Pathway to Japanese Literature

Perhaps rain was already falling somewhere—in the direction of a towering cumulonimbus cloud that swelled upward, glowing white as if gazing skyward, where a faint rumble of distant thunder reverberated. As he descended the slope, Hikotaro gripped the brim of his straw hat and looked up at the sky—thinking a rain might come—then surveyed his surroundings where heat haze shimmered as if scorching, when—or so it seemed—a sudden gust of cold wind swept through, rustling the leaves of the watermelon field. In the reddish-brown soil, watermelons of various sizes lay scattered, their dust-covered surfaces exposing a patchy blue-green hue like bald spots. As he descended, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout “Hey!”, the man who had been standing completely naked in the center of the small pond visible below—thrusting both hands into the water—looked up. When he realized it was Hikotaro, he stretched his back below, gave a full-body stretch while slapping his waist, and smiled toward him—all clearly visible even from afar. Kicking up a cloud of dust as he raced down the slope, the momentum nearly sent him plunging into the pond, but he managed to grab hold of a fig tree on the bank at the last moment. They exchanged glances and burst into loud laughter. “Mr. Uhei, what’re ya doin’ here?” Hikotaro asked, already sitting down on the grass as he pulled out his hatchet-shaped pipe from his waist and began packing tobacco into the bowl. Soaked through, with sweat now dripping from his forehead into his eyes, Uhei couldn’t wipe it away with his mud-caked hands and instead smeared it off with his forearm. He said he’d been trying to catch edible frogs but couldn’t find any, so he’d decided to drain the pond and had just pulled out the mud plug. “Are there edible frogs here?” Hikotaro asked back, his face registering surprise. “For four or five days now, there’s been one making a strange noise.” “I was sure it was edible frogs—searched everywhere but found nothin’. Figured they must be hidin’ at the pond’s bottom, so I stirred up the muck—still nothin’. Tried baitin’ hooks with cattail spikes—nibbles? None. Then at night, the damn thing starts croakin’—this grating ‘ga-on, ga-on’, like a squallin’ baby. With my wife in that state… well, it gets on your nerves—she can’t sleep a wink. No choice but to drain this piss-puddle of a pond. Went in earlier to yank out the mud plug, but the damn thing’s jammed with red clay—struggled till my bones creaked. Gotta catch it or I’ll burst!” As he spoke, Uhei thrust both hands back into the murky red water, sucked in a breath, grimaced—and vanished beneath the surface with a splash. Hikotaro stared fixedly at the bubbles gurgling up for a while, beginning to grow uneasy as Uhei showed no sign of resurfacing—when suddenly the previously turbulent water surface stilled, its ripples subsiding into perfect calm. Hikotaro’s chest suddenly began to pound. Thinking Uhei had gotten caught on something and couldn’t surface, he resolved to go in and help, taking off his shirt. Just as he gripped the waistband of his work pants, a thunderous splash erupted in the pond—a roaring sound followed by water tearing like cloth with a force that seemed to suck everything down—and there, in the swirling vortex at the water’s center, Uhei’s face popped up. He shook his head vigorously, spat with a “gah,” cursed “Damn it! Made me break my damn back,” then threw the plug he held in his right hand onto the grassy bank. Seeing Hikotaro standing there dumbfounded, he burst into loud laughter. At the base of the embankment, the violent sound of water draining could be heard, and the water’s surface visibly began to recede. Without responding to Hikotaro’s “It’s just like a kappa, you,” Uhei sharpened his gaze and began meticulously scanning every corner of the pond. After putting his shirt back on, Hikotaro also turned his eyes to the bushes along the bank. Water striders darted about the surface as if panicked, small green frogs leaped, and red-clawed crabs scrambled away in confusion—but no edible frogs were to be seen.

“They’re not here, you,” Hikotaro blurted out, but Uhei said nothing, his gaze never leaving the pond’s surface. Hikotaro sat down on the grass again out of boredom, but the moment he casually glanced sideways, he was so startled he nearly leapt to his feet. In the window of a hut no more than six feet away stood a woman in white—her hair disheveled over her face, eyes glaring wide as they fixed on him. Hikotaro, flustered by his own shock, called out to Uhei: “Goryon-san still doesn’t seem better, huh?” Uhei finally tore his eyes from the water and leaned out the window. At his wife—whose gaunt face bore a collapsed expression between weeping and rage, her perpetually large eyes now bulging unnaturally from emaciation as she laughed with a teeth-grinding shriek—he suddenly hurled the mud he’d been clutching. “Shoo!” he barked like someone chasing off an animal, then yelled “Sit down!” before reciting something in a loud, sutra-like incantation. “Idiot… idiot…” muttered the wife as she hunched her shoulders, retreated, and sank onto the dark earthen floor. “This is trouble,” Uhei said as a fleeting sorrow crossed his rugged face before he regained vigor. “That stubborn fox—ten days now and still won’t leave! Possessing my wife like some damn fool Inari fox—maddening! When they went wild, we had someone bind them—calmed them some.” “She’d rant nonsense, hurl anything she grabbed—dangerous fits. Had Souen-san from the mountain come seal her with paper cords. Folks call him a drunk yakuza ascetic, but I saw his skill this time. No matter how tight I wound those thick ropes around her—sturdiest knots—she’d slip free somehow. Yet Souen-san just connected her fingers and toes with sacred strings, prayed—suddenly she couldn’t move. Completely subdued.” “Souen-san says he’ll drive out the fox in two-three days—should recover soon.” Uhei’s voice softened. “But she won’t eat… just wastes away.” Then abruptly rallying: “That wife’s cursed—made her suffer while I caroused, caused Master Akase such trouble I became this mountain caretaker to atone. Forced her into farm work without decent life… now fox-possessed.” With that, Uhei laughed oddly—a hollow, self-mocking sound that thudded against Hikotaro’s chest. Hikotaro averted his eyes and rose restlessly. “Well… take care of Goryon-san,” he tossed out before scrambling up the clay slope like a fugitive. “What’s wrong, Hiko-san?” Uhei called after him, voice fading with distance. “Stay longer—pond’ll dry! Catch frogs—grill ’em! Have a drink!” Dashing through watermelon fields to the road, Hikotaro leapt into his waiting truck’s cab. “Drive!” he ordered Sawada. As the truck lurched forward, he glanced downslope with relief—Uhei’s figure now bean-sized in the pond. The prone shape pressing something down might’ve meant frog success, but Hikotaro kept searching for the white-clad woman’s window through winding turns until it vanished from view. The truck lumbered along serpentine mountain roads through cultivated land, churning dust clouds behind it. This was Mount Sawara’s summit—until years ago, a sasa bamboo-choked wasteland. Though bamboo roots made farming impossible here, an anti-air drill years prior demanded building an anti-aircraft battery atop the peak. Engineers had widened the original three-shaku path into a proper two-ken road within days when military needs arose.

