Pathway to Japanese Literature

To say that human should be locked up in a mental hospital because they're insane—preposterous!
God judges humans, but there has never been an instance where God judges God Herself, nor where anyone declares, "That God is mad—lock Her up in a mental hospital!"

I

One morning, among the heap of mail that had been dumped at the entrance of a certain brokerage in Kabutocho, there lay one conspicuously unusual letter. It was remarkably thick. Yet it seemed unrelated to securities or printed materials.

Though penned in ink, it bore an impeccably precise block script—not a single stroke neglected—addressed to Nanigashi Store, To the Attention of. Turning it over revealed further peculiarities.

Nanigashi Ward, Nanigashi Town—though until recent years this area would have been designated Musashino or such—within Nanigashi Mental Hospital, written as So-and-so of Such-and-such.

Well now, a letter had arrived from a most peculiar place.
It’s not that the doctors and janitors at the mental hospital wouldn’t dabble in stocks, but what weighed on their mind was this thing as perfectly round and bulging as a bomb in a bomber’s belly.
Thereupon, when the brave soul opened it, the following general message was written in a sweeping hand.

II

I was a hospitalized patient in a mental hospital, though not necessarily mentally ill. Of course, having once been admitted as a mental patient made it evident I had formerly been mentally ill; however, I was now completely cured.

Yet why did I remain hospitalized despite this? Because as a public expense patient, even should doctors acknowledge my full recovery, neither medical authority nor personal volition could override statutory regulations to secure discharge unless a guarantor appeared.

I had a mother who died during my hospitalization; while I do have a brother and sister, these two find themselves disinclined to act as my guarantors.
Thus it follows that though fully recovered, I remain condemned to perpetual hospitalization as a mental patient.

Yet being no longer mentally ill, within these walls I spend approximately thirty percent of my existence as a patient and seventy percent attending to fellow inmates in our shared ward.
Moreover, I fulfill secretarial duties for the patients' colloquium while managing editorial tasks for its bulletin.

Generally, recovered public expense patients were customarily hired as nurses; however, since the hospital had budgetary limitations and could not pay salaries to nurses exceeding its quota, those like myself—though performing nearly identical work to nurses—could not officially become one.
Therefore, while I did not have as much freedom as the nurses, if it was after the doctors and office staff had left, through the understanding of my colleagues—that is, the nurses—I could go out unofficially, and there were even times when I wandered around festival stalls.

Furthermore, as previously stated, the circumstance of being fully recovered yet compelled to continue hospital life was not misfortune unique to myself alone—the majority of public expense patients broadly bore this fate.

Now then, were we to speak of what sort of lives those long-recovered patients led within mental hospitals—this particular matter, your honor, however wise and talented you might be, would lie beyond your powers of imagination.

Fundamentally, public expense patients could not obtain sufficient nutrition from the meals provided alone, necessitating that they earned pocket money for nutritional supplementation.
For this reason, we had to set aside the precious time that should have been devoted to self-cultivation and engage in envelope pasting.

That said, even while performing such labor, there were none who brought their own professions into the mental hospital and constantly devoted themselves to ceaseless self-cultivation as much as its hospitalized patients.

A certain person had already written twelve thousand pages of a lengthy novel and was continuing to write further. When it came to twelve thousand pages, the sheer bulk piled on the desk alone became sufficiently astonishing to behold. The author maintained an air of perfect nonchalance regarding this massive volume, yet there was such an excessive eagerness to appear nonchalant that one couldn't help suspecting they might be single-mindedly pursuing sheer quantity alone. That said, even if one were solely aiming for bulk, twelve thousand pages would still have been thoroughly worthy of admiration.

Generally speaking, hospitalized patients in mental institutions spontaneously take to religion—whether Buddhism or Christianity—and typically hold their own particular views; yet rarely does anything bestow such dignity and radiance upon their forms as when they expound upon and debate doctrinal beliefs. In Buddhism, there are said to be stages of enlightenment such as disciples who attain awakening through hearing teachings and solitary realizers who attain awakening through self-guided practice; yet according to my observations, people in mental hospitals generally resembled ardent spiritual seekers, each possessing states of awakening akin to those of solitary realizers.

However, among them were those who reached particularly extraordinary religious realms; after much contemplation, one such man came to believe that the key to religion lay with Mahomet.
This man endured several years of inconvenience and hardship while immersing himself in studying Turkish and Arabic through self-study manuals.
Moreover, he used no languages other than Turkish and Arabic by then, though he occasionally expounded upon the teachings of the Quran to his wardmates.
As for matters in Turkish and Arabic, I could not comprehend their content, but since the true essence of religion does not reside in words, I felt I grasped something of their meaning; nor did I doubt the fierce profundity within him that compelled his inevitable pursuit of Turkish and Arabic out of pure faith.

Then there was another man—one who had previously worked in horticulture, particularly devoting himself to greenhouse cultivation before his hospitalization—who advanced research into greenhouse cultivation using solely solar heat instead of conventional fuel, and by recent days had nearly perfected a system where water heated by sunlight during the day was channeled through pipes to provide nighttime heating.
According to this method, since it required absolutely no fuel, the profits for farmers were substantial.

Another man was engrossed in researching fishhooks.
He possessed encyclopedic knowledge of every fish’s habits, but his current research focus was the invention of a single universal hook capable of catching all types of fish.
Of course, those who sarcastically asked whether one could catch both a whale and a minnow with the same hook were merely fools who found it easy to play with words yet failed to grasp why deeds proved so arduous.
For this invention, he needed to advance his research on the habits of many fish even more than on fishhooks themselves and found himself compelled to keep many fish in captivity; but since this proved utterly impossible, he would fall into self-abandonment and be seized by fits of weeping and wailing while shouting, “O fish, why must you dwell in water?”

Now then, as for myself—I studied Japanese literature at a professional school, but due to the employment shortage at the time, became an employee of a private railway company, and while working for meager daily wages, was eventually sent to this hospital as a patient. I am now thirty-three years old, and my hospital life has already spanned six years.

As for why I was sent to this hospital—at the time I was working as a ticket inspector at a small station in the Tokyo suburbs. While ticket inspectors might seem to focus solely on passengers' hands and tickets, I found myself unexpectedly scrutinizing each passenger's face.

However, I once discovered my unique ability.
The reason being that I noticed I could clearly discern passengers’ faces without even glancing at them, all while focusing solely on their hands and tickets as I punched them.
So, to confirm this, I raised my face.
And lo, the face of the passenger who had just brushed past me was indeed exactly as I had imagined.
Moreover, since the passengers neither knew of my ability nor realized they were being subjected to its experimentation, their utterly indifferent expressions—despite my intense interest—struck me as both deeply pitiable and a pathetic sight.

However, had matters concluded with just this, the affair would have been exceedingly simple, and I should never have been sent to this hospital.

However, before long, my ability gradually began to split apart, entering an amoeba-like developmental process where division was simultaneously reproduction.

That is to say, one day, from a passenger's hand, I surmised an imminent weather shift that very day. This occurred because that passenger's hand had spoken to me of it, and among the multitude of passengers' hands, I had noticed those bearing such prophecies. Moreover, there were hands prophesying fires and earthquakes, while others indicated political upheavals and market fluctuations. On another occasion, I read in a passenger's hand how it hinted at a destiny imposed upon me—that I must immediately hasten to Ikebukuro, proceed before Toyoshima Normal School, pivot on my heel there, and return. With no alternative, I went to petition the stationmaster for a two-hour leave and thus fulfill this ordained fate.

In this manner, I gradually came to read more prophecies from passengers' hands, at times growing weary from being overwhelmed by the deluge of disparate prophecies until I began to loathe the very act of seeing.

At last, the final hour arrived.

I read the first prophecy that morning; at this time, the passenger was an elementary school girl carrying a school satchel.
The growth of young women being swift and alluring like flowers, I supposed she must now be of marriageable age; yet according to the childish countenance preserved in my memory, I foolishly conjectured that numerous young men of late must be neglecting their duties with hearts aflame over her visage.
In those delicate hands, I discerned a period of turmoil in the stock market.
I presume your honor has naturally not forgotten the great upheaval of six years prior, yet it had been clearly foretold.

Yet when afternoon came that day, I had no choice but to read this second profound prophecy that would abruptly transform the very order of heaven and earth.

The passenger this time was a man in his forties wearing an extremely shabby Western suit—one who would have been instantly recognizable even amidst Ginza's crowds—with Southeast Asian-style frizzy hair, an aquiline nose reminiscent of Jewish features, cunning eyes, and limbs bearing simian characteristics that marked him as lecherous and shameless.

