Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Under the eaves of Ryūkōtei Hall along Sanjikkengabori River—a venue for novelty acts—the hanging lanterns, wrapped in oilpaper, hung veiled in rain-haze. Rare acts filled the bill, packing every seat in the house. Through air stifling with body heat and tobacco smoke, beyond the raised stage where the rakugo performer sat, twin long-legged candle stands cast dim swaying lights that webbed shadows across the crammed auditorium. The swelter demanded folding fans, yet no one dared move. Though May by the calendar, summer seemed to have stolen a march—in any crowded place now, you might find yourself sweating through your stillness.

Military tales, rakugo, musical performances, puppetry, voice mimicry, impersonation, jōruri narrative music, eight-person acts, lively ballads, shadow plays, and more—a full lineup of major acts made for a lively event. Particularly, Ōishi Buemon—a strongman said to have come from the mountains of Echigo—had become a sensation, and these days Ryūkōtei Hall was so crowded they were turning people away at the gate nightly.

The one now on the raised stage was Ukiyoen Enshi—a young but skilled rakugo performer. With both hands resting on his knees—clad in trousers bearing fine pinstripes with pronounced brushstroke-like patterns— “Yes, this humble one has often mentioned the rumors of your indulgent pastimes—”

He had begun.

All the audience members listened intently, their faces poised for the laughter that was sure to come as they stared at Enshi's lips.

Near the rear passageway, leaning against a pillar, sat Kuginuki Tōkichi. With both arms tucked into the sleeves of his striped cotton kimono and his chin propped by a hand emerging from his sloppily gaping collar, was he dozing off, or perhaps lost in thought? He kept his eyes tightly shut, frequently tilting his head with a sour expression.

When in a foul mood, it was Boss Tōkichi’s habit to keep his mouth shut for days on end, like he’d bitten into a bitter bug. Kanjū Kanji and Sōshiki Hikobei, well-versed in such matters, always knew better than to disturb an undisturbed god whenever Tōkichi grew tight-lipped, leaving him be without approaching. And in such instances, Tōkichi would invariably be working on a major case without informing anyone, so he always appeared to be secretly pondering something. Both Kanji and Hikobei, knowing this from years of experience, made it a rule not to ask anything until the Boss had sorted out his thoughts and had something to say.

“Hiko—come on,” said Kuginuki Tōkichi as he strolled out of Hatchōbori’s Gatten Nagaya into the rain with only Hikobei in tow. “Let’s go take a look at that variety hall.” Of course he had Free Admission Privilege. When flustered attendants—recognizing their boss—tried to part the crowd and guide him to better seats, he jerked his chin dismissively with a “This’ll do,” then promptly planted himself cross-legged at the base of a pillar.

After that, he closed his eyes and showed no sign of paying any attention to the stage. Hikobei thought it must be another of his boss’s usual whims, but even so, he couldn’t make heads or tails of why Tōkichi had bothered to come all the way to the variety hall with an umbrella.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but tonight especially, Boss Tōkichi appeared tense—as if something strange were about to happen at any moment. His normally ruddy face had turned pale and taut like a corpse’s—clear yet somber. His large head—broad across its width and topped with a thin topknot streaked with white—shook slightly as he stroked his angular jaw’s unkempt beard with yellowed bony fingers that rasped against stubble. Golden jar eyes; an ill-mannered nose; cheekbones jutting out like nail-pullers; lips perpetually twisted into an unfriendly へ-shaped scowl—though none of these features were new additions together they formed a visage utterly devoid of charm.

“Hinomoto has been a land where night cannot break without women since the days of Amanoiwato Kagura.” From the raised stage, Enshi’s voice was drifting over. “They say the wellspring of allure lies with you ladies—so ’tis claimed—”

Tōkichi opened his eyes. Narrowing his gleaming eyes, he looked at the people around him. He opened his mouth in an expression that was neither a bitter smile nor a yawn. His large, tobacco-stained jagged teeth came into view. With a resolute air, Sōshiki Hikobei,

“Boss, you look half-asleep. Shouldn’t we head back?” “Shall we go?”

“Nah—” “Enshi’s still young, so it’s no wonder, but he does have a rather grating way of speaking, wouldn’t you say?” “That so?” When Enshi withdrew, the musicians struck up a clamorous fanfare, and the famed Five-Man Strength—Ōishi Buemon from Echigo—made his entrance. Sōshiki Hikobei, being the proprietor of what could charitably be called a paper-doll physique, seemed to harbor twice the usual fascination for giants and strongmen. He promptly craned his elongated neck forward, fixing an intent stare upon the raised stage.

Dressed in a persimmon-colored kamishimo bearing a crest the size of an ordinary palm, positioned like a mountain that seemed to fill the entire raised stage—this was Buemon. But once that first impression faded and one looked closely, he proved merely a sumo wrestler of slightly larger build—his physique itself held little cause for astonishment. “Buemon, they told me ‘Come see Edo!’ So I figured—if you’ll let me gawk around, why not?” “But you folks—when you come to Edo? You ain’t doin’ no sightseein’. You’re the sight—” “You’re what gets gawked at—.”

While delivering such a spiel to amuse them, he flicked his shoulder garment. He slid his kimono sleeve. He bared his torso.

Indeed，splendid muscles.

Two. He crushed a teacup. He bent the fire iron like a thread. He drove a five-sun nail into the board with his clenched fist. He pulled it out with his teeth—no trick or mechanism. It was sheer strength alone. The flesh of his shoulders and arms swelled up like knots. They moved as though crawling. The audience swallowed their exclamations of admiration and watched intently. As if snapping back to their senses, they stirred. Unbeknownst to himself, Hikobei leaned forward, his slender body stiffening as he gazed fixedly. Indeed, as a strongman, there was likely none who could surpass Ōishi Buemon.