The year after the exercises concluded, the Shanghai Incident erupted; the Three Human Bullet Heroes who died in action during the attack on Miaoxingzhen had been engaged in that road reclamation project, and atop Mount Sawara stands an imposing memorial to these three heroes.

The opening of this mountain road stood as a true blessing for the city. With this road’s completion serving as catalyst, Mount Sawara transformed into a park while new arteries radiated outward in all directions from its slopes—roads that soon became gridlines carving through wilderness. Thus began the reclamation of municipal wasteland encircling these routes, until every hillside and slope now lay checkered with fields and orchards yielding bountiful harvests year upon year. From this vantage stretched an unobstructed view of Genkai-nada’s boundless waters. This tempestuous sea—dotted with islands, embroidered with clouds and ships and wheeling seabirds—held a painterly beauty. Though salt-laden winds from these waters brought crop-scouring gales, through unrelenting toil the farmers coaxed forth abundance: radishes and potatoes and onions in their seasons, figs and loquats and pears and watermelons swelling under summer suns. Hikotaro’s truck raced along roads etched into these cultivated slopes. Fertilizer barrels clattered in its bed—half-empty, half-full—their sloshing contents punctuating the journey’s rhythm. Though Hikotaro had visited Uhei’s plot intending to deliver four loads of fertilizer, business forgotten now, he fled like a man pursued. “That woman’s cursed through and through”—Uhei’s words pierced him like a needle’s jab. He thought of his own wife and children ground down by ceaseless hardship—nothing new, yet seeing ever-stoic Uhei speak with such uncharacteristic gravity struck his heart like a coiled spring’s sudden release. Three months had passed since he last saw home. Even that previous visit three months back had been incidental—a pause while selling fertilizer nearby. Pushing through the broken bamboo gate, he’d found Toshino weeding fields that showed her no welcome: expression unchanging at his approach, she’d muttered “The moneylender came” to his retreating back without raising her face from methodical plucking. Rubbing his sun-ruddied cheeks, he’d blocked his house’s path—surveying smoldering eaves and walls shedding clay skin, staring at the nameplate whose characters time had eaten—and chanted like incantation: *Just wait and see... Just wait and see.* Generations of Komori prosperity as Sakata Village’s leading farmers now teetered on collapse in Hikotaro’s hands. Unable to curb surging ambition, he’d mortgaged ancestral woodlands to fund a new venture—waste collection. Before him, farmers had hauled city sewage in oxcarts when their fields demanded fertilizer, abandoning the task otherwise. City merchants too relied on horse or ox-drawn carts—clumsy tools for modern times. He bought a truck that could carry twenty loads. Collection fees plus fertilizer sales would surely secure most citizens as clients—modern methods guaranteeing profit even after expenses. Thus he launched his enterprise triumphant amidst neighbors’ scornful laughter.

But when he actually began, his calculations collided with miscalculations from the very outset. First came the chaos surrounding business permits. Since they couldn't get the truck anywhere into the city proper, they had to create barrel carts, gather collected barrels at designated spots, and shuttle the truck around to load them—and since using the truck in one location proved ineffective, they ended up making two carts, producing eighty loads' worth of barrels, and hiring six extra collection laborers. Setting aside other ventures' troublesome details, over the ten years since starting his business, not only the ancestral mountains, forests and fields but even his family home had all passed into others' hands—leaving nothing but Hikotaro's obsession with *Just wait and see*. The truck had been mortgaged multiple times and faced repossession on several occasions. The two other crucial reasons he kept descending this path of failure were his serious drinking habit and this region's political volatility—where party affiliations permeated every business deal, making commercial success impossible without catering to political interests.

