Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The heavy snow—a rarity in recent years that had drowned out all of Edo’s clamor throughout yesterday—ceased with Tōeizan’s nine bells at dawn’s parting. On this Seven Herbs morning that followed, windless and serene, the sky held a mirror-like clarity while unseasonable warmth seeped even into the soil of omoto pots, defying expectations of New Year’s chill. Santōan Kyōden, the gesaku writer, had resolved to depart for a hot spring tour in Hakone with his new wife Ogi—whom he’d recently brought home from the Ōgiya—once he began drafting his kibyōshi *Shingaku Hayasomegusa* in mid-December. Yet with the manuscript still not even half completed, two days stretched to three, three to five, and now today too he found himself unable to achieve that aim. Moreover, given that Kyōden—who would typically be holed up in Yoshiwara without fail every New Year—was home for the first time in years, the relentless stream of well-meaning friends and ill-wishers flocking to his door had surely sapped even his resolve to burn the midnight oil on his writing. “The first week’s been impossible,” was all he could offer Ogi by way of explanation—there’d been nothing else to do.

Yet now that the New Year pine decorations had been removed and all expected visitors had finally ceased coming—relieving him of obligations—Kyōden settled into his four-and-a-half tatami study, where the plaque reading “Kikken” hung on the wall, intending to finish his manuscript in one sustained effort before the publisher renewed their demands. Having celebrated Seven Herbs porridge that very morning, he had just added water to his inkstone. “Husband.” From beyond the sliding paper door came Ogi’s voice, still retaining her courtesan speech patterns. “Yeah?”

From the gap in the sliding door opened just a crack, Ogi’s voice—issuing from where she’d poked only her face through—was unusually low. “A visitor has come.” “Huh?” Kyōden set down his inkstick beside the inkstone with a weary air. “Who is it? Thank you for braving the snow—” “He says it’s his first time calling on you—a shabby-looking man of twenty-four or five.” “Where’d he say he’s from?” “He said something about Fukagawa.” “What, Fukagawa? That fellow’s unbelievable. Can’t be helped. If they’ve come all this way, I can’t very well turn them away. I’ll be right there, so go ahead and show them to the guest room.”

“Are you going to receive them?” “What a pain... but can’t exactly say no.” Even so, Kyōden—while feeling something akin to relief that he hadn’t yet begun writing a single line—changed from his hanten into a haori shortly after Ogi left and made his appearance in the guest room that doubled as a tea room. At the threshold of the guest room, just as Ogi had described, sat a gaunt man of twenty-four or twenty-five with an unkempt beard and thoroughly unimpressive bearing. His hakama—its pleats frayed—was hitched high at the waist as he waited with practiced modesty.

“So it’s you.” “You’re the one who’s got business with me?” Kyōden’s words were thoroughly blunt. “Yes, that is correct.” “I am Bakin, an inexperienced youth residing in Fukagawa Nakamachi-ura. Though presumptuous of me, I have come at this early hour to impose upon you, Master, with a humble request.” “I don’t know what this is about, but you’re too far away there.” “No need for reserve—come on over here.”

When he saw that the other party was unexpectedly courteous despite his shabby appearance, Kyōden must have begun to feel some goodwill toward him after all. He slightly pushed the brazier toward him and urged him to come closer. “Then I shall take you up on your kind offer and allow myself to step into the room.” The young man who had introduced himself as Bakin shifted one knee across the threshold into the room and bowed his head once more in deep deference. “So this ‘matter’ you’re asking about—what exactly is it?” “It is nothing extraordinary, but would you be so kind as to take this Bakin under your tutelage, Master?”

“So that’s what it was.”

Kyōden, who had been expecting something, upon hearing this, spat out words of disappointment.

“Yes.” “‘Yes’ my foot! You come all formal-like saying you’ve got some grand request—figured you wanted to discuss something rare enough for a yomihon plot. Turns out it’s nothing but a dud! Well, if it’s discipleship you’re after, I wouldn’t say no… but first off—you there, dressed like some backwater rube—you ever even cracked open a single kibyōshi or sharebon in your life?”

“I have.”

Bakin was, to the very end, as serious as a stone.