“It’s always those types who drop dead easy.”

Suddenly, Tōkichi said. It was Tōkichi’s malady that whenever people grew impressed, he felt compelled to disparage. When in a foul mood, if you said right, he’d say left—responding to everything with sarcasm. He wouldn’t so much as force a polite smile, nor offer a single pleasantry to anyone—and if some incident occurred during such times, Boss Tōkichi, of all people, would immediately dismiss even the most trivial matter—even something as minor as a boiling kettle spilling over—with remarks like “This here’s a tough one; can’t handle it myself,” right from the start. Yet those very matters would invariably be resolved effortlessly under that same dismissive tongue. Hikobei had long since learned every last one of Tōkichi’s habits and resolved not to pay them any mind. In truth, Tōkichi’s pessimistic attitude was merely that—an attitude—and signified nothing in particular.

So even now, when he said such ill-omened, harsh things about people—that Ōishi Buemon would die soon—Hikobei didn’t bat an eye.

He merely twisted his face into a faint smile and did not engage. As Buemon’s performance progressed, all of the audience except Tōkichi had their entire attention drawn to the raised stage. Hail-like applause surged and subsided. Hiko, “Catching a brute like that—it’d take some backbone.” “Arrest ropes? No matter how many you bundle together, he’d snap right through ’em.” Tōkichi acted as though he hadn’t heard. When Buemon withdrew, the Ume no Ya troupe—billed as the Maiden Dance—took his place, and three young women began dancing across the entire raised stage. Looking thoroughly bored by now, Tōkichi was glancing around the hall.

The door beside the raised stage leading to backstage flew open, and one of the attendants appeared with a panicked expression. He had barely rushed along the wall-side wooden corridor toward the entrance when he immediately summoned Kōshichi, the venue owner, and hurried back. Someone was whispering urgently, and Kōshichi's complexion had visibly altered. He had been scanning the audience as if searching for someone, but the moment he spotted Tōkichi, Kōshichi hunched his posture slightly and drew near. In a low voice—

“Boss, it seems something terrible has happened. I’m terribly sorry, but could you come to the backstage—” “You need something from me?” Tōkichi’s eyes still looked listless. “A fight?”

“No, it’s just that you being here at the perfect time, Boss—what a relief.” “What is it? I hear someone’s been killed—.”

His voice was hard to catch as he tried to keep it from reaching those around them, but Tōkichi couldn’t ask him to repeat himself. Signaling Hikobei with his eyes, he wordlessly rose to his feet. After having the waiting attendant and Kōshichi lead the way, he entered backstage from beside the raised platform.

The slightly elevated area on the right end served as the room where performers waited for their turns, with a single bare candle flickering dimly at the entrance. A long, narrow wooden corridor ran straight from it to the back entrance. The candlelight spread out more broadly as it reached further ahead, leaving only the faintly glowing shoji screens of the tightly closed rooms visible, with brightness confined to their feet while a dusk-like dimness enveloped everything. From the raised stage came only the sounds of the Ume no Ya troupe women’s feet shuffling against tatami mats and their stomping to the singing and shamisen music, leaving the backstage area hushed. There was no sign of anyone.

But as the young attendants guided them forward through the narrow corridor, something like a large black mass lying collapsed in a dimly lit spot slightly beyond the midpoint gradually came clearly into view. On their way there, they caught sight through a slightly open sliding door to the adjacent room of a puppet stage set up and ready for performance. It was about the size of a writing desk, with puppets suspended by strings from above to form the stage. Thinking these must be the famous puppets of Takehisa Monnosuke scheduled to perform later that night, Tōkichi passed by.

“What happened to the others?” Tōkichi said this and crouched over the corpse. The corpse—there was no mistaking it for anything but a corpse—was that of Ōishi Buemon, the strongman who had just moments ago retreated from the stage. There, see? That’s why I said not to let it slide. Tōkichi’s sardonic smile looked back at Hikobei as if to say, “Big guys like him end up just like this”—but far from taking pride in his boss’s lucky guess, Hikobei was staring at Buemon’s corpse with wide-eyed astonishment, as though he’d forgotten himself entirely.

“What’re y’all thinkin’? Nobody’s even here.”

When Tōkichi repeated this, the attendants took over,

“Right.” “We haven’t told a soul yet—the moment we found him, we dashed out front and only reported it to you, sir.” The “sir” they referred to was Kōshichi, the venue owner.

“Is that so. Might be too late already.” Tōkichi turned his still-disinterested face toward Kōshichi. “Sorry ’bout this, but make sure not a single soul leaves this venue till I give the word.” “Easily done, sir.” “This has turned into quite the mess.” “If nasty rumors start spreading, we’ll lose customers. So please, Boss—keep things quiet. We’re counting on you.”

“Ah, sure thing. If there’s someone who did the killing, we’ll just collar that bastard and have this whole business wrapped up quick and quiet.”

Kōshichi hurried off toward the back entrance where the performers came and went to make arrangements for detaining them.

Three

Tōkichi crouched over the corpse and began his examination. Buemon had died in the same costume he’d worn when returning from the stage, his face turned nearly purple and eyes bulging out. A single rope mark circled his neck, the skin gathered into lead-colored wrinkles. “Strangled,” Tōkichi groaned out. “Or did he hang himself—?” “Maybe with something like a thin cord—” When Hikobei interjected,

“No—judging by how these wrinkles bunch up here, looks more like something made of bundled threads.” “Or shamisen strings—.”

Releasing his hand from Buemon’s throat, Tōkichi turned to face the attendants who had discovered the body.

“Now then – your name. What do they call you?” “Tōkichi.” “Huh?” “Tōkichi’s the name.”

