Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was several years after the nightmare-like war had ended—years in which the oppressive mood, seeming like lingering remnants of that nightmare, still persisted.

Moriya Tamesuke—now past fifty by two or three years, beginning to feel weariness in his teaching career that stretched like a decade indistinguishable from a single day—had always been a man who approached others without particular fuss and with unflagging goodwill. Yet lately, he found himself brooding over trivial matters, occasionally showing his family an uncharacteristically gloomy expression.

Moriya Tamesuke showed not a shred of childish pride that might make him puff up his chest over his new professional title of Professor at A University, habitually declaring instead that he wished to remain an old-fashioned high school teacher—a refrain his wife Sugie accepted at face value, believing that so long as it didn't affect his salary rate, this modest stance better suited her husband's character. Indeed, she secretly resented the imposing title of professor to such an extent.

In fact, for Moriya Tamesuke, his interest in education itself appeared greater than his passion for academic pursuits.
As for his specialized field of psychology, he confined himself—so to speak—to skimming new publications necessary for reiterating introductory lectures, lacking any ambition to pursue particularly profound research. Instead, as a teacher entrusted with guiding students, few educators could be said to approach their responsibilities with such earnestness and thoroughness as he did.

His hair—combed only during barbershop visits—splayed like a palm-fiber broom to either side; the few remaining teeth were stained black as seashore rocks from tobacco tar. Abhorring straight razors to an extreme, he insisted on having his beard trimmed with scissors alone, leaving it perpetually somewhat overgrown. His Kyushu-native bone structure gave Western clothes the appearance of Japanese garments and Japanese garments the look of Western attire; beyond this, there was nothing particularly eye-catching about his overall appearance. Always reserved by nature and habitually taking a seat in some corner wherever he went, at gatherings one might easily overlook his presence unless making a deliberate search.

However, this seemingly plain and inconspicuous presence was never disdained in either home or school; rather, wherever he was present, all who sensed it perceived that he carried about him a warmth and freshness one might liken to a spring breeze.

No one ever saw him wear an angry expression, nor did anyone hear him burst into boisterous laughter.
His eyes remained calmly clear at all times, his lips slightly parted as if about to speak.
Though never talkative by nature, once he began speaking he proved remarkably eloquent while maintaining perfect decorum.
At times he might appear to engage in jest, though this bore no resemblance to flashes of wit—rather, the natural expression of his placid disposition gave rise through unhesitating simplicity to precisely targeted retorts.

He, a father of two sons and two daughters, had begun with his wife Sugie to entertain worries about their old age, though fortunately their eldest daughter had secured a good marriage and established a home in Sapporo, Hokkaido in the year the war ended, while their eldest son had this year graduated from the university’s economics department and secured employment at a certain publishing house.
The second son and second daughter, who commuted to school from home, though not yet having reached adulthood, showed considerable consideration for their parents; as for the second son, he claimed to purchase necessary books himself and appeared to be engaged in some sort of part-time work.

Even when asked what he was doing, Tatsuya—the second son—remained stubbornly tight-lipped, so he had resolved not to press the matter further. Still, whenever Tatsuya stayed out late at night, he would find himself fretting over it and expressing pointless worries to his wife Sugie—"Keep an eye on him. Is he all right?"

Shizuko, the second daughter, remained quite the carefree schoolgirl; while she spoke of economizing, she would buy up several types of girls’ magazines and, upon finishing them, seemed to take pleasure in promptly lending them to friends.

As for how to handle this son and daughter, the truth was that Moriya Tamesuke had already lost much of his confidence. He had known both theoretically and practically from the start that there were limits to how much parents could shape their children's education through effort alone; yet with the older two, he had still been able to formulate some parental calculation—that if they wished to make them turn out a certain way, they would—while with the younger two, he had noticed early on that this approach simply wouldn't hold. It wasn’t that they outright ignored his words or openly defied him, yet somehow—unlike with the older two—their actions lacked any tangible responsiveness. Everything they said and did seemed to defy reasonable judgment, leaving him unable to comprehend, even by his own measure, what purpose a father served in such circumstances. He had not yet directly confronted his children with this ambiguous feeling that hovered between anxiety and doubt. He would occasionally broach the topic with Sugie in this manner.

“Say, what do you think? Do Tatsuya and Shizuko have even the slightest respect for their parents?”

Sugie, his wife, disarmed by the unusually calm tone of her husband’s words—which even held a laugh—

“Well, I don’t suppose they hold any special respect for us. After all, there’s no reason for them to show us any respect at all.”

she said exactly what she was thinking.

