Pathway to Japanese Literature

Three Realms Memorial Pagoda

I

Fukao Kozo sat upright in a rattan chair on the sun-drenched veranda.

"Maybe I should go to the office for the first time in a while."

The mosaic floor polished with an oiled cloth, the leather-upholstered swivel chair, and the large desk appeared in his mind's eye.
A pilot-style call bell that returned a signal when pressed.
A hand-worn ebony cigar box.
Above all, the old Kutani teacups from Australia... those were twenty-year companions in enterprise and beloved tools that formed the central axis of activity.

Fukao loved the dim president’s office in the old-fashioned red-brick building on Marunouchi Nakanodori. It was Showa Industries’ cerebral cortex, an airtight chamber, a greenroom—in that room he had forged his present wealth and status through relentless effort. However oppressed he felt, stepping into that office would send ruthless calculations and creativity surging through him like a tide, washing away fatigue and lassitude—this had always been true.

Countless times—beyond reckoning—he had escaped predicaments that seemed certain to destroy him, killed men, committed deeds that chilled the blood. With a body bronzed like tempered steel and eyes primed to erupt at any moment, he had confronted society through decades of unseen struggles, acquiring such unshakable presence that few guessed him past sixty. Yet now some undefined discomfort had taken root, leaving him unwilling to visit company premises. Telegrams and Reuters Economic Service reports lay stacked with unbroken seals on the side table; newspapers and market bulletins remained in their lacquered holder. He spent deflated days devoid of structure.

"I wonder if I've been had."

Even when he felt his cheeks, he didn't think he'd particularly lost weight.
His vise-like jaw still jutted out powerfully, and his grip strength remained unchanged from those days in the southern seabed when he'd shattered divers' spines with a fifteen-pound drilling chisel rod.
The cause remained unclear, but he had grown terribly irritable, and even the image of the president’s office no longer provided its usual lively stimulation.

“Mr. Toda?”

“His son or his father?”

“It’s Mr. Retired.”

“Show him in here.”

Toda Gohei entered the veranda, dragging his partially paralyzed leg.
This man—his comrade since their Australia days when they'd seen hell together, who had retired shortly after the war's end by passing his position as Showa Soda's managing director to his son and rarely ventured out—was now inexplicably wearing a suit of all things.

“I hear you’ve completely withdrawn from society.
What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.
“What about you? Wearing a suit of all things.”

“It’s my family’s upbringing, see.
“Even if one were to collapse from a stroke in the middle of the street, they say a kimono would make for an undignified sight, see.
“Once you’re flat on your back, there’s no keeping up appearances or dignity!
“It’s only those who see it that suffer any loss.
“Ridiculous.”

Toda squinted his whale-like small eyes and struck the arm of the rattan chair, but his aim was off and his fist landed on his knee.
His neck trembled, and on his slack lower lip remained the coal-black traces of past malarial afflictions.
As he looked at the frail, small-statured old man with a scarf around his neck, he couldn’t help but doubt—was this truly that lawless Toda?

“Lately, I’ve been remembering the old days a lot.”
“We sure raised hell back then, you see.”
“Setting up that Three Realms Memorial Pagoda on the seabed—that’s the sort of thing only we’d do, huh?”
“What are you trying to bring up?”

“Well, just wanted you to take a look at this.”

Toda flipped open the inner lining of his jacket to show him.
A white cloth about two inches wide had been sewn on, with his address and name written in block script.

“What’s that?”

“This is a missing child tag.”
“So that no matter when or where I drop dead, at least my corpse’ll come back without getting squashed by some jeep.”
“Once a man comes to this, it’s all over.”
“Hey, how about getting us something?”

Fukao took out a heart-shaped black decanter and tumbler from the corner shelf and placed them on the table.

“Old Parr, huh.”
“This is good.”

Toda poured whiskey into the tumbler to about a quarter full, then after precise intervals, began drinking in a methodical manner.

“Did you have some business today?”

“It’s business if you call it that, and not if you don’t—but you know about this new Human Rights Protection Bureau they’ve set up in the Ministry of Justice, right?”

“I know.”

“Article 3 of the Criminal Code lists those extraterritorial crimes applicable under the code. They investigate once a complaint or accusation is filed, and if indicted, it’s supposed to go to trial in Japanese courts—but it’s all just legal text. There haven’t been any such precedents yet.”

“So what?”

“Hard to answer your ‘so what,’ but basically see—now they’ve set that up, there’s gonna be a whole slew of precedents from here on out, y’know?”

“Might not amount to anything special. You come all this way just to say that?”

“Not only that. Anyway, war does strange things. If we hadn’t lost this war, those who should’ve never felt Japan’s winds in their lifetime are getting forcibly shipped back from Rabaul, see. The Thursday Island divers who had been interned in Queensland have finally returned. Then there’s Yamazaki Nita and Taishima’s son, among others. Things have gotten a bit noisy, see.”

“Those who’ll return will return no matter what. There’s no need to worry about such things.”

“You’ve received it too, right—the clipping from the ‘Darwin Daily’ that Taishima’s son sent over.”

“I received it.”

“Crimes of moral insanity (depravity)—I must say, they leave one in awe. Yamazaki or someone like him probably planted the story, but they were quite thorough. The Darwin journalists aren’t fools either, I must say. It was a reporter called Max or something.”

“The local prosecutor didn’t consider it problematic. He said it was just some journalist’s fantasy.”

“What about back in Japan?”
“The reason I came today is about that matter—but I’d be in a real fix if they start making some idiotic fuss.”
“Getting tripped up by an old wound from ten years ago now—it’s just absurd no matter how you look at it, you see.”
“In the old days, we could’ve crushed them with someone like Matsunaga, but times have changed—doing that now would just stir up a hornet’s nest, you see.”

“This consultation...”