He stopped returning to both the village and his home. The fact that he could no longer return might actually be true. He built a shack in a corner of a field near the beach to park his truck, constructed a four-and-a-half-mat room next to it, and lived there cooking for himself with difficulty. At first she had scolded him with harsh nagging; later she had taken to grumbling—but now even his wife had stopped saying anything at all. When he occasionally went to sell fertilizer in the village and stopped by his house, no matter when he came his wife Toshino would be out working in the fields, threshing straw, or weaving at her loom. Tokuji, who was twelve, and Chiyoko, who had turned eight and started school that year, had grown up healthy and strong even without their father around. He felt lonely that his children showed no heartfelt affection toward him, but he believed that someday they would live together at a leisurely pace—when that time came, he thought, he would savor a truly fulfilling life. He knew full well that everyone in the village mocked him—calling him dimwitted, an idiot, a pushover, a one-track fool obsessed with “Nagasuke of Longevity.” The phrase “Just wait and see” had become something like his religion. The truck began descending the mountain road built by the engineer corps, its aged frame rattling. As he cautiously reduced speed, a sudden gust of cold wind struck his cheek from the side. Jolted back to awareness, Hikotaro looked up to find the towering cedar forest now smothered under an oppressive blanket of black clouds that had crept in unnoticed. His eyes met those of the driver—Sawada with his gourd-shaped face—who had likewise looked up. Sawada furrowed his brows and pursed his lips, but at his muttered “It’s coming”—prompted by a single raindrop striking his cheek—the downpour began in earnest: fat white droplets cascading all at once. The thunder that had risen from afar like grinding millstones suddenly roared with terrifying force directly overhead and lashed the cedar forest with furious rain. Gazing at the fierce raindrops piercing holes into the reddish clay road like scattered beans, Hikotaro abruptly recalled Amano Kyutaro the stutterer and thought that tonight he absolutely must persuade Amano to discuss the union.

Early in the morning, after Sawada drove the truck out for a vehicle inspection, Hikotaro washed his oil-stained hands with laundry soap, sat down against a post, remembered the shochu he had left from the previous night, and retrieved the one-shō tokkuri from the water cellar lined with fine-meshed wire netting. Removing the stopper and peering inside to find about half remaining, he broke into a congenial smile as he poured it into a teacup and gulped it down in quick succession. As if chastising the numbing sensation coursing through his throat, he closed his eyes, pressed his right hand against his chest, and remained motionless for some time. He could distinctly trace its path down his esophagus into his stomach, feeling his entire body swell as though vitality itself were expanding within him. With this, he convinced himself he could work vigorously through another day—a boundless sensation washing over him as if his forty-five years of hardship had dissolved completely into that single cup of shochu.

After downing about three cups and standing up, he hung the collection ledger at his side and went outside. The glaring sand stung his eyes, but beyond the sand dunes shimmering with heat haze lay a sea as deep blue as a magic lantern slide, white spray crashing against the breakwater with a booming roar. He let out a big yawn and looked up at the new signboard that had recently been repainted and hung above the truck shack.

The pure white paint color made Hikotaro even happier. He gazed repeatedly at the city-designated three characters that had been added this time and nodded with an air of approval, as if bestowing his dignified assent. Then, going around to the back of the truck shack, he called out in a loud voice, “Hey! Anyone there?” “Haaai,” came a dull reply from inside the makeshift shack, and as the corroded tin door was pushed open, Ri Seigaku’s lanky face appeared, his long beard being stroked. When Hikotaro said, “I’m heading out to make collections now—you coming along?” the man suddenly grimaced. “Been having stomach pains since last night,” he declared without waiting for a reply, then clanged the tin door shut with a sneering half-smile. As Hikotaro clicked his tongue and walked down along the drought-reduced waters of Tōjin River, he heard from behind—in the makeshift shack—Ri Seigaku bellowing a Korean song in an odd melody. Though the drawn-out singing voice clearly carried a tone mocking Hikotaro, he remained utterly oblivious and—as if lured in—began humming a passage from *Sankatsu Hanshichi Sakeya no Dan* or some such tale, adding vocal shamisen accompaniment with his mouth. This elated mood of his coincided with an event that would lead him into a truly fortunate situation. It was when he, finally keeping rhythm with his hands, began to cross the earthen bridge spanning the lowermost part of Tōjin River. This narrow stream—less than one ken wide—was the city’s sole mountain rivulet, its source lying deep within Sasakura Mountain behind Sahara Mountain. Long ago, in the early Meiji era when the surging tide of civilization had seeped even into this remote hamlet, a coke factory arose nearby. A French engineer was hired at a salary so exorbitant it made contemporaries’ heads spin. Yet when this foreigner declared that gold dust could be panned from the stream, it sparked a brief but frenzied uproar. Because of this, a settlement sprang up so rapidly in the lower reaches of this stream—which had been nothing but seashore—that it seemed almost instantaneous. Because of this, the river likely had a different name in the past, but from some time onward, it came to be called Tōjin River. In the early Meiji era, this city—once a small fishing village of fewer than two hundred households—had rapidly developed through railway construction, port completion, coal mining and shipping, and other such projects. Yet the settlement that had emerged along Tōjin River’s lower reaches due to rumors of gold dust remained as it had been in the past, utterly left behind by this wave of progress. The coke factory had vanished before anyone knew it, and the foreigner had disappeared to who-knows-where, but the remaining settlement here, though left outside the town’s subsequent development, came to take on a role. This Donogoo Tonka became a settlement that collected garbage instead of mining gold.

