Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

After Mayor Nakaji died of that rather unflattering illness called stomach cancer, the village presented a condolence gift of 1,000 yen—ostensibly to honor his lifetime service—on the grounds that they wouldn’t appoint a new mayor for two years. Yet barely a month had passed since this gesture when Tsukimoto, the disgraced former mayor with his notorious reputation, shamelessly reclaimed the mayoral seat. No wonder the villagers seethed with rage, thinking: “There’s a limit to how blatantly you can mock people.”

Nakaji was, in any case, the sort of mayor who could be described as neither a poison nor a cure—an utterly ordinary good-natured man. During his two terms totaling eight years, while he didn’t do any substantial work, he also never subjected the villagers to any real hardship.
Though they had received an enormous condolence gift of 1,000 yen, for the bereaved family—who muttered bitterly that compared to the money the old man had idly spent over eight years, it didn’t even amount to a tenth of that sum—even the considerable land they once owned had mostly been mortgaged, and what’s more, payments to doctors remained unsettled…

Now, as for “Tumor”—so called because of the bowl-sized lump protruding from Tsukimoto’s left cheek, a growth that led villagers to call him “Tumor” behind his back while never daring to use his real name unless in his presence—this man stood in stark contrast to Nakaji. During his single prior term, he had not only blown a deficit of several thousand yen but nearly doubled special household taxes. Worse still, he had gnawed away at the Agricultural Association and Credit Union until they were left crippled, then capped it all by resigning with an 800-yen “retirement bonus”—truly a figure bearing the mark of notoriety.

“That bastard was the village’s tumor.”
“If we let that bastard keep suckin’ off us forever, this whole place’ll dry up to bones.”

In light of this, when Nakaji was replaced, the villagers not only felt an immediate sense of relief—

“Why doesn’t he just drop dead already?”
Some even lamented things like: “As long as he’s alive—even if he’s not mayor—there’s no telling how he’ll gnaw on the village again.”

In fact, even after resigning as mayor, he meddled in the Village Agricultural Association presidency, the Fire Brigade Chief position—no, even intruded into the Village Council—maintaining a covert yet formidable presence.

This Tsukimoto Shinpei was now sixty-five years old—while he came from a respectable family lineage, he possessed no significant wealth.
In his youth, he prided himself on swordsmanship—tying bamboo sword tips with men, dō, and kote armor pieces as he traveled neighboring prefectures for “warrior training.” Later, he built a dojo on his estate to teach local youths. This self-proclaimed third-dan master leveraged his imposing frame of over five feet eight inches to develop political interests around age thirty, venturing out as a campaigner until he came to be recognized as this region’s so-called “formidable man.”

From the Village Council to the County Council, and after the counties were abolished, to the Prefectural Assembly—he climbed his way up. His booming voice that inherently intimidated others and his grotesque appearance—made increasingly monstrous by the tumor that had begun dangling from his left cheek around that time—combined with his membership in the Sei-kai political faction to lend him greater gravitas, whether through his position as a kendo instructor for the prefectural police department or rumors of his backchannel connections with local authorities.

Therefore, when he resigned from the prefectural assembly to become village mayor, newspapers and such went so far as to call him a "model mayor." Only those villagers who knew him well chuckled among themselves: "What a 'model mayor'! He’s too much of a big shot for this backwater village to handle!" “But—” came the interjections from those who argued with feigned seriousness. “Because he’s got connections, he’s the perfect fit for snatching subsidies from the government.”

In truth, he reconstructed elementary schools, encouraged villagers to cultivate wastelands and applied for subsidies on their behalf, and obtained every minor government grant available—but in exchange, village expenditures doubled immediately when Tumor became mayor, just as previously described.
This was also because nearly seventy percent of the village’s influential figures and council members were disciples from his dojo, who flattered him with cries of “Sensei, Sensei…” and made a habit of racing to town by car once a week without fail.

Incidentally, the walls of the newly rebuilt elementary school building peeled off, becoming the primary cause of his resignation.
As for those walls—they had actually cut reeds from the marsh, woven them into a lattice framework, attached it to the structure, and then plastered mud over the top.
However foolish and silent as wooden statues the villagers might be, they could not forgive that alone.
Admittedly, the official reason presented was "end of term, unable to continue due to illness"—but

After resigning, he had reportedly "dismissed" even Number Two—who had been stationed behind F Town—and while it was true that he himself had been rendered utterly "unfit for reappointment" due to alcohol-induced arteriosclerosis, this too proved no serious matter. He soon recovered, and his vigorous lifestyle continued unabated thereafter.
However, every significant channel for money inflow—leaving aside the minor ones—was being systematically blocked...
Fire Brigade Chief, County Agricultural Association President, Village Agricultural Association President… Even with all these positions combined, the pocket money for his three children—the eldest a habitual gambler, the second a delinquent playboy, the third bedridden with tuberculosis—could hardly be covered.
That said, this Village Agricultural Association President demonstrated exceptional skill in collecting membership fees but didn’t know the first thing about planting a single seedling.
Though it seemed unthinkable, his blustering remark before his lackey councilors—"If I can’t make ends meet, I’ll just have to become mayor again!"—triggered the forced revival of his reelection bid. This occurred despite the village’s policy to leave the mayoral seat vacant for two years to offset Mayor Nakaji’s condolence funds. Officially, it was framed as "Given these critical times, we simply cannot function without a mayor..."

Amidst the upheaval of the February 26 Incident, with the village producing a flood of gambling offenders, a senior council member from the Nakaji faction retiring, and five Tsukimoto loyalists now in place… thus did the Tumor reattach itself to the village once more.