“What kind of things have you read?” “Beginning with your kibyōshi *Ohanahanashichi*, which you drafted in the seventh year of An’ei [1778], followed by the publication of *Yūjin Sanpukutsui* the following year, *Natsumatsuri* the year after that, *Ono no Takamura Den*; moving into the Tenmei era, *Kuchiman Mendori*, *Nanawarau Tōyō Sugata*, *Gozon Shōbaimono*, *Kyakujin Jorō Fuanpai Sokusei Ryōri*, *Akushichi Hengeme Kagekiyo*, *Edo Haru Ichiya Senryō*, *Yoshiwara Yōji*, *Yahan no Chazuke*—furthermore, regarding your publications from last year—from *Hyakusanjō Imojigoku* to the yomihon *Tsūzoku Daishōden*—I have read every single one without exception.”

“Hmm, is that so?” As he listened, Kyōden’s knees pushed the brazier aside and slid off the cushion.

“You’ve read them thoroughly?” “Yes, thanks to your kindness…” “But what are you doing to make a living now?” “At present, I cannot say I am engaged in any particular occupation, but I once served in the household of a hatamoto and had the privilege of studying medical practice under Master Yamamoto Sōei.” “Oh, so you’re a doctor’s washout.” “So you’re saying you can make a living in that line of work?” “Well, if that were sufficient, I would have no complaints. But though I have received the name Sōsen, the prospect of examining living humans still frightens me, making it difficult to readily undertake.”

“Ha ha ha!” Kyōden laughed with unforced mirth for the first time. “This one’s a rare breed. Gets himself a doctor’s title but can’t stomach living patients? You’re a strange one.—But here’s the rub.” He leaned forward, hakama rustling against the floorboards. “If you shrink from examining flesh-and-blood humans, you’ll never wield a gesaku brush worth spit.” “Might I inquire why that should be?” “Stack ’em up and see for yourself.” Kyōden’s ink-stained fingers mimed piling scrolls. “Our trade’s about taking every blessed soul born bearing joy and sorrow alike—” his hand slashed sideways “—and killing or reviving ’em with a flick of this brush. Yet here you sit spouting such timid drivel about living humans? With that chicken-livered attitude, you’ll never mount a proper stage in this world.”

“N-no, not at all!” Bakin hurriedly interrupted. “That is not so. When I spoke of living humans, I meant that I find it unpleasant to examine patients—that is, the sick. But when it comes to wielding the brush, even were I to go two or three days without sleep, I would not consider it hardship in the slightest. I humbly beseech you—please consider this as saving one human life and deign to accept me into your tutelage, Master.”

“Heh heh heh.” Kyōden casually grabbed Yasuchika’s orchid-carved kiseru and tapped the brazier’s rim. “You speak of ‘saving one human life,’ but becoming a yomihon writer doesn’t mean you’ll find salvation.” “That’s not even the point.” “Gesaku… Well, it’s fine for those with other livelihoods to dabble in it half for fun, but trying to make a living from this? The wholesalers won’t parcel it out so easily.” “With all due respect, this Bakin does not approach gesaku as a half-hearted diversion, but rather wishes to undertake it with a last-ditch resolve.…”

“I appreciate your efforts, but it’s out of the question.” “If you say it is out of the question…” “Humans can’t go without eating, after all.” “However, Master, I can go without eating.” “What did you say?” “Of course, as I inhabit a living body, I cannot go entirely without eating. However, if I have but one bowl of rice and a slice of daikon each day, water alone will suffice for all else.” “Even should I prove the most inept of authors, I should still manage to earn at least one bowl of rice per day.”

Kyōden, who had been staring into Bakin’s deeply gleaming eyes, could not help but sense the determination carved into that wooden statue-like face.

“Are you truly determined?” “After three days and three nights of sleepless deliberation, this humble one has come to make his request. I assure you there is not a shred of falsehood in my words.” “Very well. If you possess resolve to that extent, then you may try your hand at it. But let me make this clear—I’ve never taken a single disciple in all my days, so there’s no way I’m about to make you one now.”