The village faced the coast, its fifty or so households clustered tightly together. On the hill behind it stood a red-brick municipal waste incineration plant, its 170-shaku smokestack looming as it discharged grayish-black smoke. Dust heaps dotted every stretch of seaside and roadside, with several horse-drawn carriages hitched along the road where thick-legged horses lazily shook their patchy manes and whinnied. The moment Hikotaro set foot on Tōjin River’s earthen bridge, three men in work coats standing atop one of those refuse piles began shouting—“Look alive! Here comes Shitman! That uppity bastard’s been meddlin’ with our work lately!”—and before he could register their words, they crouched down to snatch tin cans, broken nails, and bamboo scraps from the garbage mound before launching their barrage. These spiked projectiles clattered down like hailstones behind Hikotaro, yet even as their cacophony filled his ears, he remained—fortunately for him—too thoroughly buoyant in mood to recognize them as hostile fire aimed at his person. Though a can fragment struck his right calf, he didn’t so much as glance back. “Where might Hanshichi-san be now?” he wondered aloud, amplifying his humming cadence as he ambled across the bridge toward town without haste.

Leafing through the collection ledger, he made his rounds to various houses. The yellow purse bearing Daikoku-sama gradually swelled with coins, but his earlier buoyant mood began fading, leaving him increasingly despondent. Though it was a monthly charge with modest fees that should have been quick to collect by mere footwork, reality proved otherwise. They made him visit three or four times—claiming no one was home to pay or today wasn’t convenient—until finally, around the fifth attempt, several households reluctantly handed over their dues. Some houses demanded discounts—“We were five until last month, but our daughter married—cut ten sen”—threatening to hire another collector if he refused, forcing him to comply. Others berated him—“Your shoddy work’s filthy! We won’t pay for this!”—and even after he groveled apologies—“We’ll improve!”—they carped about inconvenient timing before dismissing him with “Come back day after tomorrow.” The standard rate was thirty sen monthly, fifty for larger families—encounters like these had grown routine over years, no longer sparking the raw anger or disgust they once did. Yet each ordeal remained thoroughly joyless, and whenever facing them, Hikotaro invariably recalled kind Mrs. Akase. Whenever collecting at the Akase residence, she’d greet him smiling—“Thank you for your trouble”—always slipping him extra drinking money. Mr. Akase Harukichi was the savior who’d revived his business. Yet come evening, having mostly finished his rounds, he’d—as always—regain his initial resolve, tuck the bloated purse into his waistband, and set out to visit target households for fresh appeals, convinced he needed to stoke his confidence further.

Exhausted from walking, as dusk approached, he returned to the truck shack to find the truck already back, its driver Sawada filling a bucket with water to wash the tires. "Good work today," he said. "Yeah," came Sawada’s brusque reply as he peered up from beneath his glasses. "Lasted six months this time. Worked out alright, but you really should replace the cylinder now," he added with pursed lips. "Can’t be helped," Hikotaro answered, casting a fleeting resentful glance at the aging vehicle whose repair costs kept mounting—though this held no real malice, only boundless pity for the truck that had shared his hardships until becoming this worn-out shadow of itself. Growing momentarily sentimental, he told Sawada he’d consult Commander Akase and circled to the shack’s rear. Rapping on the tin door, he called out: "Kanemoto! Truck’s back—make rounds to Takasaki Town and the school tomorrow morning. Tell the others too." Kanemoto was Ri Seigaku’s Japanese name. When Koreans came to mainland Japan, they all took Japanese names. "Haaai," came a drowsy voice from within. Suddenly remembering his hunger, he returned to the shack and sat on the threshold. Tipping back the one-shō flask, he gulped down mouthfuls until the shochu sizzled through his esophagus and seeped into his stomach lining. Only a mouthful remained. As his face flushed and body warmed, he lay down—but fatigue overwhelmed him. Sawada finished cleaning the truck and left while shouting, "Mr. Komori! We’re outta gas too!" Hikotaro half-responded yet didn’t, sprawled on the dirt floor until sleep took him. Soon came teeth-grinding, then loud snores.

When he came to his senses, Hikotaro found himself standing atop a small hill with Amano Kyutaro, just the two of them. Until now, his business rival—the short, monkey-like Kyutaro—wearing an old-fashioned bowler hat stood beside him, appeared as two identical Kyutaros, then as four, and he suddenly realized—ah yes, today was the inaugural meeting of the excrement collectors’ union. Then, from beneath his feet, a flag slithered upward, and an oddly elongated white banner fluttered into the sky he gazed upon. Amano Kyutaro raised his face, his round eyes sparkling brightly as he declared that until now, it had been a grave mistake for them to engage in such futile competition. "From now on, we shall unite in full cooperation and advance hand in hand! Through our solidarity, how delightful it will be to make those arrogant clients understand their place! What utter foolishness it was that through our competition and client poaching, our collection fees gradually diminished! There’s no reason we should perform this filthy work while receiving meager payments and enduring intolerable insults! Now that the union exists, citizens can no longer request excrement collection from anyone at rates outside our agreement! They cannot threaten us by saying they’ll hire others unless we offer discounts! When you consider it, even one yen per month for collection fees is too cheap! If we refuse sanitation work, what exactly do citizens plan to do? Haul their own waste away? Or perhaps cease excretion altogether?" he began proclaiming. Hikotaro thought this made perfect sense, yet found himself suddenly wondering why Kyutaro—who should’ve been stuttering—was speaking so fluently, staring in bewilderment at the mouth that continued pouring forth this torrent of unwavering eloquence. Applause erupted, then fireworks shot up, and a gurgling, seething sound began to rise. As shouts started roaring from the town spread out below, in an instant, the town surged up and began sinking into a flood of golden excrement that overflowed and came rushing in. Amidst the drowning people crying for help, Hikotaro saw the face of the company employee who had said he wouldn’t pay because the collection was done poorly, and the face of the greengrocer’s housewife who had demanded, *“Reduce it by ten sen since our family’s smaller now—if not, I’ll hire someone else.”* With a roaring clamor, the town sank into the overflowing excrement and urine in an instant, and just then, the rising sun reflected off the golden surface, shining with terrible beauty.

