Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

No sooner had the roar of laughter erupted than the exchange of insults began—someone shrieking like a bird, a woman’s scream piercing the ears—then a merry chorus of men’s voices struck up—"Hit him!"
"Throw them out!"
and such fierce voices rang out,

“Ouch!”

"No more…"

“Help me!”

With such screams erupting, could this mean a grave incident had occurred?!
Thinking this, they would pause to check the situation, but at the same time put on faint wry smiles and pass right by.

Laughing uproariously, hurling insults, shrieking!
—but they were all part of the swirling vortex of revelry.
So—startled by what seemed like a brawl, one paused to look—but beyond that commotion came the jingle of a dancer’s tambourine bells as she lavished charm from table to table and the drowsy strumming of a gloomy street poet’s guitar as he sank into brooding.

It was just drunkards messing about and causing a commotion.

Even so, this tavern persisted in maintaining its peculiar clamor.
There was no distinction between morning, noon, or midnight.

“Hey hey, Old Man Idāria! Quit peddlin’ that scowling mug as your main wares—why not join us once in a blue moon to scheme up some improvement plans for the House of Representatives?”

“That old man having such clever schemes—oh pardon me, clever schemes he’s got aplenty—just ones that differ quite a bit in nature from ours, see…”

Though fragmented and beyond our grasp, such conversation—mocking others in that manner—sounded strangely entertaining all the same.

“If the old man’s Day-dream ever gets realized, we might not get to taste such earthly bliss anymore, eh?”

“Anyway, that bastard’s got an eternal curse against us guests—who deserve gratitude!”
“—they say he’s holding an eternal curse against us guests—who deserve gratitude!—so that’s one hellish deal, ain’t it?”

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Blessings upon Old Man Idāria who bears a curse against us!”

“If our Day-dreamer were to declare a second rebellion against us—”

“No—we were the ones who discovered that…”

“Let’s first and foremost subvert that scheme of his—add it to our festival’s Romanōrum (rituals)—and as long as our city prospers…”

“Hush! Hush! Idāria’s acorn eyes are gleaming with genuine resentment now!”

“Satan, step aside there! —seems he’s muttering something like that now.”

“……Dance, dance!
“Shitsudar! If you keep daydreaming about your hometown like that, it’ll affect the liquor sales!”
“I’ve heard rumors that Shitsudar’s quite close with some young student from Florence—wonder if it’s true!”

“Shitsudar, if you don’t confess, we’ll put you to the torture.”

“That rumor might actually be true after all.”
“Gentlemen! Take a good look at the gleam in that girl’s eyes when she sings those Lamp Festival love songs lately!”

“It’s a waste to have Shitsudar sing love songs made by third-rate poets like Rōrutsu-hi from the Byuukanan faction.”

“Acting all high and mighty, you Half-Circle Theater ticket-taker brat! Go ahead and say it again! Don’t you realize Rōrutsu-hi—who wrote the Lamp Festival love songs for Shitsudar—is right here?!”

“I said that deliberately. You were attempting a diatribe under Petrarch’s statue yesterday evening about Rosetsuchi’s (Night Conference), in a manner as if denouncing a sworn enemy. And yet you—after confirming your audience had left—clung to Petrarch’s pedestal and begged through tears to be taught the obscure sections of Rosetsuchi’s song, didn’t you? The Lamp Festival love songs were stolen from the (Night Conference) manuscript…”

When a man had spoken up to this point, the man called Rōrutsu-hi—who had been standing in a ferocious Ashura-like stance—shrieked as if struck by lightning! Letting out a scream, he dashed out of the tavern and fled into the hazy distance of the town, the hem of his gray tunic flapping like wings. A roar of laughter erupted.

“Where’s that poet from? Seems he’s some traveler who still doesn’t know this city’s ways.”

“They say he’s been claiming to be a lyric poet from Florence to butter up Shitsudar, but truth is he’s just a rogue who drifted in from Pisa’s outskirts not long back.”

“There’s also talk he’s a new orator for that slick Parliamentary Improvement Council—the ones who’ll handle anything from Plato’s impeachment papers to Cynic school encomiums… if you slip ’em even a gold shard.”

“Old Man Idāria, if you’re that stumped, why not consult Mr. Rōrutsu-hi…”

“Bravo! —Shitsudar, sing for us! Whether it’s a song by Mr. Rōrutsu-hi or a love ballad by Homer, we’ll all be enchanted without a care—like peacock ferns caressed by a May morning breeze.”

In any case, it was a tavern on a street corner containing a truly wondrous, ceaseless commotion.

—On the marble shelf facing the thoroughfare, six or seven plump jars—each about the size one could embrace—were arranged in two tiers.
In between them were arranged slightly smaller jars of the same shape.

