Pathway to Japanese Literature

When Chidori Namigorō, a former maegashira of the lowest rank, retired from sumo and decided to open a tonkatsu shop, the shop curtain he had ordered from the local dyer arrived emblazoned in bold calligraphy with the phrases "Boasting Skill," "Edo-Style Tonkatsu," and "Drunken Stagger."

When Chidori Nami stormed off to confront them in a rage, the dyer’s assistant Sabu-chan was left dumbfounded,

“Huh, that’s weird.”
“But you’re the one who ordered it that way, aren’t you?”

“Don’t you dare mock me.”
“I’m telling you, my fury’s piercing the heavens!”
“Even if I’m down and out, the name Chidori Nami still carries weight in this town.”
“I’ll have you know—this body’s been honed through training. I’m no blockhead who gets drunk on three or five shō of gulped sake and forgets his own words!”

“That’s no way for you to get angry.”
“It’s common knowledge around here you’re no blockhead.”
“But hey, shouldn’t get so worked up.”
“There’s proper evidence for this.”
“Don’t know whose brat it was, but you sent them with written instructions.”
“Look here—the evidence’s right here.”
“This chicken scratch handwriting I recognize.”
“Regarding the shop curtain: change to ‘Boasting Skill,’ ‘Edo-Style Tonkatsu,’ ‘Drunken Stagger’ as above.”
“On dark brown cloth: characters in light brown, undyed.”
“How about that?”

“Hah! So you’re the one who did it.”
“So you went and did it!”

He immediately grabbed the dyer’s assistant Sabu-chan by the wrist and refused to let go, gripping the evidence in one hand as he summoned four individuals: Shin-chan, the pawnshop owner’s son; Nobu-chan, the coffee shop owner; Ton-chan, the clock/radio shop owner; and Han-chan, the sake wholesaler.

“Listen up, got it?
“The six of us gathered here are true sons of Edo.”
“We’re true-blue folks born and raised right in the heart of Shitamachi’s Edo.”
“We went to the same elementary school; the same commercial school; childhood friends who’ve helped and been helped by one another; confiding secrets to each other that we even keep from our wives—the six of us alone! Isn’t ours a relationship of mutual support?”
“It’s precisely because we’re that close that we’ve pulled quite a few pranks on each other over the years.”
“But there’s a limit to everything.”
“Even if it’s my dinky little shop, opening it up is a matter of pride.”
“Let the culprit step forward like a man.”
“You there in the corner!”

“Hmm, when you speak of ‘that corner,’ do you mean the one resembling Hasegawa Kazuo, or perhaps Uehara Ken?”

“Don’t screw around. It’s you—the one who carved an anglerfish’s eyes and nose into a catfish’s jaw.”

“Heh heh heh. A difference in subjective perception, I suppose. What one doesn’t understand remains beyond one’s grasp. Therefore, I must inform you of the matter regarding ‘Sa’—”

“What’s this about ‘Sa’?”

“That would be you.”
“Didn’t an entire geisha troupe come carousing here this New Year’s?”
“At that time—when literary geisha Ko-Kin-chan challenged Literary Sumo Gorō-chan to a duel—there arose quite the intellectual clash.”
“When Ko-Kin-chan proposed ‘What of Sartre?’—that was when our esteemed wrestler responded, was it not?”
“‘Ah, Monsieur Sartre.’”
“‘I’ve perused two or three volumes, but he simply won’t do.’”
“Since that day, the very name ‘Monsieur Sartre’ has reverberated through every alleyway of our neighborhood.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?”
“It’s you!”
“You’re the one who gave that speech at the elementary school graduation ceremony—”
“‘From now on, democracy—that is, the age of culture—is upon us.’”
“‘Since swordsmanship is obsolete, we must embrace art as our companion.’”
“‘Both swordsmanship and art are mere techniques.’”
“‘If they’re both techniques, what difference does it make?’”
“You’re talking gibberish.”
“We are descendants of Edo Kissui townspeople.”
“Our ancestors knew nothing of swordsmanship yet made art their ally.”
“Even then, it was eroticism.”
“But gentlemen, eroticism too must become art.”
“This is the very duty imposed upon us today.”
“You’re a damn fool.”