II

In the shadows they seethed with rage, yet when it came to confronting him openly, not a single soul among the villagers stepped forward to say, "Then what shall we do about this?"
There was a profound reason for this.
The reason was this: five out of eight village council members were Tumor’s dojo disciples; over half the officials had once accompanied him to F Town’s restaurants to savor intimate atmospheres of a particular sort—presumably—during their outings; the village elders too were cut from the same cloth; and from school principals down to every district chief across the hamlets, none existed who weren’t either under Tumor’s influence or had their weaknesses firmly in his grasp.
When it came to weaknesses, even the village’s so-called elder leaders—those who at first glance seemed capable of standing against Tumor and easily crushing him—along with the landlords who formed their core, still adhered to "letting sleeping dogs lie..."
The reason these elder leaders formally turned a blind eye was because such men lurked in the shadows.
For instance, a few upstart small landowners—caught red-handed by Tumor during his dawn duck-hunting trips to the marshes as they stole harvested rice from paddies or illegally felled timber in mountain forests—had managed to settle matters with hefty bribes. Meanwhile, nearly all village landlords had once relied on Tumor’s devoted strong-arm tactics to smoothly collect tenant rice during the heyday of leftist activism.

As for the tenant farmers themselves, regrettably, they were nothing more than a motley crew.
“If we’re all gonna get devoured anyway, while those reformers get eaten tenfold, we’ll end up with just one—or two at most.”
“Safer to stay quiet and get chewed up than bow your head and get it bashed in.”
“Ah well—he’ll have another stroke soon enough. This time he’ll kick the bucket for sure.”

However, far from suffering another stroke, Tumor himself seemed to have regained his youthful vigor entirely since reassuming office—today a business trip, tomorrow another business trip, though no one knew where he went or what affairs he settled. Thanks to this, the village tax increases kept steadily creeping upward.
In other villages, the bicycle tax surcharge amounted to 20-30% of the base tax—in this village, it was 90%.
Whether it was the house tax or the land tax, every one of them came with that same level of surcharge.
They managed to dodge bicycle and oxcart taxes by borrowing permits from relatives in other villages, but such tricks were impossible when it came to house tax surcharges.
Agricultural Association fees, Water Management Union fees—these too ended up costing as much as double the previous year’s amount.
Even the villagers who put on a meek front, saying, "We can handle being nibbled a little..." were gradually beginning to scream internally.

“We thought having a ‘model mayor’ would improve the village, but far from it—we’re only getting poorer.”
“That’s nothing but a life-draining Tumor.”

“If someone doesn’t take down that bastard, we’ll be squeezed dry before long…”

And yet, even by that point, there still hadn't emerged anyone with enough mettle to declare, "Fine then, I'll step up and..."

As if mocking the villagers' helplessness and spinelessness, plans to squeeze out their meager savings began being implemented one after another: shrine restoration, roof replacements, and ceremonial robe donations to the school principal (funded through mandatory twenty-sen contributions from every graduate he'd taught since his appointment—regardless of wealth—where families with four or five graduates weren't uncommon, and even those who couldn't afford pencils for current students had to pay). The collected sum of over six hundred yen—nearly seven hundred—was settled without a single sen surplus or deficit as payment for gilt-edged ceremonial robes and accessories. This gold-braided uniform—its mismatched jacket and trouser hues so garish they might've come from Yanagiwara—cost over six hundred yen. To adorn this impoverished village principal with seventh-rank high official honors, Tumor Mayor had extorted stationery funds from schoolchildren.) Next emerged the school reconstruction issue. Though the expansion plan had been inherited from the previous mayor's administration and remained stalled, now came a new construction proposal demanding tens of thousands more.

“If he’s planning to line his pockets again by building another reed-walled school, we can’t just stay silent anymore...”

The villagers still grumbled in private, yet none dared to voice reckless opposition to the plan publicly.
No—they should have it done extensively, for from both educational and child welfare perspectives, the current leaky, draft-ridden school buildings were unacceptable. The general consensus among village authorities seemed to be that they should proudly showcase a splendid two-story reinforced concrete school building to neighboring villages.

Now, it was precisely as the village’s circumstances were unfolding in the manner described above that Tanabe Sadao cut short his wandering life in the Korea-Manchuria region and returned home.
To explain in detail, it was shortly after Mayor Tsukimoto’s re-election.
This young man had left a certain private university midway to enlist in military service, had been commissioned as a second lieutenant, and had returned home to marry—but with his father still managing their dwindling estate at the time, he came to see himself as utterly worthless unless working the fields alongside tenant farmers. Dispirited, he had returned to the South Manchurian lands where he had been stationed, drifting through several years as a South Manchuria Railway clerk, a Dalian company office worker, then an employee of the Government-General of Korea...
This time, however—with his father’s death coinciding with his mounting frustration at the career stagnation faced by those without academic connections—he resolved to return to his ancestral lands and their affairs…

He spent six months re-examining the family estate.
It appeared his father had pursued a rather lax management policy, for they had to relinquish half of their five chōbu of rice paddies, three chōbu of fields, and twenty chōbu of mountain forests to repay debts owed to the village credit union, F Town’s oil shop—a rice and fertilizer merchant—the Agricultural and Industrial Bank, the Land Perpetuity Company, and others.
The three-yen, five-yen loans to tenant farmers within the village and the delays in tax payments—he attempted to collect them but made no progress whatsoever; rather, upon faintly grasping the dire circumstances of those small-scale farmers’ lives, he even felt ashamed of his own ignorance in having pressed for repayment without understanding anything deeply.

While managing the owned land and employing one tenant farmer and a live-in maid to work their 1 chō and 8 tan of self-cultivated fields—this being the family business his father had maintained—calculating the finances based on his elderly mother’s shaky bookkeeping revealed a clear annual loss of 200 yen.
On top of this, if he could not expect accurate tenant rice payments or field tax revenues, even making interest payments to the credit union, banks, and mutual aid companies would prove no easy task.
Moreover, even were the oil shop to collapse entirely, there would be no recovering anything.
To make matters worse, from one direction came ceaseless demands: assigned donations for shrine repairs, special taxes per household, retroactive village agricultural association fees—all appearing at nearly double the figures compared to his father’s time.