“So, see—if Taishima’s son were to get someone like Yamazaki as a witness and file a complaint or something, I was thinking it might cause some real trouble, you know.”
“It’s laughable, but my son and daughter are convinced I’m some noble Christian and genuinely revere me, you see.”
“If possible, I don’t want to expose my flaws.”

“You’ve gone quite senile.”
“What’s the Human Rights Protection Bureau going to do? Once they start handling cases from places like the Solomons, they’ll be swamped.”
“Even if they run to the newspapers, a ten-year-old story has no news value whatsoever.”
“They’ll just get brushed off—end of story.”
“Even if Yamazaki were to become a witness, that guy’s already a senile old man.”
“He’s about sixty-five, maybe.”
“Besides, he once had a mental breakdown—that disqualifies him as a witness.”
“There should be a diagnosis from Kuunsville State Hospital at the time—if they inquire, it’ll be clear immediately.”
“Don’t worry needlessly.”
“Just leave it alone.”
“What could they possibly do anyway?”

“I see—that’s true too.”
“If you say so, I’ll get myself into that mindset.”
“No need for us to charge ahead in panic, you know.”
“Needless trouble.”

“Was Kuniko-san’s ceremony next month? I seem to recall hearing that recently.”

“The fifteenth of next month. At Azabu Catholic Church. Their side’s request, see. I’ll keep my nose clean till then. Well, I’m off. Drop by sometime soon. Sooner the better.”

Fukao escorted Toda to the entrance, returned to the wide veranda, lit a cigar, descended into the garden, and strolled toward the property boundary.

II

The Pinctada maxima is the largest species in the pearl oyster family, with large specimens reaching over thirty centimeters in length. Their inner shells shine silver-white, particularly the highest-grade variety called "golden-lipped" mother-of-pearl, from which many large, superior pearls have been discovered.
Second place goes to the "black-lipped" variety, commonly known as the black pearl oyster, which has a strong steel-like luster tinged with blackish silver, and it is from these oysters that black pearls are obtained.
The "yellow-lipped" variety generally had thin shell quality and lacked luster, thus being treated as a lower-grade product; however, the superior grades of "golden-lipped" and "black-lipped" oysters, as high-value commodities never falling below one thousand dollars per ton, had bestowed upon pearl oyster gatherers immeasurable wealth over forty years.

When a sailor named Tei discovered pearl oysters in Nicol Bay, Australia in 1861, white people donned diving suits themselves and toiled relentlessly—establishing bases, retrofitting harvesting vessels, organizing and commanding fleets, stabilizing operations, and expanding the pearl oyster market—thus laying the foundation for future prosperity through ceaseless effort.

This enterprise, begun with small sailing vessels along Australia's coastal regions like Sharks Bay, Onslow, and Port Headland, rapidly flourished into a grand operation. After establishing Broome—later dubbed the world's pearl capital—they pursued new shellfish beds northward across forty million miles of Australian waters. Their small schooners encircled vast coastlines stretching from the Timor Sea through the Arafura Sea and Thursday Island to Malaita in the Solomon Islands. Whenever news of fresh beds spread like wind from unknown quarters, lugger ships of every nationality would descend upon those waters with gold rush-like fervor.

Generally, the maximum depth at which one could work while diving was considered to be around thirty fathoms (180 feet). However, Malay and Manilan divers could manage at most ten fathoms (60 feet), becoming completely out of their depth at twenty fathoms—yet Japanese divers could descend to at least thirty fathoms and even work freely at forty fathoms.

Many hailed from Kii Province’s Shionomisaki region—exceptionally diligent and quick learners—so when one spoke of divers, it meant the Japanese; in Broome, even a Japanese Club had formed where over fifteen hundred Japanese worked.

This meant the white people no longer needed to dive themselves; they built bungalows with beautiful gardens in Broome's white district where they spent their days lounging in veranda hammocks beneath cascading red poinsettia leaves, sipping cold drinks while debating shell prices and pearl market values.

As the pearl oyster harvesting enterprise grew without restraint, the Japanese who had initially arrived as divers rose from assistants to crew members, securing vital roles aboard lugger ships. Navigating Australia’s coasts, they mastered the trade’s intricacies—learning every shellfish bed in the Arafura and Coral Seas, every horse conch colony and sea cucumber habitat. When their contracts expired, crews manned by world-class divers and captains versed in all maritime conditions boldly advanced into white Australian waters as rivals to European pearl harvesters.

However, the first to arrive were not those men.
The first were amateurs—Yamashita Tokutaro and Yoshimi Goshiro, former ship engineers who retrofitted a used fifty-ton bonito fishing boat and sailed from Palau. Nearly simultaneously conceiving the same idea, they loaded three divers from Shionomisaki onto their vessel, spent ten days and nights reaching northern Australian waters, then anchored three nautical miles offshore in international waters. Under cover of night, they stealthily drew water from nearby villages; from April through October, they harvested golden-lipped pearl oysters nonstop until their fuel and provisions ran out. Upon returning, Mitsui Bussan purchased their haul at $1,400 per ton—netting them an absurd profit nearing thirty thousand yen.

When word of these two men reached the mainland, entrepreneurs large and small descended upon Palau and organized fleets of diver boats captained by divers who had returned from Australia after their contracts expired.
This marked the beginning of the pearl oyster harvesting enterprise based in Palau, with its golden age lasting from 1934 to 1936—Yamashita gained the backing of major capital through Nankai Kōhatsu, while Yoshimi launched flamboyant operations supported by the national policy company Nan'yō Takushoku.
They were no longer dubious motorboats converted from bonito fishing vessels; every single one became sleek schooner-type diver boats, complete with mother ships connecting their base to operational sites, and in 1934 alone, 170 vessels set out to fish.