As I received the ticket from this man's reptilian-head-like fingertips with profound distaste, I deciphered here an unforeseen command of fate.
That is to say, it proclaimed that the moment determining your entire destiny was approaching; moreover, while connecting to the morning's prophecy, it clearly revealed that my very rise and fall were being staked upon this.

They say that lofty ambitions from youth come to naught by hoary age, but for a mediocrity such as myself—not yet even halfway through life—my sole companion had become this shabby heart, emaciated by poverty and long accustomed to daily resignation.
Because my heart was unaccustomed even to a three-yen raise, the extraordinary shock it received from such a prophecy stood to reason—it felt as though my eyes had been seared.

Since there was no room for doubt, when my shift ended at six in the evening, I immediately set to work.

At the time, I was staying at my elder brother’s house—he ran a small grocery store in an entertainment district.

I took advantage of my elder brother’s absence when he went to the public bathhouse, gathered all the cash from both the shop and back room, and dashed out.
Since this was a conviction-driven investment, I felt neither regret nor fear; however, my elder brother was both innately stingy and prone to anxiety—when someone once stole thirty yen from his frog-mouthed purse, he had come to investigate my movements at the school I was attending then, and I had nearly faced suspension.
To make matters worse, the thirty yen had been taken back before I could spend even a single sen.

The cash came to roughly around one hundred seventy yen.
I had absolutely no experience with stocks, but phrases like "starting with nothing" and "rising after repeated failures" were said to hold particular currency in speculative circles—a notion that emboldened me as one beginning with empty hands. Yet for a heart yearning for results in the hundreds of millions, the mere sum of one hundred seventy could never provide breathing room.

Wanting to obtain more capital, and taking advantage of it still being early at eight in the evening, I had cars driven all around until about twelve, visiting many acquaintances.
The car fare cost around twenty-something yen, yet the money I obtained amounted to about three yen.

There, I committed the greatest failure of my life.
The reason being my insufficient self-cultivation—merely recalling it makes me want to vanish from shame—I drove the car round and round until finally stopping before a Shinjuku bar.
This was the mistake of a lifetime.

In this bar, I saw a beautiful woman.
And fell head over heels in love.

That said, my initial impression—needless to say, and even by the impression that remains to this day—was that this woman was in every respect what one would call a temptress.
Moreover, she was not a first-class temptress.
Devoid of noble spirit, bereft of any glimmer of refinement, consumed by empty vanity alone, filthy in her pursuit of money, instinctively promiscuous—she made the carnal pleasures of beasts her lifelong ideal.
There are women in this world who, while possessing youth and beauty, are eager to keep company with wealthy old men; this woman was one such individual.

When I attempted to imagine such a woman grown old and bereft of beauty, the grotesqueness became unbearable, compelling me to vomit. I had always found poetic beauty in solitude as an innate inclination of mine, yet should this breed of temptress lose her physical allure and become nothing but an aged remnant cast aside by society, even I would want to flee barefoot. In Chinese legend there existed a monstrous bird called the bustard. This monstrous bird was said to consist solely of females, with no males existing. Innately promiscuous and driven to mate with all birds, they said no other avian traces remained in mountains where bustards dwelled. In China they likened bustards to aged courtesans, and aged courtesans to bustards; but when I first laid eyes on this woman, I immediately sensed she was a bustard incarnate.

Needless to say, there was no need for elaborate words—this kind of woman, being innately colorblind to inner beauty, scorned me at first glance.
She did not even attempt to approach my table.
Yet I could not help but become infatuated.

Her transparent vanity revolted me; her shit-stained bravado and venom-filled belly were unbearably filthy and infuriated me—yet such loveliness surged up that I wanted to slap her across the face.

There, I brandished a wad of bills.
At last, the woman approached my table.
With increasingly naked contempt, she averted her face while making a gesture that said "If you're so desperate to give it, I'll take it," thrusting the bills into her obi.

By now I had effectively conquered this woman; facing her sneering countenance, I drank while reviling her vicious nature and promiscuous heart.
As I meticulously prophesied her path—never sated by vanity, unloved by those she loved, wearily cursing her way from old man to old man until finally sinking to streetwalking—I vented every ounce of bile and flourished the cash anew.

I came to my senses the next day in police custody. And from there, I was immediately sent to the mental hospital.

When I now recall that time, I cannot help but feel a shame as though my very spirit were wasting away to nothingness. That I had become utterly intoxicated and lost all composure at the critical juncture which should have decided my life's prosperity was nothing but a manifestation of my greatest deficiency in self-cultivation—a failing that fills me with such unbearable shame and indeed made me deserving of being sent to a mental hospital.

Thus, after being hospitalized, I devoted myself wholeheartedly to self-cultivation.

That said, mine was a confined existence.
As I had mentioned earlier, since the meals provided weren’t enough to maintain proper nutrition, I had to paste envelopes every day to earn pocket money.
Recently, having become skilled, I could earn about ten sen in a few hours; yet between supplementing my nutrition with two-sen rice cakes or occasionally smoking one-sen cigarettes sold by vendors, purchasing books after such expenditures remained no easy task—nor was there ever sufficient time to read them and devote myself to self-cultivation.

Yet I read the "Secret Texts." I read and pondered deeply. Though by nature a dull-witted man of shallow pretensions, I nevertheless seemed to have managed to grasp something of Brahman's fundamental principles. I had also pondered deeply on the esoteric philosophies of Brahmanism—Sankhya, Vaisheshika, Mimamsa, and Yoga—and had since striven to grasp Buddhism's essential teachings. Through years of contemplation, I believed I had come to understand the Alaya-vijnana [storehouse consciousness], and was convinced I had nearly mastered the Tathata [suchness] from the *Awakening of Faith* and Nagarjuna's doctrine of Sunyata [emptiness]. Recently, I had again been applying myself to daily zazen meditation on texts like the *Blue Cliff Record* and *Gateless Gate*, glimpsing somewhat the realm of neither mind nor Buddha.

Though it would make me blush with shame compared to the great philosophers, I believed I had at least achieved a degree of self-cultivation.
At the very least, such deficiency in self-cultivation as to become unwittingly intoxicated and lose all composure at the critical juncture that should decide one's lifetime prosperity would never be seen again.
Now then, to address how my special abilities fared after hospitalization: since a hospital is not a railway station, I naturally did not possess a ticket punch, and even if I did have one, there would be no way to treat patients as passengers and issue tickets.

That said, since I remained confined within an iron-barred room, even if I could prophesy stock market movements, it would amount to nothing.
They say necessity is the mother of invention, and indeed even prophetic inspiration follows this principle—since I had no need for it, I spent long months and years forgetting my spiritual insights.

However, since I had now fully recovered and was no different from an ordinary person—though unfortunately, due to the hospital’s budgetary circumstances, I could not be formally employed—I had in reality become someone who performed work akin to a nurse.
Consequently, while such matters could not be conducted openly, I was also able to go out through a tacit understanding.

Therefore, as the prospect of being able to utilize my prophetic ability had emerged—and since it was an innate gift after all—the moment such awareness arose within me, my prophetic power instantly revived.

Not only had this revived faculty now adapted to its environment through a form requiring neither ticket punch nor passengers, but whereas my former ability had merely received passive suggestions through commuters' hands, the resurrected power had advanced to where it could freely manifest spiritual inspiration at any time under any circumstance by spontaneously inducing unique mental states in response to given challenges.

I had once predicted ten days in advance that the sports day would unfortunately be rainy last year and advised that preparations be postponed, yet because people did not heed my words, this led to significant losses in the kitchen and elsewhere; furthermore, I discovered through spiritual inspiration an important lost item belonging to a hospital clerk, and since then have frequently demonstrated this ability in such situations, thereby winning people’s trust.

Now then, several days ago—to be precise, on ×月×日—I unexpectedly received a profound spiritual inspiration and was thereby forewarned that now approached the critical juncture that would once again determine my life’s rise or fall.

That is to say, it was on the evening of ×月×日 that I—while engaged in my daily routine of pasting envelopes—suddenly looked up and gazed out through the iron bars.

This was the hospital’s rear garden—a place where one would expect hardly anyone around except perhaps when janitors or low-ranking nurses played catch while cleaning, not situated along any thoroughfare, let alone somewhere requiring urgent passage—yet at this very moment, a young physician was briskly crossing through with steps too hurried for mere strolling.

Oh! I realized that was indeed Dr. So-and-so from internal medicine—and at that very moment, merely craning my neck became insufficient, and I found myself standing up involuntarily.

