Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

After being demobilized, Masuda Kenji soon volunteered to become a police officer and had by now become a full-fledged resident officer complete with uniform.
His hometown lay in rural Miyagi Prefecture, but with both parents gone, a much older brother had taken over cultivation of their meager plot of land.
Though originally meant to serve in his registered domicile, certain personal considerations led him to choose Gunma Prefecture.
Not only did he deem it advantageous for police duties to have fewer acquaintances there, but he had also felt an inexplicable fondness since childhood for that land called Jōshū.
It wasn’t that he disliked Kunisada Chūji either, but rather because during elementary school his teacher had recounted how Numata—the very town bearing that name—had produced an intriguing group of young men in early Meiji.
This tale spoke of several local youths establishing an English school to bring civilization and enlightenment’s winds to their mountain town; how one later went to Tokyo as a newspaperman; and how during the uproar over a British ship laden with Turks wrecked off Kii Province—an incident that left Japan’s government struggling with diplomatic complexities—this same youth labored tirelessly in private capacity to repatriate the Turks homeward, where they were received as honored guests by the Sultan (Turkey’s emperor). These near-legendary accounts had stirred Masuda profoundly in his boyhood.

For these reasons, now bearing the title of being stationed at the Gunma Prefectural Autonomous Police K Town Police Station, he set foot on that longed-for land, came into daily contact with Jōshū’s nature and human compassion, and made it his aim to swiftly uncover where that spirit of progress and chivalry originated.

Yet even after being assigned to N Village from E Town headquarters for nearly two years, he still hadn't managed to grasp anything definitive. While it was true that Asama's smoke would at times erupt violently, its grand pillar of flame momentarily lifting the heavy eyelids of night patrols, he had never yet been able to perceive within the residents' spirit—particularly through the words and deeds of the youths—any such virtues that might specifically align with his expectations. Instead, all crimes and ugly manifestations of life—utterly unrelated to local character, existing everywhere, and notably increasing these days—had never passed a day without appearing before his eyes, nor had they ever failed to darken his heart for a single day.

Looking at the records of just over a month here, for example, there was a man who dragged a cow to sell to a butcher.
The butcher had been deceived by the price and handed over the money.
When a cattle theft occurred in a neighboring village, the resident officer there called to request vigilance in their area as well. Upon immediately phoning the butcher to relay this information, the cattle thief—having apparently sensed what was happening—left a single black cow tied in front of the shop and vanished into thin air.
There was another incident at a hot spring inn—a man and woman who had stayed overnight there committed forced double suicide.
That alone might not have caused such an uproar, but after strangling the woman, the man then attacked the innkeeper who happened to appear there, breaking two of his front teeth and one arm.
The innkeeper fled in panic while the man took poison simultaneously.
The man, unable to die, writhed in agony for half a day until the doctor arrived and finally saved his life.
The inn owner was said to be demanding payment for lodging fees, medical expenses, and even consolation money.
Then again, when investigating a licentious girl suspected of abortion, they found it difficult to uncover the truth as she was colluding with a midwife.
Though initiated by a tip-off, as the relationship between the informant and the girl grew suspicious, they discreetly continued the investigation—only to inadvertently uncover that a village leader played a pivotal role in this case. He had been nearly bribed by the group but resolutely rebuffed it.
And another matter involved a man holding a key position on the public safety committee who had been blackmailing a certain wealthy widow into selling him land at exorbitant prices while plotting to violate her chastity and intensifying his threats.
Although they had not yet obtained conclusive evidence, they had heard from certain quarters that the widow was reluctant to make it public for fear of future trouble.
The above were the main points; when including other matters—from assaults and burglaries to land disputes and roadside robberies; arson alongside traffic accidents; teachers’ drunken rampages and black market sales of staple foods—there was not a single day without some incident being brought to the police box.