At the sound of Kyutaro laughing like a bared-tooth monkey, Hikotaro jolted awake. The pitch darkness made him think he might still be dreaming, but when he fumbled for and twisted the light switch, the green-painted truck loomed before him like a giant crouching insect. Somehow unable to contain the laughter rising within him—his lips twitching into a grin—he finally shook his belly and erupted in loud guffaws.

Akase Harukichi, who had left home after sunset, soaked in the bath with only his head above water while listening to cicadas outside the window that seemed to herald autumn.

At this bath—located on a beach quite far from town and bearing only the name of a hot spring—there was no one today. The sound of waves could be heard, along with the rustling of pine trees, and he felt a slow, settled pleasantness—as if he had journeyed to some hot spring nestled in the mountains. He stretched both arms and tensed them, leaned his back against one side of the narrow tub, and stretched his legs out firmly. While enjoying these childlike motions and humming in a Noh-like cadence without realizing when he’d begun, the side door creaked open, and Osei—the bathhouse woman—peered in to announce, “Mr. Tomoda has arrived.” Osei’s face, emerging from between the worn-out door resembling rotten wood, was as beautiful as a portrait set in a frame. Her complexion was dusky, but her slender face bore elegantly arched crescent-shaped eyebrows, and her single-lidded eyes brimming with emotion immediately brought to his mind vivid ukiyo-e illustrations of The Pillow Book. Akase Harukichi had already been tormented by Osei’s phantom that he could no longer suppress, resigning himself to his inevitable defeat. Snapping back to his senses at Osei’s voice, he replied with a single word: “I see.” For some time now, Tomoda Kizo had been asking to meet and discuss various matters, but Akase—believing such a meeting would prove futile—had devised excuses to avoid it. Yet as Tomoda’s demands grew insistent to the point of harassment, Akase himself ultimately designated this location. Originally, Akase had chosen this location because Osei was here—and he had reasoned that Tomoda, finding it so remote from the city center, would likely deem it too bothersome to come. However, it seemed Tomoda had come as promised. Akase had hoped even more since seeing Osei that he wouldn’t come—yet here he was, nonchalantly showing up. It must have taken considerable resolve, Akase thought, resolving not to pick a fight—when the door creaked open again, and in came Tomoda Kizo, completely naked, a hand towel dangling as he greeted, “Well, well.” After casually wetting his crotch, he leapt into the bath with a splash. Pale-tinged bathwater overflowed over the edge of the narrow tub. “I’m late,” Tomoda Kizo greeted formally. And so, within the square bath measuring one ken on each side, the two men said to be bosses representing both factions confronted each other as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Widening his eyes to gleam like a hawk’s, the lanky Tomoda said as he washed his neck with a hand towel, “Quite the physique you have there. Must be quite substantial.” “I haven’t weighed myself lately, but when I returned to my hometown of Hiroshima around New Year for business, I was twenty-three kan. Quite embarrassing to have this bulk and nothing else,” Akase replied. “Oh, how enviable,” said Tomoda. “We’re too ashamed to even mention how many kan we are to others. I indulge in luxuries and sweets all the time—must be my nature—but see no results.” As he said this, he raised both hands, but from his shoulders down to near his wrists was a tattoo of Jiraiya—perhaps because it was wet, the eyes of the toad clutching a scroll seemed to gleam and glare at Akase. Akase raised his plump left arm, stroking the face of the swirling dragon tattoo, and said, “We were quite reckless in our youth, weren’t we? We did foolish things—defiling the bodies our parents gave us—and now it’s beyond redemption. In these changing times, it’s so mortifying that we can’t even casually bare ourselves anymore.” “You’re quite right, Mr. Akase.” Yours being just one arm is somewhat better, but mine covers my entire body.” In my youth, it wasn’t so bad, but now that I’m older...” When winter comes...” It feels like my skin’s being squeezed tight—utterly unbearable.” If I catch a cold...” It throbs painfully at times.” We endured such hardships in our reckless youth...” Didn’t we?” Though back then...” These tattoos did intimidate others well enough.” Even when barging into gambling dens...” They served as substitutes for long swords—or so they did...” Now and then.” He laughed without mirth. Akase also gave a wry smile” But then the conversation lapsed” And as if by mutual agreement” The two men looked out the window.” Through the lower panes” They could see a potato field” Its broad leaves catching the wind” And rustling as they swayed like handheld fans.

