
He lost his composure more completely than ever before.
Having been berated by Takakura Genzo, he found himself flaring up with an intensity that surprised even him.
Then, when Noguchi Shosaku escaped and he faced jeering from the crowd, he gripped the hilt of his police sword with one hand.
Even so, he couldn’t speak immediately.
But the other man had beaten him to action.

“Now that that man’s disappeared, I alone have no obligation to go to the police.”
“I’m done here.”

And Takakura Genzo started walking a couple of steps.
Numata Eikichi grabbed his wrist again.

“In any case, you’ll accompany me to the main station.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“What’s the point of me going alone?”
“Go find that man and bring him here!”
“If that man’s with me, I’ll go anytime.”
“Isn’t it your responsibility that he got away?”
“Go catch him and bring him here!”
“I’ll wait right here like this—no running, no hiding.”
“Even if you drag me off alone and try to pin the responsibility on me, I won’t have it!”

“However, you are ultimately the one who committed the assault, so accompanying me to headquarters is only natural.”
“Once we’re at headquarters, you can say whatever you need to say.”

And Numata Eikichi tried to take him into custody.
He knocked away the grasping hand.

“Are you determined to defy me to the end?” said Numata Eikichi, fixing his gaze on the man’s face.

For some time now, Numata Eikichi had been sniffing out a latent criminality in this man. The blunder of letting the other suspect slip away had abruptly—almost excessively—heightened his awareness of his position as a police officer. Now only his eyes gleamed with the sharp intensity befitting an officer of the law.

Those eyes resembled a magnifying glass.

From Takakura Genzo’s exposed chest matted with black hair, his thick fingertips, slightly curled earlobes, the faint sagging at the corners of his mouth, and above all, that unnervingly persistent stare brimming with obstinate intent and confusion… Numata extracted an exaggerated measure of criminality—the sort anyone might harbor—and wielded it to condemn him.

Even without major crimes, he believed he could force some minor transgression to surface.

This meager consolation would have to suffice.

The more the man tried to escape, the more tenaciously Numata entangled himself.

“Since you refuse to accompany me to the main station, there must be something you’re hiding.”
“If you’ve got nothing to hide, then come along.”
“In any case, since you’ve committed an assault in public, overlooking this would harm public order.”
“As a police officer, I won’t be able to fulfill my duty.”
“If you’re innocent, I’ll release you immediately.”
“Come with me now.”

Takakura Genzo kept his lips tightly shut and didn’t move an inch.
Within that bulky frame, he seemed to be wavering over some decision.
Observing this demeanor, Numata Eikichi felt a jolt of surprise but feigned nonchalance as he waited for the other man’s response.

Three, four seconds—the tense silence continued.
The crowd continued to swell, all holding their breath in anticipation.
The hushed whispers from the back further thickened the air of unease.

However, the silence was broken in an unexpected manner.
From within the crowd emerged a rather elderly man wearing a Panama hat pulled low over his eyes, dressed in a tailored light brown Western-style suit and clutching a thick-gripped cane, who stepped forward briskly and came to a halt before the two men.

“Why don’t you both stop this now? Wouldn’t it be wiser for you to part ways peaceably?”

Because the voice’s tone was unnervingly composed, Numata Eikichi stepped back and assessed the situation.

“I fully understand your professional considerations,” the man pressed on, “but given that the other man has already fled too, I suppose it would be best to leave things here. As a favor to me, I ask that you withdraw from this matter.”

And then he took out a business card from his pocket wallet and handed it to Numata Eikichi.

Numata Eikichi suspiciously received it and lowered his eyes from the man's face to the business card.
On the business card was printed in bold typeface: Tokyo District Court Prosecutor Ando Ryutaro.

Numata Eikichi involuntarily straightened his posture.

Ando Ryutaro, the senior prosecutor at the district court whose name even Officer Numata knew, had delivered his prosecutorial statement in court that day.
It concerned a certain beautiful woman involved in the lover murder case that had been sensationalized in the newspapers.
Through that preliminary investigation report, he had discerned ample room for extenuating circumstances and prepared a fairly lenient draft of his prosecutorial statement.
However, upon seeing the defendant’s profile in the courtroom, he had—due to some inexplicable emotion—recalled his former lover.
Although it was something that had never happened before and since it occurred in the sacred courtroom, he himself was taken aback, but his emotions were strangely drawn in that direction, and his eyes of hatred were pulled toward the defendant until he could no longer control it.
Although his current success had indeed been the product of his resolve after being abandoned by his lover during his days of hardship, it seemed that only resentment had taken root deep in his heart.
It suddenly surfaced and thoroughly disrupted his prosecutorial statement.
He skipped over the extenuating circumstances that should have been considered, inserted general moral arguments instead, and concluded that severe yet somehow inconsistent prosecutorial statement with heavy sentencing demands.
A rather unexpected atmosphere hung over the courtroom.
And he himself had been most acutely aware of that atmosphere.
When he left the courtroom, he felt relieved as if waking from a nightmare.
The phantom of his former lover vanished, leaving behind only the awareness of his blunder.
He resolved to compensate for it through future arguments and had at least gained intellectual composure for the time being, but he couldn’t quite attain immediate mental calm.
He spent a long time in the courtroom and then wandered around Ginza.
And as he did so, his mind began to turn toward a strange—yet to him, utterly natural—direction.
He wanted somehow to use his own power to quell the petty squabbles between people and have them clasp each other’s hands in reconciliation.