And seeing that some of these jars were heaped with bouquets of roses and thistles in varying hues, as well as olive and citron branches, one might at first glance have wondered if this were a florist’s storefront.
One might have thought so, but upon drawing near and looking closely, every jar was seen to be engraved with various names of liquor.
All of them were sake jars.

“Idāria’s Libation Festival”

“Phaetia’s Dream”

“Gift of Eros”

“Buranbushiumu’s Floral Wreath”

“…………”

However, merely reading such lettering inscribed in floral script on the jars’ bellies would leave strangers none the wiser as to whether they contained liquor. Yet upon carefully examining the small characters written beside the florid script—Veneto Produce, Syracuse Produce, Lombardy Produce, and such—one could discern that these were likely brand names akin to Chianti, Marsala, or Vermouth.

In addition,

“Savage Beast’s Blood-Tide”

“Burning Knight”

“Bacchus’s Crown”

“Nero’s Cup”

“King of Kings”

“Southern Magician”—and other such labeled jars were lined up, but given these intense-sounding names, they were likely just nicknames adorning spirits.

It was unknown from which country or era this tale sprang—but there it stood: the storefront of Idāria, a small tavern bearing melancholic airs nestled in the backstreets of an ancient city resplendent as a dream.

Originally, "Buruukano Taban" had been this establishment’s name—but through the portraits of Bacchus and Idāria reverently enshrined on the wall behind the liquor counter, Idāria’s features had come to vaguely resemble those of the tavern’s owner! Then came someone who pointed this out, and when a certain eccentric student visited the portrait’s artist to secretly investigate the circumstances, he discovered the following episode.

Old Man Buruukano had grown profoundly weary from day after day of dealing with impertinent drinking patrons—a bitterness that had taken root long ago. He harbored resentment against these drunkards—talkative, mischievous crowds of sarcastic know-it-alls who would gather to trip others up, make people cross, and poke at weaknesses under the pretense of jest, all while seeming to take delight in such antics. Every time they directed various jests at him, he could not help but feel unbearable contempt toward himself. He desperately wanted to get back at them somehow.

He decided to hang the portrait of Idāria beneath that of Bacchus displayed on the front wall.
The patrons of Luoyang had an age-old unwritten custom: upon entering a tavern, they would first doff their hats to the portrait of Bacchus—or perhaps Idāria—before taking their seats at the drinking tables.—Thus, when commissioning Idāria’s portrait, Old Man Buruukano secretly conspired with the painter to have it rendered in his own likeness.

“That is not Idāria, but my portrait,” he declared with a deep nod.
And it was his scheme to observe the arrogant patrons paying respects to what they believed was Idāria’s—but was in fact his own—portrait, thereby venting the resentment that had been festering within him.

When a loquacious student discovered the old man’s such ironic method of retaliation and proudly boasted of it to the tavern’s regulars, Old Man Buruukano had resolved to immediately shutter his establishment and flee. Yet whether by fortune or misfortune, this instead captured the favor of the town’s dandies, transforming it into a first-rate fashionable tavern in an instant.
And thus, unbeknownst to all, it had even come to be known as the tavern "Taban Idāria."

The patrons entering the tavern would first salute Bacchus’s portrait, then reach out toward Idāria’s portrait to deliberately offer various reverent prayers.—Each time this happened, the old man had no choice but to turn crimson.
The old man, while guarding the sake jars day after day, was contemplating how to devise a revenge that would never be seen through this time.
And again, the patrons would call him in that manner: “Our Dee Doriimaah!”
...and so on, they would playfully jest.

“Old man, why not decorate that shelf there with a bust of Apis or such? Then when we tease you too much and it gets bothersome, you could moo ‘Moo! Moo!’ from the shadows—”
“—blow a flute that bellows like a bull from back there—‘Everyone! Lord Apis seems angered! Quiet now! Quiet now!’”
“How’d that be?”
“If no flute’s found, you’ll have to growl yourself—that’d make the effect sharper still!”

“If Lord Apis with the bull’s head were to growl at us, we’d have no choice but to scatter and flee like Mr. Rōrutsu-hi.”

“No matter what they say, the guardian deity of this old man who does nothing but silently sell booze must surely be Lord Apis.”

“How about it, old man! How about buying this brilliant idea with three libation cups?”

The more the old man made a displeased face, the more the malicious customers fired off boisterous jests.

II

The story shifted into its second scene at “Taban Idāria”.

It was a town like a dream.

With various names featuring authentic Italian locales and heroes famous in history as we know it, one might have thought it a seaside port town along a highway not far from Rome—yet when utterly otherworldly customs materialized before one’s eyes, or figures from entirely different eras emerged while exchanging absurd gossip—their clothing and language showing no distinction between past and present—it all felt akin to being backstage at some theatrical production.