Though a remote mountain village with fewer than five hundred households, its modest mineral springs allowed for two inns styled as hot spring inns; with this came frequent travelers and a tendency toward moral laxity among young men and women. After the war’s end, they pioneered social dance imitations before neighboring villages—but just as that fervor began cooling, these youths started taking buses along the twelve-kilometer road to frequent town dance halls.

Be that as it may, Police Officer Masuda Kenji had maintained an excellent reputation since his appointment; whereas the previous resident officer—being overbearing and prone to drinking on duty—had largely been avoided by the public, he was sufficiently valued by decent folk for his youthfully perceptive nature, scrupulous dedication to duty, and absolute refusal to bully the vulnerable.

Whenever he occasionally made his rounds for family registration checks, tea would be served in most places.
He would drink a cup of tea when offered, but he never touched the snacks provided.
When there were houses that occasionally offered alcohol, he would laugh and say, "If you make a police officer drink alcohol, a curse will surely befall this house—so stop it."
When asked why, he would answer that demons target such houses and stealthily creep in.

However, wherever he went—though no one treated his police uniform with casual disregard—whenever he spoke with anyone, an oddly guarded tone would surface, and he felt lonely. Whether they relied on him or pushed him away, he wished they would show him something more—some genuine open-heartedness. Among them were those who, when they drank alcohol, would at least toss out a sarcastic remark—they did exist. In truth, they did this while gauging his expressions. Depending on how he looked at them, they could be swayed either way. The veteran colleagues constantly grumbled about how difficult their work had become lately, having concluded that this was due to the democratic times where police authority no longer carried the weight it once did. In his view, while there was some truth to that perspective, he rather thought the opposite—that police officers might find their work easier if they fully became one of the people.

However, he well understood that this very thing was no easy matter.
For in fulfilling one's duty as a public official, there were times when one had to completely disregard individual interests and utterly suppress personal emotions; unless society—which well understood this necessity—stood opposed, even if one attempted to discharge public responsibilities from an ordinary citizen's standpoint, the world might refuse to accept it as such.
Indeed, Officer Masuda had already suffered such dilemmas many times over.
Each time, he had sadly contemplated the coldness of the law.
And as long as he bore that coldness upon himself, no matter how resolved he was to keep his personal warmth intact, an anxiety would assail him—the fear that he might never truly become one of the people when facing them.

II

One day—it was precisely the end of autumn when what little harvest remained from the scant farmland had been gathered, early frosts having already fallen several times, and the season had reached that point when one could no longer let the fire in the kotatsu die out.
It was an uncharacteristically windless day. From morning onward, Masuda Kenji sat at the desk by the police box window reading lecture notes from the new high school system.

At that moment, the owner of Shinanoya Inn—where there had once been a double suicide incident involving guests—slowly emerged.
Every time he spoke, the tip of his tongue flickered through the gap in his broken front teeth, breath hissing through the space and rendering his pronunciation markedly unclear.

“Mornin’.”
“At them books again?”
“With that drive, you’ll make chief quick-like.”
“Promotion’s fine ’n’ dandy—just don’t let ’em transfer you out.”
“Ah hell—trouble’s all mine anyhow... Thanks to you though—finally been sleepin’ proper since...”

This man Wajima Sagoro had no criminal record to speak of, but he was a notorious swindler who boasted that politics and gambling suited his nature best. Whenever trouble arose, he would play the self-important mediator in settling disputes—and since this required spending no small amount of money, his influence within the hamlet was considerable.

“What’s this, Shinanoya-san? Not another double suicide, is it?”

“Whether it’s double suicides or whatever else—guests who properly pay their lodging fees are most welcome.”
“These days, if he’s been freeloading for over a month, my business is ruined.”

“Was there such a guest?”

“Look here—it ain’t even reached the Officer’s ears, has it? This is something I’ve been swallowing all on my own till now. The fella’s a young painter, see? Long ago, there was this certain renowned painter who, when he was poor, stayed at an inn and ended up unable to pay the lodging fee. After the innkeeper drove him out, turns out some daimyo found this pine painting he’d scrawled on a folding screen and bought it for a thousand ryo—that’s the story I’ve heard tell.”

