Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Makino Shin'ichi

I

His day after yesterday—Taruno’s—.

This morning brought weather even more splendid than yesterday’s—serene to the point where the pleasant hum of engines from fishing boats coursing far offshore could be heard as clearly as if one might reach out and touch them—a bright calm so complete it felt rare.
Needless to say, the sea stretched out like a blue mirror—nothing pierced the eye but the vivid white glint of spray shattering against the bows of boats kicking through waves as they glided onward.—Taruno found the lingering remnants of sleepiness paradoxically pleasant.

Taruno, who should have been preoccupied, was hurrying down the road with long strides as though trying to shake off his drowsiness—but unless he quickened his pace further (which would become an outright run) or found a companion to turn into the kind of chatterbox one becomes when drunk, he felt somehow unbearably ill at ease with this invisible something around him.

Taruno would wake only on clear days to visit the N Village house where everyone had lived until half a year prior—now containing only his study.—Having fled in panic upon hearing foreclosure rumors, he found that talk seemed to have been swept under the rug for now; there on the gatepost, unbeknownst to him, a new nameplate bearing his name had appeared.
In the tilting house at the edge of town where they currently lived—propped up haphazardly with supports here and there—there was no room for Taruno; moreover, residing there were his wife’s siblings who had come from Tokyo bearing various sorrowful circumstances.
Given their sad, troubled circumstances having driven them to this point, Taruno had thought—poor things—they must surely be quietly withdrawn somewhere sighing; yet fortuitously, they proved to be a bunch of cheerful optimists whose vitality knew no bounds and who never bore grudges over matters.

His wife had been spreading word that they’d come for a health retreat owing to somewhat frail constitutions, though likely no eyes perceived them as infirm. Of late, the Taruno household’s sake barrel had long stood empty, and the master—who abstained from drink—found himself unnervingly subdued through his own agency, to such degree he might as well have been some ailing recluse confined to quarters. However clamorous the house grew, never once did Taruno’s voice mingle with that din.

The siblings must have had inherently likable dispositions, for friends would always come from afar to see them. There was a 22- or 23-year-old dandy who always kept both hands in his trouser pockets—his faint gestures making it apparent to all that he thought of nothing but dancing whether walking or chatting; a youth nicknamed "So-and-so Fan" who habitually muttered "...s'pose" after every phrase of the pop songs he was prone to sing; an overly obliging student claiming to be a swimmer who eagerly took on tasks like wiping floors or cooking rice in this household's ever-present mess tin without ever commenting on food's taste; a gloomy Western-film enthusiast carrying a guitar who professed love for the 20-year-old snub-nosed sister—all airs and eloquence masking apparent dimwittedness... Such people came staying one after another, yet scarcely any exchanged words with Taruno. When their eyes met, they would exchange faint smiles, but Taruno—who abstained from drink—existed in truth yet as if he weren’t truly there.

Of course, regardless of whether there were occupants or not, Taruno couldn’t help but use the N Village house whenever he could go there. Circling the beach, cutting through rice fields, and descending slippery slopes—then still having to take a train with a 10-sen ticket due to the distance—Taruno would invariably cancel his N Village trips whenever it rained.

Yesterday too, since it was fine weather, he had set out, but along the way had been waylaid by his heavy-drinking father-in-law at a seaside inn until nightfall, returning home with only his head unnervingly clear yet his footsteps suspiciously unsteady. By the time he returned home, he was completely sober, and when he tried to sleep, the guitar-playing youth’s ceaseless melancholic tunes—played while trying to please his lover—kept reaching his ears, making Taruno even more unable to drift off.

He had even considered starting to drink again alone from morning to sleep it off, but after brief reflection changed his mind; setting out with deliberately brisk steps toward N Village’s beautiful seaside—yet a lingering chest discomfort that wasn’t quite a hangover coiled stubbornly within him.

As he advanced along the shore near the water’s edge at a half-running pace, up ahead there was a small boat now eagerly preparing to depart—his friend Omaru’s.

“Good morning, Omaru!” Taruno shouted in a commanding voice that seemed ready for action, waving his hat.
The beach people customarily exchanged clamorous conversations—as if born to quarrel—defying the roar of waves, but this morning’s unusually tranquil shore made Taruno’s piercing voice resound like a conch shell signaling returning boats.

Taruno faltered at the sound of his own voice, but having just that morning established a strict vow—to prioritize eloquence in all circumstances without touching alcohol—this first encounter with Omaru made his heart pound strangely and drove him to press on with his words.

“Though I ordered them to escort me part of the way today—what with this splendid weather—not a single one of the night watch folks at my house even answered in their sleep! So I came out without eating breakfast and stopped by your place for a piece of bread and a bottle of beer...”

“There were horse mackerel this morning—”

It was true he had stopped by Omaru’s, but this business about “Escort me partway!”—this commanding tone—were all Taruno’s fantasies. If he had sent his wife or even her sister—cracking open the room’s window and lying in wait for his approach on such fair weather—they might have made excuses should that old man catch them! he thought, though out of consideration for their moods, he hadn’t voiced it.

When that old man with his chestnut-sized face—flattened like a platform at the crown and tapering triangularly toward the chin—began chattering, it became unbearable; Taruno couldn’t comprehend half of what he said through that violently smooth yet peculiar Tohoku dialect of his. After thirty minutes of conversation, Taruno’s head would turn into an empty can, assaulted senselessly until he felt utterly rattled, nearly collapsing into meaningless noise.

And so Taruno, still unable to comprehend anything at all, would remain dumbstruck—only to end up taking on trivial matters despite possessing no capability whatsoever. He had continued to harbor righteous indignation toward that old man’s shameless womanizing habits, the unresisting wickedness ingrained from his mountain-country upbringing, and his inhumanity.

If they were to meet from now on, he resolved, he would transform himself into the smooth talker he aspired to be—if the other side was an abura cicada, he would charge forth with the vigor of a bell cricket.

“What splendid weather this is! Can’t tell if it’s autumn, spring, or summer, can you?”
Taruno called out to Omaru in a booming voice that mimicked the fishermen’s shouting style.
He strained as though secretly testing his vocal volume.

“Oh, so we’re finally in sync now!” Omaru smoothly called back.
Taruno’s mood alone had aligned, yet he felt an impatience that threatened to prevent him from reaching N Village in one dash.—But then again, if he kept shouting this loudly, everything would surely blow away and leave him refreshed; neither his impatience nor his mood would matter—

“Even with yesterday’s weather, I went out despite the trouble, but ended up botching it—how did things go on your end?”

“At least we got the rice money—that’s something, Ah—if this rain kept up yesterday, today, and two more days, I’d have finally had to take my pot to the pawnshop, y’know—”

“Oh! The day before yesterday was rainy!”
Taruno involuntarily looked up at the sky with a puzzled expression and took in the crisp air.