“So after all… you won’t accept me into your tutelage…” “Unlike painters, there’s no such thing as masters or disciples for authors. The way of prose lies in struggling with your own mind and writing with your own hand until invention comes naturally. So if you want to become a proper author, there’s no need to rely on others—carve your path through hardship using your own strength. If society accepts it, that’ll prove your skill. If they trash it as unreadable dreck, that’s proof you’re lacking. Either way—if you’re thinking of clinging to some master or copying their style to make your name—that’s a colossal miscalculation! Though I know not how many friends one may have in this world, there’s no coffin moved by the dead. In other words, this is the gesaku writer’s position. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Bakin nodded vigorously and looked up at Kyōden’s face with visible delight. “In exchange—in exchange for not taking you as my disciple—if you ever write something and want my opinion, I’ll make sure to look it over and share my frank thoughts.” “But this must never be a master-disciple relationship—it’s strictly an association between friends.” “If that suits you, feel free to visit whenever the mood takes you.”

“I am most profoundly obliged.” “Henceforth, though it may prove burdensome, I intend to frequently impose upon your graciousness.” “With those words—Bakin feels as though the world has abruptly brightened.”

“There’s an old tale about a blind cricket.” “Just don’t get so carried away you end up falling into a water jar.” “Heh heh—I shall never forget that lesson of yours, Master.” Bakin, even so, showed a smile on his stern face for the first time.

At last, the wind must have begun to blow. Beneath the eaves, red plum blossoms peeked out as a kite’s drone high in the sky resonated richly like a flute.

Two

“Brother.”

Before Ogi had even returned from seeing Bakin out, Kyōzan, her brother-in-law, came barging in. “Oh, where have you been?” Kyōden looked up with warm eyes at Kyōzan, who was seven years his junior and as twisted as a meddlesome old woman. “I was out on the veranda, see.” “So you must have seen that man Bakin just now.” “Oh, I didn’t just see him. Hell, I heard every damn word that dried fish bastard said.”

“Oh, is that so? However, I’ve met more men than I could count who’ve begged to become my disciple, but never before have I encountered someone as single-minded as this Bakin. I haven’t seen anything he’s written, so I can’t say for sure, but if that one finds his groove, he’ll make a proper author.” “Hmph, ridiculous.” Kyōzan dismissed it outright with a flick of his nose.

“What’s so ridiculous about that?” “But that’s just how it is, ain’t it? No matter how that dried fish bastard flails about, he couldn’t pen a single farce play for First Horse Day, let alone sophisticated gesaku. See, I just can’t wrap my head around why Brother’s all pleased gettin’ that insincere flattery from some nobody—so I came to get an explanation outta ya.” “Keizaburō.” Kyōden watched over his brother reproachfully.

“Hmph.”

Kyōzan the heavy drinker had likely emptied two or three leftover bottles on the veranda. Licking his upper lip—a habitual gesture whenever drunk—repeatedly, he thrust his chin toward Kyōden.

“You’ve started up with your usual antics again—right at New Year’s no less.” “Habits? I’ve none of those. To think you’d even consider looking at that dried fish’s manuscript—what kinda half-baked notion’s festering in your gut there, Brother? All I want’s to hear you explain that one.” “As long as that habit of yours—this compulsion to badmouth others at every turn—doesn’t stop, you’ll never write anything worthwhile, no matter how long you live.—Now, it’s true enough that man Bakin has the look of a dried fish about him. When I first laid eyes on him too, I was downright furious inside, thinking some worthless fool had come waltzing in here. But after hearing him speak just one sentence, the realization that he was quite an exceptional man struck me right here in my chest. Though it’s pitiful to say so, you aren’t even fit to lick his boots. If I mentor him for a couple of years, there’s no doubt he’ll start writing astonishing masterpieces. When that time comes, no matter how much you regret not having had the foresight, it’ll be too late.”