For this young physician was utterly unaware of such matters as he hurriedly tried to walk out of my field of vision—yet his spiritual aura was frantically shouting something toward me.

I rushed to the window and peered out through the iron bars.
And then I was able to make out the following words.

That is to say, unforeseen fluctuations were approaching the stock market.
And thus, the critical juncture that would determine your life’s rise or fall was once again approaching.
You undoubtedly remembered your great failure six years ago, but through it had been able to accumulate some degree of self-cultivation—a trial like no other for your sake.
The day had approached when I must prove by swearing to God that these six years of self-cultivation were by no means in vain.
...

The emotion felt by a person inside iron bars when stepping beyond a twenty-foot-high wall could not be compared even to a sensitive boy’s elation upon embarking on foreign travels; thus, at that moment, the abnormality of my own emotion was beyond words.

Due to profound emotion, rather than becoming vigorous and cheerful, I instead grew markedly tragic and somber.
My heart failed to lighten, sank abruptly, and an uncanny sorrow welled up.

From around the time I became a railway employee, for some reason, my tears stopped flowing.
There were times when I was moved as intensely as anyone else—my heart would weep, my very physiology would cry—and yet, for some reason, not a single tear would come out.
This time too I cried, but no tears came.
I firmly vowed in my heart.
The time has come to rise up.
Six years of self-cultivation.
Without needing to be told, I must not forget this.

Had there actually been something like a Kabuki tragic tableau before me, it would have been poignantly absurd—but at that moment, I stood transfixed, peering dazedly through the iron bars like an idiot.

Yet here came Caretaker Nanigashi—a man long acquainted with me—who approached from behind and lightly tapped my shoulder.
Then he said: “What troubles you? You’ve received some grand revelation, have you not?”

Caretaker Nanigashi was a Christian. To be precise, if one defines Christians as those who attend Sunday sermons by pastors and donate to churches weekly, Nanigashi would not qualify—or rather, he was an ascetic who had made Christianity's martyr-like passion his own. The religion he professed deliberately and utterly rejected intellectual contemplation; deeds were everything. Even if you engaged him in religious debate, you could never get a response from him. Rather than idly toying with empty theories, he silently scrubbed the patients' filthy toilets. This was his religion—the plain yet great ascetic's practice.

I was not particularly surprised even upon hearing Caretaker Nanigashi's abrupt words. Such an unadorned ascetic ought to comprehend everything. The self-cultivation amassed through contemplation—those meager fruits of intellectual wisdom—and that of one who has substituted all with action already differ as heaven from earth; moreover, such an unassuming ascetic possesses unassuming miracles. Rather than feeling astonishment, I instead sensed a sort of relief—the recognition that those who understand will indeed understand.

I tried to answer his question with "As your wise discernment perceives, there was indeed a great spiritual inspiration," but emotion surged up again, leaving me speechless.

So instead of words, I took his hand and tried to grip it firmly—yet once more emotion overwhelmed me, and no strength would come to my grasp. Still he understood; Nanigashi nodded and left.

Through Caretaker Nanigashi's friendship, I had occasionally received certain freedoms—though within this vast confinement they amounted to immense liberties—and conveniences.
As I mentioned earlier, that I could sometimes go out was chiefly due to Nanigashi's friendship.
To explain how these outings were conducted—they typically occurred past ten o'clock at night, around eleven, after the entire hospital had fallen completely silent. The primary reason stemmed not so much from my being a patient as from the fact that a caretaker's unauthorized nighttime departure itself already violated regulations.

And so, to speak of what pleasures were permitted to me during these late-night outings—we would take shortcuts along overgrown country roads, particularly narrow paths through fields, to an oden shop on the outskirts of town—or rather, from our perspective, at the town’s entrance—where we drank ten-sen awamori.

Now then, having devised all manner of methods to harness this spiritual inspiration, given my circumstances as one imprisoned behind iron bars, I found myself utterly incapable of acting.

In any case, going out was the top priority; thus, it was settled that the prerequisite would be to lay everything open and consult unreservedly with Caretaker Nanigashi.

And so, I whispered the crucial matter of spiritual inspiration to Caretaker Nanigashi; since this was no situation for delay, I proposed that we should promptly dash to the oden shop tonight to discuss the details.

Naturally, he agreed; though unfortunately, that night brought a fierce downpour, there was no situation more perilous than idly wasting time at this juncture. Thus, past ten o'clock, once the entire hospital had fallen into deep slumber, we dashed out into the torrential rain.

Even after nightfall, my excitement still persisted, and when the time finally came to dash toward the oden shop, I seemed to grow quite disoriented once more by the emotion that surged up abruptly.
Though merely hearing the torrential rain lashing against the windows should have made the ferocious weather abundantly clear, I had donned geta and retrieved an umbrella as though it were a clear night, preparing to set out.

Nanigashi took the umbrella from my hand and commanded me to remove my geta.
Then, just as he had adjusted his own attire, he made me hike my kimono hem up to my thighs, and there we both became barefoot and dashed out into the torrential rain.

Had we worn geta, we might have tumbled countless times and perhaps broken an arm or leg.
Carrying an oil-paper umbrella in this downpour would be like deliberately wielding an edged tool just to injure oneself.
After all, it was a pitch-black night where one couldn’t see an inch ahead, and the path through the fields was so uneven that it seemed miraculous we had ever traversed it safely under normal circumstances.
We slipped and slid uncontrollably.
That Nanigashi had foreseen this danger was truly a testament to his self-cultivation, commanding nothing but admiration—yet despite that, I found myself tumbling over and over again.
However, with my chest recklessly full of intense excitement, in truth, I was only continuously aware of the endless act of running—the fact that I had fallen did not remain in my memory.

Upon arriving at the oden shop, Caretaker Nanigashi remarked, "Oh, seems you took a tumble," and when he pointed out my mud-caked limbs and kimono, I found myself conceding: "Ah, so I did."

Nanigashi borrowed the oden shop’s tub to wash his own body and then laundered the kimono for me.
This kindness, as explained earlier, was wholly an expression of sacrificial spirit consistently driven by his martyr-like passion, serving as a prime example that attests to extraordinary self-cultivation.
In other words, he was the sort of man who would not hesitate to exchange his own life with that of someone about to die, were such a thing possible.

After repeated careful discussions between him and me, it was thus decided that we would humbly present this letter addressed to you.

I trust you have already fully discerned this, but needless to say, I—a public expense patient at this mental hospital—possess no funds whatsoever, while Caretaker Nanigashi merely receives an allowance totaling approximately thirty yen per month.

I possess prophetic abilities, but unfortunately lack the funds to utilize them—a fact I must candidly disclose here.

In other words, I wish to utilize your financial resources to put this spiritual inspiration to practical use.

However, I wish to first clearly state in advance that when receiving my share of the profits, I hold an exceedingly modest position regarding the ratio between spiritual power and financial resources.

I make no claim to even a tenth or a hundredth of the profits.

What I ardently desire at present is first and foremost freedom—that is to say, a life beyond the iron bars. And to make freedom my own requires three hundred yen. In other words, the share I seek amounts to nothing more than that.

Furthermore, regarding Caretaker Nanigashi, he is a man who lives solely by the sacrificial spirit demonstrated through his consistent martyr-like passion—a person who seeks nothing, particularly not a single coin of money. However, as a matter of courtesy, he would be satisfied if granted the same amount as myself.

Now, there is a somewhat confidential matter here—as I mentioned earlier, there was a temptress I saw at a Shinjuku bar on the eve six years ago when I was sent to this hospital through my drunken stupor.

To put it plainly, I have not yet forgotten this woman.
Moreover, whenever I recall her, I feel pain in my chest—morning, noon, and night—it has become my habit to recall her daily.

I ardently desire to make freedom my own and rush straight to a Shinjuku bar to take monetary revenge for six years of carnal longing.
Though she maintains her shallow dignity before others, behind closed doors she’s precisely the sort of woman who’d grovel like dogs and chickens for coin.
Having thus accomplished my vengeance, I shall here bring these six years of tribulation to their conclusion.

Therefore, as expenses for revenge, I wish to request an additional 200 yen specifically for myself alone. In other words, what I seek amounts to a total of 500 yen. And I hereby pledge that the aforementioned share shall remain unchanged regardless of whether your profits amount to hundreds of millions of yen. We shall await you between 11 PM and 12 midnight on X month X day at the Nanigashi Oden Shop in Nanigashi Town, Nanigashi Ward. The location of Nanigashi Oden Shop has been enclosed with a map; please use it to trace your way.