“What a mysterious town this must be—and what a strange tavern!”

A young sailor stood idly at the tavern’s entrance, gazing absently at the shelves lined with liquor jars.

It was a peaceful morning.
Beneath the eaves, a green awning hung its wings deep, blocking the rich lapis lazuli sunlight.
At the inlet behind the tavern, at the end of a narrow alley littered with broken items, water could be seen.
The sailor had initially mistaken this place entirely for Rome, taking that sea before him to be the Tiber River—(indeed even the local citizens referred to that sea as "Tiber")—yet while both bore the name Tiber, Rome's flowed as river while here it stretched as sea.
Thus though sharing namesake, in every particular—there and here—they differed as river from sea.
Even with people—

Outside the liquor shelves, beneath the sunshade that served as a sidewalk, a single stone bench lay stretched out.
The bench had been prepared for those who wished to first inspect what liquors were available before entering the tavern—to lean against it and scrutinize them for as long as they pleased. But the sailor was not there to survey the presence of alcohol.
He had sneaked off the mother ship under the assumption this was Rome, but finding himself in such an unexpectedly bizarre city, he had become utterly at a loss.

“Don’t waste your time working as a sailor on such a two-masted sailing ship—come to Rome at once.”
“I’ve now become the most celebrated dancer—more than anyone—at an establishment called Buruukano Taban on Parberīni Street.”
“Many distinguished patrons visit and shower me with affection.”
“When I tell them you’re my brother and plead your circumstances, they all grow quite taken with you and promise to pave any path to advancement for you.…”

It was because his lover Shitsudar had sent such a letter that he had frantically abandoned his ship—yet both Buruukano and Shitsudar here shared only their names with their Roman counterparts. He had come out like this repeatedly, intending to ask Old Man Idāria to let him work at the tavern, but every time found it packed with customers; with the old man being ceaselessly teased and perpetually scowling, he never found the chance to make his request.

He resolved to come at such an early hour.
However, the tavern was still packed with customers.
Peering between the jars, he saw Shitsudar—who shared his lover’s name—deeply engrossed in morning prayers beneath Bacchus’s portrait.

“Shitsudar, why must we meet in such an unfortunate place? I cannot believe this miracle of us being strangers—but I will not leave this city without retrieving my Shitsudar.”

“Mr. Florentine Student! What are you praying for over there? Could you be signaling a rendezvous with Shitsudar?”

A knight carrying a shield passed by, tapping the sailor’s shoulder and saying such things.
The knight exited the tavern and hurried off through the town.

“I’m supposed to be a Florentine student?
And with that Shitsudar…?” the sailor exclaimed in shock—but by then, the knight had already mounted what was unmistakably a carriage (in this day and age!
Is there some festival happening somewhere? thought the sailor.) The knight had driven off in his carriage—and now an elderly gentleman who resembled Moses approached and tapped his shoulder,

“Florentine student!” he called out.
While addressing him familiarly in a barbaric tone unbefitting his dignity, he too hurriedly passed by.
“Go quickly—a couple of cups of Eros should clear your head.
Shitsudar had prepared lilac flowers for you.”

“Mr.!” the sailor inadvertently cried out, but his voice no longer reached.

“How can I ever escape this anxiety?”

This tavern stood at the corner of a backstreet, yet directly before one’s eyes it met the edge of a grand avenue.
And from the tavern’s entrance, one could see a colossal fountain at the edge of the main avenue that lay diagonally opposite——the fountain sent up vigorous plumes of spray into a deep blue sky befitting early summer.
A spray grazing the high midheaven.
The street was so tranquil that even after people had departed, the tobacco smoke they had exhaled while passing by lingered lazily in the air——yet at the height where the fountain’s spray shattered and danced downward, a faint breeze seemed to blow, causing the mist’s glimmering particles to sweep en masse toward the tavern’s entrance. Beneath the sunshade, the sidewalk remained appropriately damp, as if sprinkled with morning dew, its whiteness preserved only where shadows fell.

“Well now, how convenient—it seems it’s only raining right in front of this place.”

From inside the tavern, such a voice escaped.

“Having this rain pour down on their drunken faces must feel utterly refreshing on the way home.—Boss, that Syrian who left earlier was muttering how this tavern always gets such conveniently timed rain, which must be why it’s packed with customers till morning…”

“That horse trainer probably can’t appreciate our tavern’s wine.”

For once, a gloomy voice befitting the proprietor rang out.
The one who had uttered such words did so without any particularly stubborn sarcasm in his tone—it simply carried an endlessly tedious ring.