The villagers’ talk of “It’s because we’re being devoured by the Tumor”—no, their seething discontent—that pitiable dark resentment which could never be voiced gradually began to reach him too. Acquaintances began subtly bringing up suggestions like, “Since the reelection is approaching, Master should run for the village council this time and take down the Tumor...”

During former Mayor Nakaji's era, his father had served on the village council and participated in governance. Moreover, if anything, his father had belonged to the Nakaji faction and had even been one who privately opposed Tsukimoto. When Tsukimoto resigned as mayor after leaving a deficit of several thousand yen, it was he—Tanabe's father—who had vehemently opposed Nakaji's shameless handling of the cleanup, going so far as to insist they make the Tumor wear a red garment... Yet this inherently timid elder ultimately proved unable to openly confront Tsukimoto any further.

Even so, this had become a grim "tradition" for the villagers.
The son of a father who had been staunchly anti-Tsukimoto likewise had no choice but to oppose Tsukimoto.
Those regarded as the anti-Tsukimoto faction throughout the entire village consisted of Deputy Mayor Sugiya and three other council members—along with over a dozen individuals selected from those styling themselves as reformists.
Though ousting Tsukimoto would by no means have been impossible if all these forces united, there was no one among them with the mettle to openly act.

“Unless some youngster shows real grit, this village’ll keep rotting in poverty.”
“Won’t you step up for the village’s sake…?”

When election season loomed, Tanabe Sadao found himself formally approached by two or three reformists.
He wasn’t without hesitation.
Yet part of him felt an almost playful urge—that sparring with the “Model Mayor” might stave off boredom—but more crucially, if Tumor’s reckless governance continued unchecked, his own household would face ruin within years.

“I don’t know if I can live up to your expectations, but at any rate, I suppose I’ll just have to run and see.”

Young Tanabe answered thus, folding his arms.

III

He managed to secure a seat on the village council by gathering more votes than anticipated.
Nearly all were re-elected, with the Tumor faction still holding five seats; those regarded as the opposition—though in reality a thoroughly unreliable bunch—numbered two, plus himself.
Among officials, aside from the deputy mayor, the old treasurer was considered anti-Tumor faction—but he too proved ineffective. As for how much resolve even Deputy Sugiya truly harbored: likely he had steeled himself like a self-deceiving tanuki during the two-year mayoral vacancy, convinced he would naturally rise to power—only to be infuriated when that Tumor bastard came waltzing in to seize control. That was probably the extent of it.
In truth, this middle-aged deputy mayor had been nothing more than a lowly household registry clerk during the era when the reed-walled elementary school was built—a man whom Tumor had berated without hesitation.
The other two council members—one a newcomer, young at thirty-five or thirty-six like Tanabe and seemingly principled—even he remained an enigma, his true allegiances unclear.

Ultimately, he had to steel himself for a "lone struggle."
Even Tanabe Sadao had considered this an unavoidable fact from the very beginning—once he had resolved to run—and thus made no show of surprise.

“Ah well—the villagers’ silent sense of justice counts for a million allies! I’ll do it alone for them—I’ll do it, I swear…”

Even so, it had finally become clear that the village itself—and he himself—had now run aground in dire circumstances.
It was the day of the hamlet’s festival, but when the alcohol had taken slight hold, people’s tongues broke through their rigid dam like this before the new council member.

“Anyway, let ’em come scrub this place raw—even if they uproot the whole damn village, it still won’t settle half what’s owed!”

When heads turned toward the booming voice, there stood Morihei—a tenant farmer who looked as though the Creator God had glued his head on upside down (facial features mercifully intact), with coal-black bristles sprouting from cheeks to chin while his polished scalp gleamed like an eggshell.
That he’d recently lost his last remaining field—1 tan and 5 se—to Agricultural Association “execution” was common knowledge, and now he launched into his tale with theatrical sweeps of arms, its true target being the Association’s rotten core.

“After all, you see—they put up a fancy signboard but don’t do a damn bit of actual business, yet those officers collect their salaries every month without fail…”

Then,

“It’s not like we haven’t been doin’ any work at all,” said a half-grayed old man who had long served as the Agricultural Association’s caretaker, his tone defensive. “The distribution of fertilizer, mediation of sundries... But y’see, it’s all ’cause you lot don’t even try to use the Association proper—that’s why it ain’t workin’.”

“Who’d ever use the damn thing? We’re the ones gettin’ used here! As for sundries—nothin’ but shelf leftovers from some shop, stuff that’ll tear if you wear it three days. Fertilizer? All fancy analysis charts… Fine, whatever—but when it comes to cash sales, ain’t no way us poor folks can hand over cash like that.”

“We’ve gotta reform—the way things are just won’t do…” someone muttered.

Then Old Man Morihei,

“Reform? Collapse? You think any of that’s possible now? They can’t even pay the interest on money borrowed from the Prefectural Union—so every damn term they go houndin’ bottom-feeders like us who can’t talk back over our piddlin’ loans… foreclosures here, seizures there… Keeps ’em floatin’ for now, but once that stops workin’, liquidation’ll come crashin’ down.”

“Just you wait—even if the directors scraped together a hundred times their assets, still wouldn’t be enough… Even dredgin’ up every last field and paddy from us members by the roots—still wouldn’t cover half of it…”

“How could things come to this—”

When Tanabe asked, Morihei swung his kettle-shaped head once and began, spitting through his jet-black beard.

“You think this mess started yesterday? Back in the Taishō 6 and 7 boom years—1917–18—they were handin’ out loans left an’ right to those so-called ‘upstandin’ folks,’ no decent collateral required! Then the bottom fell out—land prices crashed, rice dropped, silk cocoons… everything plummeted 80–90%! Nah—scratch that, even if that was all, it’d still be manageable! But Tumor’s lot started pushin’ unsecured ‘trust loans’—who knows how many accounts, tens o’ thousands o’ yen? Village officials, local bigwigs… rotten bastards, the lot of ’em! Just a single seal stamp an’ they’d approve hundreds, thousands in loans… Course every last one’s gone bad by now.”
“Interest—they can’t even collect that.”
“Can’t collect interest—no way they could! Even folks who still got some land can’t keep up with the banks these days—how’re they s’posed to give a damn ’bout that Agricultural Association run by the same crooked lot?”

