Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On that Morning of the Seven Herbs following the clearing—when the heavy snow of unprecedented recent years, which had silenced all Edo’s clamor throughout yesterday, ceased with the nine bells of Tōeizan Mountain—there was no wind, the sky clear as a Venetian glass mirror, while an unseasonable New Year’s warmth had seeped even into the soil of the omoto plant’s pot. Santoan Kyoden, the gesaku author, had resolved to visit Hakone’s hot springs with Okiku—his new wife retrieved from the Ogiya brothel—despite having drafted less than half his planned manuscript for the yellow-covered book Shingaku Hayasomegusa since year’s end; yet as two days stretched to three and three to five through repeated delays, today again found him unable to fulfill this aim. Moreover, with Kyoden—who by New Year’s custom should have been curled up in Yoshiwara—staying home for the first time in years, he had likely drained all resolve for writing night and day, ceaselessly pestered by hospitality demands from well-wishers and hangers-on who came flocking upon hearing of his rare domestic presence. “There’s no escaping New Year’s formalities,” he could only impress upon Okiku through appeals to circumstance, having no other means.

However, now that the New Year pine decorations had been removed and all expected friends had finally come and gone—leaving him free from obligations—Kyoden retreated into his four-and-a-half tatami study adorned with a plaque reading “Chrysanthemum Study” immediately after celebrating the seven-herb porridge, intending to complete his manuscript in one sustained effort before facing renewed demands from his publisher. He had just poured water into his inkstone. “Master,”

From beyond the shoji screen came Okiku's voice, still retaining its courtesan lingo. “Ho there.”

From the narrow gap of the slightly opened shoji screen, Okiku's voice—her face peeking out alone—was exceedingly low. "A visitor has come." "Huh?" Santoan Kyoden placed the inkstick beside the inkstone with a weary sigh.

“Who is it? You’ve had quite the trek through this snow.” “He says it’s his first time calling, but he’s a shabby-looking man of about twenty-four or twenty-five.” “Where’d he say he came from?” “He said something about Fukagawa.” “What? Fukagawa.” “That’s absurd.” “—Can’t be helped.” “Since he’s come all the way from such a far-off place, can’t exactly refuse to meet him.” “I’ll be right there, so show him to the parlor.” “Shall I show him in?” “What a pain, but I can’t exactly refuse.”

Even so, Santoan Kyoden—feeling it was just as well he hadn’t begun writing a single line—soon after Okiku left, changed from his work jacket into a haori and appeared in the parlor that doubled as the family room. By the threshold of the parlor, just as Okiku had described, sat a gaunt man of twenty-four or twenty-five with an unkempt beard and an unremarkable appearance, wearing a hakama with frayed pleats hiked up to his chest, waiting deferentially. “So it’s you. You’re the one who’s come claiming to have business with me!”

Kyoden's words were thoroughly blunt. "Yes, that is correct," came Bakin's reply with practiced humility. "I am Bakin—an inexperienced youth residing behind Fukagawa Nakamachi—and though impertinent of me to impose so early, I have come seeking your guidance with a certain request." "I don't know what business you've got," Kyoden retorted gruffly before softening his tone through gritted teeth. "But you're too damn far over there." He shoved the brazier toward Bakin with his foot. "Quit hovering at the threshold and sit properly."

When he saw how courteous the man was despite his unimpressive appearance, Kyoden too must have begun to feel some goodwill. He slightly pushed the brazier toward his guest and urged him to move closer. “In that case, I shall gratefully accept your invitation and allow myself to enter the parlor.” The young man who had introduced himself as Bakin now entered inside the threshold on one knee and bowed his head once more. “So this request of yours—what exactly is it about?” “It is nothing extraordinary, but might I humbly request that you take this Bakin into your esteemed circle of disciples, Master?”

“So that’s what it was after all.” Santoan Kyoden, who had been expecting something, heard this and spat out words of disappointment like someone vomiting bile.

“Yes.” “That ain’t no proper ‘yes.’ You come struttin’ in here all formal-like claimin’ you got business with me—figured maybe you wanted to jaw about somethin’ wild enough to fuel a whole damn readin’ book. But turns out it’s just hot air! Expectations clean dashed—! Well hell, if it’s discipleship you’re beggin’ for, might not slam the door outright. But first off—you there, lookin’ like some backwater rube—you ever even cracked open a single yellow-covered book or jest book in your miserable life?”