Around that time, Fukao Kozo had joined forces with Yamazaki and Toda—who had likewise drifted into Australia before the immigration law’s enforcement—huddling in a cheap boarding house on Melbourne’s outskirts and barely scraping by at horse racing betting shops.
Fukao himself had graduated from San Jose High School and worked as a customs broker’s underling, dreaming of American-style success, but he had never amounted to anything remarkable.
They had landed in Queensland intending to strike it rich during Australia’s gold rush, but with bare hands they couldn’t even pan for mercury, gradually drifting south until they ended up in Melbourne.

Yamazaki Nita had graduated from the University of California’s pharmacy program and worked at the Berkeley Public Health Bureau’s hygiene laboratory, but due to white staff members’ jealousy and other factors, he was effectively forced to resign; nursing resentment toward America, he drifted to Australia almost aimlessly. Meanwhile, Toda Gohei had been a clerk at the San Francisco branch of a Nagoya ceramics company but fell in with a bad crowd, dabbling in gambling until he embezzled the branch’s funds in a shockingly short time and found himself compelled to flee.

Yamazaki was the oldest of the three—a fretful, timid worrier who had suffered a mental breakdown during their voyage and been institutionalized at Port Darwin’s psychiatric hospital—while Toda, despite his background as a commercial school graduate turned clerk, bore the visage of an unlikely villain, carrying a startling air of menace that suggested he might well take to the streets for a hold-up if pushed to extremes. On days without horse racing, they would lie around their rundown boarding house flipping through years-old copies of *Jitsugyō no Nihon* and *Diamond*, muttering things like how so-and-so was a fisherman’s son from Chiba Prefecture who’d clawed his way up from errand boy to become a rags-to-riches legend, or how Tsuda Shingo—president of Kanebo, one of Japan’s foremost corporations—was secretly poor despite appearances, his name barely lingering at the very bottom of shareholder registries, or how Ayukawa Yoshisuke’s breakthrough freezing method for Nippon Suisan had been inspired by rapidly cooled iron molecules, the key being to freeze fish while still alive. We too—with the right use of our wits and opportunities—could pull off astonishingly grand work if we tried, they blustered between gasps for breath, their faces tinged corpse-blue.

The same resolve held true for Fukao as well—though no one had commissioned it of him, there existed a stubborn persistence that he couldn’t return to Japan without achieving proper success. Yet for someone who could even be called an intellectual, he had no intention of degrading himself to peasant labor.
What preoccupied him above all were the pearl poachers beyond territorial waters—these crews creeping in from Palau’s distant reaches lately, skimming effortless profits along the very edges of others’ domains. To hear of it was to feel his rightful claims being plundered before his eyes; even compatriots, their audacity made his blood boil something fierce.

“The other day, I heard from this Naruse guy who came on inspection from the South Seas Bureau—said Palau’s diver boom’s something fierce.”
“Restaurants like Shunkokan and Tsurunoya kept tacking on extensions to their low-eaved tin-roofed main buildings—climbing stairs up and down, walking end to end would stretch a whole chō.”
“When diver boats were due back, migrant geisha and hostesses chasing that business would come flooding from the mainland with every passing ship.”
“And those divers—spending like they’d lost their minds. Stories go they’d buy out some geisha’s contract the very night they returned to Palau and ship her straight back to her folks.”

“You seem quite angry, you know.”

“There’s nothing amusing about that.”
“Territorial waters extend three nautical miles from the coast.”
“Japanese diver boats are regulated to operate beyond that limit, but it’s all on the water—there’s no rope marking the boundary between territorial waters and the open sea.”
“If you consider the diver’s position—thirty fathoms over forty... well, even one fathom shallower is better—they must be sneaking into territorial waters.”
“The government should crack down harder.”
“They’re getting a bit too full of themselves.”

“By the way, I was asking about a different matter.”
“Basically, see—that’s where the patrol ships’ duty kicks in. They’d formally hoist the OL signal (‘Cease or be fired upon’), then just unload their machine guns like mad to scare ’em off for good.”
“The Palau crews take it lying down, and the Aussies pretend not to see—so nobody hears a peep—but word is they’re getting slaughtered left and right out there.”
“Some lugger went missing crew and all—looks like they got sunk proper.”
“Serves ’em right, I say.”
“Gives me some satisfaction, sure—but those boys in Broome ain’t right in the head either.”
“All this ‘divers this, divers that’—treated like kings, but still just white men’s lackeys.”
“Pathetic there’s not one with spine enough to launch his own ships against the Palau gangs.”
“Speaking of which—we three’ve been here five years now. That means we qualify for a lugger permit.”
“Work’s easier in territorial waters—shallow spots near shore.”
“This year’s mother-of-pearl goes for fourteen hundred a ton, black-lipped at a grand.”
“Get the startup cash, and we’re each sitting on ten thousand easy.”

“Stop that irritating talk.”
“Even pooling all three of our pockets wouldn’t make ten cents.”
“Let’s quit wasting breath on useless dreams.”

Fukao’s face twisted in disgust, but Yamazaki leaned forward eagerly.

“How much capital would we actually need?”

“With just a hundred pounds, we could hit the jackpot at the Cup races and make all we’d ever want.”

“I see.”
“I must apologize to you all, but I’ve actually hidden away a hundred pounds as emergency funds for when things get dire.”
“If it’ll turn into ten thousand in half a year, I’ll put it up as if I were dead.”
“I’ll put it up! I’ll put it up!”

Yamazaki let out a shrill, childlike scream.

III

By what devil's favor they had hit the jackpot in a prize horse race—their hundred pounds returning multiplied to over a thousand pounds.
The season being November, when lugger fleets withdrew to their bases for rest and next season's preparations, they seized this opportune moment to depart Melbourne immediately, traversing half of Australia from south to northwest until reaching Broome.

They chartered Smith Brothers & Co.'s 150-ton schooner Star, but securing divers proved problematic.
Australian operators had foolishly inflated prices by prepaying a hundred pounds per season—now none would consider lower offers.
This system of parent divers and child divers existed for good reason: through training and being trained as divers, they formed bonds akin to parent and child. The child diver performed the parent's final water rites; should diving sickness render the parent unable to enter the sea, the child cared for them lifelong—this rigid arrangement ensuring none refused when one fell.