“J-Joke? This ain’t no joke.” “If that freak could write even a single kibyōshi, I’d chop off my own head twice over! —Strutting around in hakama like some self-important lord—what a damn sight!” “That’s bad enough, but when Brother asked if he’d read anything and that haughty reply came—hell, listening from over there, I nearly puked my guts out.” “First he had the gall to start reciting Master’s works—the kibyōshi *O-Hana Hanshichi* published in An’ei 7, then *Yūjin Sanpukutsui* released the following year—”

“Cut it out.” “But ain’t this exactly how it is? If that smug mug of his—actin’ like he’s the only damn scholar under heaven—didn’t rattle your temper one bit, then this ain’t some Hiraga Gennai-level freak show! It’s just plain impossible to wrap my head around!” “That’s enough—get out.” Kyōden, still gripping the pipe he’d nearly swung, glared at Kyōzan.

“Until I get my answer, I ain’t moving from here.” “If that dried fish bastard gets called a better author than me, I’ll have no face left in this world.” “Oi—Ogi!” “Sorry to work you like a packhorse—plant yourself here. Need to ask you somethin’.” “Bring over one gō.” “Kyōzan, what do you mean?” Having escorted Bakin to the entrance, Ogi—who’d been carefully avoiding the confrontation—abruptly peeked her face framed by a traditional married woman’s chignon into view when Kyōzan barked her name.

“One gō, if you’d be so kind.” “Oh my, is it sake you’re asking for?” “That’s right.” “If it’s sake, I’ll pour it for you. Please drink in the other guest room.” “That’s right,” Kyōden immediately chimed in. “Drinking in the spot where Bakin was sitting won’t make the sake taste any better. Besides, I’ve got to finish the rest of *Lessons in Heart Learning* before Tsutaya comes hounding me again. If you want to drink, have Ogi pour for you—stay as long as you like.”

Having said that, as Kyōden tried to stand up, Kyōzan firmly grabbed his sleeve. “Brother. “Hold on a sec.” “There’s just one thing I want to ask you.” “I’ll tell you when your drunkenness subsides.” “This ain’t no joke.” “I ain’t drunk. —As an author, I’m definitely beneath that Bakin fellow, ain’t I?” “I want you to tell me that clearly right here and now.……”

“Though we share one gut, you’re my brother by obligation—if I could, I wouldn’t even deign to call you inferior in a lie. But even without seeing what you’ve written, between you and Bakin, there’s a fundamental difference in mindset from the very start—isn’t there? Rather than me telling you this, why don’t you ask your own gut? You’ll get the answer quicker that way.” Even within Kyōden’s irritated words, a sense of pity for his brother—who seemed born to embody irony—remained unmistakably evident.

But the moment he heard this, a look of displeasure visibly deepened across Kyōzan’s face.

“I understand perfectly. From now on, I ain’t gonna put up with stayin’ in this house where that dried fish comes and goes. Long as he’s around, I won’t be crossin’ this threshold no more.”

“Wait, Kyō—” Ignoring Ogi’s attempts to stop him, Kyōzan—having concluded his declaration—suddenly turned back to his own room, bundled his inkstone and brush into a cloth wrap, and without a backward glance, bolted out through the small garden entrance into the snow-covered ground. “Husband—”

However, Kyōden seemed not to hear Ogi’s voice, sitting motionless with his arms crossed and staring fixedly at his own knees.

“Husband—”

“Mmm.” “Where has Kei gone?” “He ain’t gone nowhere.” “But now that he’s left like that—he likely won’t come back regular.” “It shames me deep—such a blunder happening right under my nose.”

“You just got here—ain’t no call for you to fret.” “Hates losing but won’t lift a finger to hunt down books—just guzzles booze and lets days slip by.” “Same age roughly, but between him and Bakin lies heaven and earth.” “Pitiful maybe, but riling him up some’ll do him good down the road.” “Quit your useless fretting and tend to those messy side-locks of yours.”

Kyōden, not wanting to show any particular weakness, casually remarked to Ogi and entered alone into the four-and-a-half tatami study. (Ritarō, lured by an evil spirit, came to Yoshiwara intending to return after sightseeing, but upon seeing Nakanochō’s evening scenery found his resolve further stolen by wickedness; he entreated a certain teahouse to summon Ayashino—a courtesan of Miura House—and engaged in revelry, whereupon his spirit suddenly flew to the heavens, he forgot to return home, and altogether lost his sanity.)