“Indeed, Shinanoya-san remains as sharp as ever.”
“So the plan’s to take paintings instead of lodging fees, eh?”

“No, no—it ain’t that I don’t have some eye for art pieces, but that painting there, Mr. Masuda—it’s one of them oil paintings, see?”
“In Japan, oil paintings ain’t worth squat.”
“Should’ve checked what it was from the start.”

“But Shinanoya-san—even oil paintings—from what I hear, when someone becomes a master artist, they say they’re worth tens of thousands.”

“That’s a master’s face? That face...”
“Miracle he ain’t drooling.”

“Great wisdom resembles great folly, it’s said.”
“Genius and madness are divided by a single sheet of paper, Shinanoya-san.”

“That may be.”
“But given today’s economic situation, Mr. Masuda, nobody’s gonna wait around till that Okamoto guy makes his name as some third-rate painter.”

“I’ve only spoken with that Okamoto once.”
“When I went for the family registry check—that was it.”
“He struck me as odd, sure, but he ain’t the type to pull any shady business.”

“If staying without payment’s done fair and square, does that make it no crime?”

“He ain’t running or hiding.”

“I won’t let ’im slip away.”

“He does claim he’ll pay someday.”

“I want payment now.”

“If he can pay, make him pay.”

“And if he can’t?”

“That’s for discussing.”
“How long to wait, or take goods instead...”

“No waitin’ prospect and no valuables?”

“Either appeal to Shinanoya-san’s sense of chivalry or hand him over to the police—it’s one or the other.”

“Couldn’t the police front the money?”

“I think that’s probably impossible, but what about his own willingness?”

“That’s exactly what I can’t figure out anymore.”
“From last night through this morning, it was just back and forth between ‘Wait’ and ‘I won’t wait anymore’.”
“When I asked him just how long he expected me to wait, he just grinned and said he couldn’t even begin to guess himself.”
“Does such a law even exist?”
“Hey, Mr. Masuda—this ain’t no laughin’ matter.”
“When I asked if he had anything worthwhile, guess what he pulled out of his pocket.”
“He had the nerve to pull out some shriveled scrap—I couldn’t tell if it was a hand towel or a loincloth.”

“But tell me, Shinanoya-san—why did you let a guest without money stay for a whole month without saying anything?”

“Why? Well, Mr. Masuda—that’s where I went and trusted this painter type. The story I told earlier—about painters—that’s what clicked in my head.”
“After all, this inn’s never taken in a painter before.”
“I thought things were getting interesting here.”

“And what’s making it start to lose its charm now?”

“Gimme tobacco money—that’s become a daily thing now.”
“And what’s more—staying a whole month without once mentioning the lodging fee? Even a millionaire would find that rare.”

“So how much has piled up till now?”

“Last night when I tallied it up, just the lodging fees alone came to nineteen thousand six hundred and some yen.”
“Alcohol’s separate of course. Then there’s newspapers, tobacco, sweets, medicine—all sorts of advances adding up over three thousand yen. Bath fees I waived special-like, seeing as he hardly ever bathes anyway…”

“This is troublesome.”
“So, Shinanoya-san—you’ve resorted to going to the police as a last measure, then?”

“Well, that might be how it ends up, but before that, Masuda-san—instead of officially hauling him in—couldn’t you give some sort of warning?”
“I’m at my wit’s end here.”
“I nearly slapped him across the face, I tell you.”

“Well, if you insist, I could haul him in—though it’d amount to the same as slapping him.”
“If it’s your wish, I’ll step in—though I always thought settling matters was your specialty, Shinanoya-san...”

“If it’s someone else’s business, I’ve found it easy enough to settle,”
“But usually my threats make those bastards tremble—yet this penniless painter? Can’t make a dent in him. Damned if I ain’t flabbergasted.”

“With those front teeth—,” Masuda Kenji began, then swallowed the words back down his throat.