After delivering a lenient prosecutorial statement, he would feel harsh; after a harsh one, he would feel lenient—this was his usual psychological tendency. And now, embracing a benevolent, gentlemanly state of mind, he encountered the confrontation between Takakura Genzo and Numata Eikichi. In his excessive desire for reconciliation between the two, he thrust his business card without considering either the parties involved or the situation.

“It would be better to handle matters peacefully—that would be for everyone’s benefit,” he said.

“Yes, sir!” Numata Eikichi answered, standing rigid as a pole.

“I’m on familiar terms with the chief of Fukusaka Station, so I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“I’ll shoulder full responsibility to ensure this isn’t counted as negligence of your duties.”
“And your name is?”

Numata Eikichi flinched slightly.
After a moment’s hesitation, he suddenly bowed his head.

“At least my name—I beg you to spare me that.”

Ando Ryutaro formed a faint smile.
Then he tapped the man’s shoulder in a comforting manner and said:

“There’s no need to worry, you.
If you don’t wish to say, I would rather not hear it either.
So you’ll take over from here, then?”

“Yes. If you say so, I will take over.”

Even so, he once again shot a sharp glance toward Takakura Genzo.
Ando Ryutaro followed that gaze and turned back toward Takakura Genzo.

“You shouldn’t be so stubborn either.
In any case, it would be advisable to refrain from resorting to physical force.
You never know what injuries the other party might sustain, you see.”

Takakura Genzo looked utterly dejected and hung his head in silence.
Ando Ryutaro observed this, then shifted his gaze to scrutinize Numata Eikichi’s composed expression, before surveying the quiet crowd in one sweep—feeling a ticklish sense of satisfaction.
And then he lightly moved his head and nodded to his own chest.
Even he himself didn’t understand what it was, but by doing so, a vague sense of complacent affirmation settled comfortably in his chest.

There, he slightly twisted the tip of his mustache and, wearing a pleasant smile, said to no one in particular:

"Well then, I'll take my leave."

But his heart was saying, "Farewell."
Clutching that sentiment to his chest, he paused briefly before taking three or four steps forward.

At that moment, a considerably large stone came flying out of nowhere and struck him squarely on his right collarbone as he was leaning back slightly.

"Ah!" he cried out involuntarily and pressed his palm against his collarbone.

The one who threw the stone was Yano Koichi, a sixteen-year-old delinquent boy and the son of a boardinghouse owner.
At that moment, he was standing with Saeki Michiko, also a delinquent girl of the same age.

Yano Koichi had long been drawn to Saeki Michiko.
However, fearing the prevailing attitude among his peers that frowned upon overt male-female relationships among comrades—and being self-conscious about his acne-ridden face—he refrained from making blatant advances.
Yet when he cautiously probed her feelings in private, a self-conceited notion welled up within him—that she too held some interest in his direction.
And so whenever an opportunity arose, he devised ways for them to be alone together.
That evening too, he happened to meet Michiko, and the two went to see a movie.
As he crouched on the seat holding his breath, her warmth reached him.
Finally unable to restrain himself, he gently grasped her hand.
She remained still for a while but eventually shook off his hand.
He was completely flustered.
To make matters worse, she declared they should leave because it was boring without waiting for the movie to end.
He followed dejectedly behind her.
As they wandered the streets with no particular destination, an odd tightness began rising in his chest—exactly like when he would lose himself in thoughts of her alone.
And then, unable to bear it any longer, he tentatively ventured to say.

“Are you angry?”

“What are you talking about?!”

Without turning around to answer, she walked off stiffly.

“It’s because I did that.”

“What thing?”

He spat loudly.
Glancing sidelong at it, she giggled.

“What are you laughing at?!”

“Are you angry?” she asked this time.

“Cut it out with the innocent act already.”