“I have.” Bakin remained, to the very end, as serious as stone. “What’ve you read?” “First, regarding your esteemed works: beginning with *The Yellow-Covered Book: Ohana Hanshichi*, authored in An’ei 7 [1778]; followed by the following year’s publication *The Three Scrolls of Playboys*; in the summer festival of its subsequent year, *The Tale of Ono no Takamura*; and upon reaching the Tenmei era [1781–1789], *Kuchi Manmen Tori*; *Seven Smiling Faces of Modern Times*; *Your Esteemed Commercial Works*; *The Unprepared Courtesan’s Impromptu Feast*; *Akushichi Hengeme Kagekiyo*; *A Thousand Ryo for One Edo Spring Night*; *Yoshihara Toothpicks*; and *Midnight Rice Soup*.” “Furthermore, regarding your esteemed publications from last year—from *One Hundred and Three Measures of Potato Hell* to the reading book *The Popular Great Sage Biography*—I have humbly perused every single one without omission.”

“Hmm. That so?” As he listened, Santoan Kyoden’s knees had pushed the brazier aside and slid off the cushion. “You’ve read them all thoroughly, have you?” “Yes, thanks to your esteemed guidance...” “But tell me—what do you do for a living now?” “At present, I cannot claim to be engaged in any particular occupation, but I once humbly served in a hatamoto’s residence and had the privilege of studying medical arts under Yamamoto Sōei.”

“Oh, so you’re a dropout from being a doctor.” “So you’re saying you can make a living that way, is that it?” “Well, if matters stood thus, I would lack for nothing. But though I was granted the name Sōsen, I still find myself too fearful to easily undertake the examination of living patients.”

“Ah ha ha!” Santoan Kyoden laughed without a care for the first time. “Now this is something. You’ve even got yourself a doctor’s name, yet can’t examine living patients? What a peculiar fellow.—But here’s the thing: If you can’t examine living patients, you’ll never hold the pen of gesaku.”

“Why ever would that be?” “Try it yourself.” “Isn’t a gesaku writer’s job to take every bit of happiness and misery in this world—all borne by us humans—and with just a brush, bring people to life or kill them off as we please?” “Yet here you are spouting cowardly nonsense about fearing living people—with that attitude, you’ll never make it as a gesaku writer.”

“N-no, not at all!” Bakin hurriedly interrupted. “That’s not the case. “Even if we speak of living humans, I said I dislike examining patients—that is, sick people.” “…But if it’s work done with a brush, even were I to go two or three days without sleep, I would not find it the least bit trying.” “Therefore, I most humbly beseech you—deign to consider this as saving one soul—to take me into your esteemed circle of disciples, Master.”

“Heh heh heh.” Kyoden casually grabbed Yasuchika’s orchid-carved kiseru pipe and tapped the rim of the hibachi. “You talk about saving one person, but becoming a writer of reading books doesn’t mean someone’s bound to be saved.” “Far from it.” “Gesaku’s the sort of thing someone with other means should do half for fun. But try making a living off this, and the wholesalers won’t stock it for you—ain’t that simple.” “With all due respect to your words, this Bakin does not approach gesaku as half-hearted amusement, but rather wishes to deploy a last stand and attempt it.……”

“Your efforts are noted—but no.”

“If you deem it no good...”

“People can’t go without eating, see.” “However, Master, I am able to go without eating.” “What’s that?” “Naturally, as I am a living being, I cannot completely abstain from food. However, if I have but one bowl of rice and a single slice of daikon each day, water alone suffices for all else—even were I to become the most inept author imaginable, I should still manage to earn at least one bowl of rice each day.”

Kyoden, who was staring into Bakin’s eyes gleaming from within, could not help but sense the color of resolve carved into that wooden statue-like face. “Are you truly determined?” “After three days and three nights of ceaseless deliberation, I have come to make this request—this humble one speaks not a single word of falsehood.”

