Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

June 30th. In the staff room of S—— Village Elementary School, the wall clock had just let out its usual listless wail—doubtless even this timepiece had been influenced by the schoolteachers’ monotonous existence—to announce the third hour of the afternoon. It must have been nearly four o'clock by then. The thing was—and this was common in rural elementary schools—though I had been working at this school for three months already, there had never been a single instance where this clock matched K Station’s large clock with any accuracy. “At least thirty minutes—sometimes as much as one hour and twenty-three minutes late,” declared the female teacher who returned every Saturday from said station to her hometown not far away. According to His Excellency the Principal’s own explanation, this was because most students at this school came from farming households, and maintaining precise time would risk them being unable to gather by the start of classes; however, in reality, the diligent farming families in this area took their morning meals considerably earlier than ordinary households. Yet not one colleague dared take corrective measures against this clock’s negligence—measures that would have been unbefitting their professional duties. It seemed no soul would welcome their morning arrival time being even a minute earlier—had it run late, that would have been another matter—but as things stood, none did. And me? Even I—though truth be told, through years of habit, sleeping late had become second nature...

At the third hour of the afternoon, all scheduled classes concluded an hour earlier. On weekdays I would normally be standing at the higher grade lectern midway through two hours of extracurricular teaching, but today the Principal said—citing both our mutual end-of-month investigations and his wife being severely weakened by a headache—that he wanted students dismissed considerably early and asked if I might suspend the extracurricular session. This was irregular protocol, but I well understood the circumstances: this Principal's household of four—wife and two children—had long occupied the school's duty room as their home, with the janitor hired through village funds even made to include laundry of swaddling clothes among his duties—the hen that crows at dawn through domestic clamor. On days when Madam’s countenance darkened—and there were even rumors that the head of this school treated his students with exceptional cruelty on such occasions—one could well imagine the rest. I barely managed to choke down the disgust that rose from the pit of my stomach and had no choice but to cancel today’s extracurricular session. To begin with, I am a substitute teacher in charge of the second year of the regular course, with a grand monthly salary of 8 yen—a sum for which I am duly grateful each month. And when you add two hours of extracurricular duties beyond my regular responsibilities—which to an outsider might appear as either compensation without effort or, rather, effort without compensation—I myself harbor not the slightest discontent. For this extracurricular teaching was something I myself—having first taken up the lectern upon being born into this world, having defiled the lowest seat in this school’s staff room for a mere week—had initiated not so much by accommodating the students’ wishes as by desiring it more fervently than they. The elementary English and general foreign history taught for one hour each were but surface matters; in truth, all knowledge I possessed (though “knowledge” here is admittedly meager—yet I consider myself Japan’s finest substitute teacher), all grievances, all experiences, all ideas—in short, my entire being—would, during these two hours, watch for opportunity and await the moment to burst forth from my tongue’s tip as rockets. This was no mere shooting of arrows into empty air. Be they boys or girls, these over fifty youthful hearts aged thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—are they not braziers of adolescence brimming with crimson-blood oil, awaiting but a spark? Rockets soar, flames leap to oil, ah—the acrid tang of beacon-fire smoke as life’s conflagration crackles into being! If you can speak English, you won’t be hindered no matter where you go in the world. To me, even this ordinary phrase was a sturdy bowstring capable of launching a million rockets. Once there was a country called Greece. Christ was crucified. When a person is born, they possess nothing but their spirit. Rome was the name of a city, and in times past, it was the name of the world. Rousseau blew a trumpet that resounded throughout Europe. Corsica is where Napoleon was born. There was a man named Byron. Tolstoy is alive.

Gorky was once a wanderer and is now a tuberculosis patient. Russia surpasses Japan. We remain young in years. Where exists a human without blood?...Ah, every problem becomes kindling for flames. I too am fire. In over fifty hearts too, conflagrations ignite. The four-by-five-ken classroom transforms into a deluge of scorching flames. My emaciated fist—bones protruding—thuds against the desk. Some leap up; some wave hands; some cry "Banzai!" It was nothing less than insurrection. As soon as a single impassioned tear spilled from my eyelids—there they were: voices wailing here and there; faces inflamed like burning coals; others standing petrified as stone effigies of revolution's deity—truly, this manifested as a living tableau of life in rebellion. Tears are not water—they are resin wrung from the heart's core; they are oil. The flames only spread fiercer. "1906...On [○ month ○ day], insurrection erupts within a classroom of S—— Village Elementary School"—though future world histories may never record this, that fearsome spectacle shall likely be engraved upon the breastplates of myself and fifty-odd Jacobin comrades in eternal golden script no tsunami of Time could erode. Unquestionably, these two hours were—within my daily twenty-four hours and one thousand four hundred forty minutes—my proudest, most joyous, most blissful time. Indeed, my very purpose in passing through this school gate each day seemed to exist solely for this extracurricular teaching. Yet on this June 30th—by decree of His Excellency Principal Tajima, that paragon of 'education' who had devoted over a decade prostrating before the Imperial Rescript, parroting phrases of loyalty, trust, filial piety and fraternal devotion ten million times exact; whose thoughts attained pinnacles of moderation and impartiality; whose demeanor achieved extremes of banal simplicity; whose surplus virtue cherished peace and venerated meekness to such degree that he shamelessly spread himself beneath his wife's buttocks—and who now in S—— Village drew the district's highest salary of eighteen yen monthly—I unwillingly suspended my classes. Thus performing the indignity of indirectly appeasing Madam Tajima with her potato-featured countenance, I withdrew to a staff room corner to alternately add and subtract abacus beads while glowering at attendance ledgers. From each child's monthly presence or absence, I must tabulate totals and percentages to forge this accursed monthly report—destined tomorrow for some bureaucratic cur's paws. Nor was this all—grades to investigate; absence rationales; food provisions; school supply distributions—all grandly titled yet hollow tasks abounded. Here I perceived: hell and paradise prove no mere fabrications of priests—they palpably exist within our very world. Precisely so—on this day, through His Excellency's single utterance, I found myself cast from paradise's threshold into this sweltering inferno where even supposedly accurate time diverged an hour from mortal clocks. The abacus beads' clatter-clatter—was this not indeed those very abyssal chants of "Pape Satàn, pape Satàn aleppe" that would have frozen the marrow of Dante Alighieri himself—that late medieval voyager who straddled hell, purgatory and paradise?

When it came to these calculations, I couldn't possibly grin like some stingy old miser counting his wealth. From paradise to hell! Who had handed down this eternal sentence—who? The answer: the Principal. I'd never closely examined the ugliness and flaws etched upon this Principal's face. First, that figure-eight mustache beneath his nose lacked any luster—irrefutable proof the man possessed not one speck of vitality. Then there was how those whiskers drooped toward his chin like an eel's tail—no doubt symbolizing a spirit that had forgotten upward striving altogether. A mustache fit for a dying nation—the sort only Koreans, classical Chinese pedants, and modern schoolteachers should wear. Three moles in total marred his face, the largest beneath his left eye resembling some ill-omened star—positively repulsive. This so-called tear mole, vulgarly named, was a feature I'd thankfully never seen on my own kin or anyone I respected. How fitting—this man clearly expected no bright future... Countless flaws could be listed, but ultimately everything boiled down to Principal Tajima = 0. In short, not one microscopic aspect aligned with my sensibilities.

When the full account of this unlawful coup d'état reached every last member of my Jacobin Party through my own words in a corner of the student waiting area, a mass of dark clouds instantly veiled over fifty youthful, innocent faces—lead-hued clouds and mist that sealed shut Paradise’s Gate of Radiance. Clearly, they had tasted the same displeasure and discontent as myself. Of course I hadn't mentioned that business about his wife's headache, but no sooner had my words ended than someone stomped the floor with a thud and shouted, “Principal Idiot!” Another voice followed: “Eel!” “We’ll grill you!” Finally came those who emitted an utterly trite shriek of “Cheeest!” in discordant harmony. I cast a fleeting smile upon them and quietly turned my steps toward the gate of hell. When I had walked some fifteen or sixteen steps, the commotion behind suddenly ceased—then came a war cry loud enough to shake the school building itself: “One! Two! Three! Eel—!” Mingled within it were unmistakably the silk-rending shrill voices of female students. I turned to look at the commotion, but by this time, more than half of these revolutionary stalwarts had already burst outdoors through the student entrance like leaves maddened by a storm. Probably today as well, an untimely rain of fists must have fallen upon the small heads of the principal’s children playing before the gate. Yet in the waiting area, there still remained those unable to bring themselves to leave—those determined to find an opportunity to request some special words from me; among them I could see two or three children with long hair—eleven or twelve in total. The janitor’s second son and the child from the house where the female teacher boarded—both of whom, owing to these connections, received some leniency from His Excellency the Principal—had been following close behind me and now stood like sentries at the entrance to this hell, keeping watch over the scene within.

The so-called entrance was demarcated by two paper-screened doors—their paper torn—separating this room from the student waiting area; when walking straight up from the school gate to the main entrance, it lay immediately to the left. Upon entering through this entrance into our immediate hell—the staff room with its oppressively low ceiling, ten-tatami-mat-sized space, walls riddled with stains, old-fashioned small windows, and leather chairs warped with age—all exuding a certain weariness of life, one found four desks arranged in a concave shape facing inward. At the far end stood two desks in a row: the right one belonged to His Excellency the Principal, the left to the senior certified teacher who had long since passed his certification exam; beside the Principal sat myself, while facing us was the female teacher’s desk. When it came to our school's staff, there were only these four people; that I was the lowest-ranking among them went without saying. Even if there had been a hundred staff members, substitute teachers were by their very nature always assigned the lowest seat. Official regulations made for such a trite joke. Now then, immediately behind me—beyond a single paper screen—lay the night duty room.