When they were struggling, a man named Adachi Shingo appeared.

He had deserted ships early in his career, swum across the Columbia River to enter North America illegally as an engineer on coastal vessels; after hitting rock bottom in New York, he became captain of a South Seas tramp steamer (irregular cargo ship) transporting ivory palm and sandalwood; then ranged across the South Pacific from the Torres Strait through the Galápagos Islands, Fiji Islands, and New Guinea dealing in arms smuggling, copra, sugarcane, sea cucumbers, tortoiseshell, and birds of paradise.
A man with a history of diving into any business venture that promised profit—so they decided to join forces with him.

For reasons unknown, they hired a man named Aoki Kinnosuke—expelled from the Japan Divers’ Club—as their diver; Komine Tadashi as tender (colloquially called line handler), responsible for operating the air pump and lifelines; and Kimishima Zengoro and Hori Koji as utility seamen.
They assembled the full crew of eleven specified for the lugger ship and departed Broome in April 1934 to begin harvesting off the Paumotu Islands, but clashing with Yoshimi’s streamlined fleet from Nankai Pearl left them unable to achieve even one-tenth of their projected yield—after seven months of labor, their total haul amounted to a pitiful four tons.
Three hundred pounds for capital.
License tax, consumption tax, fuel costs, crew salaries, food expenses—when all seasonal expenditures totaled five hundred pounds—meant that even after selling the oysters resulted in a net loss of four hundred pounds.

Yamazaki began crying, but with his eyes blazing at the realization that stopping now meant certain death, he prepared supplies using their remaining six hundred pounds while berating Fukao and Toda. The following year, when they set out fishing earlier than the season to scavenge shellfish beds, news arrived of a new bed discovered in Malaita Island’s strait. Convinced they’d struck gold this time, they raced their ship out—only to find themselves outmaneuvered by the unexpected early arrival of the Palau group’s fleet.

The divers had apparently already begun work. Thirty-six collection ships with raised aft sails moved briskly across the blue sea in single file, followed by a two-hundred-ton schooner-style mother ship gliding behind like a swan guarding its cygnets. Supply launches raced between the luggers like wildfire, delivering water and provisions.

Their vessel stood as a decrepit relic—its hole-riddled deck reeked of rotting shellfish, while pearl oyster meat dangled from the rigging like strings of onions. Though dried shellfish meat could fetch a dollar per bale, having to factor even such meager earnings into their calculations meant they stood no chance of decent returns; the contrast between their antiquated lugger with its manual hand pump and the twenty-six-ship fleet boasting modern engine-driven pumps proved too stark to contemplate competition.

In any case, they brought the ship close to shore and began harvesting, but the reef in that area was treacherous—sloping steeply on both sides into deeper waters—and as for the shellfish, they were nothing but worthless yellow-lipped oysters worth at most three hundred dollars per ton, with transportation costs running higher than their value. When they sent sailor Hori on a reconnaissance mission, they learned that the rival fleet had secured an exceptionally rich shellfish bed and were hauling up endless pearl oysters from the advantageous depth of twelve to thirteen fathoms—at which Yamazaki was the first to fly into a rage.

They gathered in the captain’s room, their faces darkened with greed and malice glinting as they pressed together to discuss ways to drive the fleet from the strait. Since for a fleet without a base, water was the most crucial resource, they concluded that severing this lifeline would be most effective. Observing discreetly, they discovered the fleet was secretly dispatching boats to draw drinking water from the seaside tribe’s village well.

“You can’t do anything about a well.”

When Fukao tossed out the remark, Yamazaki—

“There’s always a way. Since we’ve got preservative mercury on the ship—we should just dump that in!”

Having decided this on his own, he waited for sunset and went to set up something at the well.

By the following afternoon, the fleet’s movements grew sluggish, with about five luggers dropping anchor near the mother ship.
Upon inquiring about the situation, they learned that around nine o’clock that morning, twenty-seven people had suddenly died, with forty more in critical condition.
The mother ship’s doctor had declared it putrid protein poisoning and ordered all stored canned goods thrown into the sea.
In the evening, the fleet’s secretary came and grumbled that they wanted to cremate the corpses but couldn’t come ashore, leaving them with no way to handle the matter.
When the secretary left, Yamazaki,

“They’re planning to recover the corpses and cremate them.”
“All their talk is just a riddle—what they really want is for us to turn a blind eye to their illegal landing.”
“Out of fellow countrymen’s goodwill, eh?”

Yamazaki laughed.

Then Fukao retorted dryly,
“Whether we turn a blind eye or not, we have no such authority.”
“If poaching within territorial waters is discovered, the law stipulates complete confiscation of vessels and catches—illegal entrants face imprisonment or death.”
“Even without a resident commissioner here, proper procedures must be maintained.”
“Particularly before our fellow countrymen.”

Soon the luggers raised mourning flags and clustered around the mothership, where a makeshift farewell ceremony commenced on its foredeck. That night, sparks flickered over the island’s southwestern cape until dawn. Suspecting cremations, they sent Kimishima to investigate—he discovered seven fleet executives had landed secretly, building a pyre among the cape’s palms. The captain remarked more deaths would likely prolong the burnings, and indeed sparks reappeared the next night.

The next morning, the seaside tribe’s chief came to the ship by dugout canoe and requested if they could implement some epidemic prevention measures, as an epidemic was spreading through the village and natives were dying one after another.
Yamazaki agreed and went out with the chief, but returned after about three hours.

“The natives seem likely to attack the fleet members coming for cremation.”
“I told them this wasn’t any epidemic—that someone had poisoned the well. When I showed them by making a pig drink the water, even those gentle seaside tribesmen got mad like lunatics.”