If it rained, Omaru (Hino) and his crew would take a break just like Taruno did with his trips to N Village; however, lately on rainy days Taruno took to inviting him to his house more often.
At Taruno's house, Omaru's voice—seasoned by waves—would clang like a cracked bell, while Taruno's drunken voice rose disproportionately through his entire frame, prompting some to laugh that it sounded like two deaf men meeting; this happened both because Omaru grew flustered at such remarks and because the sake barrel remained perpetually empty.
Omaru had been Taruno’s classmate since elementary and middle school, and ever since abandoning the Imperial Fisheries School for love, he left his beautiful wife to mind their home alone while devoting himself wholeheartedly to steering the family’s traditional helm of the Ōmaru.

The seas in these parts were notoriously rough, with mornings as tranquil as this one being few and far between.
Thus even compared to the townspeople just across the way, the speech of those working along this coast stood apart—most strikingly in how their lilting cadences swayed with exaggerated languor while every utterance emerged as a full-throated roar.
Their mentality followed suit within this enclave—no intrigues were ever hatched here, nor existed any driven by ambition, resentment or thrift. Though they'd frequently click their tongues at the heavens in frustration, not a soul nursed grievances against civic matters.
With those thunderous voices of theirs, any attempt at secret scheming or neighborly slander proved impossible—their throats permitted nothing but howls befitting brawling men.
"Why don't we mates try hitting the pleasure quarters tonight?"
Even such whispered conspiracies carried across the shore as hollowly as megaphone proclamations, while assenting replies rumbled forth with tigerish ferocity.

They had no need to suppress what they wanted to say.
Whatever thoughts or feelings arose, they would always blurt them out on the spot as if in a brawl.
They were all somewhat eccentric chatterboxes who, though lacking in dull-wittedness, excelled at producing vivid metaphorical descriptors that sprang to their lips moment by moment. Without fail, the morning after encountering them, Taruno’s throat would invariably end up hoarse or ruined—this became customary.

At Omaru's fishing hut, Taruno became acquainted with a crowd of young and old—Shichiroumaru, Daiōmaru, Urokomaru, Saburōbeimaru, Shiobukimaru, Zukunyuumaru, Sabakomaru, Hannyamaru, Saitōmaru, Gentarōbeimaru and others—who would gather on rainy days to hold drinking parties while clicking their tongues at the heavens, but the commotion of those gatherings was truly spectacular!
"Damn you!"
Or "Idiot face!"
Or "I'll bash your face in!"
Since the main elements were these shouted insults, unless one paid close enough attention to discern it, they were actually exchanging work-related stories with mutual affection and cheerfulness!
That fact was incomprehensible.

“We were rather rude the day before yesterday, weren’t we?”
Omaru was maintaining the massive new fishing lamp at the prow—resembling a park gaslight in scale—while recounting how, on that day, the group made irritable by endless rains had started an absurdly chaotic brawl without hating anyone in particular (that is, venting at the heavens), which ended with Taruno becoming an unlikely mediator.
“You must’ve been shocked then!
In other words—what if it rains tomorrow for every last one of them?
Just thinking about that was terrifying enough to get them riled up on their own!
Ah—calling each other stubborn bastards!
You damn fool!
They’d shout insults like that until it turned into grappling matches—fists flying! Then Shichiroumaru here gets punched square in the nose and reels around dazed, Sabakomaru over there has his cheek bitten clean through and starts wailing—what a ruckus! But you see, none of ’em actually held grudges against each other. It’s those damn black clouds up there that got under their skin! When they couldn’t take it another second, they just lashed out at whatever poor soul was closest—venting all that pent-up fury through their fists. Absurd as hell if you ask me!”
“Shiobukimaru was actually reminiscing in earnest—when you keep drinking like that on those days and get that plastered, the folks gathered there in their work coats and threadbare festival kimonos really do start looking like human-shaped underlings of those shape-shifting black clouds!”
“Just making it rain like this—look how worn down they get! Perfect timing—while we’re stuck trying to enjoy our drinks in peace...those cloud bastards up there look downright smug, spouting all that carefree nonsense!”
“That’s why it’s unbearable—then this inexplicable resentment wells up, as if they alone were gloomy brooding types, until something snaps with a crack!”
“When tempers explode—you cloud bastards!”
“In a fit of rage, shouting ‘You cloud bastards!’, they’d suddenly leap at each other’s collars—but once they pounced, those cloud bastards turned out to have surprising substance!”
“A massive brawl breaks out!—Since each and every one’s become a champion of evil-cloud subduing in their own mind, they fight for their lives!”
“Shiobukimaru put it even shorter—depending on how you look at it, everyone’s human faces resemble the cloud bastards’ underlings in all sorts of ways!
So he says—”

II

“I…” Taruno’s chest trembled as he recalled the fishermen’s fierce black cloud uproar.
“Oh no—that’s dangerous!”
“Let me hear your reasons—both sides’ reasons—and entrust this fight to me! I threw myself into mediating thinking your motives couldn’t possibly be so trivial… Yet none of you stated your reasons! None would yield! Just shouting ‘You!’”
They kept grappling while roaring “Devil!” with no way to stop them—but now hearing Omaru’s explanation made perfect sense… Taruno had strained his voice raw and ultimately transformed into an asura himself charging into the fray—only to realize he might have obstructed their demon-exorcising ritual, leaving him scorched with shame.
If that’s how it was—then I should’ve become some flamboyant warrior back then! Brandished my arms crying “Now’s the moment!”—how glorious that would’ve been!
An unbearable tide of regret surged through him.

When he was told and realized—back then, someone’s raging voice had shouted, “You’re a cloud too!” “You’re a cloud fiend’s monster!” As soon as they shouted this beside his ear, a warrior thwack-thwacked his head!

As Taruno recalled these things, the blood in his chest swelled turbulently, and when he involuntarily looked up at the sky, the clear blue expanse was instantly smeared pitch black—until right before his eyes loomed the colossal monsters that should have been crushed beneath St. Jeorge’s shield—“Burning Dragon,” “Black King,” “Giant Blanderon”—now surging back with renewed vigor...

"Oh! That cumulonimbus cloud!" he exclaimed involuntarily, pointing at the open sea's sky.

“Tonight will definitely bring a huge haul! That’s a maguro cloud—an auspicious sign!” Before Omaru could finish speaking, he grabbed the conch shell at his waist and blew a triumphant signal.

In response, war cries rose in unison from boats scattered across the waters—dispelling Taruno’s momentary foolish delusion like sea mist under sunlight. Had that mental frenzy persisted but an instant longer, who knows what monstrous shape might have manifested? At any rate, Taruno would never have regained his composed self here.

And Taruno, while stroking his chest,

“If this weather holds for three more days, I will finally fill my household’s sake barrel to the brim this time.”

he declared with force.

“It’s odd how you specifically take days off when it rains.”

"My work is no different from fishing either," Taruno parroted back with a nod.
Then, twisting his mouth into a stern grimace and furrowing his perpetually foolish brows into slightly mournful vertical wrinkles, he continued spouting words whose meaning even he himself couldn't grasp.
"It's about facts that existed, things I've seen—it's not like I'm trying to reel them up with threads of fantasy!"
"It is power."

Omaru, without listening, pointed toward the waves.