When the wall clock behind the female teacher in this staff room emitted a languid shriek to proclaim three o'clock in the afternoon, all four staff members remained entrenched at their respective desks. ――Though the desks stood clustered together, this moment's state undeniably manifested an era of territorial division. The tormented chorus of "Pape Satàn, pape Satàn aleppe" that had persisted for twenty-some minutes ceased abruptly three or four minutes prior―like frogs in rice paddies whose croaking faintly dwindles when startled by approaching footsteps. Simultaneously―(doubtless the aged venerable guide, unperturbed, had taken Dante's hand to advance into another asura realm)―a new wave of murderous intent whipped across their countenances, etching an altogether different spectacle within these walls.

To explain in detail would make for a truly trivial affair, but the matter at hand is as follows. Two or three days prior, spurred by an unexpected turn of events, I had conceived of lyrics—of a sort one might call a school anthem—for the students of S—— Village Elementary School to recite daily, and had even composed music for them. Though this marked my first compositional attempt in twenty-one years of existence, I must confess with some embarrassment that when I made my clear-voiced wife sing the finished piece, I believed it rather skillful. I still think so... My wife praised it too. That night when I taught it to two or three visiting students while playing the violin myself, they likewise praised it—declaring it tremendously amusing and vowing to sing it daily henceforth. The lyrics comprised six stanzas of six lines each, set to a C major melody in 2/4 time that shifted to 3/4 for the final two lines. "The way it changes makes it all the more delightful," my wife remarked. Be that as it may, the indisputable fact remains that I bear not an ounce of guilt regarding this matter. Songwriting should never be equated with thievery, hypocrisy, or any manner of shameless conduct. Surely no regulation exists barring substitute teachers from musical composition! Thus I stand unwavering in my rectitude—a man of honor who meets heaven and earth without shame. Yet who could have foreseen that this very forthrightness would become the target for enemy arrows? To avoid hyperbole—that night I taught the song to merely three students (whose names I distinctly recall). But whether through wildfire spread from parched lips (all uniformly dry from the flames burning in every Jacobin member's breast—those pale green embers of youthful life mingled with surging springwater's crimson hue), within days it had propagated until today, albeit with some melodic variations, among nearly two-thirds—nay, four-fifths—of upperclassmen. During lunch breaks, serpentine processions would spontaneously form across the athletic field. Nearly a hundred participants there must have been—bystanders mingling among them—all chanting what they called Teacher Nitta Kousuke's newly minted school anthem. Yet let me state plainly: there's no shame nor sin in having one's creation sung by multitudes—rather, it brings joy and pride. When I witnessed that procession firsthand, my spirits soared inexplicably—every fiber tingling as if tickled—and for five fleeting minutes I too joined their marching ranks... The true crux lay beyond this point.

At three to four minutes before three o'clock in the afternoon, Principal Tajima Kinnzou—who until now had continued making his clumsy fingers dance across the abacus while repeating "Pape Satàn, pape Satàn"—appeared to have just finished calculating the attendance register; he slowly raised his head and took up his pipe. Thump—he rapped the desk’s edge. Then erupted an indescribable cacophony—like a raccoon dog’s agonized labor, a straw sandal bursting from a water pipe’s spigot, or more precisely, akin to a neighbor’s pig succumbing to summer influenza—this grotesque resonance (if one dares call it such), likely some aborted cough upon closer analysis, emanated from the vicinity of his enormous Adam’s apple. Next came another subdued sound. Thinking this might be all there was, I gnawed briefly on the brush tip as I prepared to enter the number 84.79—now displayed on the abacus—into the boys’ attendance percentage column of the monthly report. At that instant, there came a voice as grave as the apparition of last year’s dead black cat emerging from an afternoon nap’s dream—

“Mr. Nitta.” He called out. It was His Excellency the Principal’s voice. I jerked my head up. At the same moment, the other two—the senior teacher and the female teacher—also raised their heads. It was from this very instant that the voices chanting “Pape Satàn, pape Satàn aleppe” abruptly fell silent. The female teacher was silently watching the Principal’s face. The Chief Instructor contorted his body with a jerk and prepared to smoke tobacco. He seemed to be bracing himself for something. Indeed, after these mere three seconds of silence, there erupted a tempest of a sort rarely seen these days.

“Mr. Nitta,” the principal called me again. He seemed to be affecting an air of considerable sternness. Yet pitifully, this countenance—cast in the mold of an “educator” from mediocrity and ugliness—now held only a void that could accommodate no other expression. It was truly consummate “meaninglessness.” Should one forcibly attempt such a stern demeanor, the result would merely provoke in one’s counterpart a blend of absurdity and meager pity. But he remained wholly unaware; his faltering speech—like the yawn of a cracked bell—took another step forward.

“There’s something I’d like to ask you, you see. “Well… ‘In the forest of life’s…’” “Hmm… What was it again? The opening lines?” (He looked at the Chief Instructor, who maintained a deeply troubled silence while staring at the floor.) “Hmm... Ah yes yes—‘When spring lies young and moon still new/Through night-scented woods where life renews/We wander yearning...’ or suchlike—that anthem.” “That matter—Mr. Nitta—is it true that you secretly composed it and had the students sing it?”

“That’s a lie.” “It’s true I created both lyrics and melody myself—but claiming I made them secretly? That’s false.” “I despise underhanded work.”

“But wasn’t that how it was, Mr. Furuyama, according to our earlier discussion?” he once again glanced back at the Chief Instructor seated beside him. A cloud of vexation once again settled over Furuyama’s face. Still maintaining his silence, he directed a furtive glance toward me and exhaled smoke through his nose with a “Hmph.” Witnessing this scene—Ah! That’s it—I had already intuited everything in an instant. As for this protest now being raised against my upright, barefaced song that faces heaven and earth without shame—verily, this did not spring solely from the brain of His Excellency Dojō Kinnzou. It was entirely the product of collusion with Furuyama. Perhaps Furuyama himself had been the prime instigator. No—this made perfect sense, for how could such vigor ever emerge from the principal alone? Now this Furuyama—being a native of this village—had managed to remain at this school for over a decade. The fact that he’d passed forty yet remained content with thirteen yen—the same salary as five years prior—laid bare his spineless nature. He was a man notorious for marital quarrels (in this regard, compared to the principal, he somewhat lacked the virtue of meekness). His conversational repertoire extended only to three subjects: alcohol, tales of youthful dalliances with women, and one more thing—his angling hobby. This fishing obsession alone stood preeminent in the village, with both himself and others convinced he’d attained masterful proficiency. Thus he possessed neither principles nor convictions—it being an established truth since antiquity that men who become master anglers lack such things—and thus he and I, now twenty-one years old, could never see eye to eye. If I may speak plainly, both the principal and this man resembled magnolia trees withered naturally from malnutrition—were they pines, even dead they might retain some grace in their boughs, but as it stood, they held not a shred of charm. Even the tobacco we smoked daily differed fundamentally. What they smoked was powdered desiccated oak leaves—neither spicy nor sweet, utterly devoid of fragrance. Mine might have been cheap tobacco at five momme for three sen, but it remained genuine through and through. A smoke rich in aroma, spicy yet sweet in parts—the true vibrant breath of life itself. “When I smoked one Lily cigarette, I became quite dizzy”—that statement Furuyama had made days earlier was likely no exaggeration.

In this manner, I remained perpetually the alien element within this staff room. I was Tsuguko; I was regarded as a disturber of peace. Were I to seek someone within this small world who might become my conversational partner, it would truly be none other than the female teacher alone. Having slightly passed the bloom of youth at twenty-four this year, she was effectively like a sister three years my senior. Thus she remained unmarried—a devout Christian skilled at hymns, educated in new methods, ideologically sound enough—and her face? Since I saw it daily, her face didn’t particularly stand out—rosy cheeks, red hair, eyes youthful beyond her years that occasionally flashed with discernment; though she taught first grade, she was truly a kind nurse. She generally understood what I said; where reason existed, she invariably sympathized. But being a woman after all, and moreover having a slight excess of prudence, in a situation like today’s, she deliberately refrained from uttering a single word. Yet the slight movement of her eyeballs had already sufficiently conveyed that she was my ally. Moreover, I had indeed heard this woman humming the song I composed earlier—though who she could have learned it from.

Now then, I there explained in detail how that song had been created and how it had come to be spread. And when the final words had left my lips and reached the six ears of the principal, the chief instructor, and the female teacher—at that very moment—the wall clock lazily clanged: Clang... clang... clang. Suddenly, a low moan rose from behind me beyond the shoji screen. Madam Potato—likely weakened by her headache—had tied one end of a string to her three-year-old daughter’s obi as she had done for days, fastened the other end to her own foot to keep the child from danger zones, and lain sprawled beside the hearth; now the clock’s chime must have startled her awake from her midday stupor. The low moan sounded again.

Three seconds, five seconds, ten seconds—a dreadful silence stretched on. The four staff members remained entrenched at their respective desks. The first to shatter this silence was Furuyama the Magnolia Tree. “Did you obtain the principal’s approval for that song?”

“No! Absolutely not! I most certainly have no recollection of granting any approval,” the Principal answered on my behalf. I nonchalantly held my pipe between my lips and let slip a faint smile toward the female teacher. Furuyama also began smoking tobacco.