III

He seriously considered removing his uniform before going, but finding even that too troublesome, Masuda Kenji simply took his hat and set out for Shinanoya Inn as he was.

The innkeeper deliberately prevented him from accompanying and went up alone to the painter’s room at the back of the second floor.
From outside the shoji,

“Mr. Okamoto, excuse me for a moment.
I’m what you’d call the resident officer Masuda, and I’ve come ’cause there’s a personal matter I’d like to discuss.”

Then, from inside, a sluggish voice—

“Come on in.”
“What business brings you here?”

When he looked, Okamoto was lying prone with something like an art book spread out before him, billowing cigarette smoke rising through his long hair.

Nevertheless, appearing to understand etiquette toward guests, he slowly pushed himself up and adjusted his posture,

“Ah, I’ve seen your face around now and then.”
“It’s strange how police officers can be spotted immediately wherever they are.”

he said.

Slightly thrown off balance by this greeting, Masuda Kenji nevertheless immediately thought the conversation might proceed smoothly,

“There are cases where it’s better not to be recognized.”
“By comparison, aren’t painters often unrecognized unless they’re working or carrying their tools?”

“Well, someone like me can usually tell.”
“Though mind you, painters who look like office workers have become quite common these days.”

“Mr. Okamoto—what group do you belong to?”

“I’m completely unaffiliated. Wherever I submit to exhibitions, I get rejected.”
“I’ve held two solo exhibitions.”
“Didn’t sell a single painting.”

“If you’ll pardon the question—are you still making your living through art?”

“Well, I suppose so.”
“Since there’s no other income.”

“This is rather intrusive too, but that painting over there—Asama, isn’t it? About how much would something like that cost?”

“There’s no official market price.”
“I’ll sell it for what I think is fair.”
“Provided there are buyers, that is.”
“Will you buy it?”
“I’ll make it cheap for you.”

“Oh, someone like me couldn’t possibly…”

From that point, the conversation began to flow smoothly.

"I know nothing about art, but still—even if someone was unknown until yesterday, I suppose there are cases where they might suddenly become famous."

"There are such cases, you know."
"Of course, there are various ways one might become famous, though."
"The true value of a painting can only be grasped by those capable of grasping it—and not by others."
"And that’s perfectly fine."
"There’s no such thing as an artist suffering misfortune."

“Hmm. So that means you must have considerable confidence, I suppose.”

“You there, cut the roundabout questions and just ask me straight why I can’t pay the lodging fee.”

Here, once again, Masuda Kenji was caught off guard. However, now that it had come to this, he had no choice but to steel himself.

“Well, truthfully, I don’t believe it’s yet our official place to intervene—which is precisely why I framed this as a private conversation.”
“If you don’t mind, please let me hear the circumstances surrounding that matter.”
“Today, I simply wished to meet you and understand what sort of person you are.”
“Truly, that was my sole purpose.”
“After all, there are times when anyone might find themselves unable to pay due to financial circumstances…”

“Well now, when you put it like that, I’m all flustered—but really, what’s the point of dragging the police into this mess?”
“Coercion doesn’t work on me one bit. Since there’s no earthly reason for this inn owner to be in such a hurry, the best approach is to wait a little longer.”

“We’re willing to wait—this is about establishing a clear deadline.”
“It’s only natural to ask...”

“Well, when I came here, I did have enough money for a week.”
“Since you didn’t press me for the lodging fee, I took advantage of that and drank it all away.”
“So right away, I told my friends about that and asked them to try selling two or three of my paintings in Tokyo for quick cash—I did make that request.”
“Not that that’s very reliable, though.”
“If it really comes to that, I intend to go out and handle it myself for a bit.”
“What’s twenty or thirty thousand? I’ll manage somehow—if you’re willing to wait a whole year…”

Whether one called it carefree or brazen, there was something about Okamoto Hiroshi that Masuda Kenji found slightly elusive; however, from a commonsense perspective, this attitude seemed unacceptable either way. And he too grew visibly irritated,