The manuscript had come to a halt there, the brush stopped mid-sentence. Having sat down at his desk, Kyōden abruptly grabbed his brush and tried to continue writing the next passage of text, but as he reread the preceding two or three lines, what welled up in his mind one after another like rain clouds were not phrases for his kibyōshi, but thoughts of his brother Kyōzan—who had just stormed out in a fit of anger—and his circumstances.

Whenever Kyōden thought of Kyōzan—who had, over time, developed such a warped disposition—what always rose in his mind was none other than an incident from that first New Year after they had moved to Ginza 2-chome with their parents.

Kyōden was fourteen and Kyōzan was seven. As their father Denzaemon had become landlord that first New Year season he needed to make ceremonial rounds through the neighborhood—but lacking money to hire attendants he made Kyōden shoulder a document box while following behind him while his younger brother trailed further back distributing white fans as New Year gifts. “Brother.” “My stomach hurts—I can’t take this anymore.”

After they had walked about ten houses, Kyōzan—who had turned to look back at Kyōden with these words—had tears welling in his eyes. “Endure it.” “Just half more to go.” “When we get home, I’ll have Mom buy a kite and fly it for you.” “I ain’t seen no kite—just wanna go home already.” “If you quit now, Father’ll be in trouble.” “Be a good boy and keep handin’ ’em out a bit longer.” Despite all attempts to reason with or placate him, Kyōzan—who kept complaining of stomach pain—showed no sign of relenting; as his complexion grew increasingly pale, he soon lost even the energy to argue and finally crouched down beneath a roadside rainwater bucket.

The New Year’s rounds were halted midway, and Kyōzan was taken straight home. When their mother took out the pitch-black “bear’s stomach” from the bamboo sheath in the hibachi drawer, she used the tip of an earpick to fling it into Kyōzan’s resisting mouth. Kyōzan made his face like a scrap of paper and swallowed it down his throat along with the water. “Bitter...”

“Endure it.” “It’s your fault for getting a stomachache.” Their stubborn father was likely further aggravated by the irritation of having had to cut short the New Year’s rounds. Without showing a single smile, he said this while furrowing his brow into deep creases resembling the character 「八」. Even so, Kyōzan’s stomachache had gradually subsided by around two o’clock, and a little past noon, he had returned to his usual vigor. However, Father—insisting it was for precaution—had now brought the “bear’s stomach” dissolved in a bowl to Kyōzan’s bedside.

“Even if it’s bitter, you must endure and drink it again.”

Kyōzan looked up at his father with resentment, but knowing he would be scolded, could not refuse and merely nodded in silence. “Brother.”

After their father left, Kyōzan looked between Kyōden and the bear’s stomach, then pleaded in a small voice. “I don’t want any more—it’s too bitter.” “You mustn’t. If you don’t drink it, Dad will scold you later.” “My stomach’s already healed, so I won’t drink it.” Just then, their father’s deliberate cough sounded from the adjoining room. At that very moment, Kyōden’s fingers suddenly gripped the bowl. And in an instant, the bitter bear’s stomach passed through Kyōden’s own throat and settled into his belly without leaving a single drop behind.

The next moment, just as expected, their father had opened the sliding paper door. When he saw that there was no medicine in the bowl, he nodded silently once more and returned to his room.

“Brother.” Hot tears overflowed in the eyes of his younger brother, whose hands were clenched tight. At the same time, Kyōden felt something profound welling up in his own chest. Seventeen years had passed like a dream since that brother had rushed out with brush and inkstone tucked into his breast—yet could these memories be called a mere dream when they felt too vivid? “If even half of that memory could revive within him…” Kyōden chewed on the hardened brush tip he hadn’t touched in nearly ten days, secretly muttering these words to himself.

Three

Heh heh—I’d thought Kyōden would put on more airs than that, but he wasn’t half so affected. Given how things stood now, he’d likely extend some care my way. This was my chance—I’d make damned sure to carve out a living through gesaku while riding this New Year’s luck right from its start.