Furthermore, regardless of what storms may come that day, we shall await you; as for myself, I am a gaunt man of five shaku five sun three bu (approximately 167.6 centimeters) wearing a finely checkered yukata and round metal-framed glasses, while Caretaker Nanigashi’s attire for that night remains unspecified—he being a thirty-six-year-old man of stocky build standing about five shaku two sun (approximately 157.6 centimeters) tall with a swarthy complexion.

However, as an additional precaution, I have affixed an oak leaf to my chest as a marker; I would ask that you direct your words toward it.
Should heavy rain necessitate washing my garments—leaving me nude and thus unable to display the oak leaf on my chest—in such circumstances I shall be drinking awamori while pinching an oak leaf between my left fingers; I would ask that you address your words to a man presenting himself thus.

Finally, though this may be superfluous to mention, I must humbly add that we shall receive our share only after you have acquired vast wealth, and I hereby formally declare in brief that we have no intention of receiving any compensation on the day itself.
and so on.

III

The above constitutes the general purport of the letter; it had been neatly transcribed in precise standard script on small manuscript paper using a pen, not neglecting a single stroke from beginning to end, without any disarray.

Given that merely transcribing its gist filled exactly thirty pages, I trust you can fully comprehend how voluminous the original letter must have been.

In this lengthy epistle, there existed only six instances where erroneously written characters required correction.
Now as for those six mistaken characters—they had been obliterated using uniquely meticulous square blocks, stamped over with an official seal identical to those found on government documents, after which the corrected characters had been appended.

Now that I mention it, on both the final signature of the letter and the back of the envelope, beneath the date there was written "a certain Nanigashi," and indeed a seal had been stamped.

Even Kabutocho's stalwarts were astonished.

Before long, the entirety of Kabutocho came to buzz like an overturned beehive, until not a single person remained who remembered the madman’s letter.
The letter must have been thrown onto someone’s desk somewhere in Nanigashi Store.

However, when the day’s commotion subsided and people finally took notice, for some reason, the letter was nowhere to be found.

Since it wasn't the sort of letter worth parting the grass to search for, everyone simply forgot about it after that.

The pitiable one was the gentleman who had written the letter.
Just imagine.
By pasting envelopes to earn ten sen a day—supplementing his nutrition with two-sen rice cakes, occasionally smoking a one-sen Bat cigarette, then purchasing Brahmin secret texts on top of that, and ultimately even drinking ten-sen cups of awamori—all while apportioning everything from his daily ten-sen earnings—then when you add the cost of dozens of manuscript sheets and thickly pasted stamps, that alone would amount to who knows how many hundred days' worth of labor.
Phrases like "blood oozing" exist precisely for times like these when they must be used.

Even in letter transcription work, where a scribe's full day's labor amounts to forty or fifty pages—first of all, no scribe however meticulous writes each character stroke in precise block script.

Undoubtedly, it must have taken them several full days to complete the letter—given that they rushed to the oden shop amid a downpour while declaring they couldn't afford to let days slip by idly—so there could be no doubt they had commenced writing it in earnest the very next day.
The letter contained the memorably significant date marking their spiritual inspiration-driven rush to the oden shop, yet the fact that this date corresponded to a mere few days prior made their arduous labor all too apparent.

Those several days were entirely consumed by the letter; they must not have pasted a single envelope. Thus they could neither supplement their nutrition nor obtain bat cigarettes. It was nothing but pitiable circumstances, again and again.

Truly, there was nothing too trivial to discuss when it came to the heart of a stockbroker.
Here lay a lesson one must engrave upon their soul: truly, one should never send letters to dream-chasing stockbrokers when they had no money.

IV

However, no matter how spiritually charged a letter might have been, it did not sprout wings and fly back simply because it was ignored.

There was a man who stole it.

“Ah—”
“Hey there,” said a man in his mid-forties—sporting a nose mustache yet adopting the obsequious smile of an errand boy—as he appeared before Nanigashi Store’s entrance that very noon.

Possessing a large business card imprinted with the pseudonym Sōseki—Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner of Such-and-Such Address in Such-and-Such Town, Fukagawa Ward—though for what purpose none could say, he would periodically show his face at Nanigashi Store’s entrance in this manner.
Then he would brusquely enter the storefront, expound on current affairs and diplomatic issues in the bombastic tones of a Naniwa-bushi recital as if commandeering his own cubbyhole, only to vanish again before anyone noticed.

This gentleman, having overheard talk of the letter and deeming it a gift from heaven, quietly slipped it into his pocket.

Having come to a deserted spot, this gentleman finished reading dozens of pages of the letter without uttering a single laugh, then stowed it deep in his pocket once more—marveling all the while at how stockbrokers could possibly make money through such means.
"Even so, luck’s still a matter of the mind after all," he muttered.

Essentially, since the other party was a madman, this was no laughing matter. The prophecies of sane fortune-tellers—ridiculed as they were—could not be trusted. Such was this gentleman’s manner of expression.

Even judging from the letter’s wording, this madman—as one would expect from someone with self-cultivation—possessed considerable poise and understood virtues like humility. Opening with "This is confidential," he alone earned an extra two hundred yen—a detail showing he fully grasped the situation, his negotiation skills proving quite adept; yet even more commendable was his refreshingly straightforward attitude that merely having capital to court women sufficed, while his resolve to clutch those two hundred yen and race toward Shinjuku of six years past carried a poignant charm enough to make one’s heart waver.

Even when using the same type of marker, he didn't mention inserting a carnation flower or grasping a daikon in his left hand—opting instead for an oak leaf, its understated elegance speaking volumes.

First I'll have him attempt tomorrow's predictions as a trial—after properly verifying his prophetic capabilities, we'll then commit to the major venture. Even in the worst case, our loss here amounts merely to wasting two or three days' time; why, that's still preferable to yawning through some vaudeville show.

Now, the one remaining concern here was this madman drinking awamori; though he might be a gentleman cultivated through sham Brahminic secret volumes, there was no telling what trivial provocation might make him erupt.

They said madmen possessed peerless strength, so if he were suddenly struck with a smashing blow it would prove quite painful—but even so, he should be able to escape after taking two or three hits at most.

V

On the night of X month X day, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner set out for the designated oden shop.

Ikasa-machi too was finally located on the outskirts.
From its rear spread out fields flowing with gentle undulations.
When he opened the back door to relieve himself and stepped out, corn stalks rustled noisily overhead. The field buzzed with insect cries stretching endlessly into the dark, while a black forest silhouette loomed in the distance.

The oden shop—a street stall that had barely put down roots—nonetheless leaned at a jaunty angle with peeling paint flaking off its wooden siding, threatening to collapse at the slightest push.

There he was.—It being a starry night so bright it seemed to rain constellations, with no laundry needing washing—the gentleman with an oak leaf pinned to his chest sat silently lined up, setting out cups of awamori one by one before him.

Ah, well.
The Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner prided himself on exceptional confidence in first-meeting formalities—so much so that his cordial smile made even his nose mustache crinkle amiably, claiming even the Women’s Suffrage Alliance’s president held no terror for him—yet this time alone, he found himself utterly at a loss.

There was also the approach of first proceeding deliberately while drinking awamori on his end, but here, a single misstep would visibly result in a sudden blow.

“Excuse me,” he said from about four shaku away—though he wished to put even more distance between them, but to do so would require stepping outside entirely.
And since this was most crucial above all, he first smiled cordially, then attempted to raise his voice.

Then, the oak-leaf gentleman—who had been silently observing this from behind his iron-rimmed glasses—rose swiftly to his feet first, tilting his head slightly as might be expected of a Western nobleman, and bowed with extraordinary softness using only the upper part of his body.

“I have been awaiting your arrival.”

The oak-leaf gentleman stated clearly, though in a quiet voice.

His movements were supremely composed; even when bowing, he moved only his neck, yet somehow traced gentle, elegant lines that retained refinement and full propriety.

His countenance as he greeted his guest displayed neither the unrestrained countryfolk delight of rural people nor the strained urban pleasantries of forced smiles.
If anything, he appeared calmer than an intelligent person—so composed as to rival their intellect—with an ethereal smile that faintly concealed a shadow of sorrow in its depths.
If this were the face of a beautiful woman, it would undoubtedly be one of those smiles preserved in masterpieces throughout history—layering sorrow with mystery, a smile adrift with the faint, ephemeral visage of human sorrow.