“Heh heh heh.”
“Let’s not dwell on the past.”
“However, I must inform you, Mr. Sa—this culprit is quite the big shot.”
“Since it’s a sumo shop, ‘boasting skill’—this makes perfect sense.”
“Edo-style tonkatsu—this is good.”
“It has a mellow flavor.”
“If someone were to start a shop called something like *Sartre Sushi*, we all firmly agreed we’d cut ties with them.”
“Drunken stagger—now, this is good too.”
“Persisting in petty stubbornness is a disgrace to an Edo native—so cut it out.”
“This isn’t some criminal matter—it’s that a person of proper learning, taking pity on that man, has arranged this for the sake of society and others.”
“Being shackled to a commonplace sumo name like Chidori Nami is a disgrace for a fine young man like you.”
“Chidori Nami? How ridiculous.”
“Plovers were flying over the Sumida River; perhaps your sumo name was inspired by ukiyo-e prints—it’s what you call a period fabrication.”
“You’re no better—aren’t you the one who can’t even dance a single step, Mr. Sartre?”

It was Shin-chan the pawnshop owner’s son who had said this, and because of that, he incurred Chidori Nami’s resentment as the definite culprit—but the true culprit was not Shin-chan.

Kōya no Sabu-chan was the culprit.
He had done the prank on a whim, but now that it was too late to confess, he made a new shop curtain instead—and on top of that, refused to pay for either of them.
As they say, you reap what you sow—the outcome of misdeeds is indeed never good.

★

The pawnshop business was not held in high public esteem.
Yet no one spoke ill of black-market dealers or unlicensed businesses, so there was no reason to cling so stubbornly to a family trade passed down through generations.

Fortunately, a soba shop in the neighborhood was put up for sale, so he bought it and started a coffee shop. Friends were a blessing; they’d bring things like Osilco bowls from antique stores simply because they were there, and Chidori Nami and the others proved useful in such times. They’d bring a rice cake mortar, hanging it like a handbag with casual ease.

“This soba shop’s too big.”
“When customers get crammed into some tiny place, they keep coming back saying ‘That joint’s popular’ or ‘The grub’s good.’”
“Stick someone all alone in some wide-open space, they’ll never show their face again.”
“Make the shop smaller.”

“Even if you tell me to make the existing shop smaller, it’s impossible.”
“It’s not as if I can just tear part of it off.”

“You’re an idiot.”
“Big or small—it’s all about perception.”
“Cram chairs and tables every which way—like, since empty spaces make a place feel bigger, stuff Christmas tree-sized planters into every gap you find.”

“Ah! Now I get it.”
“Then let’s go buy those right away, Champion.”

“You bastard, treating me like some damn deliveryman.”

Even as he grumbled such things, they would go out of their way to select and deliver stylish planters—friends truly are a blessing. However, due to the dyer incident, they couldn’t afford to let their guard down even a little, not knowing when retaliation might come.

The visage seen in dreams—O, ’tis that person.
The distant fragrance of nostalgia, and the resplendent exoticism; rain falls in the streets, and by the window’s light, the sorrows of humankind begin.
A quiet perambulation in broad daylight.
O nostalgic shop that reflects the shadow of your heart in all of them.
Poignant intellect, lost time, the modern agony born of Kierkegaard’s lamentations—O, and even the merry pierrot.
Partake in the Blues of the Heart.
The shop that becomes the eternal homeland for people of wisdom and refined taste, the shop of 20.5th-century whispers and atmosphere, the shop of sweet flavor—it is “Sasa no Eda” that awaits your visit.
How faint, yet how profound.