“I’m not yet speaking in an official capacity, but staying here indefinitely without reliable funds will breed disputes…”

As Masuda began to say,

“If you’re not speaking with official authority, then this is just meddling.”
“Exactly.”
“Fine then.”
“Use your official authority to do whatever you want with me.”
“Of course, I’ll obey what the law dictates.”
“But listen—really think about this.”
“What kind of man do you suppose this inn owner really is?”
“He hangs an inn’s signboard while committing every sort of wickedness.”
“Money flows in from every shady source.”
“All of it gets squandered on corruption and debauchery.”
“Understand—I’m telling you this as a police officer.”
“No, never mind that.”
“I’d say this to anyone who could truly grasp my meaning.”
“Do you really think he has any right to screech about delayed payments when that money just funds his mistresses and gangs of layabouts?”

Masuda Kenji couldn’t suppress a wry smile.
This reasoning was undoubtedly sophistry, yet it pierced through human compassion in a way that made him feel he couldn’t openly agree but might turn a blind eye depending on how things unfolded.
Moreover, given this was an era where landlords could exact eviction fees even when tenants utterly neglected their obligations, he even considered that—though it was an inn—if they were to evict a guest over unpaid lodging fees, they might well be obliged to pay corresponding eviction compensation themselves.
If the law exists to protect what is right, then when comparing Shinanoya’s owner Wajima Sagoro and penniless painter Okamoto Hiroshi, could one immediately conclude that Okamoto was at fault?
And yet, while the law may appear to judge people, in truth, it judges crimes solely based on their severity.
There were limits to extenuating circumstances.
In Okamoto’s straightforward character, one could indeed sense not a trace of anything resembling evil; however, his words and actions lacked a certain restraint, and there was undeniably something within them that disrupted social order.
Whether it was ideological bias or psychological abnormality—be that as it may—as a police officer, he could not publicly approve this.

“I fully understand your position,” he said, “but since you’d want to keep staying comfortably at this inn, why not discuss matters thoroughly with the owner regarding his lodging fee demand until he’s satisfied? If circumstances require you to go to Tokyo for funds—say by providing a promissory note, or better yet appointing a proper guarantor...”

“There are no such guarantors.”

At Okamoto’s curtly stated words, Masuda felt his anger surge.

“Well then, I won’t say another word.”
“I’ll step back as matters stand.”
“With no formal complaint filed yet, my official position restricts me to treating this as a private debt issue between individuals.”
“But let me caution you—bungle the resolution, and complications may follow.”

“Understood.”
“You’re surprisingly talkative for a cop.”
“Do drop by occasionally—strictly in your civilian capacity.”
“When boredom strikes, I might even brew you some rough tea.”

This bastard—whenever he mocked people and glared at them—in that instant, he was struck by those childlike clear eyes.

IV

Two or three days later, as Masuda Kenji walked steadily along the edge of a cliff overlooking the distant foothills of Mount Asama—a mountain-side settlement he hadn’t patrolled in ages—his eye caught Okamoto’s figure at the base of an elm tree jutting over the cliff edge: the painter had set up his easel there and was moving his brush with single-minded focus.

He casually approached it and peered at the canvas from behind.
Noticing the presence of someone, Okamoto turned slightly and,

“Hey.”

With that single word, he fell silent and busily mixed his paints.
Beyond a copse resembling a procession of skeletons, mountain ranges thinly crowned with snow were depicted in jet-black strokes, while from the vermilion peak of what appeared to be Mount Asama—towering conspicuously high—an exaggeratedly grotesque plume of smoke had been daubed in rainbow-swirled colors.

Masuda Kenji compared the canvas with the actual landscape and wondered if it was permissible for them to differ so drastically.

“So this is what they call new art.”
“Reality and fantasy sparking against each other here, I see.”