“By the way,” Tomoda said with an expression that suggested it was nothing major, rolling his small eyes, “what I’ve been meaning to discuss with you is simply this: I would very much like you to join the Democratic Party.” “Since you’re just staring at the potato field without responding—to be frank, I too earnestly desire this outcome. Moreover, it is Chairman Toyoshima’s fervent wish. Of course, you’re well aware that in this town nowadays, one isn’t considered human unless affiliated with our party. With our majority, we can push through most matters, yet we sorely lack individuals capable of articulating principled arguments *and* wielding influence. Your current associates in the neutral factions or Friends of Constitutional Government Party don’t surprise us in the least—and I say this without flattery, lest you misunderstand—but your personal capabilities alone strike genuine fear in us. Consider this: so long as Chairman Toyoshima remains our Diet representative, no matter how those factions squirm, not a single soul among them will ever rise above mediocrity. Why not take this opportunity to join the Democratic Party? With you among us, we’d become invincible. Naturally, we wouldn’t relegate you to a mere member—this has already been prearranged. You’d assume the role of Secretary-General, and we fully intend to have you run as our prefectural assembly candidate next term.” “I am utterly astonished by your latent potential—achieving the highest vote count in May’s municipal election. Yet our party’s feat of fielding eighteen candidates and sweeping all seats is equally worthy of pride. Would you consider it?” When Tomoda’s halting speech finally trailed off, Akase continued gazing at the potato field outside and said, “I fully grasp your intent. Your words are most generous toward someone of my standing. However, as I have always maintained—while political parties may be unavoidable in central governance as a fundamental principle of constitutional politics—I hold that they serve no purpose in local municipalities. Even within our own city today, the harms inflicted by these partisan affiliations need no elaboration here; over years of public addresses and elsewhere, it was not I but rather the informed opinions of civic-minded citizens that have highlighted these realities. I deeply respect Chairman Toyoshima as an eminent figure. Yet it is truly regrettable that the Democratic Party—which he leads, or rather, which he fronts—wields such influence in this city, manipulating all matters and prioritizing party interests and stratagems in most cases while disregarding citizen welfare. You mentioned earlier that all eighteen candidates were elected. But how could such individuals—many of whom have long been scorned by the populace—achieve victory through ordinary means?” “That their victories relied entirely on bribery requires no elaboration from me. Incompetent as I am, having become a councilor through citizens’ endorsement, I too am a man—while sheltering under a large umbrella might keep one dry from rain, I wish to advance what I believe to be right. I shall speak no further; kindly understand these points and convey my respectful refusal to Chairman Toyoshima.” “Very well—I understand. I acknowledge the firmness of your resolve and shall not raise this matter again. We must each stand by what we believe to be right and fight accordingly. I bid you good day.”

And so, as if by mutual agreement, the two men finally tore their gazes from the potato leaves and looked at each other. A murderous glint lingered in both men’s eyes, but Tomoda vigorously scrubbed his face with a hand towel and changed the subject. “Regarding the recent council decision to assign excrement collection for municipally managed buildings to Eiseisha—registered under one Komori Hikotaro—I was absent due to a family bereavement and thus unaware. But I hear *you* went to great lengths to secure this. Is that true?” “I did not particularly exert effort on Eiseisha’s behalf,” Akase replied. “The municipal budget was limited, and Ota—the previous contractor—had been claiming he could no longer continue due to persistent deficits. Since Eiseisha possessed a truck, the council unanimously agreed to designate them. As you know, municipally managed buildings extend to thirty locations—six elementary schools, four public toilets, the Seamen’s Children’s Home, the assembly hall, city hall, teachers’ housing, and so forth. With ordinary oxcarts or horse carts, collection efficiency simply could not improve. Eiseisha, having a truck—” Before he could finish, Tomoda turned his face away and interjected, “Is that *your* enterprise?” “I know nothing about that—that is—” he began, but Tomoda cut him off again: “Didn’t you provide funds for Komori Hikotaro?” “No, that was simply—last year or so, when Komori had his truck seized as collateral for a debt to the mutual loan company and was so weakened he nearly wept from being unable to conduct business—my wife took pity on him and lent him the money, or so I’m told. I only learned of it afterward and have no connection whatsoever to Komori’s enterprise.” “Is that so? That man is someone *I* went to great lengths to help,” Tomoda said, “but no, I quite understand. I’ve soaked too long and am feeling a bit lightheaded. They call this a radium hot spring, but I wonder what’s so special about it.” As he spoke, he stood up, stretched, and stepped out of the bath. He turned his back to Akase, facing the window, and said, “Autumn’s here, isn’t it?”

The setting sun shone directly sideways onto the potato field, casting long shadows from the leaves onto the soil. The eight heads of Yamata no Orochi opened their maws wide, converging upon Susanoo-no-Mikoto who raised a sword marked with a crimson blood groove. As Akase stared at that long blade with its red groove, he inexplicably thought, *This man will surely be killed by someone someday.* While gazing outside, Tomoda asked, “Had any luck with gambling lately?” From within the bath, Akase replied, “No—I’ve quit that.” Then Tomoda said quietly, “My apologies,” before sliding the door open and leaving. The door slammed shut with a violent crash. It closed with such force that rusted nails along its frame nearly sprang loose. As Akase wore a wry smile in the bathwater, the door opened again to reveal Osei’s face asking, “Is everything all right?” *What a beautiful woman,* he thought. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Once Mr. Tomoda’s gone, I’ll get out. Prepare some sea bass back meat and get the sake ready—it’s been ages since I’ve felt this relaxed. Today I’ll take my time.”

In the matter of forming an excrement collectors’ union within the city, dozens of meetings had been canceled due to poor attendance each time, but tonight—perhaps lured by Hikotaro’s offer to buy drinks—four out of six members showed up. All that remained was for someone named Kumai and Amano Kyutaro to arrive before everyone would be present. Hikotaro scraped together what little he had and made a bold decision. Even if he spent a bit of money tonight, he thought it would all pay off provided they could form the union.