“Look there! Those heading out are Shichiroumaru and Urokomaru. They noticed you earlier and were frantically waving their hands, but while you were looking up the whole time, they’ve already gone beyond earshot.”
“The weather’s too fine—not a breath of wind—so even after going that far out, they still haven’t raised their sails.”
“They must be drenched in sweat!”

Shichiroumaru and Urokomaru were hand-propelled fishing boats without engines.
The riders’ faces had long since faded from view, but the rowers of the eight-oared and six-oared boats—seeing this as their decisive moment—aligned their arms and pulled in unison. “Row, row! Heave, ho!” they chanted with coordinated breaths.
Only the faint singing voices of the glistening black naked figures surging forward with furious momentum could be heard.
Through the intervals came shouts that reached Taruno with perfect clarity: “Yow! How! Heave! Ho!”
The cries rang out distinctively.
It was Nancy Lee—the song Taruno invariably sang when drunk.
They seemed to have memorized it without his noticing.—Taruno, whose pale face made even ordinary speech seem suspect let alone singing, felt strange exhilaration watching the song he’d claimed as his own glide smoothly across the crisp sea.
Though Nancy Lee properly belonged to laborers singing aboard ships, the accursed Taruno tasted both delight and shame as his disgraceful pretense—having stubbornly declared this a hymn to Bacchus—was splendidly betrayed.

“It seems they’re singing!” Taruno flushed and pointed at “Heave! Ho!” And then, half-muttering to himself while secretly impressed, he blurted out: “Sea shanties must be sung on boats after all—how absurd otherwise.” Whenever he began to sing, it seemed only natural that those around him would make faces of disgust and turn away, leaving his chest chilled. Drunk, drunk, with his chest disheveledly exposed, his dream-like face—shouting indiscriminately wherever he was—appeared utterly miserable. Just the other day, dead drunk as usual, he had staggered through a Ginza café singing that “mysterious song,” causing his companions great embarrassment. He had even attended an art symposium graced by gentlemen and ladies. There was a time when he had initially listened attentively to various discussions, but before long found himself engulfed in an utterly incomprehensible chaotic haze. Here, amidst this constellation of luminaries, one didn’t feel the black cloud grappling of fishing hut brawls—yet when dazzled within swirling fragrant tobacco smoke, he still ended up nearly suffocated by the same blizzard-like flapping of “Clouded swans.”

“To hear that song, I shall most certainly visit your village.”
When Taruno heard this voice and suddenly opened his eyes, he found the beautiful actress seated beside him stroking his back for him.

“Thank you!” Taruno exclaimed, startled, and respectfully pushed her hand away.
“I sang!”
“I messed up—here of all places!”

“No, it’s perfectly fine—it was merely a murmur so faint only I could hear…”

Because the gathering was in an uproar, Taruno’s presence—collapsed in a corner—was noticed by no one but her. As she later recounted, the man in the neighboring seat—who had maintained complete silence while endlessly raising his cup—suddenly vanished from view; when she turned to look, he had fallen backward and was mumbling incoherently under his breath. Well now, this poor soul must be alcohol-intolerant—how pitiful! As she kept vigil with this thought, he began clawing at empty space near his chest—an epileptic seizure perhaps! She thought—and fearing to cause a disturbance—cast discreetly caring glances his way, only to discover his mutterings were actually song; finding it rather intriguing, she leaned in to listen……

"What song is that?" she asked softly, but there was no response at all.
"And this was something he had learned from F—an American girl whose grandfather had been a sailor!"
and wanting to meet F!
...and wanting to meet F!—apparently kept muttering nothing but strange things.

"That person is coming to visit soon, but somehow I want to disappear when that happens—" said Taruno,

“That’s the Sweet Chanty!” Omaru shouted, his face flushing red.
“You put on one hell of an act there—folks’d think you used that song to seduce a woman! Can’t blame ’em!”

“......”

Taruno had always regarded the word “actress” with a kind of yearning.
And she was the first actress he had ever spoken to.

“What a damn bold stunt!” Omaru exclaimed, eyes bulging as he clicked his tongue.
“There’s somebody waiting for me! That’s what you sang, eh?”

“Stop it...”
Taruno flinched and waved his hand.

“You should’ve done Nancy Lee instead.”

“Then that’s madness.”

“Either way, it’s madness, I tell ya...”

“Do something about this, Omaru! —She says she’s coming to inquire about that score and lyrics, so I thought to write a letter instead. But when I wrote two or three lines—I tell you—those sentimental words overwhelmed me and I caught fire.
“It’s becoming one hell of a love letter.”

“So from now on when you go to Tokyo, you’re deciding not to let a single drop pass your lips?”

“I’ve sworn it!”

If sung on land it would all seem madness—but hearing it properly sung on boats… how brightly harmonious it must resound……… Struck by this melancholy thought, Taruno watched enviously as the two skiffs kept perfect rhythm with the song while steadily gaining speed.

“There's somebody waiting for me...”

Omaru sang out loudly to annoy Taruno.

“You’re the one who’s good at this!” Taruno let out a sigh and groaned.

“I completely memorized it from hearing you sing when drunk—but there was some sort of prologue attached to that, wasn't there? I can't manage that part—won't you teach it to me quick?”

“......”

Ah, enough—I'll quit drinking, and if I endure being this cornered owl a while longer, perhaps I might eventually sing faint songs as I am—something befitting my being——Yet the moment I tried resigning myself thus, a heavy lump reared its head within my chest, threatening to suffocate me anew.
No matter what kind of sake it was, unless I drank and thrashed about wildly with both legs, I could find no way to resolve this mute passion that seemed destined never to clear up.
Taruno could no longer hear anything; he stared at the rowers—moving like clockwork springs—and at the people in the boat, intoxicated by the lingering traces of their breath and song.
He was struck by a mad, self-destructive euphoria that made him want to jump into the sea for no reason at all and swim away in a frenzy just as he was.

Taruno, who had seen Omaru’s wife arriving with a sake bottle to console her husband working on the night-fishing boat, stared fixedly at the bottle with vacant eyes for a short while before he leaped onto the boat,

“Let’s have a drink, Omaru! Let’s pray this weather holds just for tonight—shall we?” he pressed breathlessly.

“That’s appreciated—though weather this good is dangerous. If it were to rain just when we’ve all gone out to sea… I’ve been terribly worried about that since earlier.”
“The guys must be making quite a racket after all.”
“……PROLOGUE!”
“PROLOGUE!”
“And then, you’ll teach me that PROLOGUE!”

“Let’s stick to that old rule—keep the prologue unspoken, locked in each singer’s heart—and leave it at that.”

Taruno could not bring himself to sing even when drunk.
When he had learned from F—back in those days when he could hum with pleasant melancholy without knowing drunkenness—they would often go out to this seaside for exercise and linger on the shore…

"That's right—didn't you learn it together with me too?"

“Oh! She scribbled ‘The Sweet Chanty’ in the sand, right?”

Taruno drained the sake cup in one gulp.

“If I finish writing that prologue before the waves wash it away, happiness will come! Believing there was such a superstition, she frantically wrote it down, right?”