“You’ve got an interesting way of putting things.”
“Why don’t you try painting yourself? Painting, I mean…”

“I’ve been terrible at drawing since elementary school. I only ever got Cs.”
“Same here. That’s actually better. The most worthless paintings in the world are those model ones…”
“Now I’m even more confused. Well, I should stop bothering you—I’ll be going. Are you free tonight?”
“Doesn’t have to be tonight—I’m generally free after dark anyway.”

That evening, after finishing dinner, Masuda Kenji changed into his padded winter kimono and headed out to Shinanoya to take a bath.

Shinanoya’s owner was at the front desk and whispered to him in a low voice:

“Yesterday when I went to Maebashi, there happened to be a painting exhibition—so I took a look. When I asked the staff if they knew an oil painter named Okamoto Hiroshi, they actually knew him.”

“Apparently he’s very promising.”

“This morning I struck a deal to buy Mr. Okamoto’s paintings at half his asking price.”

“At least there’s no downside here.”

Masuda Kenji let out a sigh of relief. After taking a bath and heading to Okamoto’s room, he found the evening drinking session still underway.

“It seems a compromise has finally been reached.”

“Hmm, well, it can’t be helped.”
“I want people who like my paintings to buy them, but it can’t always be that way.”
“Well, let’s have a drink.”
“By the way, just how old are you?”
“Am I your big brother or little brother?”

"I'm twenty-seven.
Probably your little brother, I suppose."

"Darn, same age.
Then let's talk straight—you and me.
Don't use 'Okamoto-san'.
Just Okamoto.
And you were...?"

"I'm Masuda."

"None of that 'desu' crap.
Hey Masuda—what warped logic made you become a cop?
Start talking."

The other man was cheerfully drunk and seemed unbothered by such matters, but he found himself unable to immediately match that energy. Even so—gradually, though less from actual intoxication than feigned drunkenness—he began dropping honorifics.

“That’s an unreasonable demand.”
“Everyone has freedom to choose their occupation.”

“Damn right,”
“That’s why I’m asking—what kinda warped logic made you go be a cop?”

“Then what kinda warped logic made you go be a painter?”

“Quit playin’ dumb.”
“What’s wrong with bein’ a painter?”

“You sayin’ bein’ a cop’s wrong, huh?”

“The hell’s good about it? Not one damn thing interesting. That business of hog-tyin’ sinners—shoulda left it to others.”

“Someone’s gotta do it, damn it.”

“Hey, why not let those who want to do it handle it? I’m talking about you—weren’t there other things you wanted to do instead?”

“Don’t say such unpleasant things. People have things they can do and things they can’t. For me—there’s not much I could manage. At best, I wanted to use this body I’d trained as a soldier to help the weak. To remove whatever gets in the world’s way.”

“You put on such high-and-mighty airs.”
“You spout all that, but don’t you realize you’re just unwittingly taking the side of the strong and blocking society’s progress?”

“There certainly were such people.”
“I won’t deny there are such cases.”
“But that’s no different from saying every system has its downsides.”
“There are those these days who think badmouthing soldiers alone makes them seem worldly, but every civilized country has its proper share of soldiers.”
“Countries that swagger around like they’re the big bosses of progress still dutifully keep their police forces, you know.”

“That ain’t what we’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about you here.”
“You’re supposed to be some well-liked cop, but I think cops are meant to be hated.”
“Being so well-regarded—that’s just proof there’s a weakness.”
“Hey—can you even do your job proper-like that?”
“What kinda cop finds a thief an’ goes, ‘Hey—scram quick!’?”

“Well, well—painters sure do simplify things.”

“Oh, so it’s simple now, huh?”
“That’s right—I’m of the simple school.”
“Life’s a simple thing.”
“It’s because there are guys who make things annoyingly complicated and overcomplicate their thinking that people just end up grating on each other.”
“Proceed with simplicity in all things, all…”
“Peace and progress—no, progress itself is nothing but a nuisance.”
“Progress is, so to speak, snake oil.”
“Peace and freedom—now those are good.”
“Hey, Masuda—you’re quite the handsome devil, aren’t you?”
“The Fuu girl from this house goes every week to get a perm, but she’s got her eye on you, you devil.”
“Watch yourself, you devil!”