“My, I wonder which one of us is really playing innocent here?”

“It’s you.”

“Isn’t it you?”
“Grabbing someone’s hand like that…”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I hate that! Such sloppy behavior!”

“Hey Michiko, are you being serious?”
“So you hate me, huh?”

“I don’t dislike you.”

“Then what’s wrong?”
“I’m serious.”
“Hey, won’t you be my sweetheart?”
“Being pals is fine too.”
“I’m really trying my hardest here.”
“I’d do anything for you.”
“Wouldn’t mind going to prison even.”
“Tell me to do it and I’ll jump.”
“C’mon, it’s okay right?”

“Could be good… could be bad…” she sang out.

“Then do whatever you want! Like I care!” he snapped with feigned anger.

“No need to get all worked up,” she countered. “...Aren’t we walking together right now?”

“What’s even the point of just walking around?”

She jabbed her index finger into his cheek—artificially puffed out in a pout—making him erupt in involuntary laughter.

As they walked along having such conversations, the two came upon a crowd.
And Yano Koichi, leading Michiko along, ended up watching the entire fight between Noguchi Shosaku and Takakura Genzo from start to finish.
When Takakura cleanly threw Noguchi down with a leg sweep, he nearly clapped his hands without thinking.
He had harbored resentment toward Police Officer Numata from the beginning.
“He ran away,” was also what he said.
Then, seeing Takakura—despite his hulking frame—acting so oddly dejected before Numata, he found it unbearably frustrating.
However, when Ando appeared and began speaking in an unusually arrogant manner, it slightly irritated him, and his resentment toward Numata shifted toward Ando.
That alone might have been tolerable, but from the moment Ando familiarly clapped Numata on the shoulder—though unnoticed by the three men at the center—a peculiar agitation began spreading through the crowd, particularly in its rear ranks.

At first, it was an atmosphere barely perceptible enough to be sensed, but the crowd's bated silence and hushed whispers became engulfed within this ambiance until they coalesced into a great soundless roar. Unconsciously, everyone's mood, whipped up by that commotion, was woven into a single thread of anxiety. It was something smoldering—neither quite dissatisfaction nor resentment, nor yet anticipation—something straining to break free on its own accord. This seething tension was being directly manipulated by strings from Ando Ryutaro’s words and actions. When he wore his trademark smile and nodded smugly to himself, the uneasy atmosphere surged to new heights.

While each individual remained lost in wordless self-abandonment, none proved more sensitive to that collective tension permeating the crowd—a mood where the mass somehow sensed something imminent—than Yano Koichi, thoroughly accustomed to crowd dynamics.
He sensed that mood and simultaneously became swept up by it.
With his heart pounding, he kept watching Ando Ryutaro’s every move through gaps between the people standing before him, peering as if through a knothole.
When Ando Ryutaro spoke his final words, the collective mood of one part within the crowd reached its peak—poised either to collapse or explode.
However, reaching that breaking point proved far from easy—particularly for such a minor incident—and during Ando Ryutaro’s brief pause, matters had already begun crumbling away. By the time he took his first step forward, whatever tension might have erupted lay crushed beneath his feet, leaving behind only a receding wave-like disturbance.
Yano Koichi felt that blow resonate deep in his chest.
Quivering with indescribable resentment, he looked around and met Michiko’s intently focused gaze—apparently immersed in the same emotions as himself.
That became a tremendous force.
“I’ll take care of him,” he whispered into her ear while picking up a conveniently located stone fragment at his feet, then flung it at Ando Ryutaro’s face—who was slowly approaching them—as he retreated backward.

Yano Koichi took in the entire scene at a glance—Ando Ryutaro crying out and clutching his right shoulder, Numata Eikichi rushing out only to find his path blocked by the crowd, and the mass of people suddenly erupting into chaotic uproar.
Then, taking Michiko's hand—she who followed right behind him—he swiftly wove through the human figures with feigned nonchalance and emerged beyond the disordered ring of onlookers.
No one was paying attention to the area in the direction opposite from where the stone had come.
Even so, he quickened his pace slightly and turned into a dimly lit side street.
After a while, he looked back, but there was no sign of anyone following.
He slowed his pace and looked back at Michiko.

“How about that!”

With a smile in her eyes that still held a shadow of unease, she responded to his words and gaze.
And they tightened their grip on each other's clasped hands.
He squeezed back just as firmly.

And so, Yano Koichi became utterly happy.
Having forgotten everything, with lighthearted clarity, he let out a piercing whistle and—riding its lingering note—launched straight into a march.
And the sound of his whistle wound through twisting back alleys before fading toward the desolate shrine grounds.