Glancing briefly at the grinning Hikobei, Tōkichi—

“Mr. Tōkichi, is it?” “Right.” “I go by Tōkichi of the attendants.” “Right.” “Mhm. “Mr. Tōkichi, I’m from Hatchōbori—”

“Oh yes, I’m well aware.” “I must apologize for sharing the same name as you, Boss—.”

“That don’t matter one bit. Just tell me exactly how you found ’im.” “Well y’see—I meant to check if all the later acts had arrived. Came in from the front to ask Hachibei the stagehand, but it’s so damn dim here—couldn’t see proper at first. Over in this side room though—across from where them puppets are set up—Master Takehisa Monnosuke and Ms. Okoyo were jawin’ away about somethin’. Long narrow corridor like this gives a clear view all through. No one else around neither. Then—sounds daft—but I saw a shadow flick ’cross the shoji there. Regular human-sized one it was. Danced ’bout for half a breath ’fore vanishin’. Went to look—nobody there... just this corpse here—Mr. Buemon lyin’ cold.” “Even drunkards got their limits.” “Big bastard sprawled in a walkway like this—bloody nuisance ain’t it?” “Hey—Mr. Buemon! Shook ’im and shouted—somethin’ weren’t right. So I doubled back to fetch the owner at the gate.”

Tōkichi tightened his lips and exhaled through his nose.

“Is that so. Got it.” “But that ain’t much of a useful story.”

Tōkichi turned to face Hikobei, “Partner, let’s go sniff around a bit, eh?”

And then he suddenly fell silent and looked around. At both ends of the narrow plank corridor stood two doors—one leading back to the front seating area they had just come from, and the other to the rear exit. To the right lay room partitions of shoji screens; to the left, a solid wall—to exit or enter required passing through one of those doors. From deeper within came the carefree laughter of men tending to performers, still apparently oblivious to what had transpired. Looking back toward the corridor entrance—as previously noted—a large exposed candle sputtered persistently, its yellow light spilling across the room’s shoji screens in a broad wash of dim illumination. One might call it nature’s own light magic—the flame’s glow traveled along just one side of the narrow space until its radiance crisscrossed so intricately across walls and ceiling that it verged on uncanny. Under these conditions—Tōkichi thought—even distant shadows would have been cast with surprising clarity.

He was slowly scratching his head, “Hey, Mr. Tōkichi.” “Let’s go over this part again.” “Listen up—you entered through this audience door.” “The room’s shoji were slightly open, and with Mr. Monnosuke the puppeteer—the woman, what was her name again?”

Before anyone noticed, Kōshichi, who had returned, interjected, "She goes by Ms. Okoyo—she’s Mr. Monnosuke’s shamisen player."

“Mhm. “Ms. Okoyo and Monnosuke were deep in conversation, and here, Buemon lay dead just as he was now.” “So you’re saying there was no one else—is that it?”

“Yes, that’s correct. At that time, I saw a large shadow reflected on this shoji.” “There wasn’t anyone there, but you saw just a shadow?” “That’s right.”

“What were Mr. Monnosuke and Okoyo doing?” “Since I didn’t think much of it, I didn’t pay close attention, but from what I could tell, Mr. Monnosuke was earnestly practicing voice mimicry as he worked on the puppet stage preparations.” “They were most likely discussing the stage arrangements.” “You said the shadow was cast in a hurry like this, yeah?” “Right.” “Wasn’t even hurrying—just fluttered onto the shoji and vanished straight away.”

“What kind of shadow was it? Can’t you recall?”

“What kind of shadow—,” Detagata no Tōkichi stroked his neck repeatedly. “It was a human shadow—wearing a kimono and hakama, all puffed up like—”

“Hmm...” “‘Wearing hakama,’ he said.”

Tōkichi yawned unceremoniously.

IV

“What? Wearing hakama?” Kōshichi shouted to Detagata in a loud voice, “You must’ve been dreamin’. There ain’t a soul in the dressin’ room wearin’ hakama!”

“They must’ve snuck in from outside.”

In front of Hikobei, Detagata no Tōkichi puckered his mouth, “But there was definitely nobody there—just the shadow.” “That’s your story.”

It was Tōkichi. “Wasn’t this shadow Mr. Buemon’s?” “This ain’t no joke.”

Detagata no Tōkichi was striving to protect his own testimony.

“By then, Mr. Buemon was already lyin’ right here like this.” “Then try tellin’ me more ’bout that shadow.” “Right.” “I’d say so!—but seein’ as it happened sudden-like, my account’s fuzzy, Boss. That shadow… looked like a hunchback, see?”

“A hunchback——?” “Yes. Had their hair done up big and was holdin’ somethin’ in their hand.” “What was it holding?” “Dunno what it was，but I saw it holdin’ somethin’ like a thread—”

Everyone fell silent, exchanging glances in turn.

A thunderous applause rang out, then the song and shamisen began again, and everything fell silent.

“No wonder.” Tōkichi said quietly, “There ain’t no way a shadow could’ve shown that much detail.” “Specially when it was just a flicker in a blink—any fool askin’ picky questions ’bout that’s the real blockhead here.”

“But Boss—how come there ain’t nobody there, yet just a shadow got seen?”

“Well, that’s just it—” “Monnosuke ’n Okoyo,” Hiko said, peering into the room, “ain’t here. Where’d they get off to—?”

Kōshichi answered. “Behind here, there’s a room where performers adjust their costumes before going on stage. When their time approaches, everyone enters there—shall I call them for you?”

“No need.” Tōkichi stopped.

“Can ya get to that dressin’ room without goin’ through the corridor?” “Yes. Without coming down here, if you open the Chinese-style sliding door on the other side, it’s right there.” “Buemon was killed while passin’ through this corridor shortly after comin’ down from the stage, right?”

“Huh.” “He descended from the stage.” “He’d just made it this far.” “All in just a blink of time.”