Everything was growing increasingly incomprehensible.
First, this gentleman’s countenance was emaciated—one could fully comprehend how severely his nutritional intake must have been lacking—yet his gauntness also resembled that of a lofty, profound spirit having pared away superfluous flesh. It bore something akin to the wise and blade-sharp visages of great Western figures like Immanuel Kant or Edgar Allan Poe, faces bearing the ornate dignity of philosopher-poets.

The Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner was a man who would judge people’s expressions and instantly decide his choice of words accordingly, but at this moment alone, utterly bewildered, he simply bowed with utmost politeness in blind desperation.

To any observer, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner appeared so flustered that the oak-leaf gentleman smiled gently and broke the silence.

“Pardon my forwardness, but I presume this concerns our business matter?”

The oak-leaf gentleman said this while plucking the oak leaf pinned to his chest, fluttering it before the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner’s nose as if addressing an innocent child—“See? This confirms it, yes?”—and smiling a familiar smile that seemed to pour warmth directly into his eyes.

The Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner bowed in abject humility, mopped his brow and neck with a handkerchief, then produced a folding fan.

“Ah, well.
“I have arrived most tardily,” he stammered.
“Regarding your gracious letter this time—truthfully I ought to have immediately called upon your residence, yet hesitated lest it prove an imposition—such was the exceedingly kind and courteous nature of your missive that we have all been profoundly moved.”

“On the contrary, I am deeply apologetic for having sent such a sudden and impertinent letter.”

With that, the oak-leaf gentleman bowed, yet still kept fluttering the oak leaf between his fingertips—now pressing it to his cheek, now waving it about.

“Would you care to sit? This gentleman here is my colleague Mr. Nanigashi, as mentioned in the letter. Fortunately, there are no other patrons present, and the night grows late. With your permission, I should like us to proceed directly to our business discussion.”

“This is most gracious. I was just about to make the same request myself. In truth, I should prefer to relocate seats and offer you libations while hearing your esteemed theories at leisure—though given this unseasonable hour... I shall instead have the honor of accompanying you to Shinjuku at another time. For tonight, let us conclude matters here.”

“Hey, three awamori.”
“And some appetizers.”
“Well, anything you can prepare will do, but make it something nutritious—three portions.”

With that, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner sat up straight and braced himself.
He had just finished his evening meal, yet for some time now he’d been experiencing a strangely ravenous hunger.
This was no laughing matter.
To be steamrolled by a lunatic would make for a sight too dreadful to behold.

VI

“I am deeply pained that you have taken the trouble to come all this way.”
“Pardon my forwardness, but would you be the proprietor of the Nanigashi Store?”

“Indeed.
“I am the one managing it.
“We remain fledgling practitioners who cannot yet claim first-rate status; henceforth I most humbly entreat your esteemed support and gracious assistance.
“When I reverently perused your letter—how might I express it—I found myself profoundly moved, and judging this to be no trivial matter, have thus kept it concealed from my staff.
“The truth being that I have suffered aggravated hemorrhoidal afflictions these past seven days.
“Compelled to abstain from cherished libations, enduring ambulatory impediments and finding vehicular motion sheer torment; yet this night being the critical juncture determining lifelong prosperity—a matter I dared not delegate—compelled my humble attendance here.
“Having proven inadequate in proper hospitality, I must particularly beg forgiveness for this ineptitude.”

“I shall proceed without delay—having just now consulted with Mr. Nanigashi and finalized our plan—though I must note my previous letter did not address matters such as the location and method of prophecy.”

“I see.”
“That is indeed how it was.”

“As stated in that letter, prophecies can be performed here and now or anywhere else according to your instructions. However, it remains an undeniable fact that even among spiritual practitioners, differences in mental disposition exist—dispositions that inevitably create variations in the sensitivity of divine inspiration.”
“The contemplations of philosophers and the inspirations of poets similarly vary in depth and quality depending on their mental disposition and condition at the time—it follows precisely the same principle.”
“When explained thusly, my spiritual inspiration may sound dubious, but such anxieties prove unwarranted.”
“For though we call them spiritual practitioners, being human after all, their performance cannot escape variation depending on daily condition and mental disposition. On days when their mindset falters, even prophesying tomorrow’s weather would amount to little more than discerning rain from shine—no different from a newspaper forecast.”
“When my mental state reaches heightened intensity, prophecies arrive punctually—around such-and-such time scattered showers commence, around such-and-such time clear skies emerge, only for downpours to erupt at another precise hour. Then around yet another time it briefly abates before resuming torrential rain, ultimately clearing completely by a final appointed hour. Though I myself harbor not the slightest desire for such minutiae, they unfold before me as if I stood before a panorama, each revelation arriving unbidden.”
“On days of heightened mental disposition, all operates thus—naturally, stock market prophecies prove no exception.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

"I am conversing with you here now in an utterly ordinary, everyday state of mind."
“Naturally, such an ordinary mental condition cannot possibly contain the battle-ready disposition of a warrior facing combat.”
“Now, should you inquire whether prophecies might issue from this commonplace mindset—they may not flow with the facility of our current discourse—but given that spiritual power never manifests arbitrarily for adepts like myself, even now I could adjust my mental posture to induce a specific psychological state and thereby summon inspiration without fail."
“However, this would constitute mere elementary divination—capable only of crude predictions like tomorrow’s sunshine or rainfall."
“A truly formidable prophecy—that caliber of elevated insight which startles even myself with its penetrative scope—courses through unfathomable mysteries across vast distances with such velocity that it appears wholly alien to basic clairvoyance."
“Shall I describe it as electricity permeating my entire being? At such moments, my totality becomes observing eyes, reflecting mirrors, mechanical apparatuses—while simultaneously transforming into precisely that animated image itself: none other than a ceaselessly unfolding panorama of futures."
“To rephrase—I am both the technician projecting the kinematograph, the moving pictures upon the screen, and the spectator beholding them."
“All coalesces seamlessly—naught but a singular spiritual current, or perhaps electrical essence, that constitutes my very existence.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“Shall we call it karmic destiny? Through this fateful connection—in Buddhism, we treat ‘en’ as something endowed with logic transcending ordinary reason, a predestined obligation granted no small importance.”
“That I should meet you face-to-face like this, and through your gracious assistance determine my life’s course—this must signify profound karmic bonds. Thus regarding our present matter, my mental disposition transcends the ordinary.”

“Precisely.”
“Indeed it must be so.”

"However, even speaking of mental disposition—take for instance a poet sitting at his desk, declaring 'I shall compose a masterpiece!' No matter how he strains alone through sheer willpower, mental disposition alone cannot produce masterpieces as easily as chickens lay eggs."
"To harness the power of mental disposition and elevate it into a masterpiece, the momentum of spiritual intensity must align with it, and all must coalesce into a single panorama that begins to move."
"Then what is spiritual intensity? That is to say, spiritual intensity is the 'momentum' born from a specific condition."
“That is to say, mental disposition functions like an engine—it requires oil, and unless someone’s hand sets it in motion, it will not operate. This is precisely what constitutes ‘momentum.’”
“Now, if one were to ask what constitutes these specific conditions, they cannot be uniformly defined as they differ according to the quality of one’s mental disposition—but to put it plainly, they are the environment and conditions most conducive to imparting momentum to the engine of mental disposition and summoning spiritual inspiration.”

“I see.”

“Through your boundless magnanimity on this occasion, I have obtained your gracious assistance—though deemed little more than human refuse, I have been granted this rare opportunity to fix my gaze upon fortunes in the trillions and determine my life’s rise or fall at a stroke, a juncture where even a lowly foot soldier might metamorphose overnight into a general. What I earnestly entreat and desire is solely this: to imbue this emotion and mental disposition with supreme spiritual intensity, achieve optimal results, and thereby repay your profound benevolence.”

“Of course, as I have reiterated time and again since earlier, were this merely about summoning rudimentary spiritual inspiration, it could readily be accomplished here and now. However, from my position, such an approach would prove profoundly unsatisfactory for an occasion of this magnitude—and from your esteemed perspective as well, I believe it would scarcely bring fulfillment.”

“Precisely.”
“I am profoundly grateful for your gracious considerations, but if spiritual inspiration indeed possesses such gradations of depth and hierarchy as you describe—this being the decisive moment of my lifetime—my desire to obtain a profound grade and superior rank would be what one might call unadulterated human sentiment.”
“Therefore, regarding an environment charged with momentum conducive to summoning inspiration—those were indeed your precise words, if I recall correctly.”
“While I remain woefully unversed in such philosophical matters and possess rather sluggish comprehension, when we speak of an environment imbued with momentum—well, as they say, there’s no deity too exalted to partake in base discourse.”
“‘Wait but a spell—conquer the realm from a courtesan’s lap’—this was the ballad from when officials held sway, declaring that the nation’s governance was decided in four-and-a-half-mat teahouse chambers. This constitutes what we term political momentum.”
“As for the momentum of spiritual inspiration—lying beyond the reach of vulgar rumor—we common folk can scarcely surmise its nature, though I presume it follows similar principles to this realm’s politics.”