In a sulky tone that spoke of a coward’s audacity, the captain said,

“There’s nothing gentle about them. Just because they don’t eat human flesh doesn’t mean they aren’t cunning. About seven years ago, after they massacred the crew of a New Zealand copra ship and had their village burned by a gunboat, they’ve been keeping quiet on the surface—but make no mistake, they’re the sort who’d do any horrible thing without batting an eye if they think they can get away with it.”

When he played innocent, Yamazaki settled into an uneasy composure,

“That would make for some restless nights.”
“I hadn’t meant to go that far, but...”

He blew cigarette smoke into rings.

IV

The following afternoon, when Fukao and Toda took diver Aoki to eat lunch at the island’s Seamen’s Club, there came the sound of a tremendous commotion from the direction of the bay the natives called “Mackerel Inlet.”
When Fukao asked Aoki about it, he explained that since the seaside tribe had a custom of casting their dead into the sea, they were likely holding a funeral.

“Oboi Inlet serves as their water burial site—tossing them in there’s part of the ritual. That racket’s sharks tearing into corpses.”
“Depending on the wind, you can hear it from a mile off sometimes.”
“Gives you the creeps.”
“Wanna go see? It’s right nearby.”

he invited the two along.

As they walked along the native path shaded by an arch of Casuarina and Pandanus trees, a piercing scream tore through the forest and reached their ears.
Aoki’s face took on a look of surprise,

“Today they’re using live people.
“This is quite a sight!”

he took the lead and ran off.

It was a wide, choppy inlet surrounded by low cliffs about ten feet high, where countless sharks swarmed like canoes lined up in rows. When they flipped their bodies in the shallow seabed, their pale bellies reflected the refracted light and glinted glassily.
Out in the offshore waters, a massive creature over two ken in length circled round and round, while about ten sharks chased after it, weaving through the water like black shadows.

On the shelf-like terrace across the inlet, about fifty natives of the seaside tribe were gathered, throwing one crew member after another from the fleet—their hands bound behind their backs—into the inlet.
When a human body was hurled into the air, the inlet’s waters seethed like boiling broth across their entire surface, and as if thrusting out oars to intercept it, sharks leapt up six or seven shaku in unison.
The human body that fell onto the water’s surface tumbled over the sharks’ backs, sank deep once before being pushed up by their snouts, and when its upper half—erect up to the waist—emerged above the surface, it waved its blood-soaked arm that had been bitten off past the elbow like a clay figurine, letting out an indescribable scream—

“Agh—!”

He screamed and was dragged back into the churning depths.
The next body fell into the inlet's center—immediately seized at the torso and borne away—only to be abruptly hurled ball-like into the air where another shark lunged sideways to snatch it, twisting its bulk before streaking seaward.
Every shark in the inlet surged river-like in pursuit; fifty ken out they commenced savage combat, throwing up violent geysers.
The crunch of splintering bones merged with water's fury into one cacophony that rebounded through the jungle behind them.

Just as they were wondering what would happen next, the fleet defied expectations by moving with even greater vigor; six luggers separated from the fleet and commenced new harvesting operations while navigating the wide offshore waters of Malaita Island.

Malaita Island was a long, narrow stretch of dense jungle running north to south, its interior completely unknown due to the impassable terrain. The lagoon teemed with horse-hoof snails and sea cucumbers, and the Polynesian-descended seaside tribe lived peacefully by harvesting them. In the coastal jungles dwelled a tribe of fierce cannibals called the Wara—savage and dim-witted by nature, preferring conflict above all else. This tribe’s taste for human flesh was legendary; they prized people as “long pork” and took pride in tallying their acts of cannibalism with pebbles kept as grim trophies. A passage from Captain Cook’s report stated that when standing and speaking with the natives, they would drool uncontrollably and repeatedly wipe their mouths with their hands; Britain had also sent Indian political prisoners to this island to enliven the Wara tribe’s dining tables.

The northeastern part of the island inhabited by the Wara tribe featured sheer cliff-like jungle mountains that plunged abruptly into the sea, with several small bays nestled deep within mangrove forests.
In reality, those were traps, and white sea cucumber harvesters and copra collectors who unknowingly sailed their ships into them often never returned.
Since Aoki was well-versed in the affairs of these islands, Malaita Island had gained a reputation as dangerous—and with patrol ships rarely venturing here, they grew bold enough to intrude into territorial waters to investigate new shellfish beds.
When treated with contempt, they flew into a senseless rage.

“Mr. Adachi, this isn’t amusing.”
“You think we can just sit back after being mocked like this?”
“What a pain.”
“Shall we lure out four or five divers and hand them over to the Wara tribe?”
“You know, like that method.”
“If you want, I’ll go call ’em out myself.”

The Malaita atoll was completely within territorial waters, and if there were good shellfish beds there, they naturally belonged to our rights whether one wished it or not—the fleet’s methods seemed utterly unjust.
Yamazaki grew hysterical.

“I was the one who provided the seed money.”
“How can anyone just sit back and watch while our property’s being stolen?!”

he glared wide-eyed.

Toda grinned slyly while,

“Hey now, don’t get so worked up.”
“It’s not like anyone’s just sitting quiet.”
“Just leave it to the captain and Aoki.”

he said evasively.

Be that as it may, they decided to hold a connection-forging drinking party by inviting those divers. When Aoki returned with word that they would come from the fleet, the captain had Komine row a boat and set off alone toward the inlet where the Wara tribe resided.

In the afternoon, after mooring their ship in the lagoon and setting up a dining table by tying wooden boxes between coconut palms, they waited. Around seven o’clock, three boats slipped into the lagoon under cover of dusk.
They had intended to invite divers, but the ten men who came aboard were all lugger captains, leaving them dumbfounded; yet since they couldn’t exactly refuse them, they commenced the banquet.