Even in Tanabe’s household—though they held no official position—they were supposed to have contributed around twenty-five shares as one of the Agricultural Association’s founding committee members. If it came to liquidation, there was no telling how much compensation they would be saddled with.

From the inner workings of the Agricultural Association—a house of cards built on thin ice—it followed that the residents of S district, having doubted the association’s functionality from the start and borrowed mainly from town banks instead, were now increasingly suffering foreclosure proceedings.

“When it comes to banks, there’s no mercy.”
“It’s all well and good sneakin’ off to borrow money without nobody noticin’—but when push comes to shove, ain’t no mercy there!”

The land of S district had largely passed into the hands of wealthy townspeople, and it was said that yesterday’s landlords were now, in reality, tenant farmers.

Then the conversation shifted to the Village Agricultural Association, which also did no actual work and served solely as a salary source for Tumor, its chairman, and the officers beneath him.

Yet there, the conversation took an abrupt turn—finally concluding that to “govern” this corruption-riddled village without exposing its rot required a Tumor-like strongman of brute force, one who’d dismiss prefectural officials as trivial (there’s an anecdote about this)—no ordinary person could manage it. No—with mediocrity at the helm, the Agricultural Association would face liquidation demands, the Credit Union would be crushed, and inevitably, even the village office—the village itself—would collapse.

Because Tumor was holding on, the village was somehow managing to hold together—but now someone had come forward claiming that if he weren’t there, not a single ridge would remain before everything would be hauled off to other towns and villages.

Hearing such unexpected praise for Tumor, Tanabe couldn't help staring at the speaker in surprise.
Having assumed he had entered the race bearing all the villagers' hopes—even feeling somewhat heroic resolve—he now realized he must revise his assessment of Tumor and indeed of the villagers themselves, lest he fall into some unforeseen trap.

IV

The villagers’ utterly contradictory attitude toward Mayor Tumor—on one hand despising and rejecting him as a devouring demonic presence, while on the other hand relying on him as a forceful protector—how was one to interpret this?
Tanabe Sadao was forced to wander through this confusion for some time.

There, he recalled the basis for the Tumor praise—"a man of Tumor’s caliber, with his formidable physical prowess, who’d dismiss prefectural officials as trivial… and so on."
It was the village’s basic assets audit incident—something he had vaguely heard about—from the time when Tsukimoto, having quit his position as a prefectural assembly member to reign as “renowned mayor,” exercising his administrative prowess freely over his own village. Though it remained unclear whose instigation lay behind it—likely an anonymous letter from an anti-Tsukimoto faction—two officials from the prefecture had come unannounced to inspect the village coffers.
The village authorities, caught off guard, were thrown into disarray—turning pale and utterly helpless—but Mayor Tsukimoto, who had rushed over upon hearing the emergency, remained unperturbed. He ushered the two officials into the reception room, then positioned himself before the coffers and declared in that trademark voice of his that threatened to intimidate even seasoned men: “As recorded in this ledger, every last yen of the basic assets remains intact within.”
“I stake my neck on this testimony,” he continued, “so kindly return and report exactly that.”

However, single-mindedly convinced of their duty’s importance and inflexible in their ways, the prefectural officials refused to trust the mayor’s words and persistently demanded the key to inspect the coffers.
Then Mayor Tumor suddenly stood up, pulled the key from his pocket, and declared, “Well—here’s the key.
“But if you refuse to trust my statement, then I’ve got my own resolve—no—I’ll make you believe it.”

No sooner had he spoken than he grabbed the chair he’d been sitting on, flipped it upside down, raised it high overhead, and fixed the two men with a glare.
The two officials beat a hasty retreat after barely completing their inspection seals.

Reconsidering the man who had delivered that renewed paean to Tumor, Tanabe Sadao now believed he understood the reason behind it.
He too wanted his coffers—that which would surely be emptied if audited—to be protected through Tumor’s brute strength.
And for that purpose, he was calculating that there was no helping it even if he got devoured to some extent.
"Hmm, among the villagers there are those who think that way—in other words, there are those in a state where they need Tumor."

"In that case, which side should I represent?"
"The side that attacks him like a demon? Or the side that wants their property on thin ice protected even if it means being devoured some...?"

Amidst all this, the day of the village assembly arrived.
Despite hearing that usually getting half the members to attend was considered good enough, on that day alone—perhaps due to its significance as a “face-to-face meeting” (with food and drink provided)—they came trickling in one by one.
The venue was on the second floor of the village office—though generally speaking no one used such formal spaces—so a twelve-tatami room adjacent to administrative offices became their meeting hall.
In a hearth cut into its center hung a Seto-polished iron kettle already grown moderately warm.
Of course its contents weren’t mere hot water.
The Village Mayor had not yet arrived when councilmembers began taking small sips while chatting around their Deputy Mayor.

Soon, Tumor, imposing in his morning coat, made his grand entrance.
A man who looked nothing like sixty-five—six feet tall and portly enough to be called salt-and-pepper-haired though his locks were not yet so gray—with neatly combed-back hair, a clean-shaven ruddy face, and the great mass of flesh dangling beneath his left cheek: this swayed ponderously with each step, his entire face moving in tandem.

Having arrived in silence, he settled heavily in front of the alcove, lit a cigarette, then slowly surveyed everyone present.
When Tanabe and another newcomer greeted him at what they deemed the opportune moment, the Village Mayor showed no sign of acknowledgment—merely nodding once with an “Ah…”—then exhaled a plume of smoke, ignored the bitter tea the janitor poured, and abruptly launched into a lewd joke.

“Last night was a mess—I’d have been fine if they’d just hauled ‘Shinroku’ off, but the bastard refused… right there in that damn place. That piss-stinking Haako from ‘Tsuru no Ya’—y’know, the guy with those big round eyes like some half-assed pretty boy—soon as he saw me, he made this goddamn weird face—”

“Huh? That bitch?” the Deputy Mayor shrilled.