This was Shin-chan’s grand opening promotional material—he would mail it to acquaintances, distribute it to nearby companies and shops, look up geisha through the registry and send it to them, and hand it out in front of girls’ schools.

Chidori Nami, who was surprised after reading this,

“I was disappointed! You’re this much of a fool? What’s this drivel? ‘The rain falls—O, that person—’ What drunken rambling is this? *20.5th-century whisper.* What’s a 20.5th century?”

“It’s half of the twentieth century now.”

“You fool.”
“As for this last part—‘How faint, yet how profound’—hey Shin-chan, are you saying that translating ‘Yours sincerely’ into modern language becomes your kind of jargon here?”

“You’re an obtuse person.”
“You’re being pedantic.”
“If you read every line with logic, you’ll never grasp this wit.”
“I, you see, carefully devised this text through thorough consideration.”
“The very essence lies in its incomprehensibility.”
“A logically structured opening notice wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye.”
“First off—you don’t even know who this text targets, do you?”
“This isn’t meant for men.”
“Scholars of high intellect don’t frequent coffee shops like this.”
“The enemy is exclusively women.”
“Flighty young things, you see.”
“If they read such absurd writing—geisha, office ladies, schoolgirls—they’ll roll about laughing in scorn like you.”
“‘What a bizarre shop,’ they’ll say—or ‘a den of scatterbrained turbulence.’”
“But here’s the thing.”
“Ladies invariably feel compelled to mock oddities and scatterbrained turbulence.”
“Just watch—once they come to taste our scatterbrained turbulence café’s wares, customers will flock in without fail.”
“This is what’s called deep strategy and foresight.”

“Even though you can only write this kind of drivel, don’t go putting on airs.”

“Ehehe.”
“A gentleman of bare-bones business wouldn’t comprehend.”
“I merely applied a dash of psychology.”

When they opened for business, exactly as intended, flighty young women came flocking in droves.

Since he had specifically targeted female customers as his clientele, he did not use women as servers, kept his wife out of sight in the back of the shop, and hired three male university students as waitstaff.

There was a reason for choosing three: adding them to the neighborhood’s group of six would make nine, forming a baseball team.

Thus it was decided to hold the game at the neighborhood park’s baseball field. Both teams assembled in full formation, spectators gathered, and just as the match was about to begin, Shin-chan pulled something from a furoshiki bundle.

When the university students climbed the pine tree at the field and hung it high beyond anyone’s reach, they found it was something like a flag measuring three meters square,

Atmosphere, Chic, and Flavor Shop; Sweets Parlor; Sasa no Eda Baseball Team

It was boldly written as follows.

Next, as Shin-chan—guarding home plate—suddenly stripped off his jacket, a flashy uniform appeared, its back boldly embroidered with “Sasa no Eda Master” instead of a professional player number.
Everyone gasped in surprise, but it was already too late.
Shin-chan waved his mask,

“Everyone, give it your all!”
“You got that?!”

The whole group were treated like menial servants of the Atmosphere and Chic shop.
In the middle of the game, the master of Sasa no Eda went around greeting the spectators and, under the guise of soliciting patronage, distributed the aforementioned opening pamphlets to everyone.
Since they were all pawnbrokers who knew the sting of business risks all too well, even if outmaneuvered in such matters, they couldn’t bring themselves to get angry, given their own shortcomings.

The master of Sasa no Eda did not leave his shop to others; he appeared before each customer to greet them, saying, “Ah, I am the proprietor here—how is the taste? How are the sweets?”—inquiring after their satisfaction and currying favor.

“Ehehe.”
“The prosperity of my establishment is due to the charm concentrated solely within my person, you see.”

“Don’t spout crap.”
“Go ask around the red-light district.”
“The ladies all say you’re a smirking creep with nicotine-yellowed teeth and dead-fish eyes.”