In the innermost room of the Kakefune, with chicken bubbling vigorously in the pot and cups already having been passed around in disarray after much confusion, everyone had red faces and loud voices. A large-faced middle-aged geisha chattered incessantly in a shrill voice. To colleagues who seemed utterly uninterested in union matters, Hikotaro repeatedly expounded on its necessity until he finally fostered an atmosphere of reluctant agreement—but having until now competed fiercely to poach clients, they kept stealing furtive glances at one another’s faces without shedding their suspicious expressions. As intoxication set in, Hikotaro grew delighted at his apparent success. “Come now everyone—let’s drink merrily! I won’t make you split bills over some laborers’ squabble later—drink up! Mr. Kumai and Mr. Amano will arrive soon. I vouch for Mr. Amano’s support! Oh—I had an auspicious dream recently! Listen—” He launched into recounting his previous night’s vision. “That’s surely an omen! Mr. Amano shares my very thoughts! We’ll need Mr. Kumai’s input, but with all others agreeing, he won’t oppose alone! How ’bout it geisha? We’ll double fertilizer fees for women! Men’s filth outdoes women’s anyway—even monthly cycles grow tiresome!” He laughed boisterously while clutching his cup. “What nonsense! Men’re far filthier,” she retorted with mock defeat before laughing. “You’ve nattered about shit all evening—can you even taste the food?” “Delicious! Delicious!” said Yoshimura Choukichi, scratching his red nose tip vigorously beneath white bangs. “Even golden flies caught wind of this feast!” As drunkenness deepened, songs emerged—including two Korean colleagues bellowing a folk tune with peculiar cadences. “Ah! I know that one!” Hikotaro roared. “Kanemoto and Oyama from my crew sing it drunk—*Chin-chin-naare chotta-chotta*, right? Come now—” He belted out “*Chin-chin-naare chiyotta-chotta*” as Koreans clapped halfheartedly. “Enough foreign songs—sing Japanese!” snapped the geisha, clumsily strumming her shamisen—just as the door slid open to reveal Amano Kyutaro: a squat man resembling an Indian. Amano collapsed onto an empty cushion. With his trademark pre-speech ritual, he gulped air until his eyes rolled before stammering: “S-s-sorry I’m l-l-late.” “Ah! You came!” Hikotaro thrust forward a cup while pouring sake himself. “We’ve waited—started without you! Hear this—after slaving for this union! Our past rivalry was folly! Henceforth we unite! Show those arrogant clients! How mad—cutting rates to steal work? Filth labor for pennies while enduring insults? No more! With our union—citizens can’t hire below set rates! No threats of switching contractors! Think—one yen monthly’s already dirt cheap! If we stop cleaning—what’ll they do? Haul their own shit? Or stop shitting?” Though these words sounded borrowed, his fervor overflowed. Throughout this speech, Amano—downing cup after cup alone—gulped loudly, arched his chest, inhaled until eyes bulged white, then declared: “I-I-I-I’m a-a-against th-the u-u-union.”

Hikotaro, who had been in high spirits, was stunned. “Why—why are you against the union? You—” he pressed vehemently. Amano—his monkey-like face smirking faintly—drew himself up arrogantly and declared, “I-I-I-I’ve d-d-d-decided to b-b-buy a t-t-t-truck t-t-too. A-as f-f-for th-th-the u-u-union… I-I-I w-w-won’t b-b-bother!” With that, he stood and marched out like a soldier. As Hikotaro stood dumbfounded, the others began offering hasty excuses—“We’ve overstayed our welcome,” “Pardon us”—then all hurriedly stood up and practically tripped over each other to leave. It was exactly as if a typhoon had swept through. Gazing at the scattered mess before him, Hikotaro stood blankly dazed for a while, unable to comprehend what had just happened. As the situation gradually became clear to him, he set down the empty cup he’d been holding all along, hung his head and sighed—then lifted his face as if reconsidering, muttered, “Well, well… What’s this? Back to being Mokuami again?” and laughed aloud like a discarded alms bowl.

The geisha, at a loss for how to mediate, took the sake bottle and simply said, "Here, drink up." "Yeah... Thanks," Hikotaro replied, his voice trailing off. Then rallying abruptly: "No use dealin' with those damn fools anymore! Ah—let's drink!" He drained the chilled cup in one gulp and thrust it toward her for a refill. Amano's earlier claim about buying a truck suddenly resurfaced in his mind—how could that stuttering tightwad afford it? With truck prices and material costs skyrocketing... "Somethin's fishy... Doesn't add up... Doesn't add up," he muttered into his cup. "They're downright weirdos, ain't they?" The geisha seized the conversational opening with a conciliatory smile. "Must be exhausting wranglin' those oddballs." "You said it!" Hikotaro barked, his mood pivoting violently. "Let those shit-stains rot! I'm a man—I'll go it alone! Won't lose!" He began downing cup after cup in rapid succession. He made her play Binhotsu on the shamisen—that husky voice of hers rasping through the tavern—then forced the woman to sing too, reveling like his old libertine self until the radio's nine-thirty chime snapped him back to reality. When he saw the bill—twenty-four yen and change—he clicked his tongue sharply but still tipped both geisha and maid one yen each. Brushing off her offer to escort him out, he staggered into the night.