“Now, that is precisely where we encounter our difficulty.”
“In other words.”
“Poets can compose poetry at any time and in any environment.”
“This is perfectly clear, wouldn’t you agree?”
“However, the times when one can create masterpieces through supreme inspiration are few enough to count in a lifetime.”
“The case of spiritual inspiration is much the same.”
“In other words, I can summon basic spiritual inspiration at any time and under any circumstances, but instances where I can invoke advanced inspiration through supreme spiritual intensity are few enough to count in a lifetime.”
“Moreover, just as with a poet’s inspiration, there is no way to know where supreme spiritual intensity resides.”
“If one were to claim that a poet’s inspiration were lying around in some café on a street corner, would this not be an absurd notion?”

“Indeed.”

“However, in this particular case alone, this peculiar prediction proves unexpectedly possible. This is because the prophecy’s target remains clear, its outcome bears grave significance for my life’s rise and fall, and consequently, my mental disposition has become extraordinarily heightened—honed like a demon blade that slices through all it touches—so I understand it will commence motion without requiring substantial momentum.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“Then, if we ask what constitutes those environmental conditions, it is nothing other than my going directly to the stock market.
“Given this heightened mental disposition—sharpened like a blade that would sever anything it touches—the moment I place myself within the feverish atmosphere of the stock market’s raging currents, you can most readily imagine how my entire being would instantly flare into an electrical discharge, transforming into a torrent of spiritual inspiration that surges forth.”

“Hmm, hmm.”

"However, I must regrettably inform you that I now encounter a critical obstacle here. As I explained in detail in my letter, though long since fully recovered, I remain officially confined as a patient, leaving me no freedom for open daytime outings."
“Thus, I cannot openly visit the stock market during daylight hours.”
"Therefore, for me to go to the stock market, I must implement certain measures—and here, there exist only two such measures."
"No matter how ingeniously one may contrive, there exist only two."

“……”

“The first method is a radical one—namely, fleeing this place immediately and appearing at tomorrow morning’s stock market. However, this approach lacks prudence and entails various complications: first and foremost, it would put Mr. Nanigashi’s neck on the line, while I myself would be promptly returned to the hospital if discovered. Should we be caught before achieving our objective, it would all be back to square one.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“Now, regarding the second method—in essence, this constitutes the sole viable means, and to bring this matter to fruition, there exists absolutely no alternative but to adopt this approach.”
“That is to say, tomorrow morning you shall first deign to visit the hospital.”
“Thereafter, you will meet with the hospital director, disclose your occupation and social standing, and formally declare that you will assume responsibility as my guarantor.”
“They may raise objections regarding your non-familial relation, but in such event, you must resolutely assert that since I shall be supervised and employed as your clerk post-discharge—thereby rendering you equivalent to a familial guardian fully committed to protection—no complications will arise.”
“On that very day itself, I may be discharged immediately.”
“Thus would I become able to devote my entire being to prophecy without a single care.”

Seven

"What a smooth talker!" Unable to bear it any longer, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner finally gulped down a cup of awamori in one go.

It might be that all madmen were surprisingly eloquent speakers, but if Japan's diplomacy was rumored to be inept, this was precisely because all its diplomats were sane.

But he couldn't afford to be impressed by the madman's eloquent discourse.
No matter where one searched for fools, there couldn’t possibly exist any idiot who would deliberately become a madman’s guarantor, pay him a monthly salary, and resolutely take on his protection.

In short, the problem lay there—there was no one foolish enough to be hoodwinked by madmen and return home empty-handed.

"Well now, this is—" he thought. It seemed the swindling maneuver was gradually closing in, but having come this far, there remained nothing to be done. It was all or nothing—he'd keep swinging until he shattered.

If that sudden blow were to land, one would kick off their sandals and flee without looking back—but knowing this, well, that's precisely why people shouldn't preen about appearances and reputation. Meeting a madman required nothing more than appearing in yukata attire—yet despite his miserly nature, he'd donned both Panama hat and linen summer haori; what twisted karma had compelled him to wear brand-new paulownia geta defied all understanding.

And yet, what proved most unsettling there was Caretaker Nanigashi.

Indeed, as described in the letter—standing approximately five shaku two sun (158 cm) tall, with dusky skin and a stout build—this gentleman was neither mute nor deaf, yet had not uttered a single word since earlier. Admittedly, since the Oak-Leaf Gentleman kept talking nonstop without pause, this too might have been unavoidable—but then arose the concern: could this gentleman with his enormous seventeen-sun neck (approximately twenty inches) not bend it at all? This was because, despite a considerable time having passed since the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner had graced this oden shop with his presence, this gentleman’s seventeen-sun neck had yet to bend even once. Consequently, not only had the position of his face never shifted even once, but there was also no hint of any flicker in his facial expression.

Now, were one to trace the direction of this gentleman’s unwaveringly focused gaze, it should have passed straight through the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner’s shoulder to collide with the wall—but if there had been some nude painting hanging there that he was glaring at, one might at least have wished his eyes held a more vibrant hue.
As for this gentleman’s eyeballs—large and perfectly round though they were—they remained dull and murky, and above all, did not move in the slightest.

When you went to the zoo for amusement, you’d find owls and horned owls during the day perched perfectly still like this—though their appearance was hardly pleasant, people understood they couldn’t see well in daylight and were confined behind wire mesh, so they put on airs while observing them, declaring things like, “Oh, what charming creatures!”
When it came to this gentleman, no such leniency applied.

Despite being so utterly still, he was said to clean toilets and wash yukatas through this Christian spirit of sacrifice—it was like dealing with a sorcerer.

The Oak-Leaf Gentleman was so emaciated he looked like he might blow away in a strong wind—a sudden blow wouldn’t hurt him much—and above all, his noble bearing and exceptionally gentle manner suggested he might nimbly evade any attack. But a strike from Mr. Owl would likely send him flying as if swung with a baseball bat.
Above all, it was utterly impossible to predict from what moment or angle the sudden blow might come.

Mr. Owl here was supposedly the caretaker, but to an amateur’s eyes, the Oak-Leaf Gentleman appeared far closer to a sane human being no matter how one looked at him—which rendered mental hospitals utterly incomprehensible. Given how things were going, he wondered what sort of faces the doctors and Hospital Director must have had. They might have been sitting there heavily like hippopotamuses sprawled in large chairs, remaining utterly silent.

The Oak-Leaf Gentleman alone would have been burden enough, but with Mr. Owl waiting in reserve, it was certain he’d be tricked once or twice no matter how he considered it—yet no fool returned empty-handed, so there the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner smiled faintly once more and leaned forward with a knee planted.

Eight

“Well now, I have fully grasped your proposal.
“As a matter of fact, last night I had a dream in which I swallowed a large golden kettle whole.
“Why—I gulped it down without the slightest difficulty!
“I’ve been rejoicing since this morning, thinking this must portend good fortune.
“As I listened to your words one by one—everything from start to finish seemed like an auspicious dream—indeed, I’ve been thinking all along that this must have been a true prophetic vision.
“At my establishment at present—well now—exactly how many people do you suppose there are?
“Why—idle hands swarm about my shop like locusts!
“Alas—I’ve yet to find even one competent soul who could serve as a proper mainstay to entrust my business to.
“Recently—thanks be to providence—my establishment’s credibility has grown considerably—and just as I contemplated this being our moment for expansion—I found myself agonizing day and night over securing someone of discernment and cultivated character for a managerial role.
“That an esteemed personage such as yourself—endowed with spiritual power and refined cultivation—could grace us with your service can only be through the divine favor of Splinter-Removing Jizo whom I humbly revere daily—a blessing beyond my wildest hopes.
“I shall endeavor to provide as generous a monthly salary as possible—though such remuneration remains ultimately trifling—and have thus resolved to supplement this with dividends proportionate to each manifestation of spiritual inspiration.
“Now regarding your employment—though proposing to test someone of your spiritual stature might understandably give offense—as if this fool were drunk on fleeting enthusiasm—we laymen lack discernment and must perform such trials to gauge true worth.
“Oh dear—merely contemplating this reversal of propriety brings shame—but such being vulgar society’s custom—we incompetent wretches cannot employ others without these farcical formalities.”