“Hm. That’s undeniable, but I’m not speaking in some feudalistic sense. If they’re ordinary children, shouldn’t they at least recognize their ordinary parents as parents when you think about it fairly?”

While acknowledging that within himself such old ideologies respecting the family system still took deep root, he spoke with a stance of partially rejecting them himself.

“Oh, there’s not a bit of those two failing to regard us as their parents.”
“After all, it’s always ‘Dad’ this and ‘Mom’ that for everything.”
“They’ve simply no notion of manners at all.”
“But still, that seems to pass muster these days.”
“We were too worn out by the war ourselves to fuss about manners and such, you know.”

“Hmm, manners… So that’s how you interpret it.”
“Certainly, there is such an aspect.”
“But manners aren’t something you can properly teach within a single household.”
“Well then, I suppose I’ll leave everything to take its course.”

This conversation was tentatively discontinued there, but Moriya Tamesuke found no resolution in it.

"Dad, eaten yet?"

Tatsuya, the second son—apparently having come straight home from school—called out to him while passing by the study.

He hesitated for an instant whether to respond or not, then—

“No. Haven’t eaten,” he managed.

The footsteps could no longer be heard.

Meanwhile, their second daughter Shizuko, having overslept, finally came to the washroom to wash her face.
He had already finished rinsing his mouth and was filling the washbasin with water.

“Come on, I’m in a hurry! Move out of the way already!”

Bathed from behind in his daughter’s somewhat sharp voice, he became flustered.
And he thought: I see.
Certainly, as his wife had said, it wasn’t that they failed to regard their parents as parents.
It was simply that they saw their parents only as parents—or perhaps regarded them too much as such.
To put it plainly, it was simply that they failed to grasp the proper boundaries of things.
He, feeling somewhat relieved, forced a smile as he turned around.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“More importantly, Dad—what about the school donation? Hurry up and decide! I’ve told Mom over and over, but all she says is ‘Wait! Wait!’”

“Alright—I’ll decide today.”
“I’ll decide by breakfast.”

He had resolved that further debates with Sugie about requiring parents to fund school expansions would prove fruitless.

II

There was no moment when he felt more alive than when passing through the school gate on a clear morning.

He possessed a formidable attentiveness and memory that allowed him to memorize every face and name of the students attending his lectures within the first few hours of the academic year.

Among these students were those who would greet him upon meeting and those who maintained indifference until he raised his hat.
Yet he acknowledged each with identical courtesy and expression, his light footsteps echoing as he disappeared into the chill of the antiquated school building.

Now, when lecture time came, he would hurry to the classroom with a notebook tucked under his arm, but these days, during those few seconds when his feet met the stone-paved corridor, he felt a peculiar heaviness in his steps.
The reason was simple.
The attendance rate was visibly poor—that was the fact.

However, this was an inescapable fact: that the majority of students could not avoid missing classes due to economic circumstances, and moreover, that a portion of them were engaged in those part-time jobs precisely to earn their tuition fees.

Moriya Tamesuke, one day before beginning his lecture, addressed his students thus:

“I do not oppose your supplementing some tuition fees through part-time work. But consider this—if you take leaves of absence for part-time work through most of the year, where lies the necessity in maintaining school enrollment? If maintaining university enrollment solely to obtain a graduation diploma is your aim, then that very mindset is precisely the spirit deserving contempt. Why don’t you quit school and work properly? If you want to pursue learning through the regular curriculum, why don’t you work to save money first and then make plans to enter school?”

When he had spoken that far, a student—

“Professor, I think that view ignores reality."
“The university diploma is, first and foremost, what we fundamentally need.”
“It is because it serves as a guarantee of a relatively secure livelihood.”
“Wasn’t that how it was in your time, Professor?”

“Mr. Fushimi, you mustn’t view reality solely in that manner.”
“Indeed, one aspect of reality is certainly as you say.”
“But what I want to say is this: rather than viewing university diplomas solely as guarantees of relatively secure livelihoods, I wish you would adopt a perspective more connected to the university's spirit and substance.”
“In our time, that existed—at least in principle.”
“Even now, I believe that some measure of it surely remains within you all.”
“What compels you to make such statements openly?”
“Are you saying it’s the times?”
“No, absolutely not!”
“I dare say that very thing is nothing but a frivolous attitude of those pandering to the times, indulging in the times, and underestimating the times.”

Then another student responded with a smirking laugh.