“When you translate it and think about the meaning, it’s unbearably absurd—but if you just blurt out the original, it makes no sense…”

“Your bus is splendid. When that Tokyo guest comes, I’ll have to rely on you…”

This dream-steeped boat song we dedicate to our friends—when evening comes, sing it, our friends who kindle fishing fires offshore! On every quiet night sea where the church’s weathercock points, remember that in this very hour, many friends are singing in unison from our hearts— When Taruno considered such meanings, he found it unbearably absurd, yet he could hear F’s and Omaru’s voices! he thought. That was the prologue—this floor beneath us is a thousand-fathom sea, you know, its depth resembling my ceaseless thoughts of you—though it’s no metaphor for love. But with such words pouring forth one after another, Taruno simply couldn’t bring himself to write them in a letter.

“Do you respect that star?”

“Hmm,” Taruno nodded.
“Regarding the name ‘actress’—……”

“Alright, then I’ll take on that major role when the time comes.”

“The location is the house in N Village. Since the exact day isn't settled, I have her redecorate the table every morning so it's ready whenever she might arrive—my wife says it's unprecedented fun and is absolutely delighted. Then when I mentioned this to that Village Chief who applauds whatever anyone else says with both hands raised, he proposed welcoming her as an honored village guest for our community's glory: 'Let's make banners! Deploy a rustic band! Set off fireworks! Hold a grand reception at Mikan Hill Park square...'”

“I agree, Taruno!”
“Me too!”

“But when I said such festival commotion would be a nuisance for the Lady who isn’t coming under the ‘actress’ title, the next day under the Village Chief’s name came this so-called ‘table decoration’!
...a splendid bouquet with a disclaimer attached, along with lending us an antique chair bearing a crest.”

“That chair’s suspicious—best not use it. They say that Village Chief’s been secretly collecting every novel by Jun'ichirō Tanizaki—who knows what lurks in that seat!”

“Since the bouquet wilts overnight, I replace it every day—but eventually the florist’s old man stopped trusting me... We settled on month-end payments as a stopgap...” As he said this, Taruno took from his pocket an extremely worn large book titled “All Kinds of Dinner Table Decoration”, swiftly flipped through pages of beautiful dining table photographs, and opened to the section labeled “Three Days in Autumn Field”,

“This one,” he said.

“So it’s the same as usual?”

“Except for the chair—you know—but I never slack on the decorations each day; generally keep the table arranged like this.”
"The wildflowers are wild chrysanthemum, maiden flower, cosmos…"

“Do you gather them from the mountain behind…?”

“That’s my wife and the guitar-playing youth’s responsibility.”

"Vegetables and fruits are piled up in such abundance too."

"The freshest ones—"
"That’s mainly my younger brother and the swimmer’s responsibility, but…” Omaru lowered his voice.
"They go running through the fields every night with their rucksacks, hacking away at whatever they come across…"

“Quiet!” Omaru looked around.
“That’s quite an ordeal.”

“The reason they can’t get up mornings is that night work.”
“The real trouble comes when she arrives after a rainy night—we’d have a completely empty Autumn-table and could only offer token hospitality… that sort of thing, and…”

“Right—the day after rain leaves me empty-handed too… eh?”

“That absurdly grandiose round table—left behind by F’s family who once stayed there—wouldn’t it undermine all dignity? I even consulted the Village Chief about it—strangely enough—but he opposed my square-cornered white decoration idea, going ‘No no! What matters most is making our guest relax! Let them savor a sightseer’s mood! A round table!’”
“Splendid—that’s how we’ll merrily blend through the night—so they claim.”

“We should probably stop serving all alcohol at the table—if that Village Chief gets drunk around the round table, it’ll be trouble.”

“Because it’s the Village Chief who comes once a day to check on the star photo I decorated.”

“I’ve got it! Let’s slip these words into the table speech to admonish the Village Chief—‘We gathered here tonight are King Arthur’s valiant knights, warriors of the Round Table summoned by Arthur’s name to seek the sacred cup!’”

Whether Omaru was getting drunk or not, Taruno—while considering cutting short their discussion—showed a slightly sour face.

"I'll leave that to you too. Ah, I just can't seem to stay focused anymore—maybe I should be the one to disappear. When that time comes—" he muttered.

“Let’s invite the folks from our part of the beach too,” Omaru declared, working himself up into a fervor alone.
“In place of our meager dining table display, how about we light a beacon in the courtyard, present our bountiful catch dance, and see if it pleases Her Majesty from afar?”

Ah, I'm getting a headache.

"It must have been because I obsessed over the welcome preparations!"

“Just the festive music and torches would be acceptable, but the Bountiful Catch Dance would be problematic.”

Taruno was thinking about something else and held his head.

In their excessive joy, they would cast off everything they wore one after another until finally reduced to nothing but red, blue, tiger-striped, and other multicolored loincloths, dancing recklessly in frenzy—this was what they called the bountiful catch dance, though it could hardly be called a dance at all, nothing more than a commotion.
There was no form, method, or rhythm—nothing at all. Any man could join this dance immediately without hesitation, for the dancers simply moved with utter abandon—swinging fists about, awkwardly shoving one another until it escalated into hair-pulling and kicking matches; some staggered about with comically drunken steps like intoxicated fools, others wandered off to drink water; there were those collapsing from exhausted legs and men loudly conversing with wives who came to fetch them—all while raising battle cries and making raucous noise. Without those colorful loincloths, this would have been nothing but an outright brawl!
At some symposium, there were lengthy presentations and critiques by researchers on regional folk songs and dances, but this bountiful catch dance alone had escaped all researchers' notes, and even Taruno had found no way to introduce it.
It was neither meant to be shown nor to gather spectators, so even here in town, people remained unaware of the dance’s very existence.
Taruno had happened to witness it one evening near Omaru’s fisherman’s hut—a commotion so tremendous that police officers rushed to the scene.

However, what was strange were the musicians.
As if completely unfazed by such commotion, they calmly played a leisurely flute and drum accompaniment in the shadows.
Thinking that perhaps they were simply practicing their flutes over there on their own, Taruno suddenly peeked in and was astonished.
Despite the melody resounding with such leisure that it might have been played while dozing off, the row of musicians lined up there sat formally rigid, their unblinking nervous eyes observing the commotion while playing flute, drum, conch, and bell—instruments resembling a babbling brook—with utmost care that concealed their full physical exertion within each measured phrase.
It was a style of performance akin to improvisational music that naturally synchronized their breathing moment by moment—the musicians all restrained their breaths with deference, maintaining intervals between phrases; at times, as if struck by a collective light that resonated in their minds, they joined together in a cascading ensemble reminiscent of a waterfall’s plunge.
They appeared to be playing music by divine command, their very breath seeming frozen in place.
There was always a drummer who would hold his raised drumstick above his head for about a minute, staring fixedly into midair without moving a muscle until he brought it down.
The sweat flowing from the flute player’s forehead looked like tears shed while choking on his own flute’s sound.
Even the conch shell player—who only performed once every five minutes—remained standing with his instrument at his lips, ready to play. [...] When he closed his eyes and pondered awhile, he gradually came to sense a mystically profound alignment between that commotion and this music—as if fire and water, the infinite and infinitesimal, were finally converging from some distant void into a grand harmony of nothingness, making him feel these elements ebbed and flowed both near and far.
Moreover, the sound of waves from beyond the pine grove had transformed into a truly grand waltz enveloping them!
Taruno had thought this, but as it turned out, the musicians’ main intention had apparently been to saturate their respective sounds in the space between the dancers’ commotion and the waves’ reverberations.