“Your point is entirely valid.”
“So this constitutes an employment examination then.”
“However, as I believe I stated in my letter, I have never studied economics in school and remain wholly unversed in stock matters—a man possessing neither skill nor talent beyond lending you my spiritual inspiration ability for utilization.”

“Not at all—your spiritual abilities alone are more than sufficient.”
“Even if you dabble in economics or stock matters, money isn’t something that’s readily made.”
“These days we’ve got so many people versed in stocks and economics you could stuff them in a trash heap and still get change back, but such ‘experts’ are utterly useless in our line of work.”
“If we possessed even a modicum of spiritual inspiration, we could effortlessly suck up all the monetary energy in Japan—and as for your spiritual inspiration honed through six years of rigorous training, even America’s monetary energy would be nothing in comparison.”
“Now, to speak of testing the potency of this spiritual inspiration must seem increasingly absurd, and you must surely be angered at this insolent fool who fails to respect the dignity of spirits—but we laypeople are born so foolish that unless we proceed thus, we cannot tell jewels from pebbles. It is nothing short of utterly shameful.”
“Though I must say it is exceedingly difficult to broach, I would like to propose that we proceed in this manner.”
“In other words, there was indeed a measure of spiritual inspiration in your earlier proposal.”
“With that, could I trouble you to make some rough prophecies about events two or three days hence?”
“I shall observe those results—or rather, there should be no possibility of error—but given this demonstrates the shallow-mindedness of us vulgar folk, once I have been fully convinced through this process, I shall posthaste rush to the hospital, meet with the Hippo Doctor—no, pardon me—the Hospital Director, and make arrangements for your immediate discharge.”
“At that time, I shall make every effort to prepare sufficient funds—be it tens of thousands of yen—for the hospital’s expenses.”

"I have fully understood your proposal. Of course, given that you are unaware of my spiritual power, this is an entirely reasonable proposition, and there is no cause for offense. On the contrary, this presents an excellent opportunity for you to be convinced of my spiritual power—a development I wholeheartedly welcome. Then, shall I make a prophecy regarding tomorrow’s weather, perhaps?"

"Well, about that—"

And there, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner once more thrust a knee forward.

Bearing a child proves easier than fretting over it—this was precisely that situation. However, if one presses too hard there, they will suddenly get struck.

The Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner took out a piece of paper from his pocket.

“To be perfectly candid, when I received your esteemed letter the other day—well now, this being the lamentable nature of us vulgar folk—I resolved that we should first conduct a trial of sorts to fully appreciate your spiritual power before formally requesting your collaborative assistance.”

“In truth, such were the preparations I had made in coming here tonight.”

“This happens to be the entry list for the Nanigashi Horse Races commencing tomorrow, where you can see numerous horse names written here, but I would like to request that you prophesy each of these winning horses one by one.”

“I deeply apologize for the trouble, but I humbly thought this would be most suitable for receiving even a rough prophecy through your spiritual inspiration, which is why I have prepared it in this manner.”

“That was most convenient.”
“Whether prophesying one from two or one from a hundred, spiritual inspiration ultimately demands equal exertion.”
“Then shall I make predictions for these winning horses?”

With that, the Oak-Leaf Gentleman picked up the entry list with consummate nonchalance.

Nine

He had imagined a madman’s prophecies would involve all manner of strange rituals, yet this turned out to be an exceedingly simple affair.

The Oak-Leaf Gentleman spread the entry list before him, then—as if concerned about the pencil lead—held it up to his nose to examine it, writing and erasing five or six characters here and there. Suddenly, with utter nonchalance, he began marking the winning horses by dotting quick notations beside the First Race and Second Race.
It was as nonchalant as a tipster’s work.

After finishing his predictions, he clasped his palms on his knees and closed his eyes solemnly for about a minute.
He must undoubtedly be storing his spiritual inspiration in some sort of drawer in his head.
He opened his eyes and handed the entry form to the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner.

The Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner was so taken aback by how nonchalantly it had all been done that he found himself at a loss for words.
With crucian-carp-like eyes, he was reverently holding the entry form.

“Then I shall await the time when you come to fetch me in due course.”
"I shall keep my belongings packed for immediate discharge, though truthfully this luggage—comprising but four or five changes of clothes and twenty volumes of books—scarcely fills a single trunk. Nevertheless, I cannot very well carry it about by hand, so I must ask you to prepare a taxi when you come to fetch me."

With that, the Oak-Leaf Gentleman stood up.
He had already drawn up a detailed relocation plan.
And then, lowering his voice even further, he said:

“In connection with this matter—as I must make preparations for discharge—I would like to humbly borrow twenty yen.
“Though this constitutes an impertinent request, let us consider it remuneration for today’s prophecy—you shall reap returns many times over. Heh heh heh heh.”

No—indeed, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner shuddered as though doused with cold water.
The Oak-Leaf Gentleman’s eyes glinted with an uncanny smile.

This must be what they call the eyes of a madman.
If not, then it is the gleam of a murderer’s eyes.
Moreover, he laughed in that unpleasant manner that seemed to see right through every hidden corner of one’s heart.

There was simply no helping this.
And so, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner took out two ten-yen bills.

“Your twenty yen would scarcely amount to a day’s pocket money. However, my twenty yen covers exactly half a year’s food expenses. The meals provided to public expense patients are leftover food priced by weight. Yet there are times when we must buy these leftovers of leftovers one sen at a time to fill our stomachs. We must purchase and eat food meant for dogs and pigs with our own money.”

Yet even as he spoke thus, the Oak-Leaf Gentleman showed not the slightest inclination to handle the ten-yen bills with care.
He neither placed them in his pouch nor attempted to tuck them into his sleeve.
Dangling them from his hand and fluttering them about just like the oak leaf he had been clutching until moments before.

“That you have deigned to heed this degenerate’s request—inferior even to pigs and dogs—and gone so far as to trouble yourself to come all this way with such warm kindness, I shall never forget even after entering my coffin.”
“I offer my deepest gratitude.”

With that, the Oak-Leaf Gentleman left a polite farewell and disappeared into the field from the back entrance, still fluttering the ten-yen bills in his hand.

Then Mr. Owl followed suit—ultimately without uttering a single word or offering a bow until the very end—silently turning his seventeen-inch-long neck and disappearing into the pitch-dark field with a rustle.

Ten

Had the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner made a killing at the Nanigashi horse races, all would have been splendid—and what’s more, a mysterious pair of gentlemen might have appeared in Kabutocho to gather every last yen in Japan into their pockets.

Unfortunately, things did not unfold that way.

I am one who hates tragedies, yet facts cannot be distorted.

At the Nanigashi Horse Races, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner stomped his feet relentlessly all day.
Forgetting to wipe his streaming sweat and covered in dust, he pushed through the crowd with a grimy face, stopping now and again to groan.

Even aboard the train returning to Tokyo, he kept stomping his feet while clutching a bottle of Masamune in a death grip.
The neighbors were beside themselves with worry.
"This was all because they’d ended up sharing a ride with some ill-omened madman," they grumbled.

He had been utterly ensnared by an artful swindle.
Yet when he painstakingly retraced the events, it seemed unfathomable that he hadn't detected its rotten stench from the outset.

Fundamentally, no madman's rhetoric could ever maintain such crystalline clarity.
Though he'd maneuvered the conversation through absurd tangents toward his intended aim, that very structural rigor betrayed it as no work of lunacy.

His countenance itself radiated intellect—had some unknowing soul encountered him, they'd have mistaken him not for a madman but for nothing less than a literary gentleman.

This was precisely what he had grasped through their association—hence why he now had that bizarre partner known as Mr. Owl positioned there. Because Mr. Owl sat there wide-eyed in silent stillness, the Oak-Leaf Gentleman’s discourse could no longer be heard as anything sane.

There was no need to even consider it first. The notion that a madman would escape a mental hospital late at night and drink awamori—such an absurd incident could never occur in the capital of a civilized nation.

Even so, what elaborate methods those scoundrels had employed in their swindling.
Detective novels spoke of certain thieves who considered it their supreme pleasure to announce crimes in advance and execute them at great risk; viewing this Oak-Leaf Gentleman and Mr. Owl as practitioners of the same ilk—commencing with dozens of letters, progressing to oden shop meetings, and taking elaborate pains to thoroughly mock their mark before swindling them—the affair became a tale that left an irredeemably distasteful aftertaste.