“Very well.” “If you’ve got that much resolve, then go ahead and try.” “But mark this—I’ve never taken a single soul who could be called a disciple before now, so there’s no way I’m about to make you one either.” “So after all… you won’t accept me into your esteemed circle...” “Writers ain’t like painters—there’s no masters or disciples in this trade.” “The way of prose lies in what springs naturally from wrestling with your own mind and writing with your own hand.” “So if you want to amount to anything as an author, you’ve got no business leaning on others—hack your path through your own struggles.” “If society takes to your work, that’ll prove your skill. If folks say it’s unreadable trash, that’s proof you’re lacking.—Either way, clinging to some master or peddling imitations? That’s a damn fool’s errand.” “Though who knows how many true judges walk this earth—a coffin don’t move itself once you’re dead.” “That’s the gesaku writer’s lot.” “Understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

Bakin nodded vigorously and looked up at Kyoden’s face with evident delight. “In exchange—in exchange for not making you my disciple—if you ever want me to look at something you’ve written, I’ll be sure to read it and offer my unreserved opinions.” "But this must never be a master-disciple relationship—it’s friendship between equals." “If that’s acceptable to you, feel free to come visit whenever the mood strikes.” “I am most humbly obliged.” "Then going forward, though it may trouble you, I intend to frequently impose upon your kindness." “With those words—Bakin feels as though the world has suddenly brightened.”

“There’s an old tale about blind crickets—don’t get so cocky you end up drowning in a water jar.”

“Mmm... That lesson of yours—I shall never forget it.”

Bakin, for the first time despite everything, allowed a smile to appear on his stern face.

The wind must have finally started blowing. Beneath the eaves where red plum blossoms peeked into the lofty sky, the drone of kites could be heard as clearly as flute song.

Part 2

“Brother.”

Okiku had sent Bakin out and had not yet returned when Kyozan, the younger brother, entered there.

“Oh, where’ve you been?”

Kyoden looked up warmly at Kyozan, seven years his junior and as contrary as a meddling old woman. "I was out on the veranda." "So you saw that man Bakin just now, didn't you?" "Didn't just see him. Hell, I heard every damn line that bastard spouted." "Hoh, so you did. But I've met countless men beggin' to become my disciples before now—never someone as single-minded as this Bakin. I ain't seen what he's written, so I can't say for sure—but if that guy lands in the right pot, he'll make a damn fine writer."

“Hmph, ridiculous.” Kyozan dismissed it outright with a contemptuous snort. “What’s so ridiculous?” “Well, ain’t it obvious? That dried sardine of a man—no matter how he thrashes about, he couldn’t write so much as a First Horse Day farce, let alone a proper witty book. See, I can’t for the life of me figure why you’re so damn pleased getting sweet-talked by that nobody—so I came to hear you explain it proper.”

“Keizaburo.”

Kyoden watched his younger brother admonishingly. "Hmph."

Kyozan the heavy drinker had likely emptied two or three bottles of last night’s leftovers out on the veranda. While licking his upper lip—a habit he always performed when drunk—he thrust his chin toward Santoan Kyoden. “You’ve started your usual antics again, right at the New Year’s outset.” “There’s no such habit. What kinda trash notion makes you wanna look at that dried sardine’s manuscript? I just wanna hear where the hell that idea’s crawling out from your gut, Brother.”

“As long as that habit of yours—this itch to badmouth folks left and right—don’t quit, you’ll never scribble out anything worth a damn no matter how long you live. ――Sure as shit, that Bakin fella’s got all the charm of a sun-dried sardine.” “When I first clapped eyes on him too, I was fit to burst thinking some no-account rube had come tramping in.” “But once I heard him spit out just one sentence, I knew right then he was the real goods.” “Hate to say it, but you ain’t fit to scrape the mud off his sandals.” “Give me two-three years steering him right, and he’ll start churning out tales that’ll knock your teeth loose—bet my inkstone on it.” “When that day comes, bawlin’ ‘bout how you missed your chance won’t do squat—you’ll be left sucking wind.”