When I looked at the Principal, he had already turned red, with steam rising from his nose. “Frankly—to call this ‘freedom’ would be letting it go too far. Mr. Nitta—you may well have received this 'new education,' but I must say, you're being rather self-indulgent here...” “Is that so?” “You say ‘Is that so?’—there’s no way you don’t understand that. To begin with—er—I believe it was indeed April 4th of this year, when I went to pay my respects to Mr. Hirano, the district superintendent. Yes, that was indeed when it occurred. Regarding your situation, Mr. Nitta—since Mr. District Superintendent had mentioned you—I consequently hired you at this school. Out of consideration for his position, I have until now exercised considerable restraint and leniency on my part. However,” he paused mid-sentence and leaned back slightly, “when such selfishness exceeds bounds, I too, as the principal entrusted with this school’s administration—” Seizing the moment, I said.

“Please don’t hold back.” “Insolent! You don’t give a damn about the Principal!”

This voice was slightly raised. He struck the desk with a clenched fist; the abacus, as if startled, fell to the floor with a clattering noise. I had never known the Principal to be this vigorous until now. As if confessing, he might have been restraining himself until today out of consideration for the district superintendent. However, what he said was true. The truth was, I didn't give a damn about this Principal.

At this moment, a rustling sound came from behind the shoji screen. Madam Potato had crawled out and appeared to be straining her ears to assess the situation. “From what I’ve just heard,” interjected Furuyama with feigned innocence, “it does seem to me that the Principal’s position is quite reasonable.” “However, Mr. Nitta hasn’t done anything particularly wrong either—it’s simply that by composing that school anthem on his own initiative and teaching it to students without authorization, that is to say, by neglecting proper procedures, I believe there may be some—no, rather a significant—error in his approach.”

“Does this school even have something called a school anthem?” “Until now, there has been no such thing at all.” “And now?”

This time, the Principal answered. “Didn’t you yourself create the very song you’re referring to?” “The problem lies precisely there, you see. Everything has its proper order—” Without letting him finish, I raised my hand to stop Furuyama. “There’s no problem or anything at all, is there? Aren’t you already calling that thing I made the school anthem? I have no recollection of creating a school anthem for this S—— Village Elementary School. I merely attempted to create something of that nature—a composition the students could recite morning and evening without issue—not an official school anthem. That is what you are calling the school anthem. So you’re approving it as the school anthem after all.”

And so all the students began singing it—that school anthem. "There’s no problem or anything of the sort. Nothing could be more perfectly peaceful than this, could there?"

Principal Tajima and Furuyama exchanged glances. A satisfied-looking smile surfaced in the female teacher's eyes.

At the entrance, besides the two guards stationed there, stood a new arrival. The rear shoji screen swished open to reveal a monstrous apparition - her waist wrapped with a thin cord instead of an obi, wearing a grimy striped cotton kimono carelessly over her exposed chest as she cradled a suckling infant against her breast. Thus did Madam Potato make her imperial entrance. The black satin collar sewn to her lined kimono glistened with greasy sweat. However one might judge it, her disheveled appearance commanded no respect whatsoever. With eyes sharp as upturned fishhooks glaring from their corners, she clicked her tongue at me—*Tsk!*—before planting herself beside the Principal like some vengeful idol. Had one materialized into visible form that sound from hell's deepest pit—the *kiri-kiri-kiri* crunch of bones being gnawed by a gaunt white-haired corpse tangled in briars—it would surely manifest as this woman's gaze when she first fixed me in her sights. Considering how His Excellency endured this heart-piercing glare morning and night, one might almost find sympathy for the Principal's inner torment.

A living goddess—of penury? —stood motionless as a stone statue, silent. Then lightning-quick transformation swept through the room. The Principal—as if remembering to don his forgotten sternness—twitched several facial muscles. Whether reinforcements had revived his courage or stoked terror remained unclear, but he'd clearly sustained some violent shock to his psyche. Furuyama lifted his head. Too late. The battlefield had already shifted beneath their feet. I felt my triumphant swagger intensify precisely as hostile forces rallied against me.

The female teacher bowed her head the instant she saw the goddess, as if her pure heart had been shrouded in an inexpressible mist of discomfort. Her ears flushed crimson to the roots—whether from shame, pity, or anger—as she tapped the desk with her pencil tip in sharp, rhythmic beats. Furuyama spoke first. “However, all things require proper procedure. Without following due process...” He paused meaningfully. “Why, one couldn’t become an army general in a single bound.” A truly peerless argument across the ages.

The Principal continued. “As long as you fail to follow proper procedures,” he said, “even something perfectly suitable cannot yet be called our school anthem.” “Even if you lack an impressive teaching license—for someone employed in education who draws a salary to disregard proper procedures—that’s excessive by any measure!”

Having finished speaking, he firmly pressed his lips together. Unfortunately, his eel-like mustache made for a rather undignified appearance. The goddess’s gaze pierced my face like icy arrows. She must have been pressing for a response. From her hair—hastily tied, or rather rudely bundled—a comb slipped loose. She made no move to retrieve it. I laughed as I spoke. “While I appreciate this repeated talk of procedures, what exactly do these procedures entail?” “It’s rather embarrassing to admit—I remain wholly ignorant of them.” “……Should my ignorance regarding anthem adoption protocols lead me to blunder were I ever mistakenly appointed principal elsewhere someday, that would prove disastrous indeed. Might I trouble you to enlighten me now?”

The Principal answered bitterly. “The procedure isn’t particularly complicated. “First”—he emphasized—“the Principal certifies it and deems it suitable. Then it’s submitted to the District Superintendent. Thereupon—um—once permission is granted stating there’s no issue with having students sing that song, only then does it become the official school anthem.” “Hah! So you’re saying my creation failed because it skipped those ‘proper procedures’—meaning my premature understanding’s to blame.” “Fine then.” “For the author himself, whether it’s adopted as the anthem or not is a matter as trivial as a fart. The mere fact that all students sing this song I created already brings sufficient honor.” “Hahahaha.” “Then there’s no argument here.”

“However,” interjected Furuyama. This man’s “however” was his trademark maneuver. “For having students sing it, I believe it would be more prudent if you first explained the song’s meaning to either the Principal or myself—or at least showed it to us upon completion.” “Moreover, they claim I dismiss school lesson plans as meaningless formalities unworthy of documentation—yet when I return home, I supposedly just start writing novels instead.” "As one among your esteemed educators—with such logic in play—I can only stand utterly dumbfounded." “Truly, this is...” “But that’s an entirely separate matter.”

“Mr. Nitta, this school operates under teaching guidelines established through august directives from the Minister of Education.” “Not only arithmetic, Japanese, geography, and history—even subjects like singing and sewing have their guidelines meticulously established.” He continued, “From the perspective of those long engaged in educational endeavors, the current guidelines are truly splendid—one might even say they penetrate to the finest details.” “This dates back over a decade—when we were still at normal school. Under the supervision of Assistant Instructor Obara Gintarou—already commanding 45 yen then—we compiled elementary school guidelines. Comparing those with today’s... why, they’re beyond comparison! Enough to make one break into cold sweat!” “Therefore, true educators must conduct lessons adhering flawlessly to these guidelines without deviation. Should they fail, they’d act improperly toward both students’ parents and the village office paying our salaries. On a grand scale, we’d incur crimes disrupting Great Japan’s education—precisely why this constitutes our most crucial duty as educators—a principle I’ve upheld over ten years... though only four years three months since coming here.” “However, this doesn’t mean refraining from teaching unlisted content.” “As Mr. Furuyama persistently argues—all things require proper order.” “Follow procedures for approval, and naturally there’s no issue teaching it.” “Otherwise matters unfold as explained—and since I’m Principal, responsibility may reach me.” “This would cause mutual inconvenience.” “Not only that—it would tarnish our school’s honor.”

“What a serious matter this will turn into,” I remarked with perfect composure. To be fair, during this sermonizing, I couldn’t help occasionally suppressing laughter, though I took considerable pains to smother it. “So in other words—the song I created isn’t included in those immaculate teaching guidelines, isn’t it?”

“Of course there’s no way it does, sir,” interjected Mr. Furuyama. “Of course it shouldn’t be there.” “I only wrote it two or three days ago, you see.” “Ahahaha!” “So all this talk since earlier ultimately boils down to one perfectly clear point—that we absolutely mustn’t let the students sing that song. I take it?” “After hacking away all those procedural branches and detailed leaves to lay bare your heartfelt convictions—that’s what this comes down to, isn’t it?”

To this, there was no reply. "So according to those fossilized guidelines, substitute teachers mustn’t instruct students anywhere beyond the lectern—is that it? Or does that compendium of minutiae perhaps contain some clause about teaching students outside school grounds?" "How could such absurdity exist in the guidelines?" the Principal retorted angrily.

“In that case, I can rest assured.”

“What’s there to rest easy about?” “But that’s how it stands, no? As I explained in detail earlier, I only taught that song to three students who visited my house on the very night I completed it two or three days ago. There’s no reason I should receive scoldings from that fossilized set of guidelines.” “Unless that song contained dangerous ideologies or language unfit for students’ mouths—that would be another matter—but…” “Well, I’d been quite anxious, but under this cloudless sky, I’m being gradually absolved of all charges.”

The wreath of complete victory crowned my head. The enemy had visibly retreated beyond Tieling. With swords shattered, horses fallen, and arrows exhausted, there had never been any reason for battle to persist. "I also borrowed what he wrote from Sakae-san yesterday and copied it," she said. "Someone like me doesn't understand such things, but I thought it was truly splendid—I'd actually planned to teach it during tomorrow's music class."

This was a beautiful wreath of glory hurled like a loosed arrow into his triumph-swollen chest. The female teacher spoke for the first time.