Masuda Kenji flinched slightly at that.
After that, he changed the subject and left early that evening.

5

Since that day, the painter and the police officer had come to speak with each other more openly.

Masuda Kenji, however, still did not clearly understand where exactly his interests lay regarding this new friend. At times the man would voice opinions that commanded respect, but just as often displayed an unruly side that defied all attempts at control. While the very nature of being an artist fostered a certain unconscious respect toward him, by Masuda's own standards for evaluating people, he refused to consider this man several degrees above himself. Even so—though it might not be entirely unrelated to his status as an artist—there was also an indescribable familiarity, a warmth unobtainable from anyone else that enriched him, and at times, something like a fierce fire would pour into the deepest recesses of his chest.

When Masuda Kenji happened to recall his appearance while alone in a corner of the police substation, the occupation of the protagonist from the Hirasawa Incident suddenly resurfaced in his memory.
This was an artist; that too had been an artist.
Although their talents could not be compared, he thought that in terms of the innate gift of being a painter, their essential nature should not differ.

Unfortunately, this association stimulated Masuda Kenji’s professional instincts.
Since the term "dual personality" had been used in newspapers during that incident, he began to harbor baseless suspicions that another person might lurk within Okamoto Hiroshi.

However, those suspicions would invariably vanish without a trace whenever he visited Okamoto’s lodgings and spent time sitting across from him.

As autumn finally gave way to early December, the snow that had begun falling that morning had already piled knee-deep by evening, bringing buses to a halt from the afternoon onward. Yet after finishing that day’s log, Masuda Kenji suddenly found himself wanting to see Okamoto Hiroshi. Brushing snow off the soles of his rubber boots, he stepped into Shinanoya’s entrance.

Okamoto was facing the shogi board, intently studying checkmate strategies.
This was likely because he had been soundly defeated by Masuda a couple of days prior.
The two of them immediately began arranging the pieces.
The opening stages of their games were marked by extreme caution on both sides, each striving to restrain the other through verbal exchanges.

"What kind of move is this—it reeks of spy tactics!"
"No good! Spies are no good! This isn't up for debate—your true colors are showing—"
"He who hides wounds on his shin... So long as your conscience stays clean, that’s good enough—"

“Alright, let’s do it like this,” said Okamoto Hiroshi. “Straight to the point—let’s have our match.”

“In battle there are rules,” Masuda Kenji countered. “That move seemed prepared for honorable defeat. What do you say to that?”

“Laws live through people and perish,” he said. “Dangerous path you’re treading—a captive of the law…” As they exchanged these casual retorts, both men’s eyes turned simultaneously toward the corridor outside. It was the hurried sound of a woman’s footsteps climbing the stairs.

“Is Masuda-san here for a moment?”

With a clatter of the shoji door sliding open, it was the inn’s daughter—Fujiko, who had recently become utterly absorbed in her fashionable pursuits and had just turned eighteen.

“Hey, Masuda-san—they say someone’s collapsed on that slope near Nikenjaya where you can see the waterfall...”
“Just now, a child came to notify the substation.”
“O-Kami-san from Daimaruya brought them over to our place.”

“What—you came rushing here just to say something like that? A collapsed traveler… at Nikenjaya… Tsk. Must be some traveler’s business.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Hurry up—there’s a child waiting downstairs.”

Masuda Kenji reluctantly rose to his feet.
He kept staring at the shogi board, though his mind was clearly elsewhere—desperately trying to remember what legal regulations prescribed about handling collapsed persons.

“Well then, I’ll go check on it.”
“We’ll continue the rest tomorrow night...”

Okamoto called out to his departing back.

“Hey, hey—take a rice ball with you and try it out!”

Whether that voice had reached his ears or not, Masuda hurriedly descended the stairs as he was.