“Th-that ain’t no damn joke! If that blockhead could write even one yellow-covered book, I’d cut off two heads that don’t exist! Prancing around in hakama like some self-important fool—what kinda getup is that? That part’s still tolerable—but when Brother here asked if he’d read anything, that arrogant reply of his? Damn near made me wanna puke just listening from over there. Started off lickin’ Master’s boots—recitin’ *Ohanahanshichi*, that yellow-covered book from An’ei 7’s publication list, then *Yujin Sanpukutsui* you put out the followin’ year—”

“Enough.” “But ain’t this exactly how it is? When that smug mug of his—acting like there ain’t a scholar in all the realm who can hold a candle to him—don’t so much as ruffle Brother’s temper, then this here situation ain’t Hiraga Gennai’s brand of madness—it’s plain unthinkable weirdness, no other way to see it!” “That’s enough—get out of here.”

Kyoden, having nearly swung up his pipe, kept it tightly gripped as he glared at Kyozan. “If you ain’t gonna listen, I ain’t budgin’ from here, I tell ya.” “If people go sayin’ that dried-up bastard’s a far better author than me, I’d be even more of a laughin’stock—no two ways about it!” “Hey, Sister-in-law.” “I’m sorry to make you work like this, but I need you to plant your ass here and hear me out.” “Bring me a cup over here, will ya?”

“Kei-san, what might that be?”

Having seen Bakin out to the entrance and remaining there, Okiku—who had been deliberately avoiding them until now—peeked her marumage-coiffed face out upon being called by Kyozan. “A cup, if you’d be so kind.” “Ohoho, would that be sake you’re wanting?” “Indeed.” “If it’s sake you want, I’ll pour for you. Why don’t you have your drink in the other parlor?” “Right,” Santoan Kyoden immediately chimed in. “Drinking here where Bakin was sitting wouldn’t make the sake taste good. Besides, I’ve got to finish writing the next part of *Shingaku Hayasomegusa* before Tsutaya comes hounding me again. If you want to drink, have Okiku pour for you—stay as long as you damn well please.”

As Santoan Kyoden began to rise after saying this, Kyozan firmly seized his sleeve.

“Brother.” “Hold on there!” “I’ve got one damn thing I need to ask you.” “I’ll tell you when you’ve sobered up.” “This ain’t no joke! “I ain’t drunk! — There’s no way that Bakin’s a better author than me.” “Make that clear right here and now! …” “We share blood, but you’re my obligated brother—if I could, I wouldn’t even falsely call you inferior.” “But between you and Bakin—without seeing your writings—there’s one hell of a difference in mindset from the start, ain’t there?” “Rather than me telling you—ask your own damn gut. You’ll figure it quicker that way.”

In Santoan Kyoden’s irritated words, there nevertheless manifested a palpable pity for his brother—a man seemingly born to irony. But the moment he heard this, displeasure visibly intensified across Kyozan’s face.

“I get it. From now on, I ain’t gonna stand being in this house where that dried-up bastard comes and goes! As long as he’s around, I won’t set foot across this threshold!” “Kei-san—”

Ignoring Okiku's attempts to stop him, Kyozan—having made his declaration—suddenly wheeled back to his own room, bundled his inkstone and brush into a cloth wrapping, and without so much as a backward glance, charged out through the small garden gate into the snowy expanse. "Master—"

However, Santoan Kyoden seemed not to register Okiku’s voice at all, sitting with arms crossed as he stared fixedly at his own knees. “Master—”

“Hmm.” “Where has Kei-san gone?” “He ain’t gone nowhere.” “But once he’s stormed out like that, he won’t be coming back anytime soon.” “With me right here and such a blunder happening—I’ve no face left to show.”

“You just got here—ain’t no call for you to worry. Despite hating to lose, he’s got no mind to scour books—just keeps swilling drink and lettin’ the days slip by. Even though they’re around the same age, he’s as different from Bakin as heaven is from earth. It’s a pity, but lettin’ him stew a bit now’ll do him good in the long run. Quit your silly worrying and go fix your disheveled sidelocks or something.” Santoan Kyoden, not wanting to show any particular sign of weakness, casually tossed these words to Okiku and entered his four-and-a-half tatami study alone.

(Ritaro, tempted by wicked spirits, came to Yoshiwara intending to return after sightseeing, but upon seeing the evening scenery of Nakanochō, found himself ever more enthralled by depravity. He prevailed upon a teahouse to summon Ayashino, a courtesan of Miura House, with whom he dallied—whereupon he was instantly spirited away to heaven’s realm, forgot all thought of returning home, and indeed lost his very sanity.)