“Okoyo and Mr. Monnosuke were so absorbed in their rehearsal discussion that they remained unaware of Buemon collapsing in the corridor beyond the sliding doors—.” “Well, Boss—right when the Umeya troupe took their turn ascendin’ to the stage, this spot here’s where the musical accompaniment’s orchestra sounds the loudest. A bit of commotion wouldn’t reach nobody’s ears.” “Especially since they seemed completely engrossed in their conversation.”

“Well, no doubt about that.” “With a grunt, he comes down from the stage.” “He’s killed immediately.” “There ain’t no one in the corridor—just a shadow cast there—.” “Mr. Monnosuke and Okoyo must’ve entered the dressin’ room without knowin’ a thing while I went back to fetch the venue owner and came here with you now, Boss.” “That’s right.” “We’ll know once we ask ’em.” “So, in a corridor where there’s nobody,” Hikobei uttered tensely, “So Buemon was strangled to death.”

“Well, that’s how it ended up.”

At the far end of the corridor leading to the back entrance, the pale face of old man Ginbei, drained of color by shock, peered fearfully outward. Ginbei was the custodian overseeing the backstage entrance—a small-statured elderly man resembling a withered tree. “Hey, Gin!” Kōshichi barked out. “Ain’t nobody gettin’ out.” “Right you are—since that’s the order, I went ’n’ closed up the back tight.”

“You idiot! Closin’ it up now’s useless.” “Master Hakuchō’s ’bout to roll in, but even if he comes, we ain’t lettin’ him through.” “Ah, don’t you fret none.” Tōkichi laughed uncharacteristically. “We’ll swing it open quick once we collar the bastard.” Then, to Ginbei: “Hey, old-timer—you just caught wind ’bout Buemon croakin’ now?”

Detagata no Tōkichi hurriedly whispered to Kōshichi, “Next up’s Hanabōzu with the lively ballads—should we go notify ’im?”

Tōkichi overheard this. “The performers ain’t showin’ up anywhere—where’re they holed up?” “This room also serves that purpose, but since it’s right behind the stage area, only those ’bout to perform wait here—everyone else is sprawled out in the far tatami rooms.” “The dressin’ room I mentioned earlier’s even further beyond that.”

“I see. No wonder they ain’t showin’ up at all—figured as much. Buemon must’ve been passin’ through here too on his way back there, huh?”

As Tōkichi turned his gaze, Ginbei continued.

“I hadn’t the slightest inkling.” “The master came around and said we mustn’t let anyone out—that’s how I first learned of it—”

“You never left the back entrance, did ya.” “Huh.” “I was in charge of the performers’ footwear.” “There must’ve been someone who passed through this corridor and left, right, old man?”

Ginbei blinked blankly and shook his head. “No—there’s only one back entrance—but no one has.”

V

“Hmph.” Tōkichi flared his nostrils and fell silent, but immediately raised his face and signaled Ginbei toward the far side. “Truly, no one has left.” “I was sittin’ right at the back entrance the whole time—Mr. Enshi’s geta strap broke, so I was fixin’ it for him—” Ginbei the backstage attendant repeated this once more, but Tōkichi didn’t seem to be listening. Looking down as if peering into his own chest, he bit his nails incessantly.

Ōishi Buemon was, just as he appeared, a hulking obese man—as if three bulls had been combined into one. Moreover, he was an unprecedented strongman performer who currently commanded Ryūkōtei Hall’s full attention. As Ōishi Buemon descended from the stage and moved through a narrow straight corridor toward the waiting area—a single candle’s light at his back—someone wrapped a rope around his neck and, in an instant, cleanly strangled this giant of a man to death.

It was unbelievable. That this strongman could be strangled so effortlessly defied comprehension—something not even Boss Kuginuki Tōkichi of Hatchōbori Gatten Nagaya, let alone any person of sound mind, could readily accept. Moreover, at that precise moment, in the elevated waiting room adjacent to the narrow corridor directly behind the stage—where performers awaited their turns—only Takehisa Monnosuke the puppeteer and Okoyo the shamisen player had been engrossed in conversation, with not a soul visible in the fully observable corridor. This came from the testimony of Detagata no Tōkichi—who had entered the corridor from the audience seating immediately after the incident, that is, moments after Buemon collapsed, likely before one could finish counting "one, two, three, four, five, six—". And now Ginbei—attending to performers' footwear at the backstage entrance—emphatically asserted that no one had passed through the corridor to exit out back, as if stamping his seal of confirmation on this account.

What was particularly mysterious was the shadow that Detagata no Tōkichi claimed to have seen—leaping across the shoji screen and vanishing the moment he entered the corridor.

Even though there were no people present, only that shadow figure—illuminated by the candlelight at the stage entrance—had been projected onto the shoji screen, they said. Detagata no Tōkichi indeed insisted he had seen it clearly—a human shadow of ordinary size that appeared bulky, as if wearing a thick kimono and hakama-like trousers. He also stated that it had a large topknot and appeared hunched over. Detagata no Tōkichi claimed the shadow had been holding something like a thread—but it was all a fleeting impression, a momentary flash across the shoji screen before vanishing. To recount it in detail now would render it utterly vague, like retelling a half-remembered dream.

A snap of the fingers—it must have all happened in that brief instant.