II

At this moment, Principal Tajima Kinnzou was so overcome with emotion that he nearly burst into tears. At first, he had been glaring resentfully at the female teacher’s face, but abruptly turned his head to gaze up at the grime-stained goddess standing beside him—this headache incarnate, this Madam Potato with her satin half-collar. His eyes—normally as dull as those of a dead crucian carp—now alone retained shadows of battle’s fiery sparks, slightly moistened with extreme deference and desperate entreaty. This was precisely the scene of a husband—weaker than any in the world—devoting every ounce of his affection, while his wife remained unmoved, not deigning to spare even a single glance of pity. However, the goddess’s face—like marble smeared with mud—did not stir a fraction. And then, with a single utterance, she said, “Hmph.” Ah, who in this world could possibly comprehend the meaning of this 'Hmph'? She then bent down and picked up the comb that had fallen. The child she held still clung to her breast. The child was insatiably greedy.

Furuyama stared at him with a vulgar gaze steeped in anger. The white float on the water's surface during those moments of breathless anticipation—when one wonders if it will sink now—must have felt just like this. The virtuous Ms. Yamamoto Takako—a teacher worthy of my reverence—had once again begun humming "Pape Satan."

When I looked toward the entrance, four close-cropped heads and two adorned with ibis-hued ribbons stood aligned in a row. As I turned around, they all blossomed into radiant smiles. Among them was Sakae-san from the boarding house where our female teacher lodged—her large eyes flickering rapid signals as she transmitted what could only be described as an encrypted congratulatory telegram. What an extraordinarily clever lad he was. I reciprocated with a return signal. This time, all six pairs of eyes flashed in perfect synchrony.

Suddenly, a youthful, spirited chorus rang out. It came from the second floor. In spring's first blush, the crescent moon— Through night's fragrance in life's forest, My soul wanders forth in yearning, Dreaming without meaning to dream…… Ah, this song—this had become the cause of the Russo-Japanese War. I felt as though struck by lightning.

At the same time came a clamorous pounding of feet on the ladder steps, and the singing voices faltered momentarily. No sooner had I thought "Don't come down!" than their figures materialized. A squad of five stalwarts—at the forefront stood Ryousuke, the village headman's eldest son. Though short in stature, he reigned as the school's foremost troublemaker yet paradoxically maintained top grades. Within the Jacobin Party, he led its most radical faction—the veritable commander of the Bomb Faction. They must have held a secret revenge meeting on the second floor, avoiding others after today's canceled extracurricular session. Judging by their spirited demeanor, they seemed to already have their strategy mapped out.

I just hoped they wouldn't revert to pelting the night-duty room with stones like some violent hailstorm after dark. The squad of youths raised voices crystalline as a spring dawn bell, singing without pause as they marched in valiant strides to trace a great circle at the center of the spacious waiting area. No sooner had they completed this than they began advancing in bold formation toward our staff room. Holding Autonomy's sword in their right hands, Brandishing Love's flags in their left, Astride Freedom's steeds, Advancing along ideals' path,

Tonight beneath Life’s Forest shade By the water’s edge we’ve made our camp. The soaring peaks are Heroes’ Gravestones mourning heroes’ traces, The soundless river through millennia Flowing fragrant names through endless time. If I ask, 'Where is this place?'— The moon answers: "Your homeland." As the spirited steed neighs,

Yet when I reflect, the dream does not fade. White-feathered arrows and silver-armored shields All have not vanished, yet... Here remains a single undying self

I stand resolute on the path of ideals.

Snow-crowned Mount Iwate Even the gentle-named Princess Goddess’s Through mountain vales it flows onward In the northward flow of thousand-year waters Purify the soul… When they had sung this far, Ryousuke’s right foot was just then stepping into the entrance of the staff room. The song stopped. As for the scene that had unfolded in the room during those few minutes, I hadn’t known a thing about it. I simply stared fixedly at Ryousuke’s approaching eyes, singing along in my heart all the while. And I strained the voice of my heart to its utmost limit.

Suddenly becoming aware, it appeared as though the grand drama of global annihilation was bearing down upon us mere seconds away. The Principal's face was a raging wildfire. And he trembled so violently it was visible to the eye. Furuyama had already sprung up from his chair, fists clenched like a guardian deity struck by famine, trembling all the same. Thick blue veins bulged across his entire face. Sakae pressed her mouth close to Ryousuke’s ear and whispered something. Ryousuke’s eyes widened to the size of elephant nostrils as he listened intently. Since hers was a naturally loud voice to begin with, I could hear her reply myself.

“...What about this song?” “Hmm... Did we win? Hmm, yeah, exactly—wanted to see it... You won’t drink the sake?” “...But he’s red, isn’t he? The Red Eel.” The final voice had risen slightly in pitch. Furuyama, in an agitated voice,

“Principal!” he shouted. The Principal stood up. The chair toppled backward from the sudden movement. His wife still hadn’t moved. But the sheer ferocity of that face! “Go away.” “Get out of here.” Both I and the female teacher said this simultaneously, moving our hands and signaling with our eyes. Ryousuke's eyes met mine. I pressed hard with my eyes.

Ryousuke finally dashed off. The towering mountain—a hero’s Monument mourning remnants,

singing as he went. All the other children followed after him. “Long live Teacher Victory!”

A triumphant battle cry could be heard. It was the voices of five or six people. Among them, Ryousuke’s resonant voice and Miss Sakae’s soprano rang out distinctly.

My eyes and the female teacher’s eyes collided mid-air. Those eyes brimmed with intense emotion. That this wasn’t detrimental to me could be read in their very radiance—when suddenly, Just then, voices rose at the entrance. An argument seemed underway. Yet at first—perhaps because my own agitation lingered—the words remained indistinct. One voice belonged to the janitor. The other? It sounded unlike anything I’d ever heard. “No matter what ya yammer, a beggar’s still a beggar!” “Told ya already—this school ain’t no flophouse for panhandlers!” “Principal’s orders! Let one stray mutt in, next thing ya know we’re overrun! Any riffraff shows up—chase ’em off!” “Quit dawdlin’! We’re both wastin’ daylight here!” barked the janitor.

A resonant young man’s voice with commanding presence responded. “I may be a beggar, but I’m of a different caliber than your common sort.” “What? You take me for some panhandler?” “Enough! Just show that letter to Nitta already!” “Didn’t I tell you he’s here?” “The man called Nitta Shiroushi.” Hmm? I thought. The janitor spoke again. “There’s a young teacher named Nitta Kousuke here alright, but ain’t nobody called no Hakugyuu round these parts, I tell ya.” “Teacher Kousuke ain’t got no beggar kin.” “You’re mistaken, I tell ya.” “Got the wrong man, I tell ya.” “Takin’ this back now, I tell ya.”

“You’re such a nuisance. I’ve got no business with you whatsoever.” “As long as I can meet Nitta, that’s all I need.” “Just meeting Mr. Nitta would satisfy me—it’s all I desire.” “Do you understand?… Please—that letter—I’m begging you… If even this won’t do, I’ll go up myself and meet him in person.”

At this moment, I thought about getting up to go see. But for some reason, I did not stand up. I must have been utterly intoxicated by that splendid, beautiful, majestic voice flowing unimpeded from the depths of a broad chest. For no particular reason, I recalled the image of Napoleon holding a child that I had occasionally seen in photographic prints. And then, I thought that the person now standing at the entrance calling my name and asking to meet must undoubtedly be that Napoleon-like man.

“D-doin’ somethin’ like that—what good’ll come of it? “I’ll get scolded by the Principal sir, I tell ya.” “A’right, a’right! I’ll go show ’im this here letter!” “Anyway, I’ll go show this here letter to that teacher, I tell ya.” “...You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, I tell ya.” “In all my sixteen years at this school, I tell ya, ain’t never had no teacher showin’ me a beggar’s letter before.”

My heart was now seized by a peculiar sensation. When I looked around, both Principal Tajima and Furuyama had already taken their seats. Madam Potato still held her immovable stance. The female teacher too remained as she was. And all four pairs of eyes were fixed upon me as though anticipating something unknown. In ancient times, from marble-paved amphitheater loges, people would gaze down with morbid curiosity at how much resistance an innocent bare-handed slave—a perfect champion of 'powerlessness'—might muster against a beast incarnate of violence, or rather against a lion called divine-right emperor; those very gazes must have been like this, I imagined within my heart.

The janitor—a good-natured soul whom even the villagers called "Buddha" (call out "Chuuta" and whether rain or wind, he'd answer "Aye!")—entered the staff room muttering through his thick lips.

“There’s a beggar here says to show this to you, I tell ya.” “Here.” With a strange look in his eyes and staring fixedly at me, he placed a sealed letter on the desk. Then, while pointing toward the entrance, he closed his left eye, twisted his mouth, and made a chirping sound, “He’s a weird one, I tell ya. “You best be careful, I tell ya.” “I tried every which way to refuse him, but he just ain’t listenin’, I tell ya.”

the janitor whispered in complaint. I silently took up the sealed letter. The front bore a vigorous, thick-brushed seal mark covering nearly its entire surface, beneath which six characters—"Hachinohe, Shuuun"—were written in a roughly familiar script with faint ink that had smudged precariously. There was no date. "Ah, it's from Shuuun!" I exclaimed involuntarily. Turning it over revealed "Iwate Prefecture, Iwate District, S—— Village Elementary School, Mr. Nitta Shiroushi" written on the back in earnest semi-cursive script from the outset. I remembered something, but in any case hurriedly tore open the envelope. The gazes of all were surely fixed upon the trembling of my emaciated fingertips—though what caused it remained unknown. The sudden pounding in my chest—the roar of young life sent electric ripples coursing through my entire bloodstream. What my trembling fingertips pulled out was a single sheet of hanshi paper; with its large characters, the message was naturally exceedingly brief.

Since then—great estrangement and discourtesy— This much stood written across two lines alone.