In a six-tatami tenement house in Fukagawa Nakamachi, having washed his feet soiled by melting snow, Bakin sat formally before what could barely be called a desk—a terakoya desk—and muttered to himself while grinning like a skinny horse. "But Kyōden came up with quite the clever line." "I mustn't get too full of myself and end up like some blind cricket tumbling into a water jar—even I putting on my meekest face was startled by that one." "Once two or three days pass,I'll go draw at least one bucket of well water for him." "If I do that,I could manage living alone here in Fukagawa." "He'd surely say something like 'Why don't you come stay at my house without reserve?'—it's practically certain." "After all,I declared one bowl of rice daily would suffice—thirty bowls monthly at most." "If someone like me,a scholar,could be kept for a month on provisions lasting other dependents three days,there's no loss profit-wise." "Still,having shelter alone would help immensely." "First,I'd never worry about starving again.Second,I'd learn kibyōshi tricks—double gain." "No outcome spells loss—pure advantage either way." "'Await fair winds'—seems ancients had shrewd ones too."

Though Bakin had declared before Kyōden—with an air of plausible gravity—that he’d come only after three sleepless days and nights of deliberation, the truth was he had dragged his sore feet back just the previous evening from over two months of travel as a fortune-teller. He began in Shinagawa: Kawasaki, Hodogaya, Ōiso, Hakone. After that came a circuit around Izu before reaching Numazu on the third day of the Twelfth Month. Having come that far despite the nuisance of divination sticks and magnifying lens weighing down his pack, he pressed on to Sunpu—yet found no business there whatsoever. When he finally scraped together just enough for inn fees and travel costs—chanting inwardly about divinations’ fickle nature all the while—and made his way back to this tenement, only two small coins clung to his purse’s bottom.

Last night—perhaps because sleeping in his own home after so long felt better than anywhere else—he had stretched his exhausted legs on the cracker-thin futon and fallen asleep the moment his head touched the pillow; truth be told, until rising at dawn to use the toilet, he hadn’t given a single thought to how he would manage his livelihood from here on out. It was from this—though who had pasted them there remained unclear—that Bakin abruptly conceived the plan to become Kyōden’s disciple, after noticing two or three pages of Kyōden’s work *Edo-Umayaburi Kaba-yaki* (“Edo-Born Flamboyance and Charred Persimmons”) affixed to the toilet’s wall brace in the tenement.

It was never a path he had disliked. But he had never considered making his livelihood through gesaku until this very day. Convinced that Kyōden would surely take one look at his disheveled appearance and conclude this man could never wield a gesaku brush—and would undoubtedly ask whether he had ever read a single kibyōshi—Bakin hurriedly rushed out of the tenement before dawn had broken and, barefoot through the snow, dashed first to Kōshodō and Kakusendō in Tōyachō. This was because he had reasoned that the diligence of Jūzaburō and Kiemon, the proprietors there, would surely have led them to prepare publishing catalogs.

Sure enough, both establishments had prepared publishing catalogs for their shops and were awaiting country-bound customers seeking souvenirs.

On the way back home, Takizawa Bakin never took his eyes off the catalogs. Thanks to this fixation, he narrowly avoided colliding with Musashiya’s cargo returning from the fish market—though his finest kimono became smeared with mud around the waist.—The torn hakama he had worn when visiting Kyōden owed precisely to this mishap. Such was his fervor in studying them. By the time Bakin crossed the tenement’s threshold, he had committed to memory every one of Kyōden’s works listed in both catalogs, ordered chronologically.

Therefore, when Kyōden asked, “Have you read even a single sharebon?”, Bakin at that time must have inwardly thought Yes! and secretly clapped his hands in triumph within his heart. “I probably won’t be seeing the people in this tenement for some time. But there’ll be one less nuisance around. They might even be pleased.” While they thought him a useful man who sometimes even acted as a substitute doctor, when faced with Bakin—an eccentric who might be away from home for half a month or even a month at a time, then stay up all night reading or writing—even the tenement people couldn’t find anyone willing to arrange a wife for him. However, they must have all sympathized with the hardships faced by the male households. From time to time, when potatoes were boiled or sardines grilled, there were two or three helpful souls who would bring over even a small portion as a gesture of kindness.