The dishes served were fried sea turtle and sand borers, oysters, and papaya French salad.
The captains, overjoyed like children to set foot on land for the first time in three months, were frolicking as they chugged Australian whisky mixed with the Masamune they’d brought along—but for some reason they grew absurdly drunk far too quickly, and within an hour not a single one remained sitting contentedly cross-legged.
They sprawled across the area, eyes half-open as if struck by cerebral hemorrhages, snoring thunderously.

The next morning around seven o'clock, the mother ship signaled to inquire whether the captains were there.
When they replied that the captains had returned around ten o'clock last night, the mother ship's manager came by launch and said with a worried look that in fact, none of the captains had returned to the fleet.
This was dire. They decided to search, and when Adachi went with them to circle around the outer edge of the atoll, they discovered three boats—severely wrecked—washed ashore on a detached reef near the entrance.
Inferring from the surrounding circumstances, there was no other conclusion but that the captains had been attacked by the Wara tribe and taken to their settlement while returning to the fleet.
The manager expressed his thanks and returned to the mother ship with a grave expression.
When afternoon came, the fleet's luggers left the shellfish beds and all gathered offshore of the atoll, deploying two cutters to begin meticulously scouting the Wara tribe's inlet.

The inlet where the Wara tribe resided had a waterway that snaked deep and complexly like a maze into the mangrove jungle's depths, ending in a circular enclosed bay with a narrow beach at its terminus.
The waterway was just wide enough for a schooner with mainsails to barely pass through, winding so many times that nothing ahead remained visible.
It resembled schools of fish following an extended fish fence only to find themselves entering a trap at its end—a deceptively natural configuration that nevertheless revealed traces of deliberate craftsmanship upon closer inspection.
The opposite shore held a forest where a single narrow path abruptly ascended; slopes densely blanketed with thickets encircled the bay like an amphitheater, enabling the Wara tribe to monitor ship movements within the bay from any jungle vantage point.
Though awareness of this perilous terrain should have deterred rash maneuvers, the fleet deployed offshore of the inlet overnight and seemed determined to breach its waters at dawn.

As expected, the battle began at six o’clock in the morning.
Initially, four luggers entered the inlet in single column formation, but thirty minutes later, gunfire erupted from the depths of the bay and continued for about two hours before calm returned.
At eight o’clock, the Second Fleet entered; at ten, another four ships followed—launching assaults in four waves of four ships each—but none of the sixteen luggers that had entered the inlet ever emerged.
Around eight o’clock at night, a fierce blaze rose in the direction of the bay.
The captain,

“They’re experts at burning their ships to leave no evidence.”
“As for today’s battle—no one will know about it now.”

calmly added that commentary before lumbering into the dining hall.

The once-majestic fleet of twenty-six ships had dwindled to eleven vessels including the mother ship. Not long after this decline, Taishima Toshikichi—the fleet’s representative—came visiting with a twelve- or thirteen-year-old child he claimed was his son.
Seeming to greatly appreciate Fukao and his group’s magnanimity, he delivered a lengthy greeting in Kishu dialect before stating that while this fishing expedition had been cursed from the start and ended in complete failure, they had strangely struck gold with the shellfish beds.
He now had a prime bed secured, but unexpectedly suggested they might collaborate if desired; after staying about an hour, he left.

The next morning, when they took the ship near the fleet's mother vessel, the fleet delivered via launch a new diving suit equipped with a regulating valve.
Aoki promptly reached the shellfish bed, and before long sent up a magnificent, nearly circular "golden-lipped" pearl oyster measuring thirty centimeters.
The pearl oyster that becomes the finest-grade sample displayed in the exhibition area—the Extra Maxima producing rose-colored pearls—was of a variety whose market price had never fallen below $2,000 per ton, even during price fluctuations.

Fukao and Toda both appeared intoxicated, Yamazaki was sweating as he seemed to be holding back his burning elation—but before they had hauled up many shells, Aoki quit working and surfaced.

“What’s wrong?”

“Even things you’d claw your throat out wanting—when there’s this much, it just turns your stomach.”
“You could set a hundred divers working three seasons straight and still not clear it out.”
“It’s like a gold vein bleeding raw nuggets.”
“Crawl the Arafura’s bottom till you die—without luck you’d never hit a bed like that.”
“Thinking that’s another man’s treasure... makes me too sick to work.”

“That’s pure gut-rot talk.”

“It’s a blessing to be allowed to harvest, but if it’s just for one season, you’re better off not being allowed at all—that’s how it goes.”
“Don’t you agree, Mr. Fukao?”
“The scent of eel when you’re starving—it turns your stomach.”
“Wicked business.”

Yamazaki’s eyes took on a possessed look,

“Aoki-kun, isn’t there any way we can snatch that shellfish bed over to our side?”

When he said this in a shrill voice, Aoki laughed and,
“You’re thorough, Mr. Yamazaki.”
“Honesty’s a virtue.”
“Don’t know about taking, but discarding—that I can handle.”
“Once a barracuda settles in a shellfish bed’s valley, you gotta abandon it—no matter how good.”
“The barracudas here are seven-foot giants—snouts like chisel rods they snap forward like arrows.”
“Take one to the gut? Your intestines get ripped clean out.”
“Nothing scares divers more than that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“So, the barracuda talk.”

The next morning, when it was time to reach the shellfish beds, Aoki emerged onto the deck shouldering a long rock-drilling chisel rod that weighed about five kanme. After donning his diving suit and fastening the helmet, he descended the gangway backward to submerge half his body, received the chisel rod from Komine, then sank into the crystalline water.

As Fukao, Toda, and Yamazaki stood watching from the ship’s rail, bubble trails swirled across the surface tracing Aoki’s path along the seabed—until the line of bubbles abruptly veered straight toward where their rival fleet’s divers worked.

The idea of using an iron chisel rod as a barracuda substitute was an absurd conceit, but Toda executed it the next day, and Fukao followed suit the day after that. With such casual lethality that a mere jab to a working diver's spine could kill instantly, the scene took on the quality of an underworld noon—all things swaying faintly in dim light—rendering their own actions dreamlike and utterly divorced from any visceral awareness of committing murder.