But even so—could Ōishi Buemon, a man of such immense strength, really have been killed so easily? Tōkichi had deduced from the twisted state of the skin at the wound that whatever had coiled around and strangled the neck was likely something like five or six shamisen strings bound and twisted together—but precisely because of that, he found it utterly impossible to accept that Buemon could have died instantly from mere strangulation by such strings. But given that there’s such a thing as momentum—even conceding for argument’s sake that he had been strangled in such a manner—it was Ōishi Buemon we’re talking about. Even if it was a sudden ambush, unless the assailant were a demon or supernatural entity, Buemon must have struggled against them without fail. No—even if only briefly, he must have literally exerted every last ounce of strength to resist. In this narrow corridor, the whale-like Buemon—driven by his instinct to survive—had grappled with something. He must have thrashed about wildly—it’s safe to imagine. The giant man’s death throes before dying. One could only imagine how desperate and clattering the struggle must have been—yet none of this had reached Monnosuke and Okoyo, who were hurriedly preparing for their act in the corridor-facing room. Or rather, that the two had noticed nothing at all—no matter how much Detagata no Tōkichi and venue owner Kōshichi insisted it was because Ume no Ieren’s maiden dance troupe had just ascended the stage to replace Buemon at that very moment, making this the most cacophonously resonant spot where such noises would be drowned out by the clamor of musical instruments—this explanation simply did not sit right with Boss Kuginuki.

That being said, nothing about this added up.

After Buemon had performed his strongman act onstage, Tōkichi had remarked that guys like him drop dead easy—and indeed, as if compelled to obey Tōkichi’s words, the man had died here in this very spot the moment he stepped down from the stage. While this uncanny coincidence defied explanation (though of course it was mere happenstance), what stood out was Sōshiki Hikobei’s uneasy amazement at how far the Boss’s perceptive gaze could reach, now that even this strangeness was being attributed to Tōkichi’s scrutiny—a moment that revealed Hikobei’s unwavering trust and pride in his superior.

Tōkichi felt slightly awkward. Inwardly laughing, he showed Hikobei a triumphant face as though he had guessed correctly.

But before long, he too could no longer remain composed about such matters.

Two times two is four, two times three is six—these were simple truths. But Buemon’s death was like two times two equaling five, two times three becoming seven—or even eight—an anomaly among anomalies. A principle that defied principles.

Kuginuki Tōkichi, too, had to work through his thoughts. Whenever his reasoning settled on an answer, he would bite his nails—a ingrained habit of his.

And now, Tōkichi was biting his nails incessantly like this.

VI

From the stage came the lively sounds of the Ume no Ieren troupe’s dancing foot-stomps, hand claps, and festive musical accompaniment.

Four or five people were gathered in the narrow corridor, crowded together and peering down at Buemon’s corpse.

Outside, the misty rain of an early summer night seemed to be growing thicker. The sound of a heavily laden cart passing over the girders of nearby Kii no Kunibashi Bridge continued—at times as loud and prolonged as thunder. As Ginbei departed, Tōkichi—accompanied by venue owner Kōshichi and Sōshiki Hikobei—returned to the door near the stage entrance where a bare candle stood. Through the gap in the door, he peered at the stage and saw the backs of women dancing in a row.

Tōkichi turned to Kōshichi as if to say something, but at that moment, his eyes caught sight of rakugo performer Enshi and Monnosuke’s shamisen player Okoyo standing dejectedly beside the Bunraku-like puppet stage in the small room to their right—where performers nearing their acts waited—whispering worriedly to each other.

Okoyo had a face with a beautiful hairline, large wide eyes that still retained the look of a young girl. Both of them, having caught Tōkichi’s gaze, brought their foreheads—flushed with agitation yet deathly pale—forward before a single word could be spoken. Enshi cautiously bent toward Tōkichi and said, “It seems something has happened to Mr. Buemon, but it’s nothing major—” It was a raspy low voice that seemed to squeeze through a narrow throat. Accustomed to seeing him only in his stage role of making people laugh—with spouting comedic lines being his profession and his naturally peculiar face his trademark—the sight of this man now being so serious felt utterly eerie, almost monstrous.

“Yeah.” Boss Tōkichi’s response was expressionless. “Nothin’ much to it. Just got strangled is all. With that cumbersome build of his blockin’ up the place, he ain’t got no discipline over his own body, does he? Hey, Master Enshi, hahahaha.” “Th-that’s no joke, Boss!” Enshi, flustered yet visibly pleased, said, “Flattering a youngster like that’s a sin. I’m hardly in any position to be called ‘Master’ yet.”

As Enshi spoke, he glanced briefly at Okoyo—and in that fleeting look, Tōkichi detected an uncontainable glint of pride. *This one’s got his heart set on her*, he thought privately, already drawing connections between them. But when he next spoke, it was with studied nonchalance to Kōshichi, the venue owner standing behind him. “This Ume no Ieren dance performance ain’t gonna end anytime soon, huh?”

“Hmm, they’ll be coming down soon.” “Without letting anyone see the corpse, have them return from this room to the waiting area over there.” “Don’t let ’em pass through the corridor.” No sooner had he spoken than the stage entrance swung open. A burst of vibrant colors swayed into view as four or five women from Ume no Ieren came chattering noisily down the corridor.

“Hey—Hana-san’s up next.”

Kōshichi, trying not to leave the stage empty, raised his voice toward the performers’ green room.

“Hana-san—what are you doing—.”

“Oh my, don’t even have time to eat.”

Hanabōzu, the lively ballad singer who had been pulling at Yasuke backstage, was mumbling with his cheeks stuffed full,

“Yes.” “Your humble servant is here.” “Pardon me.” He slipped through Tōkichi and the others and went out to the stage. His head rounded puffily, his ancient purple crepe haori—with its rough tie-dye pattern—slipping off his shoulders to flash glimpses of its bright red lining. “Ah—though I take my turn here, I bring no improvement.” “I must apologize for offering your ears the same old fare yet again—but with your awaited favorites pouring in one after another behind me, this humble one shall, in good spirits, perform two or three lively ballads or such. Now then—”

Hanabōzu’s voice reached even Tōkichi’s ears behind the stage, sounding distant and muffled. The women of the Ume no Ieren troupe, who had tried to proceed down the corridor, were stopped by Kōshichi and hurriedly went up to the adjacent room. Before the young women—peering suspiciously as if wondering what had happened—Tōkichi stood. But the fact that Buemon lay there on his back in that corridor seemed to spread among them wordlessly—and terror suddenly flooded the women’s pale faces.