“That precise reaction was my target from the start.”
“These days, everything comes down to psychological principles.”
“Push persistently against expectations, and they’ll inevitably pull you toward success—that’s the formula.”

However, it happened one day.

Three girls who seemed to be office workers arrived.
They each had two cups of oshiruko, leaned their heads together, and whispered in consultation.
The discussion became tangled, going around in circles with no sign of settling.
While intently observing this, something flashed through his mind by way of psychological principles, so he eagerly stepped forward,

“Ah, understood, understood.”
“This must be your third consultation.”
“You may settle the payment at your earliest convenience.”
“I look forward to your continued patronage—I am the proprietor of Sasa no Eda.”

And delivered the third serving of the sweet portion.
The girls were delighted, borrowed money to cover the shortfall, and left, but about a week later, only one of them returned and,

“I have something to discuss with Master. Could we speak in another room?”

“Huffing breathlessly, ‘Well then—this way.’”

and guided her to a room on the second floor.
The girl showed not the slightest hint of hesitation,

“I’d like to work at this shop—could you consider hiring me?”

“Might I inquire as to your reasons?”

“Though I’m currently employed at a company, the work there doesn’t suit my disposition.”
“I’ve come to keenly realize this kind of work aligns perfectly with my nature.”
“I found this shop’s ambiance particularly appealing, and moreover, in matters of taste, there exists a shared alignment between us.”
“It concerns reviving old Japan through exoticism.”
“That’s a meaningful pursuit—no, an imperative that must absolutely be achieved.”
“Feeling such profound resonance with this vision, I resolved to abandon both my corporate position and acting aspirations to work here.”

“So, are you an actress?”

“No, but I did take the actress exam.”
“Not necessarily a movie actress.”
“I’ve thought about becoming a vocalist—or rather, doing opera—but with *Madame Butterfly*, I wanted to try expressing that through the character of a modern Japanese woman.”

“So did you take the opera exam too?”

“No, exams are meaningless.”
“The judges are incompetent and old-fashioned.”
“The movements of this new era—the new Atmosphere—intellectual newcomers... Their understanding of such things amounts to zero.”
“But no—that’s just trite.”
“The lament of misunderstood artists belongs to the past.”
“That’s why I don’t dwell on it.”

“So, you’re confident in vocal music, then.”
“No—not pop songs or such—but proper soprano work? Like ‘Ah-ah-ah Brr-brr-brr,’ quivering up to a screeching high note?”

“Naturally.”

“Ah, I see.”
“Still, what a waste.”
“Someone like me—well, I am as I am—but a person of your rare gifts really ought to cultivate them.”

And then, a scheme suddenly surfaced in his mind.

"If you were to work at this shop, it would be my honor. However, as you can see, given our establishment's nature—where ninety-nine percent of customers are women—we consider it preferable to employ male waitstaff rather than those of the same sex. That’s why we have three male college students working here."
"Therefore, we must keep female employees at arm's length—regrettable but unavoidable."
"But..."
"I do have one lead."
"A close friend of mine named Chidori Nami—a former sumo wrestler—runs a tonkatsu restaurant bearing his name in this neighborhood; a place where you drink sake with fried cutlets. This man happens to be seeking a beautiful waitress at present."

“I hate drink shops.”

“No, you’re absolutely right.”
“However, there’s a reason behind it.”
“Chidori Nami remains unmarried—”

“How rude.”
“Do you think I’m considering marriage?”
“Absurd.”
“Utterly clueless.”
“I detest you.”

“Not so—not so at all.”
“Don’t leap to conclusions.”
“I merely stated his unmarried status.”
“The essence lies elsewhere.”
“This tonkatsu shop retains patronage from his sumo days—all regulars present—the finest patrons among local drinking spots gather here.”
"There exists a trio appearing nightly without fail around nine."
"Gentlemen of forty to forty-five years—Ō-san, Yā-san, Tsū-san they call each other—ostensibly a trading firm president, wholesaler master, factory owner; truly a film executive, famed composer, producer."