“So the bastard won’t come near me no matter what. Call him, and he turns his back even harder—goddamn it.”

“So after all that complaining, Mayor—you ended up getting laid and stayed out late this morning, huh?”

This was one of the village council members—Sawaya, proprietor of the village’s rice and fertilizer business.

“Well, if you’re not complaining… guess I’ve given up hope too. No matter how much I call, she won’t come near… Guess I’ve finally hit the age where women start abandoning me. Ha ha, ha ha ha…”

“Now then—” The Mayor stopped laughing and, without so much as glancing at the sake one of the council members was pouring out, declared, “Ain’t no particular agenda today—I’ve got to get going now…”

And he looked at the clock.

“What’s with today…”

“That petition business again—goddamn Tokyo trip.”
“Every single day, makes me wanna puke.”

Lumbering forward with his tumor swaying, Mayor Tumor departed.
The mayors along the J Line had been pushing for railway electrification to central M City since two years prior—now the project finally showed signs of materializing.

“Must be hell hauling that face around for petitions,” one council member chuckled, glancing at the Mayor exiting through the office gate.

“But if he were to lobby ’em with that face of his, even ministers an’ vice-ministers’d cave in, wouldn’t they?”
“All bark an’ no bite?”

“Well then, guess I’ll head out for some petitioning now—though this face of mine ain’t worth a damn.”

“I’m off petitioning too—gotta get moving from there before the demands come in.”

Two or three at a time, they all went their separate ways. Those who remained passed around sake while engaging in idle chatter or watching shogi games.

On the second day of the village assembly, not a single soul showed up. On the third day, four or five people gathered, and after more idle chatter and sake, they were told anecdotes about the petition delegation members by the Mayor—back from visiting the Home Ministry—and that was that.

As for official business, it amounted to post-restoration cleanup of the village shrine—tasks like disposing of remaining lumber and bamboo cuttings, improving drainage in front of the shrine so worshippers wouldn’t struggle during rains… Such matters came from the deputy mayor’s mouth, met with unanimous approval—no objections, no objections.

……That was all.

V

The following month’s village assembly proved much the same—devoid of any agenda worth mentioning, reduced to idle chatter and sake sipped from teacups.
And yet, for just that alone, a daily allowance of two yen—since three days would make six yen—it was deemed “impressive.”
No—if we’re speaking of impressive things, the other village council members—the Tumor faction members—held concurrent roles like “such-and-such committee member” or “such-and-such investigator,” wandering around practically every three days to grandiosely inspect matters that could have been checked in passing anyway (like the state of stone bridges in random rice fields or preventive measures against epidemics), all while collecting their daily allowances. Naturally, they even received allowances when substituting for the Mayor at events requiring his presence (while he was away on business). Beyond this, the village office staff themselves went out to neighboring villages for “surveys” under the pretext of their assigned duties—shrines/temples, civil engineering, sanitation, taxation…—thereby obtaining travel expenses.

Not only that, but the Tumor faction members—though no one knew exactly what—were perpetually holding meetings at eateries or else sneaking off to Tumor’s house and spending time there until midnight.

Tanabe, of course, still did not know that such activities actually constituted the real village assembly—that gathering at the office on the fixed monthly date was merely about making a brief appearance for the allowance’s sake.

Thus, he remained oblivious to the true intent even when Sawaya Rice and Fertilizer Merchant casually dropped by two or three days before the month’s village assembly day—when next year’s budget proposal was finally to be discussed—under the guise of fertilizer sales and extended an invitation as follows.

“There’s a drinking party at Tumor’s place tonight.”

The origins and background of “Ohimachi” were unclear, but it had come to mean gatherings where close comrades would get together for drinks.

“How about showing your face…” Sawaya slicked a hand over his bald pate as he spoke, putting on his soft cap and swinging a leg over his bicycle. “They’re all supposed to come—why don’t you join us…”

“Yeah, well, anyway, I don’t drink much, and Tumor’s dirty stories don’t exactly thrill me.”
“He does come out with some pretty chilling stuff, you know… with that…”

"Ha ha ha ha!" With a booming laugh, Sawaya went on his way—though when he later thought about it…

Tanabe believed that the fundamental issue of village governance reform lay not in matters like the shrine grounds or new school construction, but rather in thoroughly examining and reorganizing this budget—or rather, reducing it as much as possible—and putting a stop to village officials and council members idly collecting their daily allowances, thereby alleviating the villagers’ burdens.
And so, he resolved that this upcoming assembly was precisely the opportunity to fulfill his true calling—indeed, he had steeled himself for the very real possibility that it might even lead to a direct confrontation with Tumor.

Retrieving bound documents from the village office, he began meticulously examining the previous year’s and the year before’s budget statements along with their corresponding income and expenditure reports.

The revenue and expenditure totals—27,639 yen and 27,877 yen for the respective fiscal years—showed little variance between them and balanced perfectly on paper. Yet upon closer inspection, numerous expenditures appeared either redundantly allocated or easily diverted through accounting sleight-of-hand: meeting expenses of 211 and 230 yen; basic property formation costs ranging from 581 to 598 yen; miscellaneous expenditures between 279 and 301 yen; along with clearly overlapping categories like epidemic prevention fees, sanitation expenses, and waste disposal costs. Even the line items under "meeting expenses"—stationery, fuel, paper, tea, and sundries—proved indistinguishable in substance from other sections' miscellaneous expenditures.
Furthermore, there was a separate category labeled "Temporary Expenditures," which also listed items like miscellaneous expenses and statistical fees—duplicated here as well.
The alcohol that everyone always guzzles during village assemblies—where exactly does that come from?
Surely it couldn’t be coming from the village office funds—but upon scrutinizing them, that turned out not to be the case.
The figure of 8,103 yen in village office funds represented salaries and temporary allowances for officials.