“We come here because we appreciate your tavern’s wine too!”
“If you thought that, it’s pure conceit.”
“In just a little while, the flower seller from Urbino who always appears by that fountain will come out—it’s just to see her that we’ve been staying here till morning!”
“Seems you don’t know this, huh?……” “If someone were to lean against Shitsudar’s shoulder and watch Pipiyas over there by that lovely fountain—holding her basket of lilacs and carnations, singing Horace’s tunes or whatnot while selling flowers to passersby—and have a drink around here, even stall-brewed moonshine would taste better than Reiman’s ice-chilled ceremonial wine.”
“You’d better brace yourself now—once that girl’s settled into my mansion for good, Taban Idāria’ll have no choice but to nail its front door shut and call it quits.”

“Tavern Uncle! Why don’t you try being a bit charming for once?—Or should I dress up as your dear old self and sweet-talk the customers instead?”
Customer B, adopting the old man’s voice, began exchanging rehearsed banter with Customer A.
“I am deeply honored,”
“Esteemed Headmaster of the Epicurean School, newly transferred from Athens!
“I am one who believes true happiness can only arise from life’s pleasures.”
“Our lives are far too occupied to pursue ideal happiness through ascetic temperance.”
“We materialist supremacists would rather grow intoxicated on a cup of ‘Phaetia’s Dream’ to feel our vigorous selves than believe in eternal divinity—with Earth reduced to a mere speck and life to delusion and smoke—while studying universal flux laws in some Mountain Sanctum.”
“I refuse to enroll my son in Stoic University.”
“Instead, I wish to admit him to your academy’s dance department.”

“This isn’t a joke,” the old man corrected the customer’s words discontentedly. “I want nothing to do with a dance department.” “Rather than that, I’d much prefer to be an assistant to that taciturn physicist who’s been dropping balls from the top of Pisa’s tower for years on end, endlessly studying the laws of falling—even if it means dedicating myself to researching ball retrieval.”

Customer B, unaware, continued his lines. “Now then, Mr., please pour four or five more cups of this here.” “Then, this morning here, once we’ve adorned Phaetia’s jar with white roses, I’ll revel in my grand profits, and you, Mr., will promptly become enraptured—making this a truly auspicious morning for us both.”

The sake jar adorned with a bouquet had run dry!
This was the sign that it had been emptied.

The patrons found it utterly amusing to put on such an act right before the old man!
they seemed to think.
Customer A threw down the bag of gold coins he had taken from his waist onto the dining table and feigned it was empty.

“If Pipiyasu’s flower basket were filled with white roses, I’d drain Phaetia’s jar in one gulp.”
“And with those white roses taken from her basket, I’ll bury that jar like Alpine snow.”
“If her flower basket were filled with red roses, even if I were to spill ‘Nero’s Cup’ across the floor, I would not rest until I hurled a fiery bouquet into that jar.”
“If they’re carnations plucked from Storona’s valley, I’ll have all the tavern’s dancers hold cups and drain Branbushium’s floral wreath dry.”

Judging from the customers’ grand proclamations, each sake jar appeared to have its own inherent covenant regarding what type of bouquet should adorn it.

Before long, from beyond the fountain’s spray—

To keep the joyful dream from fading,

A floral wreath steeped in morning dew

Softly I brought here

We who know nothing but dreams
We know not how to pray
Flowers I pick by starlight—

While singing this prelude titled "Morning Meeting," composed by Mr. Rōrutsu-hi, a voice slowly drew near.

The sailor, who had been sunk in thought leaning against the bench in front of the tavern since earlier, upon hearing this, recalled his village’s “Lamp Festival” song.

When sadness comes, there is no remedy but to weep freely as the heart dictates—O night borne on white wings, dawn, dawn, become the morning of the Lamp Festival!—recalling such a lyrical song, the sailor envisioned the morning scene of his village’s Lamp Festival. …A radiant festival morning it was.

People extinguished last night’s lamps, adorned them with wreaths of their own imagining, and reverently offered them as they gathered in the festival square.
They raced to be first to reach beneath the obelisk at the square’s center.
Thus it was said that those who joined this festival would thereafter keep bright lamps of happiness burning.
Since they held precious lamps, they couldn’t run recklessly; cradling the lamps lit by priests’ hands, they raced while minding not to break them.
Cheered on by spectators from nearby villages, a comical and intriguing competition began—.

The sailor, having earned honor in this competition during last year’s festival and been awarded the “Wreath of Happiness,” was wondering in bewilderment why he now faced such misfortune—when a florid voice surged forth from within Idāria.

“Hey, Pipiyasu’s here!”

“The bird that built a capital in the clouds—the flowers in her basket are as refreshingly dawn-hued as the honorary wreath bestowed upon that playwright of delightful comedies by the female mayor of Athens!”