The effect was immediate; the girl’s face tensed up.

“These three are the top brass of the film, music, and performing arts industry.”
“Even if they say they’re recruiting new faces, those who gather at such times are mostly rejects—they’re always combing the streets for hidden talent.”
“Especially a new face who can sing—this is precisely the rare gem they desperately crave.”
“For someone of your talent to become a mere waitress at some eatery—that’s utterly beneath you.”
“How about this?”
“Why not play innocent? Lower yourself to being a waitress here and lie in wait for your chance.”

“Hmm. That’s rather scandalous too.”
“Not entirely without merit.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be bad to try.”

“Yes, precisely.”
“The honorable trio will be delighted.”
“A rarity in this world—that is to say, genius.”
“To be candid,”
“In fact, there was once a woman who similarly lowered herself to become a waitress at Chidori Nami’s establishment.”
“This person lacked talent.”
“She herself had no confidence, you understand.”
“And so,”
“She schemed to advance through seductive ploys—a hopelessly trite approach.”
“When dealing with gentlemen of such standing, nothing irritates more than these ubiquitous schemers angling for stardom through coquetry.”
“They’ve grown thoroughly sick of it.”
“Thus, those with true talent need only frankly exhibit their gifts.”
“Indeed, you’d do better not to court their favor at all.”
“Therefore, when the three gentlemen appear, abandon service altogether—maintain an innocent demeanor and sing.”
“Your soprano voice.”
“Should you affect undue cheerfulness, you’ll appear grasping. Instead, present them your sternest countenance—a veritable Buddha’s scowl—yet reveal your talent with unaffected naturalness.”

Needless to say, the trio known as Ō-san, Yā-san, and Tsū-san were merely individuals who outwardly claimed those titles and had no connection whatsoever to the entertainment world.
Contrary to expectations, they appeared at first glance to be gentlemen of some modern refinement, but in truth formed a self-styled nationalist group with thoroughly old-fashioned tastes—people who detested nothing more profoundly than a soprano’s quivering "Ah-ah-ah" vibrato.

Since Soprano-jō had said, “Well, I suppose it’s not a bad idea,” he dashed off with a “Alright, I’ll go negotiate with Chidori Nami—wait here a sec!” and hurried to the tonkatsu shop,

“Today I’ve brought some terrific news.”
“There’s a refined and charming young lady among my customers—a person of proper lineage, well, a daughter from one of those fallen distinguished families that’s all the rage these days.”
“She’s currently working as an office clerk, but since office work doesn’t suit her, she applied to work at my shop—but my business caters to women, so I can’t employ a female waitress.”
“It’s a shame, but there’s nothing to be done.”
“It’d be a pity for such a young lady at this tonkatsu shop of yours—but I’d be even more frustrated if she got snatched up by someone else without us knowing! So I persuaded her and made her agree.”
“She said she didn’t want some common drink shop, mind you.”
“After all—stunningly beautiful! Modern! Refined! Charming! Sharp-witted! To have someone like her in a run-of-the-mill drinking hole like this? A travesty! But for friendship’s sake—well! Can’t coddle women forever! So I hardened my heart and made her agree.”

“No need to be so stingy.”
“With that many fancy words, I can already tell she’s no good.”
“We need the help, so it can’t be helped.”
“If she’s not some monster, I’ll hire her—so bring her here.”

“At first glance—don’t get flustered. In this neighborhood, when it comes to male New Faces, it’s settled in everyone’s eyes that I’m the one—but on the female side, even if you bundle up all the geisha from the pleasure district, the New Face would be you. They’re people of fine taste and learning, so be courteous.”

With that, he handed over Soprano-jō.

★

That night, nine o'clock arrived, and the usual esteemed trio appeared.