“Bastard!” Tanabe Sadao muttered.
In short, reports were nothing more than formalities—perfunctory exercises—and this was by no means limited solely to those of the village office.
The mechanism lay deeper within.
I had to get a firm grip on that thing.
If I didn’t do that, I couldn’t take down Tumor.

Now then… Tanabe pushed the documents aside and rested his cheek on his hand, thinking.
Assuming for now that taking down Tumor wouldn’t be an issue—after all, his weaknesses weren’t limited to revenue reports; they were scattered everywhere, and even the Deputy Mayor who resented him had plenty of dirt on hand—the real question was how those factions relying on him like guard dogs would react. The Credit Union members, Agricultural Association cronies… They believed that just as Tumor had once physically protected the village coffers, their own coffers were now safeguarded by the esteemed Mayor Tumor’s very existence.

But no matter how much they were being protected by Tumor’s presence, in the end, it could only be a matter of time. By reorganizing the meager lands of nearly illiterate, powerless tenant farmers to balance the upper echelons’ accounts, the Agricultural Association’s internal affairs remained a financial inferno—no, rather, the situation was only worsening further. They conducted no proper projects yet meticulously collected every salary owed; well... whether three or five years remained unclear, but Tumor must have had his mortal limits after all—or rather, one could hardly have been wrong to think the illustrious Mayor’s imposing gravitas was diminishing year by year now.

If this entire village is to be carried off root and stem to the town’s wealthy, wouldn’t it be better for it to be taken clean away as soon as possible?
And everything will be made anew, starting fresh from here on out.
I'll rebuild the village.

While on one hand they denounce and reject Tumor by claiming they're "being devoured," on the other hand, their very reliance upon him as their illustrious Mayor and great protector finds its resolution there.
While relying on him as a guard dog, deep down they truly despise him as an intractable village tumor.
If everyone had acted with the resolve to strip themselves bare, there would have been no problem.

Moreover, poor folks like that Morihei—since the entire village hardly needed guard dogs anymore—should naturally stand by me and join forces when I confronted Tumor. After all, no fool would willingly let themselves be devoured even a single penny by a tumor.
However, they simply lacked the courage to do anything about it.
They were just spineless.

The long-awaited budget meeting arrived.

It was a disagreeably cold day of falling sleet when Tanabe Sadao turned up his coat collar and passed through the village office gate precisely on time—but unlike ordinary days with no agenda items to speak of, today was the day for discussing the village's most critical economic issues.
Despite having arrived fired up himself, thinking the other council members would also show their tense faces early, even as time passed, no one else came—leaving the village office practically deserted except for one young clerk busily mimeographing something in the administrative office.

“What the hell happened to you all?”

Swinging his rigid arms, he headed to the administrative office and peered inside to find the clerk irritably straightening freshly printed sheets while correcting numbers with a pen.

“What is this—”

When he snatched up what the clerk had been snickering at… it turned out to be none other than today’s budget proposal slated for discussion.

“Huh… Well, once these are all ready, show me a copy.”
—I wish they’d hurry up and get here.
“What do they think today’s crucial meeting even is?”

“Seems they were up late last night at Tumor’s place, so today might be…”

The clerk continued to smirk.

“Last night…?”
“Did something happen with them last night?”

“At Tumor’s place… we all kinda prepped this stuff. ‘Prep’ makes it sound provisional, but really, it’s pretty much decided already…”

“Huh…” Tanabe gaped.
A seething heat swelled beneath his ribs.

At that moment, Handa Funanosuke—a newly elected council member like himself—came ambling over.
Unable to wait any longer to reach the stove’s warmth,

“Hey you—last night or the night before, did you gather at Tumor’s place?”

“Just passing time...”

“Don’t know specifics myself, but seems the budget meeting was held at Tumor’s private residence.”

“Huh, I don’t know.”
“I just stopped by for a bit in my free time—but then Sawaya went out of his way to invite me, so…”
“Huh… So Sawaya’s bastard went out of his way to invite you…”
“To your place…?”
“He came by, but they didn’t invite me.”
“Well, that… I mean, it’s just… how it seems.”
“Damn it! You’re making fools of us—”

Finally—now nearing noon—a few village council members arrived, so Tanabe said nothing further, though inwardly…

And before long, Tumor too arrived.
Ignoring Tanabe and Handa, he asked, “Is the mimeograph ready?”
“Ah, right. Then go over it carefully and thoroughly. I’ve got to get going...”

Tanabe glared sharply at the village mayor.

“Mayor, are you going out again today?”

“Ah, there’s important business… No—even two of me wouldn’t be enough.”

“The budget discussion—”
“Let’s do it tomorrow or something.”

He brusquely brushed it off, pushed open the office door with his shoulder, and lumbered out.

Tanabe grew increasingly frantic, but there was no lifeline to grasp.
Once Tumor was gone, the other council members had the janitor bring out sake and began their usual ritual of sipping away...

Six

The next day, Tumor—having arrived unusually early—huddled in whispered consultation with his faction’s council members in the mayor’s office. Eventually declaring, “We’ll use the conference room today. Everyone—let’s get moving…,” he led the way upstairs with lumbering authority.

There was something performative about this display, yet Tanabe Sadao remained wholly unsurprised. He had sensed that complacency would leave him voiceless—that the budget proposal would barrel through unchanged (as he’d learned was customary)—and thus had formally notified the deputy mayor of his intent to question specifics and demand revisions.

When he took his seat, the Village Mayor inflated his massive tumor even more prominently and slammed into the front-facing chair—his face perfectly matching the expression “like someone who bit into a bitter insect,” sullenly glaring at the wall or some indeterminate spot.

“Regarding this year’s budget proposal, it appears Mr. Tanabe has proposed revisions…” Deputy Sugiya began somewhat abruptly, having barely settled into the seat beside the Village Mayor.
Then: “Mr. Tanabe…”
He signaled with a slight eye movement.
“Broadly speaking—”
From his seat, Tanabe pressed on: “Compared to other villages, our village’s tax burden appears disproportionately heavy—for example, even considering surcharges like the boat and vehicle tax, other villages only impose 20 to 30 percent of the base rate.”
“Yet here we levy 80 to 90 percent.—Then there’s the most critical issue of the special household tax, where our village imposes a rate of 2 sen 3 rin per yen of income… Given these points, shouldn’t we consider ways to slightly reduce the villagers’ burden?”