“In that case, Professor, can you truly affirm today’s university system from the very outset? Is this what a university ought to be? What authority can be recognized in a university that ignores historical necessity and merely trains capitalist hounds? You might ask why we entered such a university in that case, but that is nothing more than expediency. The graduation diploma is, so to speak, nothing but a passport allowing entry into a country that’s difficult to enter.”

“Let us begin the lecture.”

With that, Professor Moriya quietly turned the pages of his notebook.

III

When he finished lecturing for the scheduled duration, he surveyed the classroom, casting discreetly encouraging glances at the few intelligent faces that always listened intently to his lectures and nimbly moved their pens across notebooks, and then, while slowly descending from the lectern, abruptly called out one of their names.

“Mr. Manabe… Come to the faculty room.”

The student called Manabe had a frail-looking build, with eyes reddened from what appeared to be severe nearsightedness, and followed timidly behind him.

When they stepped out into the corridor, he turned back and spoke.

“You haven’t shown your face for a while—what happened?
Sick?
Part-time job?”

"The part-time work took its toll—I’ve been seeing a doctor."

Manabe answered sheepishly.

“That’s what comes of chasing both horseflies and bees.
What sort of work were you doing?”

“I thought it was beyond me, but I worked as a stevedore on ships.”
“The conditions were relatively good…”

“Hmm—heavy labor, isn’t it?”
“Must you earn even your lodging fees?”

“Yes… My old man’s remittances sometimes get cut off…”

“Well, take a seat.”

With that, Moriya Tamesuke offered Manabe an available chair in the faculty room,

“Now then—how’s your health?”
“It’s not your chest, I hope?”

“It does seem that way after all.”
“But the doctor said there shouldn’t be a problem as long as I’m careful enough to attend school.”

“If it were something like pneumothorax, that’d be manageable.”
“Shall I speak to someone in the medical department for you?”
“The expenses shouldn’t amount to much.”

“I’m beyond that now.”
“Just surviving each day takes everything I have...”
“And I don’t particularly want to keep living anyway.”

Moriya Tamesuke was at a loss over how to receive the seemingly self-destructive words this young man had blurted out so nonchalantly.

“Hey, Manabe—are you seriously saying such things?”

With that, he asked gently, striving not to provoke the other party.

“Well, I just wanted to try saying something like that.”
“Everything’s full of things I don’t understand right now, and what’s more unbearable is that these things I don’t understand aren’t pressing me for solutions in the form of questions.”
“Professor, is that all you needed?”

“Ah, it’s not that I have any particular business, but I cannot remain silent seeing an excellent student like you unable to study in peace.”
“I thought there might be something I could do to help... Well, take good care of your health so it doesn’t become too late.”

“Yes, today I will carefully think over what you said in the classroom.”

Bowing his head politely, Manabe left.

That day, Moriya Tamesuke returned home wearing a dark expression he rarely showed.

“Is something troubling you?”

True to form, his wife Sugie immediately noticed her husband’s complexion and inquired thus,

“No, it’s nothing. I wonder... Do we have room to take in a student?”

Having regained his usual carefree expression, he turned around and spoke to his wife over his shoulder as she helped remove his coat.

"A student? Just the room?"

"Well, the room's part of it, but actually..."

When he explained Manabe's circumstances in detail, Sugie pressed further:

"But there are many other students like that, aren't there? Do you have some special obligation?"

“No.”
“It’s just that he seems like a promising young man in some way.”
“Then there’s no need…”
“No—I understand.”
“I thought perhaps he could manage alone.”
“But… well, I’ll give up.”
“Insufficient strength.”

When his wife began changing her kimono, she handed him an express letter.

“Huh, an unusual man’s coming into view.
“Remember? That’s Yame Rikurou—the one who visited our house once. He’s at B University in Kyushu...
“It’s already been ten years since then...
“You must remember—the man who never fails to send New Year’s cards...”

“Was that how it was?
“Now that you mention it, I do get that sense.”
“Why would he be coming out here?”

“Well, you see—the Psychology Association’s general meeting is at month’s end.
“Let’s lodge him here, lodge him...
“After all, self-funded travel must be grueling these days.
“He’s just like me—no other skills to speak of...”

In preparation for welcoming their old friend Yame Rikurou, they somehow managed to promptly have the cotton in one set of bedding refluffed.

IV

By late November, the cold had somewhat eased, but instead, days of drizzly rain continued one after another.