The manuscript lay there, the brush having come to a halt at this very point. Having sat down before his desk, Santoan Kyoden abruptly grasped his brush and attempted to continue writing the next passage. Yet as he reread the preceding two or three lines, what came welling up in his mind like rainclouds—one after another—were not phrases for his Yellow-covered books, but thoughts of his younger brother Kyozan’s circumstances—Kyozan who had just stormed out in a fit of anger.

Whenever Santoan Kyoden thought of Kyozan—who had developed such a warped disposition over time—what always rose in his breast was none other than an incident from the New Year following their first move to Ginza Nichōme with their parents.

Santoan Kyoden was fourteen, Kyozan seven. Their father Denzaemon, as it was the first New Year since becoming landlord, had to make New Year’s rounds through the neighborhood, but with no money to hire attendants. As a result, Kyoden followed behind him shouldering a document box, while his younger brother Kyozan trailed further back distributing white folding fans as New Year’s gifts. “Brother... My stomach hurts—I don’t wanna do this anymore.” “My stomach hurts—I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

After they walked about ten houses, tears had welled up in Kyozan’s eyes as he looked back at Santoan Kyoden while saying this. “Endure it. “We’re halfway there. “When we get home, I’ll have Mom buy us a kite and fly it for you.” “I ain’t never seen no kite! I just want to go home already!” “If you quit now, Father will be in trouble. “You’re a good boy, so keep handing them out a bit longer.” But regardless of their efforts, Kyozan—who had started complaining of stomach pain—showed no sign of relenting no matter how they tried to appease him. Before long, his face grew increasingly pale until at last, bereft of even the energy to argue back, he finally crouched down beneath a roadside rainwater bucket.

The New Year’s rounds were halted midway, and Kyozan was taken straight back home. As soon as his mother’s hand retrieved the pitch-black “bear stomach” from the bamboo sheath in the brazier’s drawer, it was thrust into the protesting Kyozan’s mouth using the tip of an earpick. Kyozan crumpled his face like a scrap of paper and swallowed it down with water into the depths of his throat. “It’s bitter.—” “Endure it. “It’s your own fault for getting a stomachache.”

The stubborn father’s frustration at having to halt the New Year’s rounds midway likely contributed to this as well. Without showing a single smile, he said this and deeply furrowed his brow.

Even so, Kyozan’s stomachache had gradually subsided by around two o’clock, and by a little past noon, he had returned to his usual vigor. But the father, claiming it was for precaution, had now brought the dissolved “bear stomach” in a bowl to Kyozan’s bedside. “Even if it’s bitter, you must endure and drink it again.” Kyozan looked up at his father resentfully, but knowing he would be scolded, could not refuse and merely nodded in silence.

“Brother.” After their father had left, Kyozan looked between Kyoden and the “bear stomach,” then pleaded in a small voice.

“It’s bitter—I ain’t drinkin’ no more!” “You mustn’t! If you don’t drink it, Father'll scold you later.” “My belly’s all better now, so I ain’t drinkin’ it!”

Just then, Father’s cough sounded from the adjoining room. At that very instant, Santoan Kyoden’s fingers suddenly seized the bowl. And in a flash, the bitter bear stomach remedy passed through Santoan Kyoden’s throat and settled into his stomach without leaving a single drop behind.

In the next moment, sure enough, Father slid open the shoji. But when he saw that there was no medicine left in the bowl, he nodded silently once more and returned to his room. “Brother.”

In the eyes of the younger brother, who had tightly clenched his hands, hot tears overflowed. At the same time, Santoan Kyoden felt something profoundly compelling stir within his chest. Seventeen years had passed like a dream since that younger brother—who now rushed out clutching writing tools to his breast—first faced those circumstances; yet to call it a dream would be to deny the visceral reality of those memories. "If even half of what I felt then could awaken in his heart…"

Kyoden secretly muttered this to himself while chewing on the stiff brush tip he hadn’t touched in nearly ten days.