With a jolt of realization that this could spell disaster, he recalled how he had prostrated himself beyond even what a court jester might do—diligently currying favor—and considering how this had become fodder for those scoundrels' laughter, he felt a lament that vanished like the wind with a single "Wah!" of a scream.

They were undoubtedly hoodlums from that area, but even though the damage was a mere twenty ryō, the underhandedness of how he’d been taken advantage of was so pitiful he couldn’t bear it.

Someone who might be a Fukagawa boss—though not really—or perhaps a Fukagawa proprietor—but again, not really either.
After all, didn’t this concern his reputation?

So the next day, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner hired two gangsters with the promise of five yen each per day plus ample drinks after work, and first came to the mental hospital.

“Boss.”

One of the gangsters returned from the mental hospital’s reception desk with a sullen expression and reported to the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner inside the car.

“Doesn’t seem to be some ordinary hoodlum.”
“There really is a madman by that name hospitalized here.”

“There’s no way such a thing exists!”

“But hey...
“The registry’s got that name clear as day listed.”
“They said he’s a long-standing madman through and through, y’know.”

“Well then, what’s this.
“The hoodlum’s been spouting the name.”
“So, putting it all together—this is what it’s about.”
“The hoodlum must be either the janitor here, one of the caretakers, or some brother or relative of a nurse.”
“Anyway, why don’t we go meet the real K?”

“Sure thing.”
“But hey, Boss.
“Be careful not to end up gettin’ yourself mistakenly hospitalized now.”

With that, the three entered the mental hospital.

As they waited, the clanking sound of several locks being opened and closed approached from deep within, until finally, led by Caretaker Nanigashi—wearing a white apron-like garment over his kimono and carrying a Bible in his left hand—the suspicious figure at the center of suspicion emerged.

Upon seeing this, the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner was terrified; his sudden restless scanning of the iron-barred windows stemmed from a desperate urge to break through them and flee had it been possible.

The gentleman wearing a white apron-like garment over his kimono and carrying a Bible in his left hand was indeed Mr. Owl.

Emerging quietly from behind Mr. Owl was none other than the Oak-Leaf Gentleman.

The Oak-Leaf Gentleman wore an expression overcome with emotion. Having apparently not shed tears for six years—indeed, he was not crying—he instead appeared utterly desolate and profoundly sorrowful. In his customary manner, he inclined his head slightly and bowed like a nobleman, then delivered his greeting in a thin voice that trembled with emotion yet flowed smoothly despite its faltering quality.

“I must profoundly apologize for my discourtesy the other night.”
“Each day I agonized over whether I might have left you with an unfavorable impression.”
“Though I awaited your coming with bated breath, my sole preoccupation remained whether you would truly honor us with your presence.”
“Thus I find myself having failed even to prepare proper luggage.”
“This overwhelming emotion leaves me quite bereft of coherent thoughts—yet does this signify I may at last venture into the profane world?”
“Even so, there hardly seems luggage enough to warrant your bringing two entire movers.”

With that, the Oak-Leaf Gentleman gazed at the gangsters in their aprons and patterned jackets, his pale face floating a smile both apologetic and radiant.

Eleven

“Torahachi and Samehachi.”

“Huh?”

The sun had barely touched the treetops along the horizon when the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner, at an oden shop sprawling through fields in such-and-such Ward, such-and-such Town—that is to say, near the aforementioned hospital—had already reached thorough intoxication on awamori.

“Well...
“Torahachi and Samehachi.”

“Huh?”

“Do you lot understand the distinction between madness and sanity?”

“Nah.”

“Madmen are ones who’ve steadily cultivated their refinement, aren’t they.”

“Maybe so.”

“First off, he’s so polite.”
“Even his words of greeting were exceptionally polished.”

“That’s truly astonishing, I tell you.”
“So you didn’t notice.”
“The reason the caretaker doesn’t greet people is to distinguish himself from the madmen, see?”

“I was sixteen years old.”
“It was when I graduated from higher elementary school and became an errand boy at a sardine shop in Nihonbashi, setting off for Tokyo for the first time.”
“I was born in the countryside of Tohoku, and my family were landless peasants.”
“My mother carried a cloth bundle and saw me off to the station, and together we walked that three-*ri* path through the fields.”
“At that moment, my mother said this.”

“Oh.”
“I see.”

“Tokyo’s a shrewd place, a real cutthroat town, so she told me to treat everyone like thieves.”
“Thieves are ones who look all charming-like, sharp as a tack, smooth talkers with sweet nothings to say,’ she told me.”

“Country folks are honest and bad with words, so they worry all sorts about Tokyo, I tell ya.”

“A mother’s such a wonderful thing, I tell ya.”
“Well now，mover gentlemen.”
“But y’know...”
“Even someone as sharp as my mother never knew madmen could be sharp as a tack, smooth-talkin’, polite, and cultivated in refinement like that.”
“Not even Lord Buddha would’ve known about this one.”

“The world’s such a vast place, I tell ya.”

“Torahachi and Samehachi.”

“Huh?”

“You all have mothers, don’t you?”

“Huh? Come to think of it, I believe one of us did have such a thing, didn’t we?”

The oden shop, resembling a doghouse, was as hot as a steam boiler. However, when both the back and front doors were left open, the wind from the fields would blow straight through the oden shop, making it cool at such times.

The sun glowed crimson as it sank toward the horizon.
The heat in the wind subsided somewhat，and the smell of the fields gradually grew more intense and thick.

“It was some time ago now.”
“I was thirty-five at the time.”
“I had made something of myself in Tokyo—not that I returned in glory or anything—but I thought I’d made it back home.”
“What a time that was.”
“I’d packed every last famous product there was in all of Tokyo into my trunk.”
“It was around Obon season，right at the height of summer.”
“I arrived home.”
“The countryside never changed，I tell ya.”
“I took a soak in an open-air bath.”
“Evening meal came.”
“So then，my mother said that since I must’ve grown tired of fine foods in Tokyo，she made this stew with eggplant，pumpkin，cabbage，and seasonal vegetables—the same rice porridge I loved as a kid.”
“She prepared this to celebrate for me.”
“Mothers are such a blessing，I tell ya.”
“I picked up the large bowl and was about to take my first bite when suddenly my chest tightened up and a tear plopped right onto the rice porridge.”

“Oh.”
“That’s such a heartfelt story, I tell ya.”

The Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner’s chest seemed to tighten with reminiscence.
He staggered to his feet, stepped through the back door, first relieved himself against the corn stalks, then crashed noisily into the field and vanished.

“Hey there!
“Boss.”

Torahachi and Samehachi hurriedly gave chase, but the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner did not even turn around.
He swayed unsteadily into the very heart of the field, then suddenly collapsed onto his back and let tears stream down his face.

“Torahachi and Samehachi.”

“This won’t do, I tell ya.”
“Boss.”
“If the farmers catch us, they’ll bash our skulls in with hoes, I tell ya.”

“I’ve also come to want to return home and become a farmer, I tell ya.”
“Tokyo’s just too damn persistently shrewd for my liking, mover gentlemen.”
“I didn’t think a tear had plopped right onto the rice porridge.”
“So there I was, eating the rice porridge along with my persistently flowing tears.”
“So then, how’d that go?”
“Mysteriously, another drop plopped right out again.”

“This won’t do, I tell ya—gettin’ all sentimental now ain't like you at all.”

The Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner had been crying with his face buried in the edamame field but soon fell sound asleep just like that.

"You mustn’t fall asleep in a place like this—I tell ya， Boss."

Torahachi and Samehachi tugged at the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner’s hand, but it had already gone limp with no resistance whatsoever. He had fallen into a deep sleep, completely devoid of consciousness. So Torahachi and Samehachi gave up and returned to the oden shop.

Since the boss had fallen into a deep sleep, Torahachi and Samehachi stopped drinking awamori and had them prepare warmed premium sake instead. They had them prepare an extra-large plate heaped with chilled tofu, plopped in a block of ice weighing over three kilograms, and began drinking anew in finest spirits while boasting—"This here's how us Fukagawa folks eat our tofu, I tell ya!"

Night had fallen thick and complete.

Already, the fields of Musashino had sunk into the far depths of darkness, and the Fukagawa Opera Theater Owner’s deep slumber had likewise sunk into the far depths of darkness, but Torahachi and Samehachi had long since forgotten about their boss in the edamame field.
They sang in uncharacteristic voices about nights spent melting tangled thoughts of raven hair, then called out, “Hey, mover gentlemen! Let’s have another round!” as they passed cups back and forth.