After the official general meeting and research presentations had ended, there were somewhat more private gatherings resembling classmate reunions held over two consecutive nights; however, both Moriya Tamesuke and Yame Rikurou refrained from attending those, instead creating opportunities to drink, eat, walk, and chat freely on their own.

Though they ate and drank, they never frequented extravagant places; on the first evening, they became blissfully content with a single mug at a downtown beer hall, and afterward—having no particular destination in mind—they had already reached his house’s entrance by around seven o’clock, finishing dinner with his wife Sugie’s home cooking.
Even today, though Yame Rikurou had invited him to a backstreet oden stall in Ginza and requested hot sake—which was fine up to that point—Moriya Tamesuke, who rarely drank much Japanese sake, ignored such concerns; after settling in leisurely and showing no sign of getting up, Moriya Tamesuke declared he was hungry, forcibly dragged his companion out, brought him as far as Yurakucho, and ushered him into a sushi restaurant.

“Ha ha, sushi?”
“What about sake? Where’s the sake?”

Yame Rikurou was in good spirits.

“There’s sake too.”
“Did you drink this much even back then?”

“The past is past; now is now.”
“But it’s delightful—meeting you like this after so long…”
“Tonight let’s make ourselves young again!”

Though rejuvenation sounded fine, Moriya Tamesuke gazed intently at this elderly scholar’s drunken state and somehow sensed there a specter of their youth, finding himself compelled to reflect on his own being.

“Hey Moriya, aren’t drinking anymore? Then I’ll quit here too. Not that I haven’t passed my limit already,” he said, “but without pouring in about this much, I can’t properly cut loose.”
“I want to take in just a glimpse of what postwar Tokyo nights have become.”
“Guiding me through this might be beyond you, but never mind—let’s wander these streets and breathe deep what they call the stench of modern decadence, shall we?”

In the depths of Professor Yame Rikurou's bleary eyes, however, not the slightest trace of anything resembling lascivious desire could be seen; there only appeared to exist that same hollow heroic posturing reminiscent of his bombastic proclamations from days gone by.

“Very well.”
“I’ll have you forgive my inadequacy as a guide, but I’ll accompany you anywhere.”
“Come now, let’s be off.”

Moriya Tamesuke, rubbing his full stomach, took his old friend by the arm.

The two of them took the subway to Asakusa.

“Indeed—if you say it’s changed, it has changed; if you say it hasn’t changed, it hasn’t.”
“Ah! So this is the famous strip show. Let’s go in.”

“What?”
“Are we going in here?”

Professor Moriya hesitated slightly, but in that instant, a bizarre clash of logics seeking to justify his actions erupted within his mind—just what was he hesitating over?
Was there no interest, or was there?
Could I definitively claim complete disinterest?
If some interest existed, what nature did it hold?
No—rather, wasn’t I avoiding something out of apprehension?
What need was there for fear?
Was this apprehension rooted externally or within myself?
In any case, wasn’t this merely due to my status as an educator?
Moreover, if so—this concerned mere appearances; fundamentally, no valid reason existed why being an educator should prohibit this.
An educator must maintain flawless awareness regarding contemporary customs and ethics—down to every last phenomenon’s extremities.
Yame Rikurou had indeed used “observation” earlier—yet here fluttered justification’s banner that could answer any reproach without betraying one’s conscience.

“Very well, I’ll buy the tickets.”

Moriya Tamesuke resolutely pulled out two hundred-yen bills from his wallet.

The venue roared then hushed, forming a world beyond imagination—a mingling of abnormal tension and demented laughter.

The two psychologists exchanged looks and grunted, “Hmm.”

A vulgar ballet-style scene titled “The Female Chuck” unfolded.
Indeed, a nearly naked female body writhed.
Every sensual pose was displayed without reserve.
There, self-respect was dismantled without wounding dignity, while shame assumed challenge’s form pursued to the bitter end.

Moriya Tamesuke cast a cold gaze at this scene for some time while feeling a disconcerting agitation beneath his skin.

“Isn’t this rather dull—after all…”

Professor Yame muttered abruptly.

“This is strange...”

“There’s something… something excessive here,” Moriya Tamesuke responded.

Professor Yame said, “Yes, but there must be those who need precisely this.”

“First of all—what we call nudity—you see...”

As Professor Yame was about to continue, from behind—

“Shut it, white-haired geezer!”

A young man’s jeering voice was hurled at them.

Yame Rikurou gave a wry smile and placed a hand on his own head—he had to admit there was some truth to that.

“Shall we leave?”