Three

"Heh. I thought Santoan Kyoden would be more full of pretentious airs, but he wasn't quite so bad after all. Given how that went, he'll probably look out for me a bit. I'll strike while the iron's hot and make gesaku put food on my table—first thing this New Year, this year's luck has struck early.—"

In Fukagawa Nakacho’s six-tatami partitioned tenement room, Bakin—having washed feet soiled by melting snow—sat formally before a desk barely worthy of the name, a makeshift temple-school writing table, and grinned like a gaunt horse while muttering these words to himself. "But Santoan Kyoden came up with a clever line. Don’t get too carried away or you’ll end up like a blind cricket tumbling into a water jar.—Even I, putting on a meek front when I went there, got quite a start from that one. Once two or three days pass, I’ll go out again and at least draw some well water for him. If I do that, even living alone in Fukagawa should work out fine. He’s bound to say, ‘Why not come to my house without standing on ceremony?’ After all, since I declared one bowl of rice a day would suffice, even eating for a month would mean just thirty bowls. With three and a half days’ provisions meant for another freeloader, keeping a scholar like me fed for a month shouldn’t count as a loss by any profit-and-loss calculation. Still, just letting me stay would be help enough. First off, never worrying about going hungry again—plus learning the tricks of writing those fashionable yellow-covered books? A two-for-one deal. However this falls, it’s a grand chance with nothing to lose! ‘Patience brings fair sailing’—seems even the ancients had their clever ones.—"

Though he had told Santoan Kyoden the plausible lie that he’d come after three days and nights of sleepless deliberation, in truth Bakin had only just returned the previous evening from a two-month journey as a traveling fortune-teller, dragging his aching leg behind him. Starting from Shinagawa: Kawasaki, Hodogaya, Oiso, Hakone. After that, he made his way around Izu and arrived in Numazu on the third day of the twelfth month. Since he had come this far anyway, he extended his journey to Sunpu while lugging along the divination sticks and telescope as cumbersome baggage, but this venture proved utterly unprofitable. Finally managing to earn just enough for inn stays and straw sandal money, singing to himself about how whether his divinations hit or missed they were still divinations all the same, when he danced his way back to this tenement, only two coins clung stubbornly to the bottom of his purse.

Last night—perhaps because the comfort of sleeping in his own bed for the first time in ages, where he stretched his exhausted legs across the thin, cracker-like futon—had been better than anywhere else, he fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow; truth be told, until rising for the outhouse at dawn, he had not given any thought to how he would manage his livelihood going forward. As for who had posted them—he couldn’t say—but suddenly noticing two or three pages from Santoan Kyoden’s "Edo-born Elegance and Birch Burning" pasted to the reinforcement boards of the tenement outhouse wall was what abruptly inspired him to seek discipleship under Kyoden.

It was not a path he had ever particularly disliked. But making his livelihood through gesaku was something he had never considered until this very day. Certain that Santoan Kyoden would take one look at his disheveled appearance and conclude "This man could never grasp a gesaku brush," then inevitably ask whether he had ever read even one yellow-covered book, Bakin—before dawn had broken—hurriedly rushed out of his tenement and barefoot through the snow, first headed to Kosho-do and Kakusen-do in Toriiabura-cho. Bakin had reasoned that the meticulous owners, Jūzaburō and Kiemon, would surely have prepared their publication catalogs.

Sure enough, both establishments had prepared their shops’ publication catalogs and were awaiting customers seeking souvenirs for their hometowns. Even on his way back home, Bakin never took his eyes off the catalog. Thanks to this focus, he narrowly avoided colliding with Musashiya’s cargo returning from the fish market—but his one good kimono was left smeared with mud around the waist. The reason he had worn a torn hakama when visiting Kyoden was precisely this.

It must have been because he had read them so earnestly. By the time Bakin stepped over his tenement's threshold, he had already memorized all of Kyoden’s works listed in both catalogs in chronological order. So when Santoan Kyoden asked, “Have you read even one jest book?” Bakin had undoubtedly exulted inwardly—secretly patting himself on the back at that moment. “I probably won’t see anyone from this tenement for some time. But there’d be one less nuisance around. They might not even miss me.”