“Just as the great bird GOD KHONSU with rainbow wings, bearing the OSIRIS flower it sought in the upper Nile, appeared in the streets of Olympia—we are jubilant!”

“Pull the stopper from the floral wine! Dancers, take up your cups all together and revel in the jubilation of that dance wine!”
“I’ll dash to Pipiyasu’s side and buy that flower basket—not a moment to lose! Before those blooms wither, I must unseal that jar and heap it with Storona’s flowers.”
“Drink! Drink! Pour the wine of jubilation upon Bacchus’s grape crown like a fountain!”

“Thank you ever so much for the feast, Mr. Headmaster!”

At the same moment, a tremendous POP resounded as though the cork of a giant champagne bottle had been pulled.

Then, like a competitor fired by the starter’s pistol, the Epicurean School Headmaster burst into a sprint and bolted away in single-minded pursuit.

Then, upon spotting the flower seller again, the sailor suddenly let out a cry of rapturous joy,

“Isn’t that Shitsudar?” he shouted.
“That there—she’s my beloved true Shitsudar!”

He threw his jacket into the air and, in the same motion, frantically chased after the Headmaster.

A fierce competition between the Sailor and the Headmaster had begun.

Three

On both sides of the street, soaring buildings—like a capital built by birds in the sky—stretched endlessly. From their countless windows, innumerable faces appeared and shouted cheers rivaling a roaring storm.

“Today’s Lamp Festival seems to have only two runners, huh?”

“It’s certain—in this town nowadays, there’s no one but those two who bear the kind of sorrow that would drive them to join the Lamp Festival.”

“For a Sophist of the Epicurean School to become a Lamp Festival runner—what an outrageous irony has erupted in our world!”
“Ha ha ha!”
“It was clever of him to bring a bag of gold coins instead of a lamp, but really!”
“Isn’t the sight of Mr. Headmaster running breathlessly with it dangling like a lantern just pitiful?”

“Mr. Headmaster, steady now!”
“There! I’m throwing a lemon!”
“Never before have I seen Mr. Headmaster’s figure so filled with serious radiance.”
“He looks like a Socratic idealist yearning for Prometheus’s true fire.”
“Exactly! That figure of our Headmaster—burning with what seems like eternal conviction-filled longing—appears to be shouting Mr. Preton’s words: ‘For liberation from all delusions, irrationality, passions, terrors, and human calamities!’”

“...What a truly solemn comedic phenomenon this is—something we must show the author of Ran'un without fail!”

The Sophist was bathed in such cheers; as for the sailor,

“Your ship—having extinguished the lamp of confusion and raised its sails—will reach Phaetia in one more run.”

“There in Urbino’s pastures, Shitsudar who shared those happy shepherding days with you waits impatiently!
“Look! See her there in the fountain’s spray!”

“Run!
“Run! Be careful not to drop the lamp—”

“When lovers who have pined for each other day after day meet there, O fountain that is the pride of our town, please scatter abundant spray and steal their forms from our sight!”

Amidst such cheers delivered in a hymn-like chorus, they continued their desperate sprint—the fountain that should have been right before their eyes now seemed to recede from the competitors’ path like shifting scenery.

“Shitsudar, quickly take my hand—I’ve finally reached your side!”

As the Sailor ran past, shouting this and extending both arms, the flustered Headmaster—

“O my beloved Pipiyas—you whom I’ve awaited through nights unending! Take this and cast that flower basket hither!”

No sooner had he uttered this anguished cry than he hurled the bag of gold coins in his hand with all his strength toward the girl. The bag soared over the sailor’s head like a bat before alighting upon her apron.

“Shitsudar!” cried the sailor in a voice choked with tears. “Take my hand—quickly—”

“……Mr. Student from Florence, what are you thinking about over there!”
“Why don’t you come inside and dance with me?”

When such a voice sounded by his ear, the sailor suddenly reconsidered and realized—the scene of the competition had been nothing but an unintentionally conjured daytime delusion! He realized—the dancer Shitsudar had leaned out from between the sake jars and whispered into his ear.

The soaring buildings that stretched far into the sky as if built by birds were also a dream; that had been the sailor’s misunderstanding when he looked up at the fountain’s spray blown fiercely toward him.

“You share the same name as my lover,” she said. “Therefore, I worry—have I perhaps never addressed you with overly familiar words in moments of drunken confusion until now?”

“If Master Rōrutsu-hi consents, I wouldn’t mind becoming your lover!” declared the dancer, her eyes sharp as she bitterly spat out those words.

The sailor couldn’t make sense of it.

“I am not a student from Florence.”
“I am a poor sailor born in Urbino.”
“The lover I’ve long sought after—I’ve just now found her by that fountain.”