The esteemed trio were this shop’s most valued patrons.
Therefore, he had provided preparatory knowledge about the regulars in advance,

“Listen up.”
“Among those regulars, the three people who appear every night without fail at nine o’clock—Ō-san, Yā-san, and Tsū-san—these three are the ultra-special customers.”
“Among them, Yā-san is self-conscious about his bald head, so you must never, under any circumstances, mention baldness.”
“Ō-san has a habit of reciting Kiyomoto’s ‘San’ya’ when he gets drunk—when he does, you must say ‘How refined!’”
“In the hospitality trade, you mustn’t speak the truth—but these days geisha put on airs as critics, cornering customers and botching everything.”
“We sumo people understood the etiquette of customer service.”
“Tsū-san has a bad intestine, so about once every five minutes, he lets out a big fart.”
“When that happens, you mustn’t laugh.”
“Farts aren’t funny in the slightest.”
“If you tried letting one out yourself, you’d understand.”
“If she notices someone is about to let out a fart, and the consideration to tactfully clatter stacked dishes to cover the sound flashes through her mind, that would be truly refined.”
“Since this is a shop that sells flavor, excessive charm is unnecessary—but grace and brightness are essential.”

With that concluding remark, he delivered his instructions.

Observing her handling of customers from evening onward, she was a complete amateur, and her deviation from standard practices was amusing.
Even among ordinary amateur girls, this one seemed particularly careless in her conduct and rough in demeanor.
However, while she appeared to lack feminine gentleness and refinement, there was an uncontrived allure about her—one might say, as Shin-chan had put it—a certain charm.
Thus, rather than seeming crude, she gave an impression of untamed spontaneity while simultaneously radiating striking freshness.
Her face remained utterly devoid of smiles—a stern countenance—yet this too carried a sense of artless innocence that didn't displease people.
Her features were slightly better than average.
Since she gave a more cultivated impression than anticipated, he found himself inwardly delighted, thinking she might prove an unexpected treasure.

At last, nine o'clock arrived, and the esteemed trio made their entrance.

"Hey, come on in!"

He welcomed them in a special tone and signaled to the woman with a look.

"This is the new waitress we've hired. She's a complete amateur, unaccustomed to customer service, so her actions may lack polish—but since all our customers are folks who find satisfaction in drink and food alone, perhaps her charm will shine through instead. Like me, I humbly ask for your continued patronage."

Even though he had introduced her like that, there was no sign of her approaching to greet them.
"Since she’s inexperienced, just leave her be," Chidori Nami thought without concern,

“Hey, Sake Flask.”
“Pour the sake.”

While cooking, he occasionally glanced toward the woman, but she remained in a corner, glaring fixedly with a resolute posture, showing no sign of even considering pouring sake into the flask.

Hmm, had something happened? Even when he turned around, there was nothing amiss in the customers’ seats. If he wasn’t careful, this one might’ve had an epileptic fit—though in sumo audiences, you’d encounter someone foaming at the mouth three or four times a year, but that sort of thing didn’t suit a drinking party.

“Hey, Ochōshi! Aren’t you going to pour? What are you spacing out for?”

The moment he spoke, the woman unleashed an ear-splitting “KYAAAA!” that shook the rafters.

Even Chidori Nami—a man hardened by sumo—jumped clear off the floorboards. The three regulars’ composure evaporated like morning dew, knees buckling mid-air—and Tsū-san promptly unleashed six consecutive thunderous eruptions from his backside.

Through the cacophony came Chidori’s epiphany: *Ah!* His lecture about fart camouflage must’ve taken root! This greenhorn waitress had focused every fiber of her being on detecting Tsū-san’s intestinal tremors, sounding the alarm at fate’s critical juncture!

Yet vexation lingered—no plates lay handy for acoustic cover during this emergency. More crucially: having just met them minutes prior, how could she possibly identify Tsū-san among three identically flustered salarymen?

Chidori Nami had been deeply charmed by the girl’s freshness and guileless allure, so he initially thought this too might stem from her youthful naivety—but it didn’t.