"I took care of absolutely everything."
"You should rest today—you look tired."
Seeing Taruno, who had clutched his head, Omaru nodded emphatically.
When Taruno suddenly recalled those musicians, he couldn't help feeling phantom echoes of that strange festival music lingering between the crashes of waves and their conversation.

Omaru stood up in the midship area and began practicing his chants.
In the passage of “The Sweet Chanty” that required the richest and most leisurely vocal capacity, he was testing his voice using only his throat without employing the lyrics—“Raa—raa—raa—raa……Rolling Rolling……my heartful sky……wearing my solitary heart upon thy sleeve……Bounding Bounding Boundary……raa—raa—raa—ra……”

In fragments, Taruno too joined in chorus within his heart.

“Alright, I’m counting on you, Omaru!” Taruno blurted out in an involuntarily nasal voice, then sprinted off along the water’s edge without looking back.

Three

“Father, you do have business bringing you here, don’t you? Please tell me it’s not acceptable to keep drinking day after day from morning till night like this—and with me as your only company, what else can I possibly do...”

Lately, Taruno had developed an admirable habit of restraint even when intoxicated, but when faced with this father-in-law, that restraint would inevitably give way to melancholy.
And his hand would not easily reach for the sake cup.
He would try to encourage himself, chastise himself, and attempt to take up the sake cup, but without even having the timidity worthy of such chastisement, there was an absolute lack of any accompanying excitement—it was a sorrow.

“A telegram’s arrived! I have to wait for those folks coming in a couple of days! What meddlesome bastards they are!”
In a loud voice that made it unclear whether he was truly angry or just joking in his drunkenness, the father-in-law clenched his fist and pretended to strike the other person,

“I’ll wallop you!” had become his habitual phrase.
“Wallop!”
“In other words—I’ll wallop you!”
That was close to its meaning.

“If I get walloped, I can’t take it anymore!” Taruno groaned sorrowfully.—“Those folks” was the collective term for business associates supposedly coming from the capital on assignment, but they had never shown their faces—let alone within two or three days.
And the father-in-law—as was his custom—would continue his days of drinking while repeating that they’d arrive within two or three days, only to eventually vanish like a bird, having left word that he was going out for a walk to the inn—.

“I need to go inspect the current situation while this weather holds, but that A-kun fellow seems busy, doesn’t he?”

Taruno’s sole wish was nothing more than this single matter: if only his father-in-law’s friends would come, he could escape being his drinking companion.
……The names of those folks were what the father-in-law called B-kun!
When he would mention names like B-kun or C-kun (always using -kun or dropping honorifics), even Taruno’s deceased father would involuntarily widen his eyes and raise a toast of astonishment—such was the caliber of these people, who were famous and worthy of respect to them, if only for that fleeting moment they were called friends.
Taruno had no reason to be interested, but he couldn't comprehend why they would be astonished or nodding in agreement merely at such titles as “Diet member,” “baron,” “steamship owner,” or “millionaire.”
How immeasurably names like Shichiroumaru made one feel such profound depth and reverence.

“I see—without clear weather, one cannot go on the inspection,” Taruno exclaimed. “Clear weather!” Detecting a certain force in those words alone, he agreed. Was there another person here praying for clear Indian summer weather?!

Taruno thought.

The so-called inspection concerned the coast of Y Village, which bordered N Village's beachfront. For years this had formed the core topic of his father-in-law's discussions, so Taruno had come to know its rough outline—a plan to reclaim Y Village's entire coastline, lay railway tracks, establish a port, and construct a hot spring town.

The father-in-law wasn't spouting baseless fantasies. He lacked the cunning to invent elaborate schemes and dupe gullible friends—his chestnut-shaped face, flat as a platter at the crown and tapering triangularly toward the chin, testified to this fact. Though he constantly presented business proposals, these were actually plans drafted in some conference room by men he called friends—city councilors, engineers with doctorates, steamship owners—who would gather to devise grand projects; he merely served as a propagandist who whispered these plans only to those he deemed trustworthy allies.

His other task involved seeking out those who—upon hearing these plans—would lean forward in astonishment, wear ecstatic smiles, and desperately beg to join their ranks. Yet this role operated under a gentleman's agreement to equally divide profits based on projected appearances alone—meaning only he indulged in food and drink while traveling, while his family endured constant hunger for twenty years, resulting in one household with young children being torn apart.

The father-in-law had been introduced by Taruno to his biological father after Taruno's free marriage, but at their first meeting, when [the biological father] became drunk and his habitual talk of ships arose,

"Oh, speaking of ships—what a magnificent commodity we have here!" declared the father-in-law, trotting out his habitual line: "A commodity!"
had begun his sales pitch.
As it happened, the ship at that time had been priced within his biological father's means.
Though he loved nothing more than this, Taruno's biological father—who had never considered putting his own possessions to practical use—found upon inquiry that it was unexpectedly a new steamship, one that seemed purchasable any moment now. Instantly ecstatic, their conversation took flight until they became friends sharing mutual respect.

"I was in America back then when I recklessly fled the city over some trouble and boarded a whaling ship owned by the father of a school friend—the notion that if you're going to catch something, it had better be a whale to make it worthwhile..."
Having begun to speak, Father paused to consider something.
Regardless of quality, anything grandiose was his passion.
Because he had remained silent for so long mid-conversation, Taruno still vividly remembered that scene—though he could never have imagined the man would persist in such sentimental musings.
"...I still dream of chasing great whales while singing 'Nancy Lee'," he muttered with a troubled face.

“That ship could be bought tomorrow—just by paying a small deposit upfront…”

"I’ve always detested houses on land—somehow in my old age…"
Though called a dreamer, Father never harbored unattainable dreams—a man who would only realize he had ultimately been a dreamer after failing, secretly blushing at this recognition, and by nature would never speak of future plans without considerable confidence; yet here he was murmuring such things.
"First off, I could use that one as my residence—maybe name it Henry I—"
"Hmm, buy it I will, buy it I will—with all the money I have…"

“Using it as a residence seems rather indulgent... Well, no matter—as long as the ship remains operational...”

“No, absolutely not—” he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head while omitting further explanation.
“And just consider how enormous the profits are from owning a transport ship!”
He had listened distractedly to his father-in-law’s exposition.