“On what grounds are you saying that?” the Village Mayor suddenly demanded in a threatening voice.

“What grounds… It’s not that there’s any particular…”

“You have no basis.”
“Then are you just opposing for opposition’s sake…?”

“It’s not that there’s no basis, but…”

“Then state it.”

“That is… you see… the villagers’ living standards…”

“That’s your basis? Do you know how much alcohol the villagers drink and tobacco they smoke in a year? Do you know how many sake shops exist in this village and how many koku of sake are sold?”

Tanabe fell completely silent.

“Do you know?” the Village Mayor snapped.

“Well… that’s still…”

“What do you mean ‘still’? You don’t even know that, yet you talk about villagers’ lives?”

“However—” Tanabe forced down his pounding chest. “Looking at the budget, there seem to be many areas for cost reduction.”
“For example, meeting expenses…”

“We’ve cut every possible expense without your advice.”

“However…”

“What do you mean ‘however’?”
“Is there even a single wasted sen in this budget?”
“With such scarce revenue, how could further savings or anything of the sort even be possible?”

“I don’t think it’s impossible.”

“You think it’s possible…? Even if you think so, it can’t be done. If you say it’s possible, then go ahead—explain exactly where and how, point by point.”

The Village Mayor sprang to his feet and lunged toward Tanabe’s seat. For an instant, Tanabe too sprang to his feet, but—

“That’s…that…uh…”

Under Tumor’s fierce glare, his head spun, and he no longer had any idea what he should say.

"So... that's all?"
"Right."
"Right..." The Village Mayor laughed loudly.
Then he took his seat and continued in an altered tone: "What about the rest of you gentlemen?"
"Any objections?"

No one spoke.

“If there are no objections, why don’t we proceed to a vote?” interjected the elder council member.

“Resolution—no objections.”

“No objections,” everyone said.

Crushed, Council Member Tanabe kept his face lowered for some time, his pale, paper-thin lips quivering uncontrollably.

About a week later, Tanabe, wearing work clothes and an old hat, was sowing spring vegetable seeds—green beans, shepherd’s purse, yams—in the wild tea field behind his house alongside his servant, while also preparing seedbeds for tomato and pumpkin seedlings.
He had resolved to return to being a village peasant—starting with growing vegetables and wheat and barley, and eventually preparing rice fields.

At that moment, Ishimura Fujisaku, who handled affairs at the Industrial Cooperative, appeared out of nowhere. This fifty-year-old man lacked any particular talents but belonged to a class that faced no hardship in making ends meet; he was a thoroughly carefree individual who openly claimed he attended the Cooperative “as something of a pastime.”

“Well now, this won’t do—oughta quit playin’ at bein’ a peasant,” he said, suddenly plopping down on a nearby tree stump and pulling out his pipe. “No—heard you really gave ’im a thrashin’ t’other day. My my, none but a young warrior like Mr. Tanabe here could’ve pulled that off.”

“Wh-what... What’re you talkin’ about?”

Tanabe dimly realized what was going on but deliberately laughed in that manner and continued sowing the seeds.

“What do you mean ‘what’…? You’re the one who shut up that Tumor bastard so tight he couldn’t even squeak! No—truth is, in this whole damn village, ain’t a soul who can get a word in edgewise ’fore that man. Pathetic state of affairs.”
“But there you were, standing square in proper stance and crossing blades with him…”
“Quit your nonsense.”
“Nonsense... You call this nonsense?
“When we heard ’bout it，felt like our chests got cleared right out—honest. A human growth like that—no damn good.”
“Hah—he’s yesterday’s news now.”
“The young’uns gotta take charge of village reforms…”

Tanabe Sadao had no choice but to continue sowing seeds without stopping, still smirking as before.
Just why had this man come here, and what purpose was he making such a fuss for?

“Is there something you need, Mr. Ishimura?” Tanabe asked, unable to contain himself any longer.

Then Old Fujisaku tapped his pipe against the tree stump—ton-ton—

“Well, ain’t got much business here, but this…” he said, taking out a written notice from his breast pocket.

From the Industrial Cooperative, on the grounds of the fiscal year change, came a demand notice for the debt incurred during his father’s time—principal and interest totaling 2,130-odd yen.

What could possibly explain this sudden, unexpected demand?—Ishimura Fujisaku addressed Tanabe Sadao, who stood gaping at the notice while tilting his head in confusion.

“Well then, I’ll leave this in your hands.”

After hurling this at him, Old Fujisaku briskly started walking away.

“Wait—hold on a second.”
“Something you need?”

“This… well, ain’t that—my place… no—are they sending these demand notices to everyone else with debts too?”

“Well, hard to say.”
“As for that—well, I…”

“But you’re handling clerical affairs…”

“Clerical work’s clerical work,” he said, “but for a bottom-rung guy like me... well, ’taint my place to say.”

He ambled off.

“This is absurd,” muttered Tanabe.
“Damn it—what’s this? ‘If repayment isn’t made by the deadline, we’ll have no choice but to… enforce… execute measures…’ Huh? Damn it—fine! Try it then, you bastards…”

Now, the next day, Sawaya’s clerk came. “Ah, sir,” he began—deliberately using “sir”—“about that recent village council meeting…” He repeated much of what Old Fujisaku had said, then added: “Why, even if you marched ten ri in every direction from here, rumors about Tumor Mayor still wouldn’t reach the edges.”
“Matter of fact, folks are saying he needs exterminating…”

When Tanabe irritably asked his business, it turned out to be another demand notice like the Cooperative’s—only larger this time, principal plus interest totaling 3,100-odd yen.