Moriya Tamesuke looked back at Yame Rikurou as though suddenly becoming aware of their own incongruous presence.

“Hmm… well, perhaps just a little longer…”

Five

Before long, the two old professors, the backs of their heads numb and feeling somewhat dizzy, went outside.

“So, what’s your take?”

With eyes that now seemed sober yet glistening, Yame Rikurou poked his old friend's arm.

"In a word—complicated," Moriya Tamesuke responded. "When I first saw it, I thought it disastrous. But as I acclimated, various analytical perspectives emerged that proved rather intriguing." He paused, then added with psychological finality: "Ultimately though—humans remain animals."

“To put it in a word, then? Though I meant to leave this journey’s shame behind us, bringing you along might’ve been rather reckless. If students spot us, what will you do?”

Yame Rikurou was perceptive.
However, Moriya Tamesuke understood that this perceptiveness was half in jest—a way for Yame to poke fun at himself.
If one was in the teaching profession, they should have experienced that mentality; yet there were colleagues who would disdain it as mere foolish vanity.

And so, Moriya Tamesuke did not answer that; he merely laughed and steered the conversation elsewhere.

“Speaking of students—how about things on your end? The atmosphere must’ve changed considerably since before the war.”

“Changed if you call it changed, unchanged if you don’t—you know how it is.”

Moriya Tamesuke thought his old habit had resurfaced.

“Speaking of what’s changed—in rural areas, there aren’t many skipping school for part-time jobs and such.”

“True enough—relatively few. Tokyo’s always been the heartland for working students— After all—”
“Even as I say this—I was one myself, mind you…”

“That’s precisely where the difference between then and now lies—”
“The working students of old were nearly without exception devoted scholars.”

“That might be true.
But many of them ended up overworking themselves with study.”
“I too once intended to make my living through scholarship—worked diligently at it—but once I left school, that was the end of it.”
“As you can see, I haven’t managed to write any papers properly—ended up not writing any at all.”

“Such things don’t matter at all.
“By the time I finally resolved to devote myself wholeheartedly to a teacher’s duties, I was already past fifty.”
“We must—above all else—atone to the next generation.”

“It’s about what form we should carry it out in.”

“What among what we possess might actually benefit them... That’s the difficult question.”

“I’ve sworn never to voice weakness.”
“To half-heartedly admit my own antiquated ways and coddle them would bring a hundred harms without a single gain.”

“I don’t consider myself old-fashioned at all. But I feel something like the weight of our times—not a personal matter…”

“That’s your blind spot.”
“The very reason you end up trapped by your own constraints.”

There were indeed sore points in this old friend’s critique, but he found himself unable to share his companion’s penchant for brandishing trendy terms like “blind spot.”

That night, the two returned home past ten o’clock, and on what was to be the final night of their planned three-day stay, Yame Rikurou once again lay side by side with his cherished old friend and went to bed.

The next day, as he would barely make it in time for his lecture, Moriya Tamesuke saw Yame Rikurou off at Tokyo Station, told him to be sure to attend the annual autumn conference, and then rushed straight to school.

Student attendance remained as poor as ever.

Yet in the faces of those young men seated there was nothing that suggested defiance; apart from some among them showing slight signs of weariness, the majority were directing lively gazes at him.

He suddenly thought to begin today’s lecture with some affable opening remarks.
At that moment, what had nearly escaped his lips was—“Have any of you ever seen something called a strip show?”

However, he did not have the courage to say it.
Or rather, to say he lacked courage was not accurate.
Immediately, he realized it was a form of order disruption.
Indeed, the figures of female students caught his eye.
However, more than that—as a teacher—confessing such experiences seemed nothing but an attempt to curry student favor, regardless of intent.

At that, he abruptly tried to find words to replace it.

“Gentlemen, what I wish to convey to you today with some emotion concerns the very substance of what we call friendship—something I myself have likely never experienced with such urgency in my entire life as during these past few days. Of course, I do not intend to encroach upon the domain of ethics here.”
“In other words, I am merely stating the ordinary impressions of an ordinary person, but should I be fortunate enough to gain even the slightest sympathy from you all, I would be satisfied.”
“There’s no need to take notes yet.”

The students’ expressions visibly relaxed.