When Fukao went to offer condolences to the fleet, Taishima appeared revitalized yet impatient as he began venting complaints.
Though likely not solely due to barracudas, they had abandoned their precious shellfish beds and taken their fleet toward outer channels—only to later hear reports they'd entered territorial waters where patrol boats opened fire and confiscated their mother ship and luggers.
Both father and son were said to have been confined together at Tulagi Prison on Florida Island—the Solomon Islands' administrative center.

Fukao and Toda harvested all they could, amassed a single fortune, then rode the falling pearl oyster prices back to mainland Japan.
It goes without saying that Fukao and Toda’s current assets were forged from the shells that formed their foundation.
Though clams are said to exhale mirages, this was no dream.
Through the prewar, wartime, and postwar periods, they never stumbled even once; their successes grew larger each time, their sense of superiority was gratified, and with abundant wealth and personal security, they reached a leisurely old age.

As for Yamazaki, he had been unable to abandon his old dreams and clung to the shellfish beds while believing the market price would return to $1,400 per ton; but after the outbreak of war between Japan and America, he was apparently captured by the Australian military and subjected to hard labor in Tulagi; then following the war's end, he was sent along with Taishima's eldest son to a camp in Rabaul where he performed menial tasks like kitchen errands—or so they heard from demobilized soldiers who had returned early.

V

The year began with spring-like warmth, but March brought a persistent chill—spring existed only on the calendar now, as a returned winter loitered over the garden’s half-open calla lilies.

Fukao rolled cigar smoke at the edge of his lips and blew it out, walking along the hedge toward the artificial hill when abruptly—

"Come to think of it, it's autumn in Australia now."

He muttered to himself, then stopped in his tracks and began pondering why thoughts of Australia—something he hadn't recalled in years—had suddenly come to mind.

Melbourne's climate was notorious for its erratic nature—March marked autumn in Australia, yet a single day could swing between summer heat and winter chill. Frost would form; thinking "It's cold," he would look at the garden to find hibiscus and calla lilies blooming profusely, then by noon the temperature would rise to around seventy-four degrees. It must have been the peculiar chill and the color of the calla lily flowers that had evoked the association. Now that he thought of it, he had often been afflicted by erratic weather in Australia and overcome by a sense of helplessness much like what he felt these days.

"Ah, so that was the reason."

It certainly seemed to be the climate's doing.
When he pinpointed the cause of the inexplicable unease, his mood suddenly brightened.

"If that’s the case, there’s no point moping around."
I’ll start going to the office tomorrow.

Still, that guy Toda had aged dreadfully.
He wouldn’t last much longer.
Seeing his daughter's wedding would be about the most he could hope for.

"The Three Realms Memorial Pagoda."
"He was still clinging to that idiotic notion."
As Toda had said, perhaps only we could have committed such brutality—as though jeering at those we'd slaughtered.

In the Japanese cemetery of Broome town stood a stone Three Realms Memorial Pagoda measuring five shaku in height.
On Obon night, after drinking himself into a stupor, Toda—

“This stone pagoda’s got a fine shape to it, don’t you think?”
“Since those bastards must be getting lonely down on the seabed, why don’t we have ’em make another one just like this and set it up by the shellfish beds?”
“Just imagining the Three Realms Memorial Pagoda standing on the seabed at twelve fathoms is poetic, isn’t it?”
“If we can console those bastards with something like this, wouldn’t that be a bargain?”

Toda presented this absurd idea.

Fukao and Yamazaki both laughed uproariously and resolved to carry it out. They ordered an identical one from a Japanese stonemason, transported it to the site the following season, took commemorative photos on deck flanking the pagoda, then had Aoki install it on a rock shelf beside the shellfish beds.

Toda had reaped what his arrogance sowed—rushing here in terror of past sins resurfacing—but Fukao had long known about Yamazaki and Taishima’s son returning. Yamazaki had shriveled into a pitiful state: thinning hair swaddled in rags like some scrawny mouse. Taishima’s son had grown shockingly tall, his face an obstinate replica of his father’s now caked in dust and grime—a dropout beyond redemption.

“It’s no one’s fault. They were doomed anyway.”

While eating something, he glimpsed through the car’s side window the figures of two people walking along the waterfront and couldn’t help smirking wryly at how accurately that biblical phrase—or whatever it was—“To those who have, more will be given; from those who have not, even what they have will be taken away”—pierced life’s truth.

Though Toda’s panic stood as an exception, even Fukao couldn’t remain indifferent to these ghosts of the past he’d banished to distant realms now returning at this unforeseen hour.
With extraterritorial crimes being zealously addressed as the issue of the moment, should accusations and charges erupt in commotion, unexpected injuries might well be sustained.
Having anticipated every contingency and executed every necessary countermeasure without fail, he had forged an unshakable resolve that wouldn’t flinch whether Yamazaki or Taishima’s son came charging—no matter their angle of attack.
There was no need for fear or dread.

Taishima’s son must deeply resent us, but it would be rather inconvenient if he considers that misfortune our fault.
There are cases where killing someone is unavoidable depending on the circumstances.

The Australia era was a life-and-death boundary.
When trapped in razor-sharp poverty like a sword's edge, one inevitably came to view society as war.
To survive, we had to deceive, suffer through lies, knock down the weak, and battle through each day.

For the three men, setting out to sea in a lugger had been a desperate attempt to either seize life or abandon it.

At that time too, they had faced a critical juncture—either abandon their future and return to the gloomy Melbourne existence where they struggled even for that day's bread, ultimately joining the ranks of dropouts, or open a path toward hopeful living through crime; it had been a razor's edge choice between these two options.
While I heard the inner voice saying one must not kill people, there was something that ceaselessly urged me to go ahead regardless.