Subsequently, Tanabe received demands from both the Agricultural and Industrial Bank and the mutual aid company—all citing the fiscal year change as their reason, each breaking precedent by demanding the total principal plus interest—it felt as though he were being served a bankruptcy declaration.

An invisible enemy was bearing down on him from all sides.
Certainly... Damn it, what could that be?
At that time, land prices had hit rock bottom, with paddy fields in the region selling for 300 to 350 yen per tan and upland fields capped at 150 to 200 yen.
If he were to deal with each creditor individually, even surrendering his entire house and property wouldn’t suffice.

How did it come to this... My credibility...
Rather, by having confronted Tumor—he had resolved to see it through to the end, taking that confrontation as his starting point.
Wasn't I supposed to be the one who had earned the villagers' trust?

Yet... thinking about it gave him a headache.
For two or three days he had shut himself away in a room and, with the inventory of his assets at hand, was finally forced to begin devising an escape plan.

“You’ve got a police officer here.”

Her worried face appeared as she slid open the shoji screen...
It was at this very moment—when he could no longer devise any countermeasures and even began to feel a reckless resolve to abandon everything and flee once more to places like Manchuria or Korea—that...
"What could it be, you..." his wife pressed on with worry.

“What’s this about? No reason… I shouldn’t have any business with the police…”

“Good day… Mr. Tanabe—” called the policeman’s voice.

“Oh… Is there something you need?”

When he went out, the village policeman engaged in overly polite small talk before—

“Ah, disturbing you while busy—”

—he said, producing a slip of paper and thrusting it at Tanabe.

“Well now—nothing serious. They mentioned wanting to ask some things, so likely that.”

“Hmm… Day after tomorrow… personal appearance required… no proxies allowed… hmm.”

Tanabe contorted his flat face, sniffing his nose repeatedly as he mouthed those phrases two or three times over.

"It's nothing serious... Well now, I hear you were thoroughly crushed at that council meeting the other day. The villagers must be overjoyed."
"Truth be told—not that it's my place to say—Tumor's methods all this time... well, you know how they go..."

"Does this... mean I truly have to go in person after all?" Tanabe said with a pained grimace, his voice escaping like a groan.

“Well… after all—it has to be you yourself…”

The next day, Tanabe Sadao went to F Town’s police station but did not return even by nightfall—nor had he come back by the following day either.

Rumors spread that he was undergoing harsh interrogation alongside about a dozen villagers who had supposedly received "clean votes" bought from him in an election violation.
Then,

“Ah, what’s all this about?” someone said pointedly to Tanabe’s wife.
“Well ma’am, if you pay a visit to Tumor Shrine, he’ll be sent home quick enough.”
“Ain’t no other way, I tell ya.”

＊ ＊ ＊

After the aforementioned events, approximately one and a half years had passed.

The Marco Polo Bridge Incident that had erupted that summer had taken an unexpected development, and now Japan and China had been plunged into a state of all-out war.

Needless to say, it was a day not long after our military’s string of victories and the fall of the enemy capital Nanjing when none other than our Tanabe Sadao—wearing a suit with his overcoat collar turned up high—was pedaling his bicycle toward F Town.
Incidentally, it should be noted that he had indeed been investigated for election law violations as rumored, but thanks to his wife’s daily pilgrimages to Tumor Shrine, the matter had been resolved without incident.
There had been no other choice.
Tanabe Sadao bent his principles and went to offer his thanks to the Village Mayor.
Then the Village Mayor, in stark contrast to his manner from before, said, “Ah, well—it’s nothing serious.
“I don’t want any criminals coming out of my own village either…” he added with a dry chuckle.

“By the way, you—” After indulging in some meaningless chatter, the mayor continued, “Are you busy today? If you’ve got nothing pressing, I’d like you to run an errand to the prefectural social affairs department.”

And so it was that from then on, like the other village council members, he found himself obliged to frequent Tumor’s office periodically—and through Tumor’s connections, matters with the Agricultural Association, the bank, and even Sawaya got sorted out. On that particular day too, he was once again acting as Tumor’s proxy, heading out to attend the opening ceremony of the new munitions factory that had been built in F Town.

It was a winter of early sunsets, and before long, the surroundings had grown dim, with travelers on the highway having become scarce.
Tanabe was already envisioning the after-party following the banquet’s conclusion as he whistled the then-popular “Shanghai Ballad” with evident satisfaction.

“Damn it, that bastard’s such a stubborn son of a bitch.”
He said aloud.
It was probably something about a prostitute from the licensed quarter—the one called so-and-so.

Be that as it may, meanwhile, Sukejirō, the manservant of the Tanabe household—at that very moment—had slid open the shoji screen of a trading post along the marsh bank at the edge of the hamlet to buy tobacco and entered inside.

“Hey there, young fella—” someone called out to him.
When he looked, it was that bearded Morihei from the same hamlet. Morihei, having apparently earned some wages by driving a carriage all day that day, was happily gulping down cupfuls of sake.

“How ’bout a drink?” Morihei pressed with a chuckle.

“Whoa... When it comes to booze—hell, I can’t even take the smell.”

“So what’s with Danbo (Master) tonight… Seems he’s rushed off to town in a hurry.”

“I don’t know, really. Lately, the master’s always goin’ out—nothin’ but actin’ as Tumor’s proxy…”

Then, “Is that true, young fella?” Morihei grinned oddly. “They say your Danbo’s got a tumor startin’ to sprout on his left cheek these days…”

“We don’t know.”

“Don’t know… Take a good look.”
“They say it’s startin’ to form, y’know.”

“Ain’t no such thing.”

“But I’m tellin’ ya—when I asked where he was goin’ earlier… he just mumbled ‘doctor’ an’ tried hidin’ his chin with that overcoat, but couldn’t even manage it proper.”

“Tumors multiplyin’ everywhere—this whole damn village ain’t worth salvagin’ no more, hah…”

When the shop mistress laughed, Brother Suke finally caught on. “Oh… That all it was…” he muttered, face burning, before bolting out the door.