Ishimoto Toshikichi is taking this letter. You must provide this person with all possible assistance. I have written what might be called a letter of introduction for the first time in my life. June 25th Amano Shuuun Mr. Nitta Kou And, horizontally in the upper margin, (One-Eyed Dragon, it says.) If one were to speak of a letter that epitomizes rudeness and crudeness in this world, this would surely be the very definition. Moreover, this was no ordinary message. Is this not what might be called a letter of introduction—a sacred ritual's proclamation that should be read aloud at an altar before the gods—through which one, within the bounds of their own credibility, brings together one individual with another unknown individual? Were such a letter of introduction to be received by a paragon of Confucian virtue—one gentle and sincere who esteems moderation in all things, such as our Principal Tajima—they would likely presume the visitor at their entrance to be a tiger at the front gate even before laying eyes on them, and might well flee out the back gate with one straw sandal still on before wolves could lie in wait. Moreover, were one to learn that this very letter had been written by Amano Daisuke—a twenty-seven-year-old Japanese citizen who first drew breath in this S—— Village, who received his elementary education in this very school (though in those days it was a shabby single-class institution with half its current buildings and only one teacher, predating even the establishment of higher grades), and who was himself instructed by an educator of utmost reverence for rules, procedures, year-end bonuses, the Ministry of Education, and his own wife—a man equally steadfast in moderation, impartiality, and brusqueness—by what words could one possibly express such astonishment? In reality, this was no proper letter of introduction. It was a command—no, an utterly barbaric command at that—ordering me to provide every possible assistance to some unknown One-Eyed Dragon. Yet having read this astonishing letter with my chest roaring, I did not feel that way at all. I dare ask—where in any corner of this letter lies even a speck of the world’s torrential superficial pomp and hollow courtesy? ｟One payment of three ryō. Horse fee. Will you not conceal the medicine? What say you to this?

"If you call it medicine, then so be it; if you do not, I shall simply not comply. Thou hast mettle in thy arm. ｠If this payment request addendum written long ago by Miyoshi—that natural-born scholar—truly constituted a literary masterpiece for the ages as the great Confucian Arai Hakuseki declared, then my revered friend Shuuun's letter of introduction, concise yet capturing its essence, should likewise have been deemed a literary masterpiece for the ages. Not only that—the very fact that he could write such a letter with such nonchalance and I could read it with equal composure—this bond between us must be one of true unity, where our innermost selves lay bare to one another in mutual understanding. Sweeping away all frills, stripping off all pretense, bearing godlike six-foot nakedness—this letter calmly advanced upon the targeted castle gate. In this calm composure there truly overflowed an infinite trust and friendship that filled heaven and earth. I read this letter in merely three or four seconds. And in this moment, I felt the vibrant countenance of my revered friend and heard the warm whisper of his trust and friendship."

“Very well.” “Show him into this room.”

“A beggar, I tell ya?”

the Principal bellowed.

“What do you mean by that? That’s going too far! Mr. Nitta! Bringing a beggar into the school staff room—have you lost your mind?”

The voice that thus cried out was an indescribably loathsome sound—piercing enough to make the windowpanes shiver, as if hundreds of millions of voiceless caterpillars from eons past had swarmed in their millions to perform some rain-summoning ritual. The terrifying force of Madam Potato’s first utterance—suddenly erupted from one who might have been thought tongueless—defied comprehension. Chuuta the janitor’s acorn-like eyes whirled round and round three times. He remained frozen in disarray. At this point, one act of intimidation became necessary. “Have him enter.”

I barked. Chuuta scrambled out in a fluster—only to immediately come rushing back. Behind him trailed a figure. The man had likely already removed his straw sandals and stepped up into the entranceway.

“Mr. Nitta, do you find this acceptable?” “Now, Mr. Nitta, this isn’t your personal school!” “What do people think you’re doing, acting so high and mighty for a substitute teacher?” “Just look at this!” “That creature!”

Madam Potato shrieked incessantly. I did not even turn around. And now I directed my full attention toward the resonant-voiced Napoleon—that "creature"—who was about to emerge from Chuuta's back. Though Shuuun's letter bore the marginal note "One-Eyed Dragon," I had simply assumed he must have accidentally lost an eye at Waterloo and refused to believe this had diminished by even one iota the dashing majesty of Napoleon Bonaparte—that true paragon of heroic spirit through the ages. I wondered if it might instead have augmented his dignity, like autumn frost intensified by blazing sun.

Chuuta stepped aside and bowed his head meekly. No sooner had he done so than he fled away as if escaping.

With no refuge left under heaven, the heroic figure now stood abruptly before my very eyes. I too stood up.

At this moment, I was suddenly startled and nearly cried out. Alas! In this once-in-a-thousand-generations moment of this month, this day, this very hour—had my own eyes suddenly failed me? A misfortune this catastrophic should never exist in this world. I blinked two or three times with all my strength, then strained my eyes open again with equal force. But it was no use. Napoleon Bonaparte—who should have gained an added austerity of autumn frost and blazing sun after losing an eye to a stray bullet at Waterloo—had long since become unworthy of Nitta Kousuke's reverence. My wide-opened eyes now stared at the very spot where mere seconds earlier I had imagined a hero of the ages standing—instead finding there a figure as dejected as some gaunt cur from a trash heap. This was truly a marvel of our time. They say any great hero leaves behind only bones after death. Thus observing, what stood before me now might indeed be Napoleon's skeleton.

Even were it a skeleton, this remained an utterly wretched-looking skeleton indeed. His height measured precisely five shaku without exceeding by even a fraction—clad in a striped cotton awase so caked with grime that its pattern had vanished, a narrow cowhide obi cinched at his waist, from beneath the hem protruded seven or eight sun of thick white ogura-fabric Western-style trousers. He wore no tabi socks of course. His hair had grown two sun long, resembling nothing so much as a Tanba chestnut burr rolled through muddy ruts. Eyes? Indeed—the One-Eyed Dragon. But this eye had certainly not been lost at Waterloo—likely congenital, the left one remaining tightly shut as if frozen since dying in some past life. Even the right wasn’t a proper eye—the pupils sat slightly askew compared to ordinary people’s. His nose proved passable; his mouth twisted faintly leftward. Thin cheeks bore an extremely sallow complexion. Amidst these ill-assorted features, only the broad forehead maintaining some dignity glistened with sweat beads aplenty. Not remotely cool-looking—but then he was a June-thirtieth traveler wearing lined robes. That Chuuta had mimicked chicks and Madam Potato screamed “That creature!” might stem from their inability to see his own face—yet even so, their reactions didn’t seem entirely off-target.

That I had felt this way was of course but a fleeting moment. That I—as Japan's Finest Substitute Teacher—had harbored such base thoughts in my breast, even if for an instant, was truly a vice too shameful to bear; what delivered the lash of awakening to my spirit was this first utterance bursting forth from the eccentric's twisted mouth.

“I am Ishimoto Toshikichi.”

Ah—if only the voice! Indeed, it was a voice that even Napoleon need not have been ashamed to possess. A masculine and dignified voice it was—so magnificent that one marveled where in this body it could be stored—flowing unimpeded as if from the depths of a broad, noble chest, beautiful and stately. They say that in a single oyster shell, should a poet listen, there dwells the primordial roar of distant oceans. Then perhaps this man too—though his body be but a carelessly carved fragment of flesh—harbored deep within this very frame the voice of a great bell: one strike birthing ten thousand voices, shaking life’s grand hall from its foundations to resonate through eternity. If this were so, then what rescued me from that moment’s shameful vice was not this faint-shadowed skeleton of Napoleon, but rather the ageless bell’s voice from life’s innermost depths. Yes—precisely so. At this moment did I awaken to life’s grand path through that eternal voice. And now, introduced through the immortal prose of my revered friend Shuuun to Mr. Ishimoto Toshikichi, I resolved myself to stand at the occasion where first-meeting greetings must be exchanged.

“I am Nitta.” “Our first meeting.” “Our first meeting.” They exchanged formal bows.

“Thank you very much for Mr. Amano’s letter.” “Not at all.”

As I spoke these words, I suddenly felt a peculiar thrill. Here was this man who had drifted into the staff room like a breeze despite facing considerable opposition—no ordinary fellow of five shaku and two sun, but truly an extraordinary man radiating exceptional brilliance. Then, personally offering Ishimoto a chair and setting it down, I drew myself up straight and surveyed the room.

The female teacher was gazing fixedly at this new visitor’s retreating figure for reasons known only to herself. The expressions of the other three went without saying. I stood undeniably in the position of a conqueror. “Allow me to make an introduction. This is Mr. Ishimoto Toshikichi, who has come all this way bearing a letter from someone I consider akin to an elder brother.” They all remained silent. This silence felt increasingly exhilarating to me. Madam Potato clicked her tongue with a “Tsk!” and shot me a glare, yet again said nothing before fixing her stare on Ishimoto instead. She was likely thoroughly exasperated by Ishimoto’s strikingly unconventional demeanor. Ishimoto likewise did not deign to bow. And toward this disagreeable spectacle—one that even he with but one eye should have immediately grasped—he remained nearly insensate in his composure. How amusing. He must undoubtedly be a man who had weathered many battlefields. Even were he thrust before a raging lion, he seemed to possess such courage and composure that he would not forget how many bowls of rice he had eaten that very morning.