Tōkichi peered at the Ume no Ieren women lined up in a row, then with his characteristic squint, gazed over them intently—from right to left, then left to right, two or three times as if caressing them—before finally muttering from the corner of his mouth, “Dancing must be tough work.” Having steeled themselves for interrogation, they found this abrupt question strangely anticlimactic, hurriedly exchanging glances with one another. There was also a woman who, like a goldfish, fluttered her long sleeves and smiled. One of them, who seemed slightly older,

“Ah... But someone as skilled as you, Boss—” “Well. Even I ain’t half bad at this.” With this, Tōkichi abruptly moved both legs into an odd posture and demonstrated something resembling a dance gesture. The Ume no Ieren troupe forgot all about Buemon’s death, cackling gleefully as they scampered deeper into the building; even Kōshichi snorted with laughter—yet only Tōkichi and Hikobei remained utterly stone-faced.

VII

“Mr. Enshi left earlier.” “Miss Okoyo was here deep in conversation with Master Monnosuke, weren’t you?”

Tōkichi called out to Enshi and Okoyo, who were still standing there in a daze. Enshi, blankly, answered.

“Hmm.” “I handed over the stage to Mr. Buemon and was chatting away about silly things in the back waiting area this whole time.” “I was planning to return right away, but on my way here, the strap on my geta broke. Old Man Ginbei from backstage was kind enough to restring it for me, but it just wouldn’t hold properly—so I’m still waiting here now.” Okoyo fixed her calm eyes on Tōkichi’s face and nodded gracefully.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Tōkichi said to Okoyo. “Didn’t you see anyone in the corridor?”

“Yes. Mr. Buemon came down from the stage and passed by here—that’s all.” “That’s somethin’ you already know.” “After a while, Mr. Tōkichi—Tō from the staff, I believe—came in from the front. But at that time, I entered the dressing room in the next chamber together with Master, so what happened after that—” “So you’re saying you only just now learned about Buemon’s—commotion?”

“That is correct.”

When Okoyo and Enshi answered together, Tōkichi bit his lip intently but— “Master Takehisa—?” “In the waiting area, awaiting his turn to go on stage.” “Besides—you say there was no one else around here.” “Yes. “I did not see anyone.”

“Hey, Mr. Enshi.” Tōkichi abruptly lowered his voice and thrust his face forward. “You can’t be hiding things. “Whoa, no need to panic.” “You there—you and Buemon didn’t get along too well normally, did ya?”

As the suddenly pale Enshi wordlessly opened and closed his mouth, Okoyo interjected, “Allow me to explain that, Boss. Mr. Buemon was certainly a kind man, but he persistently pestered me—so much so that it became rather overbearing. And since Mr. Enshi knew how much it troubled me, he would step in to protect me whenever needed.”

“Some love story.” A wry smile twisted Tōkichi’s mouth. “Took a shot ’round these parts to test the waters, but from the sound of your talk, Miss Okoyo, seems I struck pure gold.”

With a grin, Tōkichi glanced back at Hikobei. Funeral Hiko stood shivering as if chilled to the bone, “Boss, why’d a big guy like that get strangled so easy? I still don’t get it.” “You damn fool—there’s things even I don’t get, so how the hell would that mug of yours figure it out?”

“But you know, Boss. This here—’stead of bein’ strangled proper-like, what if someone looped a rope ’round his neck, he panicked when it startled him, and ended up stranglin’ his own self? Just my own humble conjecture, mind you…”

“Well done, Hiko.” “Actually, I’ve been thinkin’ the same thing for a while now—in other words, Buemon basically strangled himself, so to speak.” “But who—how—managed to wrap a string around Buemon’s neck as he walked down the corridor—.” “A shadow’s doing, Boss.” “That’s right. “A shadow’s doing.” “And that shadow—” “That’s the spot—”

When Hikobei crossed his arms snugly, Tōkichi—uncharacteristically—smiled.

“Hiko—you’re one step short.” “Think it through properly.” “I’ve already got most of it figured out—hahaha!”

Due to reports from Ginbei and the Ume no Ieren troupe, people began emerging from the performers' gathering spot, and the backstage area was about to erupt into chaos. Takehisa Monnosuke, known as a master puppeteer, had also slipped into the room unnoticed at some point, his stern, aged face visible behind Okoyo and Enshi.

He appeared quite advanced in years—his persimmon-hued shoulder garment hung on a body with a slightly stooped posture, skin like oiled paper, face like a withered tree—a feeble, pitiable old master. When Tōkichi spotted Monnosuke, his eyes gently smiled.

“Ain’t that Master Takehisa?” Okoyo, startled, turned around— “Oh, really—” “What an unforeseen incident—I commend your diligent efforts in this duty.” After courteously greeting Tōkichi, elderly Monnosuke stepped forward with some reluctance. Tōkichi, “Hey, Master—so there was just a shadow on the shoji, but no actual person there… So where in this two-mouthed corridor could they’ve vanished to, I wonder.”

“Well now. Strange things do happen in this world—” “But more than that—even with a string wrapped around his neck, why didn’t Mr. Buemon just crush the other party? That’s what I can’t stop wondering about.” “Quite so.” “After all, with that strength of his—” “That strength—” “Couldn’t reach with his hands, I wonder.”

Muttering to himself, Tōkichi was staring fixedly at the candle stand by the stage entrance.

Monnosuke merely tilted his head and did not answer.

Eight

“Boss, is it all right if we clean up the corpse now?”