As soon as the sailor offered his explanation, the dancer suddenly grabbed a yellow flower stuck in the “Southern Magician” sake jar and hurled it at his face while screaming vicious insults.

“That’s too bad for you—you don’t even know that flower seller Pipiyas is about to become Mr.Epicurus’s mistress—”

To the sailor,the dancer’s words only grew increasingly incomprehensible.
She continued.
“Have you already forgotten your promise from that night?”
“Do you mean to deceive me?”

“Such a ridiculous thing…”

“For my sake, you’d climb Corso Street’s tower to become a statue of St. Paul, stand on Hadrian’s Bridge’s railing to turn into Heraclitus, or manifest as Sophocles’s likeness in Borghese Forest without hesitation.
“What kind of agonizing bronze statue would you become—you’d work tirelessly without complaint, work yourself to the bone to buy me piles of beautiful robes—didn’t you say that?”

Shitsudar the dancer shook her fist and closed in on the sailor, but he could not recall having said such a foolish thing no matter how hard he tried.
Whenever he came to Idāria, the sailor always drank nothing but the cheapest “Southern Magician” recommended by the dancer, but being drunk on that sort of liquor was hardly reason enough to make such an outlandish promise—what on earth did “working as a bronze statue” even mean?
Moreover, bronze statues he’d never even heard of before—how astonishingly they were scattered throughout this city! Heraclitus and Empedocles standing on Hadrian’s Bridge? Sophocles and Euripides cast in bronze within Borghese Forest? Could this be anything but a dream?
If things continue like this, there’s no telling what dreadful calamities might appear from here on…….

“How dreadful! How dreadful!”
“Miss Dancer of Idāria, what will become of me?”

The sailor, as if going mad with despair, collapsed onto the bench.

“Doing such an act and trying to deceive me again! Last night too, you didn’t mind becoming not just one of the horses at Clement Fountain, but even the Laocoön statue soon to be erected at Idāria Street’s entrance—all rather than do the carefree work of those heroes! Didn’t you say that? If you can manage Laocoön, you’ll earn a bag of gold coins every day.”

The sailor was caught by the dancer and was suffering a miserable ordeal when the Epicurean School Headmaster, holding the flower seller’s hand, returned.

“Ah, ‘Southern Magician’ devotee!” he called out to the sailor.
“I just pulled out the ‘Flower Garland Jar’ for Pipiyas this morning."
The dancers were delighting in that commotion.
“You too—jump right in and drink heartily, if you please.”

“Even you—if you became Laocoön or something, you could have your favorite liquor uncorked freely every single day, all for such a charming mistress—”

While letting the dancers' and sophist's words flow past him unheard, the sailor peered at the girl hiding beneath the patron's wide-sleeved tunic.
And while suppressing his passion,

“Shitsudar, it’s me.
“I’m the ‘Two-Masted Sailor’ who came all this way yearning for you.
“I’m the shepherd from Urbino who became a sailor to chase after you.
“Shitsudar, look up! Look at me—filled with joy like a man castaway on a desert island spotting ship’s smoke in that very instant!”

he said.

“From early morning—quite the high spirits for someone so young! My my, you’re an irrepressible dandy who can’t be kept in the shadows!”
“Slick, very slick! Which theater did you learn that act from? What sort of player did you study?”

The Headmaster, misapprehending the sailor’s anguished gestures as drunken jesting, tilted his chin back in exaggerated approval—but the girl stayed stubbornly veiled beneath her sleeve, showing no inclination to emerge.

“This man here, Headmaster!” Shitsudar the dancer declared.
“He’s addled his wits guzzling naught but cheap liquor.”
“Or perhaps he’s been muddling my name on purpose to conceal his wandering eye.”
“Don’t you dare let Pipiyas out from under that sleeve.”
“Why, this silver-tongued rogue could beguile even Pipiyas herself!”

“Like you, perhaps?”

“…If you dare make eyes at Pipiyas, I’ll strap a dog-headed Anubis bronze statue to your back, mark my words.”

“I’ll have no part in lovers’ quarrels!”

The eccentric sophist—who fancied himself Luoyang’s consummate connoisseur—proclaimed these words in the voice of Prometheus, the tragic actor then captivating the city with performances at a nearby theater: “Open the gates! Two pairs of newlyweds have arrived at the festival grounds!”

IV

Even among the tavern patrons, Prometheus's Greek tragedy was being fervently celebrated.

"The prevailing talk is all about erecting a Prometheus statue, but there's no doubt this proposal will pass in the next assembly."