"You may already know this, but over the past two days, the Japanese Psychological Association’s autumn conference and research presentations were held at Gakushikaikan."
Taking this opportunity, scholars and professors specializing in psychology had gathered from across the nation—among them was an old friend of mine who had come all the way from Kyushu to Tokyo for the first time in ten years.
"There’s no need to mention his name, but he has been my closest friend since high school—my one true confidant."
"There’s an old saying about baring one’s heart and soul, yet our personalities and interests differ considerably."
"Our lifestyles, academic approaches—and perhaps even political stances—might seem incompatible at first glance."
"And yet, despite all that, we find ourselves bound by a friendship without equal."
"The joy of reuniting; these mutual feelings of wishing happiness for each other and grieving each other’s sorrows; this earnest desire to be of even the slightest assistance—and going a step further, this faint dissatisfaction where I at least wish he’d rely on me far more…"

When he had spoken this far, suddenly, from a corner of the classroom—
“Isn’t that just romantic love? If so...”
came a mocking voice.
“A faint anxiety that the other might, at times, drift away from oneself…”
He tried to press on heedlessly, but this was completely thwarted by a rapid barrage of heckling.
“Since there seem to be many who do not believe in friendship, I shall put an end to this discussion for now.
Well then, continuing from last time... regarding the distinctive features of Wundt’s theories—”

The rustle of notebook pages reached Professor Moriya's ears as he kept his face lowered, sounding like a breeze's whisper. Lately, though he had prepared meticulously, his words somehow refused to glide smoothly. He raised his eyes, meaning to steal a breath. There in the front row appeared the pallid face of that student called Manabe. The boy still moved his pen busily—though this seemed no ordinary fountain pen—and the notebook too, from what he could see, was no ordinary notebook. Moriya Tamesuke had indeed witnessed even the motion of swiftly slipping carbon sheets between each subsequent page.

At first, he couldn't grasp why someone would do such a thing, but precisely because he had never before seen a student take notes in this manner, he found it suspicious.

However, upon reflection, the reason was simple and clear—by the time the lecture ended, everything had clicked into place for him.
Now then, should this act be permitted or not?
That alone was the issue.
While he might occasionally turn a blind eye to so-called "proxy attendance" practices, he thought that some measure ought to be taken against this elaborate—though perhaps technically legal—yet fundamentally untenable collusive scheme among students, one that no teacher could condone.

“Mr. Manabe, come to the faculty room later with that notebook.”

Having said this, he left the classroom.

Manabe promptly appeared before him.

“Oh, I have a question—what exactly is this notebook of yours?”
“What are you going to do with the copies?”

Just to be sure, he asked as nonchalantly as possible.

“Huh?
“This?”
“Heh, it’s a part-time job. I sell them to interested parties.”

“Did a friend ask you to do this?”

“I was the one who came up with it.”

“Does that kind of thing really make money?”

“There are those who want to buy.”

“How much per session, then?”

“Well, it varies depending on the lecture...”

“About how many copies can you make?”

“At most four sheets.”
“I’m not used to it yet...”

“Putting aside whether that idea is acceptable—if we were to permit it in your case alone—if everyone started doing such a thing, students would only need to attend one-fifth of any lecture.”

“That’s correct.”

“That isn’t it. Do you think that’s acceptable?”

“I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“Hmm. If that’s how it is, then there’s nothing to be done. As a teacher, I find that rather troubling. I won’t tell you to stop immediately, but let me examine it further. Here—show me one of those copies.”

It was fairly well done.

“For reference, I’ll take just one copy of this. I’ll give you an answer on whether it’s good or bad in due course. You may go.”

But Manabe, after fidgeting for a moment, stepped out of the room only to return again. And he said to Professor Moriya:

“Professor, I’ll need payment for that copy. That’s fifty yen per sheet.”

“Huh?”

Professor Moriya looked up from the copy and met the young man’s gaze. Something didn’t quite sit right.

“Ah, right... Fifty yen, you say...?”

“Calculation is calculation, so…”

Manabe stated this matter-of-factly and had already begun extending his other hand.

Moriya Tamesuke’s mind was in a tangle.
And thinking that made sense, he mechanically reached into his inner pocket.
He counted out five ten-yen bills and handed them into the young man’s hand.
Manabe bowed deeply and left.

When Manabe’s figure disappeared through the door, Moriya Tamesuke finally thought that this was, no matter how he looked at it, somewhat absurd. Yet even then, he still couldn’t precisely determine where the mistake lay regarding the fact that the copying fee for his own lectures cost as much as fifty yen per session, and that he was being made to purchase them from a student.

“Fifty yen per session… Calculation is calculation…”

Muttering this under his breath, he carefully folded the copy in question and stored it away in his briefcase.