6

The so-called Nikenjaya was a fork in the road where the prefectural highway met the village path at the outskirts of the village, descending from the mountain pass toward the valley—a spot where bus passengers would all gaze with sparkling eyes at the breathtaking scenery during the seasons of crimson leaves and fresh greenery—but there, by that remote roadside far from human habitation, lay a sturdy-looking man wearing a ski cap, collapsed face down with his cloth-wrapped bundle still slung over his shoulder, his body already half-buried in the snow.

He grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, but there was no response at all.
Masuda Kenji shouted loudly.

“Hey, stay with me! You’ll be fine! Your pulse is steady, isn’t it?”

The pulse was indeed beating.
For good measure, when he thrust his hand into the nape of his neck, there was still body heat.
When he tried to turn his face back toward the snowlight, his eyebrows twitched faintly, and his lips trembled as if trying to speak.
Judging from his travel-worn appearance—that of a merchant who looked barely forty—this was no ordinary traveler who had collapsed from illness, but rather something that could only be thought of as a sudden attack of acute disease.

“Where does it hurt, huh? Can’t you speak?”

As the two of them—Masuda and the youth he had brought along—were discussing whether to carry him to a nearby farmhouse, Okamoto Hiroshi came running up with one end of his scarf fluttering in the wind.
He suddenly brought his face close to the man’s—who had just been turned sideways—checked his breathing, then thrust a large rice ball pulled from his pocket right under the man’s nose.
The man’s throat gurgled for a while, but finally, with what must have been his utmost effort, he opened his mouth wide.
Truly, it was due to extreme hunger that he had lost the strength to walk.

7

The next morning, the traveler departed from Aisenkaku, an inn near the police substation, in good spirits.

Masuda Kenji had conducted the routine household register check—he had done that much—but realized he had done nothing beyond it worth documenting in a report. Far from it—he later felt regret welling up that he should have clearly told the man, who since last night when guiding him to this inn and continuing this morning from early hours had appeared at the substation to bow his head a hundred times over while repeating "Thanks to you I survived," that no—it wasn’t me who saved your life.

If Okamoto hadn't come running with that rice ball at that time, this traveler might have perished right then and there.
Even so, as a police officer, I could at least say I had fulfilled my responsibility.
Myself, who had been faithful to my duties; him, who had saved a human life by chance—in this situation, what does it truly mean to be faithful to one’s duties?
Does it mean we can indifferently abandon a life that could be saved—leaving it to perish in the end—all because of some trivial difference in mindset?
Masuda Kenji agonized all day, fell into self-loathing, and began to vaguely grasp the meaning behind Okamoto’s pointed question to him: “Why did you even become a police officer?”

He even felt jealousy toward Okamoto Hiroshi.
Why could he do something like that?
Why could he come up with such a thing in that instant?
Truly, truly a detestable bastard!

That evening, he appeared dejectedly before Okamoto.

“I was well and truly beaten last night.”

“Are you talking about the shogi game?”

“No—in life’s contest.”
“Humanity—that’s you.”

“You’re laying it on awfully thick."
“What on earth did I even do?”

“That rice ball… I had completely forgotten such things exist in this world.”

“You’ve gotten too used to substitute food.”

"My head was filled with police regulation texts."
“I do remember your words about rice balls reaching my ears.”
"But back then—what that meant didn’t click at all."

“My head’s as empty as a frog’s.”
“I can’t really respect people who do nothing but think about eating and drinking.”
“But more than that—you’re one hell of a police officer.”
“No—it’s not sarcasm.”
“Now, do you think there’s anyone else who’d come to me saying stuff like that?”
“Doesn’t matter—I’m not from Kozuke, but if people can openly admit defeat in front of others, I figure you can get along with ’em.”
“Especially—let’s stop already with this police talk. Hey, that’s ridiculous—shut your trap, shut your…”

Masuda Kenji, intending to smile brightly as he looked at Okamoto’s face, found tears welling up instead.