At a table near the liquor shelves, a young man holding a ceramic Western-style cup with an arabesque pattern said such things in a rather disinterested tone, whereupon the man beside him who appeared to be his companion—

“After all, he has an amazing reputation even among the girls,”
“No matter where you go, it’s all Prometheus this and Prometheus that—the whole town’s so swept up they’re practically teary-eyed with joy.”
“Before that actor showed up, our forest used to draw the biggest crowds of young women—” he grumbled gloomily.
The two wore short Greek-style chain-stitched undershirts.

“But hey—since we take daily wages for this work, let’s not air petty grievances.”
“Patroclus!”

“Alright, let’s head out for duty, Achilles! In the evening, let’s drop by again and listen to Shitsudar’s songs or something.”

This city was famous for its numerous bronze statues found everywhere; however, all these statues were actually living people hired by the government to stand atop pedestals in place of sculptures crafted by artists.
The majority of the talkative regulars who appeared at Taban Idāria were professional bronze statue performers diligently working as their respective statues.
They would stop by here while commuting to and from their duties to vent their pent-up loquacity from work that required maintaining silence all day.
Therefore, they simply chattered away without restraint.
Instead, they harbored no ulterior motives.
They were content to fool around without reserve and tease others without malice.
Therefore, even if Mr. Rōrutsu-hi—who had been made to suffer such a red-faced humiliation—came and went with feigned nonchalance the very next day, no one remained concerned about yesterday’s affairs, nor did anyone continue to hold grudges.
Only the old proprietor of Idāria, overwhelmed by his long-time customers’ loquacity, found himself in such a state of mind.
That Dei Doriimaā was still devising some means to oppose the customers.

The two in chain-stitched undershirts who had just left were young men raised in knight-class families, serving as the commemorative statue of “Achilles Nursing Patroclus’ Wound” located in the forest near Teivoli’s Triumphal Arch.
Just as with the other bronze statues, they too addressed each other by the names of the bronze statues instead of their original names.

“It’s only natural that the girls are clamoring so,” said “Demosthenes”—envied by all for being set to receive a pension after completing his service this year—who was delivering his great oration against Philip of Macedonia at Hadrian’s Bridge.
He had maintained the roaring Demosthenes expression for so many years that even during off-duty hours, it had become a habit for him to revert to that lion-like visage whenever his words trailed off or he became lost in thought.
“I too went to see it the other day—when the ‘Unveiling Ceremony of the Bronze Statue of Oedipus Rex’ was held at that semicircular theater—accompanying the officials from the Central Bronze Statue Bureau—”

“Has the matter about erecting Oedipus’ statue in Vesta Shrine’s square been decided?” asked Petrarca, who worked in the forest of Borghese Pond.
He was the young Ionian who had once exposed Mr. Rōrutsu-hi’s secret.
At that time, when Rōrutsu-hi had just arrived in this city, he did not yet realize that the bronze statues could possibly be living humans.
In the Borghese forest, there were Dante and Petrarca to begin with, as well as Goethe, Schiller, Chaucer, and Spenser.

“It’s decided.”
Demosthenes said in a growling tone.
“If we do not vigorously increase the number of statues, it will not only jeopardize our city’s prosperity but also fail to open a path of salvation for the youth suffering from employment difficulties.”

“We can’t very well erect Prometheus before Oedipus now, can we!” said Moses of Pinzio Park.

“Of course.—Now then, all present gentlemen, grant me five minutes of silence in the name of I, Director of the Central Bronze Statue Bureau’s Investigation Bureau.”
When Demosthenes extended his palm upward and declared, applause broke out and the tavern fell silent.

“The fact that thoughtlessly increasing only the number of bronze statues would instead lead to unmanageable consequences has long been an unspoken anxiety among us committee members.”
“Therefore, regarding the Oedipus statue to be erected in Vesta Shrine’s square this time, such a plan has been under consideration—what are your thoughts?”
“Why the tragedy 'Oedipus Rex' has gained such immense popularity throughout the entire city—surely I need not explain this now.”
“You all must be familiar with the scene from the festival day of the king’s statue unveiling ceremony—the one who returned to that place by chance, unaware of such a festival, was the long-wandering, dreadfully unfilial prince.”
“You must all be familiar with the spectators’ frenzy when the scene reaches that point—and oh! In the very midst of the festival, the king’s bronze statue topples over, strikes the prince’s head by chance, and the prince collapses in agony!”
“When that magnificent scene arrives, is not the spectacle of the entire audience rising to their feet in frenzy a grandeur unseen even by spectators of beast battles?”
“Weep, weep, weep—why does tragedy so captivate the hearts of today’s citizens?”
“It is a phenomenon that can never be understood through theory.”
“Although those who gaze up at Aristophanes’ statue are few, does not the phenomenon of there never being a lack of garlands—praised by many elegiac poets—beneath Aeschylus and Sophocles make this self-evident?”