Now then, truly powerful individuals remained unhindered by inner voices urging "do this" or "don't do that"—for their chosen objectives, they cast aside such things without hesitation.

In nature, countless killings occurred unseen, yet those responsible had never faced punishment.
How was it that those who committed acts a hundred times worse than our Malaita Island deeds could spend their later years in peaceful comfort without a shred of remorse?
Needless to say, it was because they drew infinite power from the realization that everything they had done—regardless of its nature—was right, undaunted by conscience or petty inner voices.
Whether it be conscience or God—should enemies discern what one secretly relied upon—they would strike there and bring you down.

“You have a visitor.”

“Who is it?”

“It is someone you are meeting for the first time, but he said you would understand upon seeing him.”

So they finally came.
Was it the old one or the young one?
It didn’t matter which.
If anything, it was long awaited.

"I know.
Take him to the veranda."

Fukao stepped up from the veranda into the tatami room and sat on a chair with an indifferent expression.

“Konnichiwa.
“Mr. Fukao, I’ve finally had the chance to meet you.”

An unexpected figure boldly appeared.
He was a foreigner in his mid-twenties with rimless glasses and an unassuming face, dressed in an Australian soldier's uniform with white spats. After placing the wide-brimmed hat—reminiscent of a bellboy's—he had been holding onto a corner shelf, he extended his hand with a beaming smile.

"You haven’t forgotten, have you?
I am Cox."

"Ah, Cox."

He was drawn in by the affability and inadvertently shook hands, but couldn't recall where he had met the young man.
It was a face he felt he had seen before, yet somehow hadn’t.
Cox, convinced that Fukao remembered him, lowered his long shanks onto the chair, a boyish earnestness lingering in his gentle smile as he launched into animated speech.

“Upon arriving in Toowoomba, when I mentioned your name to a friend, they recognized it immediately.”
“I never imagined you would become such a renowned figure.”
“Your Japanese is remarkably fluent—where did you learn it?”
“When I commanded the Tulagi camp, I learned from Japanese personnel.”

Tulagi... Damn, it was him. The journalist from the Port Darwin Journal who obtained materials from Taishima’s son and wrote about the Malaita disturbances. As Toda had also mentioned earlier, that article was indeed signed Max.

The moment I thought I had failed, my heart surged violently—even I could feel my complexion changing.

A divine strike—one might call it that? I had prepared myself flawlessly for Yamazaki and Taishima’s son, but never could have imagined someone like this would appear. I had made no mental preparation whatsoever for this man. I needed to regroup immediately. If I misspoke and gave him an opening, it would spell disaster. I had underestimated him—this might not be mere hearsay but evidence he gathered firsthand. After all, he was a journalist. Undoubtedly a formidable opponent. If he became serious about pursuing this, there would be no escape. Everything I had painstakingly built—wealth, status, business, family—would vanish instantly, reducing me to a common murderer.

The chair under his buttocks abruptly sank, and a greasy sweat began oozing across his forehead.
When he brought his hand to the back of his ear, the blood vessels pulsed violently.
A crucial juncture.
Stay calm.
Calm down.

“Max, I was helped by you once before.
I remember it well.”

He did his best to counter, but Max simply laughed it off.

“That isn’t true.
I was the one who received your kindness.
Moreover, I am Cox.
I am not Max.”

“Keep up the act all you want,” he thought.
“I’m desperate too.
I’ll get to the bottom of your intentions soon enough.
I’ll make you reveal exactly how far you plan to go.”

“Max, what are your impressions of Japan?”

“That would be... witnessing snowfall for the first time in my life.
I had seen snow atop Blue Mountain back home, but snow falling from the sky... blanketing the ground... proper snowfall, you see.
That vivid impression will stay with me until I die.”

How long are you going to keep spouting this nonsense?
Why don't you get to the point quickly?
Here I am burning with impatience as I wait.

“That must have been quite the experience.”
“You must be feeling quite moved.”
“But there’s no need to dodge things so thoroughly.”
“Why don’t you quickly get to the heart of the matter?”

Max pushed up his flaxen-colored eyelashes and stared fixedly at Fukao’s face, but soon broke into a smile,

“That’s correct. I should have mentioned that matter sooner. I had wanted to come report that I will be marrying Mr. Toda’s daughter, but hearing you were unwell, I refrained until today.”

What was this about Toda’s daughter?
What did marriage mean?
A pressurized sphere rolled through his mind, his ears buzzed hollowly, his thoughts scattering beyond recovery.
Max kept speaking.

"When I was a boy in Melbourne, I never imagined marrying a young lady from your country—the land of Mr. Toda and Mr. Yamazaki."
"What a curious bond this is."
"During your stay at my house, you gentlemen always went to the horse races, did you not?"

Fukao seethed and suddenly bellowed.

“Enough! Quit pretending.
Attack me already.
You think I’m scared?
I’m the man who killed five divers at Malaita’s seabed!
What’re you worth?”

Max peered worriedly into Fukao’s face.

“Mr. Fukao, isn’t it you who’s unwell? Shall I call the maid? You look pale.”

Fukao pushed Max’s face away with his hand and abruptly ran out of the room. There had to be a photograph somewhere showing five men gathered around the Three Realms Memorial Pagoda. Convulsed by the thought that he couldn’t die properly without making them see it, he rushed to the inner parlor, overturned a case until he found the photo, then came gasping back to the veranda. He slammed the photograph onto the table,

“Hey Max, you’re planning to sue me? You got evidence? No you don’t! If you wanna talk evidence, try gathering something like this! This stone pagoda’s standing on a rock twelve fathoms deep under Malaita’s shellfish beds! Go see it for yourself! Got complaints? Tell me after that! Come on—dive! Dive down and look! Can’t you see it right there? Hey—I said dive!”

With that, he rolled his eyes white and glared into Max’s face. Max supported Fukao’s shoulder from behind,

“Miss Maid, Miss Maid, please come quickly!”

he shouted toward the back.