Even when the male staff member Tōkichi came to inquire, Tōkichi remained silent, keeping his gaze fixed on the candlelight as he gave only a faint nod. Immediately, as if many hands were moving Ōishi Buemon’s heavy corpse, clamorous voices and the sounds of activity arose in the corridor beyond the shoji screens, then faded into the distance. Monnosuke seemed to be straining his ears, as if listening intently to it.

From the stage, the melodic phrases of Hanabōzu’s lively ballad seeped through with stylish allure.

Tōkichi beckoned Okoyo to a corner. The two of them stood behind the puppet stage, speaking in low voices.

“What are you to the Master?” “What do you mean…,” Okoyo replied with a startled look, “The shamisen, sir—.”

Elderly Monnosuke, having overheard, “It isn’t just the shamisen.” “She is my puppet’s other hand.” “Monnosuke’s puppets can only win over the esteemed audience’s favor when riding upon Okoyo’s strings, indeed.” “Oh, such a thing—”

Okoyo—acting every bit the novice—blushed crimson as she denied this, then turned her gaze from Monnosuke back to Tōkichi. “It’s Master Takehisa’s artistry—.” “My shamisen only gets in the way—.” “Miss Okoyo,” Tōkichi adopted a slightly more formal tone. “I’ve never handled such a tangled investigation before.” “Can’t get a grip on it—but how ’bout ya tell me a bit more ’bout that Buemon bastard?”

“I don’t know anything about Mr. Buemon’s affairs myself, but it seems he didn’t get along with anyone at all. Though one shouldn’t speak ill of the deceased… truly, he was a disagreeable man.”

“Hmm, why was he so disliked—.” “Why, you ask…” Okoyo hesitated briefly. “He was a womanizer, and on top of that, he fancied himself quite the ladies’ man—it was insufferable.” “That guy—didn’t he just come down from some mountain hinterlands in Echigo this time ’round? Ain’t this your first time crossin’ paths with him here?”

“I feel like I’m betraying my comrades by saying this, but since he’s dead now, I suppose it doesn’t matter.” “No, far from this being his first time coming here, he had been touring around from Kamigata to all sorts of places for years now.” “We have met him here and there on our travels quite often.”

“That so?” “Figured as much.” As Tōkichi sank into thought, Okoyo kept speaking unbidden— “I often traveled in the same troupe as Mr. Enshi on the road, but—”

“Hmm.” “With that Mr. Enshi—since Buemon was makin’ passes at you, there’d been frequent clashes between you two, I reckon.”

Okoyo looked down. Master Monnosuke said in a slightly irritated tone, “I would ask that you refrain from inquiring about such trivial matters—”

“The thought that it’s me askin’ gets under my skin.” Tōkichi grinned, “But when I think it’s my duty makin’ me ask, this just gets under my skin—ain’t a damn thing I can do about it.” “Well, Master, that’s about the size of it.” “But—” Okoyo looked up, startled. “At that time, Mr. Enshi was right next to me the whole time, and besides, he... he’s not the sort to commit murder—such a... such a crude...”

“Mr. Boss—,” Enshi, who had been speaking with Monnosuke, interjected from across the room. “Suspectin’ me? That’s too damn cruel.” “I’m tellin’ you, Mr. Boss—.” “Oh! So you were there.” “Just hush now, you.” “Shut up? That depends on the circumstances, I say.” “This is a popularity business.” “To be called a murderer—”

In the audience seats, laughter welled up and immediately vanished.

Tōkichi returned to his sullen expression and was busily darting what appeared to be meaningless glances from face to face among the surrounding people.

As the performance time approached, Monnosuke and Okoyo took out the puppets and arranged them on the manipulation stage. The kyogen play was the Seriu Village Temple School scene—Genzo, Tonami, Suga Shusai, village children, their numerous parents, Genba, Matsuō—a multitude of puppets, each crafted with utmost precision. The puppets’ joints, torsos, necks—every crucial point—bore strings that Monnosuke manipulated from above with near-divine artistry—truly the unparalleled puppets of Takehisa Monnosuke.

"There existed a master by the name of Takehisa Monnosuke." He manipulated the puppets as though they lived—this master paired with Okoyo on shamisen—both individuals honored in past and present. When these two stood together in performance, it created a peerless spectacle praised as unmatched in their time. The art of puppetry originated from the ancient text *Kyū San Gi Ittō no Sho*, its principles rooted in yin-yang and natural order. As for its deepest mysteries—though never fully recorded in books—their essence had been versified into fifty-three waka poems for easier remembrance, as shown below:

In stepping forth, the man to the left and the woman to the right—this is the distinction of yin and yang.

For perplexity: stroking the forehead with downcast eyes and turning the body away—this was the established method.

For astonishment: draw back the face, expose the shoulders, and place a fist suspended in mid-air—thus it is done.

“When laughing, a man shall raise his shoulder; a woman covers her face with her sleeve and looks down.”

In addition to these, there existed fifty-three songs that demonstrated the puppets' expressive techniques and basic movements—a renowned masterful artistry of the Takehisa family since ancient times.

Nine As he looked at the puppets, Tōkichi had not been thinking such things. At this moment, his brain was elsewhere, busily working. Detagata no Tōkichi’s eyes—though it had been a sudden observation, and his partner being a vague shadow figure might have led to error—nonetheless reported that the shadow cast on the shoji screen had been that of a hunchback. But needless to say, there was not a single hunchback in the dressing room.

Tōkichi beckoned Hikobei with a dreamy look in his eyes and whispered.

“I ain’t gonna name names, but I tentatively suspected five people.” “But if we think through it—once four of ’em get cleared with solid alibis—then the last one bein’ the culprit, well Hiko, ain’t no doubt about it.” “Hmm, and who’s this fifth one you’re talkin’ about?” Sōshiki Hikobei wore a look that seemed both understanding and perplexed. “Now, now—no need to rush.” Carrying that face like a nail puller, Tōkichi nimbly descended to the corridor. Then, suddenly sharpening his eyes, he surveyed the narrow corridor—lit by candlelight from one end—from floor to ceiling.