“It’s true.
“Just yesterday, two or three schoolgirls passed beneath me, saying, ‘So this is that Aristophanes—the comedy writer who made that idiotic play *The Frogs* and ended up a laughingstock instead! He’s mocking our revered Mr. Euripides, not knowing his place—’ and just as I wondered what they’d say next, they all looked up at me and went ‘Blegh!’”
“As if to say just that, they sent me such a fiercely hateful look, didn’t they?”
“Even if it’s part of the job, being subjected to such antics by pretty girls can’t possibly feel good.”
“I’m seriously considering either demanding a salary raise soon or else asking to be replaced by someone else.”

The one who inadvertently voiced complaints while listening to Demosthenes’ eloquence was a melancholy young man portraying the statue of comedy’s ancestor at Apollo’s Kagura Hall entrance.

“Look upon this spectacle of tragic vogue—”

Demosthenes continued:
And he—

“And so—”

Changing his tone mid-sentence, he struck the table.

“We plan to erect two bronze statues—Oedipus and his prince—stacked vertically in Vesta Square. Our grand design aims to stage this spectacle during the shrine festival: the king’s statue topples over, strikes the prince’s head, and both come crashing down from their pedestal before the crowd’s very eyes.”

“That’s an excellent plan. Just hearing about it makes my chest fill with sorrow. It will undoubtedly garner immense popularity—clearer than seeing fire.”

The one who expressed agreement along with such a poignant sigh was the performer portraying Emperor Marcus Aurelius, astride his horse on Capitoline Hill.

"Now then—how are we to find brave individuals to serve as these two statues? And just as the discussion reached this point, the plan inadvertently hit an impasse."

When Demosthenes raised a mournful voice and groaned thus, Aristophanes, Aurelius, Euripides, and all the other ostentatious heroes shouted in unison—every last one of them turning aside to exchange glances.

“It’s nearly time for work.”

“Old man, tonight I’ll definitely drain ‘Nero’s Cup’ dry—so you’d best plug your ears in preparation, hear?”

“Now then, let us be off.”

“So—you ended up staying here all night again last night?—Too much fine weather must make work a bit rough.”

Distracting Demosthenes’ worries, the group scattered in all directions one by one and two by two, muttering all the while.

In the tavern were Rōrutsu-hi—who had no job—students who had truly come from Florence, an idler born in Sicily, street poets, seven-instrument musicians, dancers, the usual headmaster, a sailor, a flower seller… each relaxing in their own chosen spots with free abandon, like students of Socrates’ school.

The sailor was gazing at the fountain outside from between the sake jars.

While in this state, he had to resolve all these doubts! he thought.

The several corners of the water basin that broadly encircled the fountain were formed into bronze lion heads, and from their maws that roared toward the town, silver water ceaselessly surged forth.
These several lion-headed waterfalls, brimming with abundant water yet utterly silent, stood composed and resplendent in the sunlight, majestically guarding the fountain that continued its dance upon the throne.

According to a certain elder’s words, there was such a legend.

This fountain was constructed in ancient times as a watering place for Olympian athletes, it was said.

It was said that whenever athletes from Olympia passed through this city in ancient times, all the townspeople would gather by this fountain.

And so it was said that this fountain came to be revered both as the “Departure Fountain”—where welcoming maidens moistened olive branches they carried in their hands with its waters and sprinkled them over the heads of warriors they admired while praying for their valor—and also as the “Triumphal Fountain,” where warriors returning victorious would kiss the sacred water spilling from the lion’s mouth as a symbol of receiving the city’s welcoming address.

In this day and age, could it be that the use of olive branches on the 'Burning Knight' sake jars here in this tavern originates from such origins as these?

“I am the only one who truly laments the current state of this town.”

The elder lowered his eyes after saying that.

The sailor had not asked for his name and had not seen him since, so he did not know where that old man was from, but he could not forget the beauty of that old man’s voice.

The elder said:

“My heart is exactly like those lions around the fountain.”
“Lions roaring toward the town.”
“They may roar, but they make no sound.”
“They spout beautiful clear water.”
“I too hold lamentation in my breast—yet now I find no words to say to them.”
“Were you to dwell in this city, mysteries beyond your reckoning would arise one after another.”
“To unravel those mysteries, there’s no other way but to stay silent forever and gaze at the water surging from those lions’ mouths.”

The Sailor stared fixedly at the lion’s mouth for a long time. However, the doubts showed no sign of being resolved. The cheerful drunkards, chattering away about whatever they pleased as they emerged from the tavern, would all drink water from the lion’s mouth as if by prior arrangement—seeming to relish it immensely—before staggering off and disappearing behind the fountain. For no particular reason, this struck the Sailor as amusing.