With a triumphant smile, I returned to my seat. Ishimoto also sat down. Our eyes collided in mid-air. At this moment, I discovered his right eye possessed an exceptional eyeball. It was not the eye of someone quick-witted or intellectually vigorous. But at least it could be acknowledged as an extraordinary eyeball. And I realized this exceptional orb gazed at me not like a stranger, but familiarly, nostalgically, with the unreserved ease of a decade-old friend. Simultaneously vanished from my chest were his twisted mouth, One-Eyed Dragon aspect, Napoleon’s skeletal resemblance—even Chuuta’s warning to “Be careful.” My impressionable heart, given no time to calculate gains and losses, drank directly from the cup of goodwill overflowing through his gaze. However much bitter worldly waters one may have drunk, youth’s deeds remain ever thus. The prudent might laugh. Let them laugh—it concerns me not. I am young after all. Ah, how long will youth persist? Even should baldness claim me, I resolved to cling eternally to this fervent youthful spirit. Why must I now distill my heart into sterile water? Ishimoto Toshikichi and I had become fast friends within two minutes of meeting. I was twenty-one; he appeared both weathered and youthful—likely one or two years my senior. Both were young.

As soon as their first greetings ended, their eyes collided in mid-air. In this instant, two young souls came into perfect contact. This was more than enough formality for becoming close friends. I believed he too was a splendid young man. But his bearing? Ah, his bearing! ――To confess the truth, I had actually been somewhat losing my mental equilibrium since earlier amidst these tumultuous wartime-like circumstances. Therefore, even regarding this new guest, there remained aspects I hadn't fully observed. Now facing a single desk and scrutinizing him with the unreserved ease of a decade-long friend, I found myself moved as if anew. Ah, what a sight he presented! When he opened his mouth, his voice indeed resonated sonorously with truly dignified manliness, but when facing him thus in silence, I felt I could no longer endure looking directly at him. Ah―beyond these sighs, my budding friendship struggled to find words swift enough to express this feeling. "Though truly impolite," I had earlier described him as "a dejected figure resembling a gaunt dog from a garbage heap." Yet even this metaphor likely remained inadequate. "Rather than 'a certain figure,' it might be more accurate to say 'dejection'―" It might be truer to say that very essence had taken form.

The arrangement of his facial features had completely lost all harmony; it was bizarre, exceedingly cluttered. Yet perhaps precisely because of that clutter, nowhere could one discern a single coherent impression being carved. Were one to inductively reason from each individual feature in turn, one might instead arrive at some X standing in complete opposition to "dejected." However, the fact remained that this man was dejected—there was no help for it. The long filthy hair, the old cotton kimono soiled beyond distinguishing its stripes with grime and dust, the pallid emaciated face—these undoubtedly contributed item by item to that "dejected" condition. Yet these features alone would not necessarily be unparalleled in this world; indeed, I myself had encountered them not infrequently. But a demeanor so utterly dejected as this—I had never witnessed such in all my twenty-one years until now. Though it might be a forced expression, if one must put it thus: he was a fragment of flesh given an inharmonious form—nothing more than an ordinary fragment of flesh—yet surrounded by an invisible atmosphere steeped to extremes in desolation. Exactly—he himself remained himself through and through. Only the surrounding atmosphere was a congealed mist of gloom, sorrow, and misery. And though this might be temporary, the emaciation born of no small "fatigue" cast shadows that deepened this atmosphere's air of dejection. Or perhaps the faint shadow of "hunger" might also dwell here.

The unrestrained wings of imagination flashed like lightning. A being forged through creation's mischievous chance—knowing neither parent nor sibling, abandoned on stones in insect-chirping fields, nurtured by earth's chill seeping through hell's iron walls, ever running shadow-like beneath winter-bare willows along life's capital moats—this so-called natural-born wanderer, this fragment of human flesh cast directly into wilderness by the Great Merciful Deity's hand—might this not be the man now before me? If so, one might conjecture that this sonorous yet ill-matched voice could have been acquired—on some day, at some hour, in some chance—from a prophet who ate locusts and tasted wild honey, who wore camel's hair and cried in the wilderness. Moreover, it became comprehensible how Shuuun—who ever shunned main roads with their black-lacquered carriages and coachmen's vigorous "Heave-ho!" cries, wandering solely life's back alleys—might not unreasonably have come to know such a man. Yet considering all this, the name "Ishimoto Toshikichi"—resembling that of a proper gentleman—seemed utterly mismatched. Or perhaps—a child once suckled at a loving mother's breast, cradled in a father's arms, bathed in warm sunlight and kissed by pure moonlight within love's cradle—robbed of kin and home by that common usurer called misfortune, drained of untainted blood-sweat until like an unripe plum fallen on cold moss, perpetually denied even sky's sunlight; who with youthful frailty and maimed form, gallantly unarmed yet endlessly battling through cruelty, poverty, shame, and hunger until flesh withered and bones wasted—a valiant warrior of life—might this not be the man before me?

Shuuun had once served as a guard at a certain penitentiary—a temporary resting place for such warriors of life—for a nine-yen monthly stipend. Given this, it couldn’t be said these two had entirely failed to find opportunities for connection. Now I recalled—he’d once declared: 'To consider prisons dens of evil men is a grave error, a catastrophic misunderstanding. The prisoners who should be demons instead call us guards—government-salaried officials with swords at our hips—the real fiends. Of course! Would true demons ever get snared in some net of human laws? Prisoners have tears and blood; they deeply understand life’s flavors—splendid warriors all. Yet tragically, they lack any weapons. In this world, those swilling fine wine wield weapons—wealth, status—but when upstanding men lose battles merely for lacking such arms, they don prison orange. You—if you became a minister, wouldn’t this be a world where even flagrant crimes go untouched by common police? I too am a guard, yet though I’ve quarreled with colleagues, I’ve never laid a finger on any prisoner’s cheek. There are those who bellow like demons dawn till dusk—but how could this I ever do such things?'

However, even this conjecture could hardly be asserted as accurate. For here before me now, the warm light in this man's right eye—friendly, nostalgic, unreservedly gentle—though offering no explicit justification, somehow seemed to assert through its very presence: "That is not the case." Even I, who usually pride myself on my discerning eye, could not make an accurate judgment in this brief moment. Be that as it may, Mr. Ishimoto’s exceptionally distinguished bearing and demeanor fully demonstrated that he was not one who had plodded along a single ordinary path his entire life. Although I had not yet heard a single word of reminiscence or explanation, I felt this way and offered boundless sympathy to this dejected man. With every hundredth of a second, Mr. Ishimoto and I were intensifying our closeness. And just as when I had seen that disabled veteran of the great Battle of Port Arthur—legs broken, hands shattered, both eyes robbed of sight—pass by in a baby carriage with a gleaming Golden Kite Medal adorning his chest, that same profound respect now welled up like clouds in my heart at this moment.

Here, I briefly employed an abbreviating pen.

In response to my questions, everything that Mr. Ishimoto explained in detail using his resonant Napoleonic voice was roughly as follows.

Ishimoto Toshikichi had now come from Hachinohe (Sannohe District, Aomori Prefecture). However, his hometown was in Shizuoka Prefecture, far to the south. He was born into a farming family of moderate means there, with one older brother and one younger sister. His sister had possessed an angelic beauty quite unlike Toshikichi’s own, but that beauty proved a curse—three years prior, at seventeen years old in the full bloom of youth, she had met a tragic end. It was said that the beast-like greed of a man who had even held public office had thrust a nine-sun-five-bu length of cold steel into the innocent girl’s chest. His brother had boasted a splendid physique but met his demise at Jiuliancheng during the First Sino-Japanese War.“Because I alone am an ugly cripple, no one has killed me yet,” Toshikichi added.His parents had been quite diligent people with no memory of having done anything wrong, yet somehow after his brother’s death—even without any particular misfortune occurring—the family’s fortunes had gradually declined.When Toshikichi turned fifteen that spring and graduated from the local higher elementary school, both their mountains and fields had already passed into others’ hands, leaving only a small rice paddy and their homestead remaining.That autumn, he fled to Tokyo under cover of night with an older friend.When he arrived at Shinbashi Station, all he carried was two yen, thirty sen, and five rin.This flight had been undertaken with tremendous ambitions for the future.The humiliation he had endured since childhood due to his physical disability had kindled an irrepressible thirst for vengeance—this nighttime escape too had been for that very reason.For the same reason, after coming to Tokyo he diligently studied jūdō alongside his labor and studies; he now held at least the first dan rank in Kanō-ryū.Yet the miseries of those days defied recounting in mere hours—how he starved and wept; how he longed to return home yet lacked travel funds; how until rescued by a certain person the following February he hadn’t even a fixed place to stay.At sixteen he entered a certain private middle school.After about three years when his guardian died, he was once again cast out like a stone into the metropolis’s heart—yet through tremendous labor he scraped together meager tuition fees to maintain his enrollment there.Last summer, after falling ill for a month and consequently losing his livelihood in Tokyo, he had no choice but to head east to Hachinohe in early September—begging along the way while relying on a friend.Even until just one week prior he had been attending fifth grade at that middle school—rising early to deliver the daily Hachinohe Times newspaper, then working four hours each afternoon baking Hachinohe senbei rice crackers at a confectionery owned by a friend.Earning six yen monthly this way, he sustained himself while enduring days of solitary study under threadbare quilts.He was twenty-two years old; his physical frailty and small stature were likely punishments for having been unable to endure more than seven months in his mother’s womb before being violently expelled into this world.

Today marked exactly six months since my association with Mr. Amano Shuuun had begun. On that unforgettable New Year's Day of this year, after completing the Shihōhai ritual at school, I visited a gymnastics teacher—a Reserve Second Lieutenant who had risen from Special Duty Sergeant—and received the hospitality of beer that to this struggling student's palate had tasted like nectar.