The scream refused to end.
Not only did it refuse to end—it carried a rhythm.
In short, this was singing.
He finally grasped that fact.

This wasn’t some absentminded humming.
It was total commitment.
It was desperate.
To compound matters, she would shrug her shoulders as if cradling them near her breasts, or gradually spread her hands into morning-glory shapes—and each time, in this cramped shop that reached capacity with fewer than ten patrons, both the confined space and their skulls seemed ready to rupture. With every quiver of that shrill voice, they felt as though drills were boring into their backs from behind.

When he saw the three gentlemen’s faces drained of all color, something immediately clicked.
The three gentlemen discerned the tragedy of a fallen nation in her shrill-voiced vocal performance.
The moment the three gentlemen made their entrance, she abruptly struck up an elegy of a fallen nation—though of course, there was no doubt that the owner of Sasa no Eda had orchestrated this from behind the scenes.

Thereupon, without a word, Chidori Nami lunged violently, hoisted Soprano-jō over his shoulder, carried her into the back room, and whack-whack-whack—slapped her about twenty times.
Given that he was a giant of six shaku and thirty kan, he had consciously held back his strength, but his head momentarily went hazy, and Soprano-jō slumped down limp.
He grabbed her hair, clamped his other hand on the woman’s chin, and yanked her face close.

“You, under Shin-kō’s orders, had the nerve to come here as a spy.”
“The three gentlemen over there detest shrill soprano singing more than anything.”
“Their hatred runs so deep they’ve narrowed their path through the wide world.”
“Because of those radio sopranos, they skulk through Japan’s streets like enemy territory.”
“No radio in this shop? That’s my pledge to honor our patrons.”
“To wait for their arrival then screech like that—you wicked schemer!”
“What exactly did that Shin-kō bastard order you to do?”
“Confess everything—no holding back!”
“Refuse, and I’ll snap your spine—mark my words!”

Even when he grabbed her by the neck and shook her around, she did not answer.
He put a hand on her jaw, yanked her mouth open, but she did not answer.
Of course, under those circumstances, she couldn't very well produce a sound either.

“Won’t you confess?”
She was tenacious.
“You amateur!”

He pulled her face close and glared.
The woman’s features twisted with frustration.
The instant her expression suddenly sharpened, her body slipped through Chidori Nami’s grip and rebounded like a rubber ball.

“Ugh...”

Chidori Nami’s massive body, clutching at empty air, was hurled onto the tatami mats and lay sprawled out. He had taken a straight punch to the solar plexus. Years of gluttonous eating and drinking had left his stomach—despite his giant frame—unbelievably fragile. The young girl had knocked him out with a single strike.

Soprano-jō lunged like a whirlwind, seizing Chidori Nami’s nose, mouth, and cheeks to tear off chunks of flesh. When finished, she aimed at his chin and delivered five or six uppercuts—pow-pow-pow. Her stance, her aim, her speed—all betrayed extensive training in that art.

With unsettling noises—groans and muffled cries—the three gentlemen peeked in, only to find, to their shock, that it was the giant who lay sprawled out.
Upon closer inspection, since it didn’t look like he had been gouged with a blade, they forced their way in,

“Well, well.”
“So even a maegashira ends up like this after retiring, eh?”
“We don’t know which syndicate you belong to, Ma’am—we’ve sorely underestimated you.”
“We’d never dream of crossing you, so please show us mercy.”

“Ugh... Damn you... You did it.”
“You damn spy of a villainous woman!”

“Now, now, you shouldn’t speak so rudely.”

“Nah, ‘Ma’am’ ain’t some fancy title or nothin’.”
“Lately, even a kid’s light jab to my gut does me in.”
“But she damn well pulled it off.”
“This time I ain’t lettin’ it slide.”
“I’ll fold your spine like laundry and boil you into broth!”
“What orders’d you get from that Shin-kō bastard? Spill it!”