Taruno never learned what became of that ship matter afterwards, but had things gone according to his father’s intentions at that time, the present Taruno would likely be residing in a cabin of the transport ship Henry I—for even if building a house were possible he held no interest, and rented dwellings would soon see him evicted—this being a Taruno who would retreat beneath whatever roof remained available; a Taruno who loved ships yet writhed in agony before reaching five nautical miles aboard them, though he would endure it if compelled; a Taruno proactive only toward unrealizable dreams yet indifferent to habitation; a Taruno who quickly grew accustomed to visible pains and inconveniences while possessing the virtue of contentment; a Taruno who maintained scarcely any preferences in daily life—therefore, even had he inherited the ship, he would not have renamed it Henry II.
(Henry was the name by which his father was called in a foreign country where he had several loyal friends—both men and women—with whom he maintained lifelong intimacy.)
Only the friends who called him Henry had become his constant companions—he who had sought many friends in hopes of being called "Taruno" like that, but—

Around the time when his biological father in his later years had been made to bring about the Y Village Coastal Reclamation Amusement Park Construction Project through the same father-in-law’s machinations, he seemed unbearably impatient.
He had depleted most of his fortune on the expenses of various consultation meetings alone, but this time—with no need for burdensome investments beyond hosting said meetings—he was overjoyed by this most auspicious proposition: that upon success, he would become an honored leader.
Taruno had often imagined the various guises his father in his later years might assume—how that ever-excessive passion would manifest itself through what forms as the figure of Father immersed himself in such matters in that manner—but this was utterly unexpected.
Because this—in every instance—resounded with a stylistic tone that should have been antithetical to Father’s sensibilities: "honor," "social—"
“The gathering of public esteem,”
“To leave one’s name—”
"—phrases like 'prosperity for generations to come' had reached their zenith in his pale-faced grandiloquence—"

“Father!” the father-in-law would address Taruno’s biological father.
Though serving as their orator, he lacked the vulgar deference or smooth flattery typical of those in such roles, remaining remarkably indifferent to factual matters and material concerns, without any trace of covert self-interest.
Thus while his family perpetually teetered on the edge of subsistence—though never quite descending into honest poverty—he might better be described as an excessive petty hedonist rather than one merely lacking in passion.
Taruno would frequently—particularly when contemplating his family—crown him with epithets like “inhumanity” or “shameless womanizing tendencies!”, feeling righteous indignation; yet this occurred only through Taruno’s meager conventional morality, for he paradoxically considered the man’s figure—endowed with an extraordinary fidelity surpassing ordinary mortals—to embody courage when viewed through certain lenses (this habit of intense contemplation being one of Taruno’s peculiar quirks).

“Father, hey, Father,” he said with solemn gestures, maintaining his characteristic good humor that never faltered no matter how much he drank, as if intoxicated by his own words. “When this is completed, we’ll name the amusement park avenue ‘Taruno Street’... just as Port Arthur has Nogi-machi and Fengtian has Oyama Street,” he continued—and indeed, one section of the blueprint bore exactly such an annotation.

There's no reason! Taruno thought this privately, yet his biological father not only refrained from questioning it but became wholly consumed by Taruno Street—in truth hosting with full festive fervor those frequent visitors of that period: former Diet members maneuvering to secure government funding for project initiators, city councilors, and so-called millionaires who were half-investors, all entertained through exhaustive celebratory efforts.

Taruno remained scarcely visible in corners, yet both his biological father and father-in-law—adopting identical postures and airs to those men—brandished colossal sums of ten thousand and ten million yen like wooden sticks while being flattered by courtesans, utterly absorbed in their myriad arrangements.

When women whispered "This way," millionaires and ex-parliamentarians vanished one after another, exchanging jests with lingering companions—leaving behind only the father-in-law, intoxicated by his own verbosity, and the biological father whose customary silence had transformed into sudden garrulity through excessive drink.

The inn stood perpetually in nearby Yumura—a hot spring resort of the sort often featured in dissolute novels—where Taruno, despite having no business there, was confined to a separate room he found increasingly detestable; his father having ordered, "Study here!"

Even when urged thus, he remained unsettled.

Instead, outlandish lewd fantasies surfaced while money's trivial utility grew glaringly apparent—leaving him exasperated.

Given his biological father's incompetence in consultations and lack of opinions—a man who mainly sat arms-crossed during meetings—any justification for Taruno Street must have stemmed either from how that very posture fostered composure sparking brilliant ideas among associates, or from having shouldered all expenses for the festive commotion itself.

“At that time we will be recommending you as a member of the House of Peers—though this may not align with your personal tastes, we’d like you to maintain that resolve henceforth for honor’s sake.”
“It’d be troublesome if you refused later—so our president conveyed that for this national enterprise he’d naturally receive a peerage—” declared his biological father (though phrased so simply—and given its unrealized state remained current for all except Taruno’s deceased father, halted by earthquake despite altered circumstances!).
This was what the father-in-law had proclaimed—now only his biological father appeared a foolish clown through hindsight’s lens, yet back then even outsiders found such talk plausible amidst that electric atmosphere—even for Taruno who always demanded reasons—). Returning home he’d gather everyone for sake cups; though friends cautioned “This likely clashes with your tastes,” when he boomed suddenly upright in soliloquy—“Now’s no time for self-indulgence!”—unwittingly—

“A member of the House of Peers—is that it?!” he groaned, his hand trembling as it held aloft a sake cup, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point for an unnervingly long time. And when someone, upon seeing that he was holding a hand-rolled cigarette upside down while lighting the wrong end, inadvertently burst out laughing, he misinterpreted this, flew into a rage, and bellowed, “This isn’t a damn joke!” No sooner had he turned pale and shouted than he suddenly hurled a sake bottle at the garden stone with a crash.

On another day, Taruno had heard his father-in-law conveying such things to his father.
“At this corner—” he said, pointing to the usual bird’s-eye view diagram.
“They’ve decided to erect a bronze statue!”
“Well, originally this would have been the president’s doing, but according to his opinion—Mr. Taruno being a local resident and Taruno Street coming into existence—the statue would suit Mr. Taruno! Such matters aren’t the sort to consult the person concerned about! Once the time comes, it’ll suffice to just install him in the seat of honor—hardly any need to even inform him!”
“We officially decided this when everyone gathered in Tokyo the other day—though in our view, designing an honorary statue first might seem odd—but you of all people should know how absolutely necessary such decorations are when building a modern city! So instead of a statue of one of our companions, something completely Western-style would work splendidly—and that’s precisely where the president’s genius comes in!”
“A double benefit—and that makes it all the more perfect for Taruno-kun!”
“All this talk is well and good, but Father!”
“It’s practically as if everything’s already finished! I mean, the preparations have been handled down to the last meticulous detail—nothing left undone!”
“So that’s how it is—how about that!” the father-in-law exclaimed in an excited shrill voice, thumping the round table.
Taruno wondered what expression Father might be wearing and glanced back from afar—there he sat with that perpetually sullen face he always bore when sober regardless of mood, tight-lipped yet paradoxically flighty enough to earn his village-famous nickname “Rotund Daruma Kite” for how he’d float up at the slightest provocation. Now supposedly drunk, he wore that same inscrutable scowl beneath a red bald pate better suited to being called “Octopus Monk,” lips pursed cylindrical, eyelids frozen, not moving a muscle like he’d already turned to bronze—mocking them all!
Could he have misinterpreted things and actually become displeased?
As Taruno worried, this very concern proved to be his misunderstanding—for he with the somewhat weak heart had been waiting for his startled pulse to subside.
And then, slowly composing himself,

“However, I suppose we must refrain from that for now—though I say this in your presence—what do you think?” he asked with uncharacteristic formality permeating even his choice of words.
Of course, he himself had no say in the matter.