With my face still flushed from drink, I returned in high spirits while letting the northern New Year’s wind—sharp enough to hone arrowheads—blow against me. It was around four in the afternoon when a most distinctive figure approached from across a certain town. On this New Year's Day of festive sake and formal attire, there he came wearing an old padded kimono—just like myself—with cotton bursting from its hem, no haori coat nor hat, his hair wild and unkempt as if crowned with bear pelt. With a maddeningly leisurely stride that grated the nerves, he swung his Western cane grandly while staring at the snow-clouded sky... At first glance, I thought him a madman. Upon drawing nearer for inspection, a jet-black beard about an inch and a half long nearly engulfed his flat face entirely, while his skyward-gazing eyes resembled terrifyingly gleaming caverns. Deeming him thoroughly uncivilized and attempting to pass by without engagement, I found myself struck on the shoulder by his thick Western cane—swung through a great arc—with force akin to a loosed arrow.

“What are you doing?!” I braced myself as the man too stopped and turned around. Yet he looked down at me with utter composure. It grated on my nerves. As I mentioned earlier, even though I hold a first dan rank in Kanō-ryū jujutsu, a mere second later that uncivilized man went crashing down onto the snow-hardened icy road. He immediately got up. I braced myself again, thinking he would strike, but he remained composed as ever. And in a voice like a cracked bell, without any trace of anger,

“You’re quite the spirited man!”

All my strength suddenly fled somewhere at this single phrase. Back against the corrugated iron,

“Interesting.” “How about it—you there! Come along with me.”

“You’re quite the strange man yourself!” I tried saying that too. However, it had no effect. The strange man walked ahead unhurriedly. I too silently followed behind him. The more I looked at him, the more I pondered—he was truly a strange man. Until now, I had neither seen nor heard of such a man. Led by a blend of curiosity and what felt like spiritual conquest, I had walked three or four chō when, “Here we are.” “Since I’m single, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.” “Come in.”

This “here” was a place in the unremarkable town of Hachinohe—so obscure that even Toshikichi the newspaper deliverer hadn’t known of its existence—which should give you some idea of what kind of place it was. At the dead end of a grimy back alley’s path—dark even at noon—stood a two-ken-wide back tenement even more wretched than a pigpen. On this day, Toshikichi returned from this place when the night had already grown late past eleven o’clock. After that, he came to frequent this pigpen hovel nearly every night. The strange man was none other than Shuuun Amano. “Mr. Amano is my friend, my brother, my teacher, and also my mentor,” Toshikichi confessed.

After running away from home and spending nearly eight years here, he had returned to his hometown only once—three years prior when his sister met a tragic end. The family had declined year by year, and by that time there remained not even one tsubo of house and land in his father’s possession. Through cruel 40-60 tenant farming, they barely managed to keep smoke rising from their hearth. His aged mother attempted to persuade Toshikichi to stay. However, Father did not say a single word. Two weeks later, he left home again. At that moment, Father said, “Become a strong and splendid man. “I won’t die—I’ll wait until then! “Restore the Ishimoto household to its former glory,” he said, tears streaming from eyes wearied by over fifty years of hardship. And then, from where he had managed to procure it, he personally placed thirteen yen into Toshikichi’s undershirt pocket. This was his father’s final words—and his final act of mercy. Now, he could no longer see his father in this world.

For his father had departed to the next world two weeks prior, having reached fifty-nine years as his allotted span. This notice had reached Toshikichi on a rainy evening exactly one week prior. “This is the letter.” With that, he took out an envelope from his sleeve. And he continued speaking in a tear-choked voice. “I cried. From the usual confectionery shop—since I didn’t have an umbrella—I came back with a cloth wrapped over my head, and when I looked, this was the letter the lodging’s landlady had given me. No matter how many times I read it over, it still only stated that my old father had died. I even complained, ‘Then why didn’t they send a telegram?’ But my village lies sixteen ri deep in the mountains from the telegraph office. When I realized that day was the seventeenth day after his passing, I sold my hated algebra and geometry textbooks and received about thirty sen. So I bought a bouquet of flowers and those black sugar candies—you know, the small hard ones like my old father used to buy for me when I was a child—and since there were no photographs, I arranged this letter on the desk and offered up the flowers and candies… What happened then—I can’t put it into words. What remains is my mother alone, and I am two hundred ri away—still all alone.”

Ishimoto paused briefly. Large tears streamed copiously from his right eye. Tears came to my eyes too. I tried to speak and opened my mouth, but no voice emerged.

“That night I didn’t sleep a wink. “It must have been nearly midnight when I realized I’d forgotten the incense and went out to buy some. “I managed to wake up the shopkeeper who’d already closed for the night and bought it, but what a struggle—the rain was pouring down like bamboo spears, and since I’d only wrapped a cloth over my head, I was already drenched to the skin by then. “I stood under the drugstore’s eaves wondering how to keep the incense dry, but they shut the door right away, and then everything went pitch black—I couldn’t see a thing. “The rain kept roaring down harder than ever. “I felt like the last rope of hope had snapped clean through. Though I’ve lived timidly all my life, never before had I felt such utter desolation—so complete that I wanted to shut my eyes and stop breathing, just die right there. “At times like that, tears won’t even come.”

"As for how long I had been standing there—I myself didn't know—but when I came to my senses, the rain had completely stopped, and somehow the ground at my feet seemed somewhat brighter." When I looked, the eastern sky had turned a dim red. The night was breaking, you see. He must have been unconscious until then, yet I marveled that he had managed to remain standing without collapsing. "The incense?" "I was clutching them tightly—so tightly." "But they'd gotten soaked and became useless."

“I thought about buying more, but my thoroughly soaked sleeve had only one sen and five rin left.” “A bundle cost two sen, but…” “Out of the thirty sen I got from selling the books, I bought paper, an envelope, and a stamp to send a letter home. The flowers cost five sen for a whole bunch, and the black sugar candies—though looking back now, it was a thoughtless thing to do out of sheer frustration over Father’s death—I ended up spending about fifteen sen on those.” “Having no choice, I returned as I was—though by then the shoji screens were already glowing whitely—and read this letter again.” “However, the letter repeatedly urges me to return home as soon as possible.” “Last night I didn’t notice a thing about it—though of course I must have read it—probably because my head was completely filled with just the thought ‘Father is dead.’” “Indeed, my mother—the same age as Father, also fifty-nine—is now the only one left. No matter how I think about it, I must return home. Moreover, I want to go back as soon as possible—so much that if I had wings, I’d fly there right away.” “But I have no money—only one sen and five rin. Even a single pair of straw sandals would cost two sen!” “The newspaper office and confectionery—I’ve already taken advances from them at the start of the month repeatedly, so that’s no use. What’s more, I still haven’t paid this month’s rent. Even if I sold off all my possessions, I’d only get five or ten sen at most.” “As for what I call my possessions, there’s just one futon and one old desk, and books—Chinese classics, primers, and grammar books—that’s all. The more expensive books were all borrowed and copied, so I can’t sell them.” “True, there was still one blanket left, but with four large holes in it, that too was no good.” “The rent was forty sen a month—it was the attic of a tenement, you see.” “Kodama—if I had gone to the confectionery shop and explained, they might have given me some amount, but I’d already troubled them so many times before, you see.” “I thought and thought—I did have last year’s experience when I came from Tokyo, though it wasn’t exactly a splendid experience—but with no other choice, I steeled myself and finally resolved to return home by begging.” “There’s nothing as shameless as poverty, you see.” “This resolution wasn’t mine—poverty forced it upon me, you see.” “So once I’d resolved myself, there was no time to waste—I immediately sent a letter home stating that.” “Then, at nine o'clock, I went to school to submit my withdrawal request and bid farewell to my friends.” “To be honest, I only had two friends worth saying goodbye to... But then the principal said, ‘You were supposedly working your way through school—do you have travel expenses for returning home?’ That’s what he said.” “I answered that I intended to beg my way home, but he said, ‘You’d do better than resorting to such reckless shamelessness.’”

“When I asked, ‘Then what should I do?’ he dismissively said, ‘Well, think it over carefully and figure something out.’” “That really grated on my nerves, you see.” “Then, on my way back, I went to the confectionery shop and told them about it, turned down the newspaper office as well, and brought along a secondhand dealer.” “When I added items like the Kokura school uniform jacket and inkstone to the previously mentioned belongings and had them appraise everything, they said they couldn’t offer a single mon over forty sen.” “They took advantage of my desperation, you see.” “After much haggling, I managed to get them up to forty-five sen and sold everything, but with only six sen and five rin left—no matter how accustomed to poverty one might be, it’s truly disheartening.” “Moreover, I’ve returned all the cooking utensils I’d borrowed from the lodging—the desk and everything else are gone—and here in the dimly lit room’s center sits this crippled me, all alone.” “My head, which was never quick to begin with, had become completely worn out from last night’s ordeal, leaving me hazy and dazed, with only the vague thought remaining: My old father has died, and now I must beg my way back home.” This vague state of having neither purpose nor means was unbearably sad—I wanted to cry out loud, but no voice would come, no tears would fall. It’s just bitter and desolate for no reason at all, you see. I hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning, so I was hungry, and with my mind preoccupied by thoughts of home, I grabbed last night’s black sugar candies and stuffed them into my mouth without thinking.

“Then I finally set out—it must have been around one o’clock when I entered Mr. Amano’s house.” “Before resigning from the school, Mr. Amano would rarely be home except at night—but since leaving, he hasn’t stepped outside a single day and remains secluded at all hours.”

“Did Amano leave the school?” “Eh? Precisely so—you hadn’t been informed yet?” “He resigned—at long last.” “Apparently this Principal fellow—though I’ve glimpsed him two or three times myself—is some queer Korean with a whiskers like a catfish’s barbels, you understand.” “He held a magnificent debate with that Principal and emerged victorious, I tell you.” “Then after two or three days came sudden dismissal.” “Around the fourteenth or fifteenth of this month.” “Is that so?” I said, yet found myself unable to restrain a faint smile from surfacing at Ishimoto’s words. At every school, it seems principals must be Koreans with catfish whiskers who inevitably lose when arguments arise.