“Y-yes, I’ll tell you.”
“The trio who come every night at nine are a composer, a film company manager, and a producer looking for a new face who can sing well—so I was instructed to sing for them and get them to take notice.”
“To have believed that was my own ignorance—but because of that ignorance, resorting to violence? That’s the prejudice of an inferior race that can only grasp positional superiority through such means—the very mindset that invited our defeat in war!”

“I see. I understand.”
“Now that I think about it, there’s no real crime here after all.”
This was amusing.
It was a rather stylish ploy.
Shin-chan and his lot were quite the jokers.
This must have been Shin-chan’s refined gesture—an invitation to “enjoy an evening drink with this as your appetizer.”

“Now that we’ve cleared that up, let’s have a proper, merry drink!”

“So—resorting to violence over that—that’s my own ignorance—but through that—through that—ahaha—it’s just like Shin-kō’s moronic writing! We’re bound to get along after all!”

Perhaps because the tension had eased, Tsū-san let out another six or seven big ones in quick succession.
A consistent signal of the war’s end—they concluded their laughter and resumed drinking.

The soprano waitress had her mood lifted by the three gentlemen’s affable flattery, and amidst her scowling face, she now wore a knowing smile unlike any before.
However, she did not forget to admonish him; each time Tsū-san had an accident, she would subtly let out a faint clink of a dish.
She seemed more bashful about it than Tsū-san himself.

The gentlemen took their leave.

The time when the shop closed was past eleven-thirty.

“It’s dangerous out there. I’ll walk you home.”
“You left home without telling them, didn’t you?”
“Your family’s worried about you.”

They locked up the shop and walked side by side down the night road.
Chidori Nami found the woman endearingly pitiable, and this feeling grew beautifully clear and profound under the night sky.

“Hey, do you really wanna become a vocalist?”
“You think you’re that good at singing?”

Then the woman answered without hesitation.

“I’m lying.”
“In both elementary school and girls’ school—vocal music was nothing but a bunch of quacks.”
“I’ve never even tried to sing a proper soprano piece.”
“I can’t even sing pop songs properly.”

“Hmm.”

Chidori Nami groaned.
This woman made him groan in all sorts of ways.

“But that shrill voice was pure seriousness—doesn’t that show a desperate determination?”
“To call that a farce—that’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s not a farce.”
“It was both serious and desperate!”

“So you think you can become a vocalist by singing some song you can’t even manage?”

“It’s my principle not to dwell on my own capabilities.”
“At every opportunity—without hesitation or fear—I make the attempt.”
“My creed is to entrust all judgment to others and advance along the natural path revealed through these trials.”

“Hmm.”
Chidori Nami groaned again.

“So, is that your principle?”

However, he suddenly grew concerned and said,

"So it's your principle to try anything, huh? Did you even try things like streetwalking?"

After a sharp silence came “Rude!”
A small yet clear whisper—icy in its severity—escaped.
That burning with such strikingly sharp and towering anger also meant permitting the rudeness.

The woman came to a halt.

“That’s my house.”
“Thank you very much.”

“Is that so.”
“Well, good night.”
“You’ll come help again tomorrow, right?”

The woman silently nodded. And then, she grasped Chidori Nami’s large hand, but— “You know, I like your shop because there’s no radio.” “Why?”

“I hate radios too, you know. When you listen to that sort of thing, you end up wanting to become a vocalist or an actress, don’t you? This is meaningless. I get lonely, you know.”

She looked up at Chidori Nami intently, then suddenly turned around and dashed into her house.

“Hmm, damn it!”

Chidori Nami, filled with satisfaction, groaned.
He finally realized that his lifelong love was beginning here.

He drunkenly reveled in the happiness of haughtily declaring to Shin-kō that it had indeed proven itself charming.
However, upon reflection, even Shin-kō’s writings seemed to resonate with the feelings in my heart.