Tōkichi’s shadow—lit only from behind—filled the entire shoji screen, appearing as though it had been painted black. Tōkichi took two or three steps toward the shoji screen.

The farther one moves from the light, the larger the shadow grows—and the fainter it becomes. Hazily, it spreads.

And then, as Hikobei absently watched Tōkichi, a strange sound reached his ears. Apparently, Tōkichi was suppressing laughter—but then,

“Hey, Hiko.” Tōkichi turned around—he was no longer laughing. “I’ve come to hate this detective life—” Here we go again!

Seeing the Boss uttering in such a pessimistic tone—likely having solved the mystery—Hikobei suppressed a smile as Tōkichi continued:

“I must’ve gone off my rocker. Up until this very moment, I ain’t noticed such a thing—even I gotta say, it’s downright pathetic. Makes me wanna lose all patience.”

The sound of applause could be heard; it seemed the lively ballad had ended, and there was an air that Hanabōzu would soon descend. Next was one of the featured acts—Monnosuke’s puppetry.

Then Kuginuki Tōkichi sprang to life as though roused from a trance.

Suddenly, as the time for his performance drew near, he blocked elderly Monnosuke’s path as the puppeteer tried to proceed down the corridor toward the stage.

Kōshichi, Detagata no Tōkichi, Enshi, the women of Umenoya, Ginbei the dressing room attendant, and other performers gathered around with astonished faces. Surrounded by the crowd, Okoyo stepped forward as if to shield Monnosuke.

Quietly, Tōkichi was saying.

“Master.”

Quietly, Monnosuke answered. "What do you mean?"

“You did it, Master.” “Oh ho. What do you mean—?”

A brief silence hung in the air.

Monnosuke raised his thin shoulders and stared fixedly at Tōkichi from directly before him. "I'm afraid you're mistaken." "You ain't gettin' away with that." "Actually, I— Spit it out. Now."

It was Okoyo who spoke. “Boss, why’re you spoutin’ such nonsense?” Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed fiercely, their corners lifting as if blood might seep through. “Master wouldn’t hurt a fly—and look at him! He’s an old man like this, ain’t he?” “The great Kuginuki Tōkichi oughta open his damn eyes proper when lookin’ at folks.” “Boss, Master was right here talkin’ to Okoyo with hand signals,” Detagata no Tōkichi added pitifully, “Wasn’t nowhere near the corridor.”

“Oh...” “That business with the hand gestures,” Tōkichi said to Okoyo with a laugh, “back then—didn’t Master use strings instead of actually lowering the puppet over the lintel, outside the shoji?” “Yes.” “In that way, while painstakingly working through various uses of the strings, he explained to me how to move my fingers, but...”

When everyone’s eyes turned upward along the shoji screen, sure enough, a gap in the lintel had been opened, creating an aperture.

Tōkichi had started laughing. “Hurry up and confess—if you’re sayin’ the criminal’s got nowhere to run—not right, not left, not down.” “They must’ve fled from above.”

Monnosuke also smiled, "Could this old man climb up and down such places? And could someone like me possibly kill that strongman Buemon-san? Even a fool needs his rest..."

Suddenly, Tōkichi's hand reached out and grabbed one of the puppets atop the puppet stage. It was the Matsuōmaru puppet, with its imposing hairstyle and costume. “Master may not have that strength himself, but in his fingers—no, in the tips of a master puppeteer’s strings—there lies a diamond-hard power.” “From the room, you lowered this Matsuōmaru puppet over the lintel, had it hold bundled shamisen strings, and with those masterful strings’ tips strangled Buemon the strongman—no doubt about it! Outta the way, you bastards!”

Tōkichi pushed through the crowd to clear a space while saying, “Look—with this light at my back, my shadow gets cast that big over there! What I saw wasn’t any human shadow! Now check this out—” When he projected the Matsuōmaru puppet’s shadow onto the shoji where Buemon had fallen, the small doll expanded to human size from the light angle—its head enlarged wide like an umbrella pine cone while its kimono hem flared out resembling hakama trousers and its hunched back formed an artificial stoop.

Monnosuke looked down and spoke in a small voice. “Since he was intent on making a plaything of Okoyo and had set his sights on her, I resolved to act decisively—”

When Tōkichi’s face took on a pained expression, a deep voice called out from behind the crowd,

“However—that he died just from a puppet wrapping strings around his neck—though I say this before Boss Tōkichi—is what I think.” “He was walking absentmindedly when something strange descended onto his nape and he was grabbed from behind, startling him.” “The moment a cord came at his throat, he frantically tried to grab it.” “There’s simply no way a puppet’s strength could kill that strongman.” “In his panic from being startled and thrashing about, he ended up using his own immense strength to constrict his neck and stop his breathing—so between the shock and the momentum of trying to tear it away with his arm strength, wouldn’t you say, Boss, that Buemon-san ultimately brought about his own destruction?” “I can’t help feeling that’s exactly what happened—”

It was Hakuchō, the headliner military tale narrator, who had just entered the dressing room and heard of the commotion.

A plea to save Takehisa Monnosuke—a master puppeteer for the ages—from his crime of pure devotion was etched across every line of Hakuchō’s face. This was undoubtedly the opportunity Tōkichi too had secretly hoped for—a chance to somehow save him. “Well, lookie here—ain’t this the Yokoami Master?” Nodding with his eyes, he suddenly bellowed at Sōshiki Hikobei, who kept his hands on Monnosuke’s shoulders.

“Oi, Hiko! Let go. Ain’t that Master Monnosuke and Okoyo-san’s performance platform?!”