Before the terakoya desk, Takizawa Bakin had been sitting without removing his hakama when—for some reason—he suddenly flopped down right there and let out a thoroughly carefree yawn. "I want to eat something delicious until I'm full." "In two or three days, once I become a dependent at Kyōden’s house, unless I steal food, it’s settled that I won’t get to eat my fill." "—But there's no money." "There’s rice, but it’s teeming with bugs—is there not a single kind soul in this whole tenement who’d spare me even a sardine’s head after all this time?"

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

When Bakin heard this voice, he sat upright on the old tatami like a self-righting daruma doll. “Well now, if it ain’t the mistress—much obliged for yer help.” This voice held no familiarity for Bakin. Yet finding himself unable to stay put, he stretched his neck from the earthen floor to peer beyond the oil-paper door. “Please come in.”

The man standing at the entrance gave a derisive “Hmph,” tilting his chin upward with a sniff. “You’re that Mr. Bakin who came by Santōan earlier, I take it.” “Yes, I am the Bakin you seek.” “I’m Kyōden’s younger brother—a man called Kyōzan.” “Ah, so that’s how it was. “I must apologize for my rudeness in not knowing who you were.—As you can see, this is but a leaky house, but please do come in here.”

Judging from the man’s arrogant demeanor, Bakin jumped to the conclusion that this was undoubtedly a messenger from Kyōden who had come to relay instructions for him to report to Santōan starting that very day.

“No need to trouble yourself comin’ up—this ain’t worth climbin’ for.” “What is the nature of your business?” “Came to say we don’t want your face round Ginza ever again.” “What?” “How’s that sit? Gets under the skin, don’t it? Heh heh heh.” “Can’t abide arrogant pricks like you!” Kyōzan spat these words while striking a Nakazō-style *mie* pose with thrust sleeve.

Takizawa Bakin smiled with unsettling slyness. “My, what a considerate effort you’ve made.” “What did you say?” “I was merely offering my gratitude by saying ‘Thank you for your trouble.’” “…There was truly no need to trouble yourself through these snowbound roads for such a trifle. Had you simply deigned to convey this message through Master Kyōden during my next visit, it would have sufficed entirely. Instead, I find myself utterly mortified, bereft of words to adequately express my apologies.”

“You think I can wait around that long? And first off—it ain’t my brother who can’t stand you. It’s me.”

“This is amusing,” Bakin said, his lips curling slightly. “Since Master Kyōden himself hasn’t voiced any objections—” “Don’t matter if he says it or you do—if I say you ain’t wanted, you ain’t wanted.” Kyōzan jabbed a finger through the doorway snowflakes. “How unnecessary.” Bakin’s voice dripped glacial courtesy. “This appears to be a most egregious misunderstanding on your part. Let me clarify—I’ve never once entertained the notion of becoming your disciple, not even in my wildest fancies. My sole aspiration has always been to study under Master Kyōden.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting like honed steel beneath lowered lids. “Though given how thoroughly pickled you are in toso spirits today, I suppose this misguided arrow of yours might find some excuse.” The young writer gestured toward the snow-choked alleyway with a flourish that mocked its own elegance. “If this trifling matter constitutes your entire business here, there was never any need for you to have troubled yourself with ascending to my humble quarters. Might I suggest you take your leave with all possible haste?”

“Even without being told to leave—who’d want to linger in this shithole?” “Here’s your souvenir—didn’t even have to bring it!” Kyōzan no sooner hurled the crate filled to bursting with horse dung at Bakin’s knees than he broke into a carefree laugh and bolted toward the alley’s entrance. Bakin, who had been silently staring at the horse dung scattered across the room, suddenly let out a laugh more cheerful than any he’d produced before and burst into a raucous “Wahaha!”

“That bastard’s done me a real Engi-era favor.” “To go scattering golden manjū for me right at the New Year—that’s exactly what you’d expect from someone who spends his days groping brothel girls’ backsides.” “Alright, next time I visit Master Kyōden, I’ll bring this just as it is for a souvenir.” "But that bastard—not that Master Kyōden would complain—if he gets too cocky just ’cause he’s scribbled a couple of lousy gesaku, he’ll end up leaping headfirst into a water jar before long.” The young Bakin, recalling once more the metaphor of the blind cricket, lay spread-eagled on the floor and showered the ceiling with booming laughter.