“What’s all this!” the Father-in-Law exclaimed in an even shriller voice, puffing out his chest with pride at his signature move—casually brushing aside any sign of unease from his counterpart with a laugh—and impatiently waving his hand.
“As for a bronze statue of you—if the company handles its creation, it’d cost practically nothing…”

“No, it’s not that I refused.”
“No way—”

“Ah yes yes, that was merely a jest—” the Father-in-Law chuckled at his inadvertent slip.
“We simply never discuss such matters ordinarily, so I rashly invoked the company.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” his father replied, though his hollow eyes—as if his soul had fled to some distant sky of eternal honor—remained fixed vacantly on the other’s face.
His lips alone appeared unnaturally taut, rendering his entire visage devoid of solemnity—a true Daruma-shaped kite poised to ascend with the first gust.

“It will be erected at this corner—you understand—without even needing deliberation, I too feel supreme delight.”

“Ah, I see—they’ve drawn trees here too—a little square perhaps!”
“A bronze statue?!”
“……Well then—perhaps this should rather be conceded to you, shouldn’t it? Since you were the one who first introduced this venture to these lands, you’re precisely the one who holds supreme honor here.”

“That poses difficulties—in that case I’d have to answer to the president…” the Father-in-Law objected without vigor.
And he kept violently shaking his head from side to side—that face whose hue and form both resembled a chestnut.

“If I’m going to build it, then I might as well make you into the bronze statue.”

"That is absolutely preposterous."
"I—that... regarding the land..."

"Well, our ties will only deepen hereafter—but come to think of it, I must beg to decline becoming a bronze statue at this juncture. It hardly suits my station." He realized.

"Given this critical moment, shouldn't you be the one to erect it?"

"I yield to you—you're precisely the one who should stand it there."

As if deferring parliamentary candidacies, they once spent the entire night debating erection and non-erection while thrusting each other's bronze statues into the small hours.

Ever since Taruno’s biological father passed away, whenever his father-in-law came to visit, he would always stay at a quasi-boardinghouse by the seaside on the village outskirts—yet he never attempted to meet his daughters, summoning only Taruno.

“If the others get delayed, I might just go ahead to Y Village myself tomorrow—make a preliminary visit.” He inquired of Taruno about the distance in ri.

To think he’d devoted years to this venture without ever laying eyes on Y Village! Taruno thought.

“It must be five or six ri. Haven’t you come here many times before with my father and the others?”

Taruno recalled how they used to commute back then in their private automobile.

“Then I can walk there.”
“I can handle ten ri without a problem.”

"No, I'll take care of the automobile—it's set up so I only need to pay occasionally..."

All Taruno had in his sleeve pocket was the train fare to N Village.

“Not walking is bad for your health! Why, even when coming here, I sometimes deliberately get off the train midway—that’s how determined I am!”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk… Hey you! Go buy cigarettes from outside right now.”

When even after ringing the bell repeatedly the maid still didn’t appear, the father-in-law ordered Taruno.

“Yes!”

Taruno nodded and stood up.
Whenever a maid appeared, Father-in-Law would lunge at her with such ferocity that it far surpassed mere joking—not only was he disliked for this, but he utterly lacked any qualification to continue staying at the lodging in every conceivable aspect.

When Taruno looked upon the brazen figure of his father-in-law—who had collapsed drunk with his head rolling across the tatami—his chest filled with sorrow. With no one to tend to him, his clothes lay disheveled, caked with years of sweat and dust. From those florid days onward, he alone had persisted in swaggering about in such attire. He never spoke of anything beyond business matters when proposing toasts, even to his closest friends. Of what state his father-in-law’s household had been in these past ten years, none knew save Taruno—who had witnessed it firsthand. Thus his friends had never regarded him as more than a man of such indifferent nature that he paid no heed to his appearance.

Taruno had heard that he was scheming to sell off his daughter and uproot her to become a barmaid in the Koumai district—just this knowledge alone had kept him seething these past days, ready to charge like a rhinoceros beetle. Yet whenever they met, he found himself utterly unable to perceive this man as someone harboring such designs.
He was soon to be taken into custody on fraud and embezzlement charges—he was evading it!
There were such stories, but since the man himself never spoke of anything other than the Y Village coastal reclamation project, Taruno couldn’t bring himself to credit those rumors.
The barmaid matter alone refused to quell Taruno’s righteous anger, yet as he stared now, these past years had deepened the waves of wrinkles, weakened his tolerance for drink, and here he lay sleeping in starfish sprawl—what dreams could he harbor? Surely none of selling his own daughter!
he had come to think.
That fury could wait until they came for the daughter!
When he reconsidered, Taruno no longer held any grudge.

Taruno called the maid with a fierce demeanor and tried to replace the father-in-law’s pillow and such when—

“Taruno! Taruno!” he shouted again, sitting upright. His naturally shrill voice boomed through the space with vigorous resonance. “You’re the one holding the shares! I don’t have them—you do!”

The organizational chart of the landfill company showed S. Taruno listed as auditor and owner of hundreds of shares.

“Oh!” Taruno involuntarily widened his eyes and immediately said, “These should sell. Father, please sell these.”

“Since selling would be pointless, I’m worried about this—how about using it as collateral to borrow money from one of your acquaintances?”

What rose in Taruno’s mind was Omaru—but if it were Omaru, as long as the weather held fair, he wouldn’t need to bring such things along; he’d come over from his side regardless.

“Thank you, Father. As long as the weather holds fair, that would be well—but might I ask you to handle that yourself?”

“All right!” he briskly agreed.
At this response, Taruno felt strong trust and gratitude.
“Wait two or three days—I’ll investigate—Oh! It’s settled! Drink! Drink! Look—empty already! Fool! Go downstairs this instant and tell them!”

"Hup!" Taruno gave a soldier-like reply and stood up.
He was always intimidated by the very sound of his father-in-law's policeman-like tone, but now—oh!—had I really possessed such a large number of shares?
No sooner had this thought come than a sudden gorgeous whirlpool surged within his chest—even that fearsome voice now seemed reassuring—overflowing with gratitude, he resolved that if talk of erecting a statue arose again, he would spare no effort to recommend Father-in-Law—invoking his role as auditor—in accordance with his late father’s wishes!
While steeling his resolve, he appeared at the front desk,

“Father is furious—this disrespect won’t do! However shabby he may look, he’s been coming here forever! You should be more careful!” he rebuked the clerk with growing irritation.

IV

Taruno of N Village and the wife in town were talking on the telephone.

"The table today looks nice, doesn't it?"

"I see—last night was a moonless clear night after all."

"It would be nice if that guest were to kindly come sometime tonight."
"Since Mr. Hino also said he'll bring fish tonight... I might go along too..."

"...Ah, please come."

"A sudden matter has come up."
"One of them is that my younger sister disliked Guitar-san and flattered Ben-chan and ran off somewhere."

“Is Ben-chan a swimmer?”