Though they considered him a resourceful fellow who sometimes even substituted as a doctor, even the tenement residents—familiar with Bakin’s eccentric habit of vanishing from home for weeks or months only to read or write through the night—found themselves unable to secure anyone willing to arrange a bride for him. But they likely all sympathized with the hardships of a bachelor household. Whenever potatoes boiled or dried sardines grilled, there were always two or three meddlesome souls who would bring him a morsel, however small, as a token of goodwill.

Bakin, who had been sitting before the terakoya desk without removing his hakama, suddenly—as if struck by some thought—flopped down where he sat and let out a yawn that seemed utterly carefree. I wish I could eat something delicious until I'm stuffed. In two or three days, once I become a live-in disciple at Kyoden's house, unless I steal food, I won't get to eat my fill. But there's no money. There's rice, but it's crawling with bugs. Isn't there even one kind soul in this whole tenement who'd show me a sardine after all this time?

“Excuse me, Mr. Takizawa.” “A guest has arrived.” “Huh?!”

Upon hearing this voice, Bakin sat bolt upright on the old tatami like a roly-poly doll.

“Well now sir, much obliged for your trouble.” Bakin did not recognize that voice. However, unable to remain still, he stretched his neck from the dirt-floor area through the oil-paper door. “Please come in.”

The man standing at the entrance snorted and tilted his chin up with the tip of his nose.

“You’re Mr. Bakin who came to visit Santoan earlier, I take it.” “Yes, I am Bakin whom you inquire about.” “I’m Santoan Kyoden’s younger brother—a fellow called Kyozan.” “Ah, so that’s how it was. I must apologize for my earlier discourtesy in not recognizing you.—As you can see, this is but a leaky house, but please deign to come this way.” Judging from the arrogant attitude, Bakin jumped to the conclusion that this visit must surely be as a messenger from Santoan Kyoden coming to relay that he should present himself at Santoan starting today.

“’Preciate the trouble, but ain’t got no business worth comin’ inside for...” “What business brings you here?” “I came to tell ya we don’t want you comin’ back to Ginza ever again.” “Huh?!” “How’s that? This must’ve sunk in a bit now.—Hmph!” “I can’t stand stuck-up bastards like you!” Having spat out these words, Kyozan struck a kabuki actor Nakazo-esque mie pose with thrust sleeves.

Bakin smirked eerily. "Why, thank you ever so much for going to such trouble." "What'd you say?" "I was merely expressing gratitude for your efforts. ...Had you merely mentioned this trifling matter during my next visit, that would have been entirely sufficient. Now I find myself overwhelmed by your excessive consideration, with no means to adequately apologize."

“You think I’d hang around waiting endlessly? First off—it ain’t Brother who hates your guts. It’s me.” “How droll.” “Then Master Santoan hasn’t actually voiced any such opinion.” ……” “Brother’s say-so don’t matter a whit! If I can’t stand ya, it’s all the same in the end.”

“Think nothing of it. That would be a most preposterous misunderstanding. I have no recollection of ever wishing, even in my wildest dreams, to become your disciple. It has long been my dearest wish to be taken as Master Santoan’s disciple. Well now, even accounting for the New Year’s sake, you’ve gone and aimed quite the misguided arrow in my direction. If that’s truly your business, there was no need for you to come up. Kindly make haste and take your leave.”

“Even if you hadn’t told me to get out, who’d wanna stay in this filthy dump forever? Ain’t brought no proper gift—here’s your token!” With these words, Kyozan slammed a mandarin orange crate packed with horse dung at Bakin’s knees, then laughing with apparent relief, bolted straight for the alley’s entrance. Bakin, who had been silently staring at the horse dung scattered across the entire room for some time, suddenly let out a joyous laugh unlike any before and burst into uproarious laughter.

“That bastard’s done me a real Engi-era good deed.” “To come scattering golden turds first thing in the New Year—that’s just what you’d expect from someone who spends his days fondling courtesans’ backsides.” “Alright—next time I visit Kyoden, I’ll bring this along as a gift just as it is.” “But that bastard—not that it’s Kyoden’s place to say—if he gets too cocky just ’cause he’s scribbled out a couple lousy gesaku, he’ll end up leaping into a water jar before long.” The young Bakin, once again recalling the metaphor of the blind cricket, sprawled out in a “great” character shape and showered the ceiling with his booming laughter.