However, this smile, needless to say, did not last even three seconds. Ishimoto’s somber story promptly proceeds.

“Since leaving the school, Mr. Amano had been doing nothing but brood, you see. When I said, ‘You should take walks to keep your health up,’ he’d snap ‘Idiot!’ And when I asked, ‘What are you thinking about?’ he’d retort, ‘Nothing your sort could comprehend.’ When I tried, ‘Perhaps I’m nearing the path to enlightenment,’ he declared in that usual tone: ‘Life’s a tunnel. You think enlightenment’s light shines before reaching the end?’” “When I visited that day, the entrance was shut tight as always.” “First-timers might think him out, but he claimed he couldn’t feel at home unless the door stayed closed.” When I slid it open—“Ishimoto?” “That was his standard greeting, but this time—silence.” “I figured he was out, but climbed up to wait anyway—only to find him there.” “There he sat, unaware of my entry—bent like a wooden idol, still brooding.” “What’s wrong?” I called. His head jerked up—“Ishimoto?” “You’re fate incarnate, eh?” “Why’s that?” I asked. “Intruding unannounced,” he answered with a lonely laugh. Then—“That face.” “Gloomy fate incarnate.” “Better dead than wearing that look.” “…Or sick?” “Sick I am,” said I, “with fate’s contagion.” At this he laughed again, lonelier still—“If that’s your plague, fetch charcoal—we’ll boil water.” “Mr. Amano never wore cheer lightly, but that day his loneliness cut deeper.” “That pained me too, you see.” “…So we boiled water, ate rice gruel, and as I laid bare my plan to beg homeward—he wept great tears, time and again.”

“I’d already forgotten my father’s death and my hometown—I wanted to stay with someone like him,” I said, unable to suppress a faint smile rising to my face at Ishimoto’s words. At every school, principals seemed to be Koreans with catfish mustaches who inevitably lost debates. But this smile lasted less than three seconds. Ishimoto’s grave account pressed onward. “After leaving the school, Mr. Amano did nothing but brood,” he continued. “When I suggested, ‘You should walk to preserve your health,’ he snapped ‘Fool!’ If I asked what he pondered, he’d retort, ‘Nothing your sort could grasp.’ When I ventured, ‘Perhaps I near enlightenment’s path,’ he declared in that tone of his: ‘Life’s a tunnel—you think light comes before reaching its end?’” “His door stayed shut as always—newcomers might think him absent, but he claimed he couldn’t feel at home otherwise. When I opened it, instead of his usual ‘Ishimoto?’ greeting, silence reigned. Thinking him out, I entered to wait—only to find him there, hunched like wooden statuary, oblivious to my presence.” “I called, ‘What’s wrong?’ He jerked up: ‘Ishimoto? You’re fate itself.’ At my confusion: ‘An intruder,’ he laughed bleakly. Then: ‘That face—gloomy fate! Better die than wear it… Or are you ill?’ ‘An illness called fate,’ I replied. ‘Then fetch charcoal—I’ll boil water,’ he laughed again, lonelier still.” “Mr. Amano wasn’t one for cheer, but that day his desolation cut deep—and deepened my sorrow. As we boiled water and ate, I confessed my plan to beg homeward. He wept great tears repeatedly.” “I forgot father and homeland—I wished to stay with such a man.” “But Mr. Amano told me: ‘You’re unfortunate—truly unfortunate.’” “Yet don’t lose heart.” “One can’t become human without draining misfortune’s dregs.” “Life’s a long dark tunnel—cities stand as bone-forests within.” “Don’t lose your way among them.” “Beneath our feet flows eternal grief—streaming since before life began.” “If blocked, don’t retreat—the pit darkens further.” “Death or advance: no third path.” “Advance means battle.” “Battles demand spirit.” “So keep yours!” “At least you—live! Fight till your glorious end!” “While blood and tears flow, need no arms or plans—fight bare and proud!” “World-weariness spells doom—you especially mustn’t succumb!” “As we’ve said—what in this society doesn’t merit destruction’s axe?” “This world allows no reform—only utter ruin.” “Leave construction to future geniuses—we must swing the axe to roots!” “But this war won’t be easy.” “Thus needing double spirit!”

“Don’t lose spirit.” “That you must return to your hometown stripped bare and begging is undoubtedly regrettable, but since there’s no other way, I agree.” “Of course, were I not penniless myself, I wouldn’t make a physically frail man like you resort to begging.” “But you know me as I am.” “However, I’ll send a letter to Mr. Nitta—the one I mentioned days ago—so you must go meet him without fail.” “He’ll likely find some means to assist you.” “For me,” he said, “aside from that man and you, there exists not a single soul I can call a friend.” Then he wrote the letter I presented earlier. Afterward, we spoke of various matters, but some time later he proposed: “How about this—if you can wait but a week, there’s a way I might procure train fare. Will you wait or not?” When I asked “How?”, he replied, “Why, I’ll sell all my possessions.” So I pressed him: “Then what will you do?” After a moment’s hesitation, he answered, “I mean to go somewhere far away.” “Though however I pressed him about the destination, he’d only repeat ‘somewhere far’—but being Mr. Amano, I’m certain he must have some bold scheme in mind.” “He must have been brooding over that very matter, wouldn’t you say?” “It must be a grand plan indeed, judging by his manner of thought.”

“Is that so?” “Did Amano say he was going somewhere again?” “That man’s always running through the back alleys of life—what sort of scheme is he cooking up now, I wonder.”

“Of course, that’s beyond the understanding of someone like me.” “Everything that man says and does lies beyond ordinary folk’s imagination.” “But I’ve come to utterly revere him from the very start.” “Mr. Amano is truly a genius.” “An extraordinary man.” “Even now—though he himself needs travel funds to go afar—he insists on selling everything to pay my train fare.” “Could any ordinary person do this?” “So I refused, feeling this kindness alone was more than enough.” We kept talking like it wasn’t a farewell at all, when he suddenly said, “Go now.” When I rose saying “Then this is goodbye,” he stopped me—shaped nine large rice balls from the pot’s contents. “I offered to do it myself, but he snapped ‘Don’t! Let Amano Shuuun bestow this final friendship and send you off properly!’ Tears streaming as he kneaded with his back turned.” “I couldn’t bear it—burst out sobbing.” “Clasped my hands praying to his retreating figure!” “Mr. Amano is extraordinary.” “None could match him.” ……(Ishimoto shut his eyes, tears falling. My own hot tears overflowed. The female teacher’s stifled sob echoed.) Then sitting again: “Now our true parting comes.” “Mr. Ishimoto—when farewell may mean death—I shan’t politely ask when we’ll meet.” “You mustn’t speak of it either.”

“We simply part.” “After parting, you return to your homeland—I go to a distant place. That’s all.” “Destination: death or battle.” “Fight to live.” “To die... no—even death means living anew.” “Is weeping at battle’s dawn children’s work?” “Let us part.” “Let us part resolutely—courageously.” “Now, Mr. Ishimoto,” he said. I responded: “I’m a man too—I’ll part cleanly.” “But this needn’t combine life’s parting with death’s.” “Life’s indeed a dark tunnel—but since all walk this path, I can’t believe we’ll never meet again.” “We’ll meet—we must meet again!” “Having none but you to rely on, we’ll surely meet somewhere,” I said. He countered: “Life isn’t made so convenient.” “...But you’re not going to die—nor have I died yet.” “...I won’t die—so I won’t say reunion’s impossible.” “But clinging to that hope risks disappointment.” “Don’t cling to trifles.” “A life-warrior relying on others shows weakness... Since coming to Hachinohe, only through you did I find solace and happiness.” “Though half a year—half a year in wretched poverty—the joy you gave me binds us as friends forever.” “When I resolve to go afar, you too shall drift homeward—leaving this Hachinohe.”

“Good—go, leave! Once gone, never ask again.” “Only this I beg—do not forget that there existed a madman beyond society called Shūun Ameno Daisuke… Do you understand, Ishimoto?” he said, fixing his gaze intently upon me. “I understand.” I bowed my head, but there was no response. When I looked, Mr. Amano had placed his hands on both knees, bowed forward, and closed his eyes. Though I had said I understood, in truth I now comprehended nothing at all—only feeling as though my chest’s very core were being torn out—and abruptly stood to move toward the entrance. My eyes kept clouding over, my fingertips trembled violently, and I couldn’t get the straw sandals on properly no matter how I tried. Yet somehow I managed to tie the laces, and as I picked up the newspaper-wrapped rice balls while glancing back—ah!—there lay Mr. Amano collapsed like a dead man. “This is goodbye,” I managed to say, though it didn’t sound like my own voice. Mr. Amano remained collapsed face-down and barked, “Go!” I could no longer say anything and ran out sobbing loudly. I looked back at the path’s exit, but of course he wasn’t there at the entrance. When I thought he was so grief-stricken he couldn’t even see me off—overwhelmed by gratitude and joy and resentment all at once—I know I reverently lifted the bundle of rice balls with both hands and bowed toward the entrance, but after that, I simply ran off into nothingness. ……Life is misery everywhere. That Mr. Amano treated me as his true younger brother—this I consider the sole happiness of my entire life.

Having finished his account, Ishimoto wiped tears on his bony hand and looked sorrowfully at himself. He too let out a heavy sigh and wiped his tears. The female teacher was lying face down on the desk.

[Unpublished during the author’s lifetime · July 1906 draft, November supplement]