“Oh, a telegram just arrived!”

“Read it! Oh, that’s that Star.”

“Coming tomorrow.”

“……”

“I'll get to the point first.”
“Well... you see... two or three days ago... my father said he was going out for his usual walk and left the inn... That couldn’t be helped... but then today... the clerk came and—”
“……”
“He did a dine-and-dash at some place called Daruma Teahouse and has completely vanished!”

“……”

“As for how Mother and Father got married—well, when Mother’s family was staying at a hot spring resort, there was a man in the next room who’d done a drank-and-dash and got caught, suffering terribly. He looked so pitiable that Mother rescued him, and then…”

“Let me ask again—that…”

In the adjacent room at the round table, the father-in-law—who had stopped by that morning on his way to Y Village—was drinking, so Taruno found himself in an awkward position. The wife, becoming agitated, suddenly tried to start such an old tale.

“It’s just ten yen—and we don’t even have that now… But you needn’t worry. Father’s been accustomed to such things since way back—he’s probably off somewhere scrounging up money like always.”

“Will you come tonight?”

“Yes, with Mr. Omaru and the others! I don’t care about Father at all—I just thought he might have gone there or somewhere! And if you started drinking together, that would be a problem! If my sister comes there, please keep her there—that’s all! I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

As soon as the call ended, Taruno immediately summoned Omaru.

“Well now, they’re really coming, aren’t they?” said Omaru.
“…… …… …… ……”

“It’s somehow ridiculously noisy here—I can’t hear the phone well…”

“Since it started raining earlier—everyone’s gathered again—but when we told ’em ’bout tomorrow’s plans—they all got real excited.”
"If it weren’t for that, we might’ve had the usual disturbance breaking out today… but… well…"

Though it was so noisily chaotic—as if a commotion had broken out—that he couldn’t make out the details, Taruno—

“Leave it as it is for two or three minutes—I need to listen to their festival music from afar—”

Having said this, he kept the receiver pressed to his ear—filled with static like a faulty radio—still pretending to maintain the call while weighing his wife’s and father-in-law’s words. Ultimately having succeeded in siding with his father-in-law, he left the spot only to return with an air of innocence, resuming their earlier conversation across the autumn grass-adorned round table while facing his father-in-law.

"So, roughly speaking, we can expect to secure funds through those stock certificates, I take it?"

"In two or three days, it'll definitely be secure! Precisely because it's such a massive undertaking, there's less need for deliberation—but as for how to actually handle it, just leave that to me!"

“Please!” Taruno entreated with full conviction, raising his cup high above the floral arrangement. He was suddenly overcome by drunkenness—his eyes taking on a peculiar look—as his father-in-law’s face appeared small as a bean in the distance.

“What devilry is this decoration you lot’ve made—tch! Madness! What half-witted scheme is this? Grown men carrying on like this—starting with you yourself! No wonder you can’t succeed your father!”
“I’ll beat some sense into you!” roared the Father-in-Law as he scanned the ornately decorated room.

――――――――――

However, upon hearing from his eldest daughter—Taruno’s wife—about the youngest daughter’s escape, he flew into a drunken rage and unwittingly descended into madness—

“No damn good!” shouted the Father-in-Law—and Taruno,

“What do you mean ‘no damn good’?!” he roared, seizing on the words as he unconsciously grabbed the platter of potatoes and surged to his feet—just as the confrontation threatened to erupt into brawling, Omaru’s group arrived a step behind his wife and parted them as effortlessly as hauling fish…….

The windows of Taruno’s house—encircled by mandarin trees halfway up the hill—shone brightly tonight, and hearing the festive commotion within, the Village Chief mistakenly concluded that this must surely mark the long-awaited arrival of the star from the capital. Clad in a resplendent Chinese-style robe and having readied all manner of provisions for an all-night banquet, he came marching forth brandishing a crescent-moon lantern……….

"Then why don't we hold tomorrow's dress rehearsal right now? All in favor—everyone first gather around the troubled round table and let's perform a Prologue for our star!"
Thus it came to pass that father-in-law, daughter, and son-in-law finally reconciled and together raised their cups...

The Village Chief heard about the enterprise from the father-in-law, gave wholehearted approval, and declared he'd join the venture!
They shook hands vigorously—exclaiming he'd found an unexpected ally—as the father-in-law for the first time raised his voice in delight and kept up a raucous series of toasts for the Village Chief...

Meanwhile, as Omaru’s solo concluded and the festive music of the bountiful catch dance began—Taruno, leaning against his wife’s shoulder by the garden bonfire while holding his breath and straining his hollow ears, whispered, “The church’s weathercock is pointing this way,” though rain fell only over the sea—various sounds, threaded through the festival music’s strings and stepping to strange rhythms, swirled round and round the circular table as the night grew boisterously deeper…….

“Why play music when there’s no dance?” Taruno asked the conductor of the musicians. “With the waves running high tonight—their roar carries even here—and that racket around the table being what it is, we might as well count all that commotion as our dance,” came the reply—.

――――――――――

This novel was supposed to make this scene its first chapter, yet it had unintentionally ended up with nothing but an excessively long preamble.

And then what?
It was Taruno declaring to the village friends of all ages who came nightly to relieve their evening idleness—"It's me!"
If he did that, everyone would find it boring and stop listening, so he’d proclaim, "It’s a story from a book I read!" or "A famous tale through the ages!"
He would solemnly present them under grandiose titles lifted straight from old books—“St. George and the Enchantress,” “St. Anthony and the Court of Jerusalem,” “The Coming of Northern Knight,” “St. David and the Magic Garden,” “Sebra’s Escape from the Black King,” “The Advent of St. Andrew’s Son,” “St. Patrick’s Great Lament”—letting these nonsensical pretexts serve as cover while secretly fulfilling his aspirations. Yet the Round Table champions summoned in the king’s august name had embarked on their pilgrimage across nations to seek the sacred chalice, battling every manner of peril—here, however, nothing but endless struggles persisted, never reaching resolution.

Taruno still continued visiting N Village whenever the weather permitted, exchanging fewer and fewer words with Omaru about how entertaining the star’s welcome party had been, while feeling mild unease over the Village Chief’s unexplained disappearance—yet in reality, no events substantial enough to form a proper chapter break in the novel ever arose. If pressed to consider it, this novel simply returned to its opening line.

Spinning round table!

Hoping that tonight might finally bring some settlement, he waited with bated breath for nightfall and the villagers’ arrival—yet the conflicts only grew fiercer each evening, leaving even Taruno himself at his wit’s end there.

Taruno, who had now become an owl-like creature precisely because of the unrelenting fair weather, today grew superstitious like F and madly scrawled “SweetChanty—” repeatedly while racing along the shore—but ill-fatedly never once completed it fully, leaving him thoroughly dispirited.
Even if villagers came, he might not speak tonight.

“Ah! This endless succession of days like what F called a Prologue—it’s unbearable!” Groaning thus, Taruno—this novel’s scribe—set down his pen and turned his thoughts to his father-in-law’s and sister’s subsequent whereabouts? Trembling through his chest, he collapsed onto the desert-like round table.