The town was still bright and bustling with people. The neon lights of the Suzuran lanterns stabbed at his eyes with a piercing glare. Hikotaro, staggering unsteadily, wove through the throng and entered the side street where the theater stood before ducking into an oden shop called Yajirobe. The wind from the ceiling-mounted fan suddenly blew against his face. Resting his elbows on the vermilion-lacquered counter, Hikotaro glanced at the group of five gathered around a table in the back—his rough estimation proved spot-on. He’d known this oden shop was Amano’s regular haunt and timed his visit hoping to uncover secrets—but when he pushed aside the rope noren and entered, the boisterous laughter in one corner abruptly died. The man shaking a flat, balding head at the group’s center was indeed Amano Kyutaro—the stuttering rival—flanked by Kim Kyeong-seon and Yoshimura Choukichi from earlier at Kakefune, plus Kumai Umpei (absent from their meeting) and Mineta: the bald hardware store owner Hikotaro always saw during elections. The five men fell to furtive whispers until Mineta called “Miss—the bill,” paid, and led their exodus—Amano first, others trailing—leaving only Mineta behind. Mineta stood and slid onto the stool beside Hikotaro. “Ah, Mr. Komori!” he oozed. “How rare—not since May’s election! Business thriving?” “Ah, Mineta—good you’re well,” Hikotaro replied, forcing a smile through rising bile. “By the way,” Mineta leaned in vulpine, “they say you quit the Democratic Party—true?” “No more parties for me—Democratic or otherwise,” Hikotaro answered. “Ha ha ha!” Mineta’s toothless maw gaped mockingly. “You’ve become Akase’s lackey—admit it!” “That’s not—” “Never mind,” Mineta cut him off. “Protect your turf—but don’t meddle in others’ work.” Hikotaro stared blankly until Mineta’s thin lips and grimy forehead jogged his memory: this was Mineta of Donogoo Tonka—the shantytown beyond Karamono River’s earthen bridge. The trash collection business born from their gold-rush delusions sat in the city budget under waste disposal fees as contracted carriage costs—making them designated cleaners. This sum had long been contrasted with excrement collection fees—politically charged comparisons fueling debates over why carriage fees dwarfed shit-shoveling pay. While waste removal ran smoothly, excrement collection cycled through failed contractors until Eiseisha won designation for their truck. Bluntly: raise shit fees or cut trash hauling—the crux of their conflict. Finally grasping Mineta’s meaning, Hikotaro smiled genially: “Wouldn’t dream of meddling.” He offered the tin kettle: “Drink?” Mineta took it, made the waitress pour, and fixed Hikotaro with a predator’s smirk: “Defy the Democrats—you’ll regret it.”

Flustered by the realization that Mineta had been Tomoda Kizo’s confidant all along—and sensing Tomoda’s hawk-like glare piercing him from behind—he felt utterly adrift. But regaining his composure at last, he resolved to protect his business at all costs. Leaving the still-pestering Mineta behind, he paid and fled into the night. Amidst the anxiety of threats encroaching on the enterprise he’d staked his life on, a fierce attachment to his work boiled up within him. Unable to untangle his spiraling thoughts, he quickened his pace through the smoke-hazed streets until—as if breaking free from a snarl of jumbled ideas—the phrase "Just wait and see" erupted inside him like a fireball.

It was a day when the autumn winds began to rise.

Thinking dawn should have broken by now yet finding the outside stubbornly dark, he opened the front door to discover the sky ominously overcast as if a rain might come at any moment. The south wind coldly brushed his face, and with the southern sky peering through like wiped glass, he concluded it wouldn't rain and would clear up soon.

The city office had been persistently urging that the toilets at Seamen's Children's Home and Yamate Elementary School were filled to overflowing, so today he absolutely had to collect the waste. In truth, since becoming city-designated, Hikotaro had gradually come to understand why none of the previous designated waste collectors had lasted long—they kept quitting and being replaced one after another—and by now he himself was growing thoroughly fed up with it all. Ultimately, it was due to the low contract fees; whenever he went to the city office, he would try venting his frustrations to Mr. Sugiyama, the head of the Health Department, but the man would stubbornly insist—with feigned sympathy—that with no budget available, nothing could be done, and if he couldn’t manage it, they’d have no choice but to replace him, leaving matters at an impasse. "It’s not impossible, but how can I manage thirty municipal buildings’ waste collection for less than actual costs?" he pleaded—yet Mr. Sugiyama, puffing cigarette smoke like a chimney, glinted his bleary eyes behind glasses and retorted: "The excrement you collect can be sold as fertilizer in the countryside, can’t it? That should bring decent income—hardly unprofitable! No matter how much you whine, nothing’ll change!" Finally slamming his desk impatiently, he declared: "Take complaints to the mayor!" He couldn’t possibly approach the mayor, so he simply returned home—though if not for the buyout issue, he’d have gladly quit right then.

Recently, the issue of municipal control over various public services progressed steadily, with previously privately managed operations—such as ferry services, public beaches, and electric lighting—being successively brought under city management. Most recently, the city acquired the local bus service. The city bus company, which had operated with four nearly broken-down old cars, was acquired for 60,000 yen and replaced with new silver-painted buses that began circulating through the city. Hikotaro believed the excrement collection business would inevitably fall under municipal management sooner or later—that when his rights were finally bought out for substantial compensation would come the moment his long-awaited revenge would be achieved; this hope made him feel invigorated and alive. When he thought all his past hardships hadn’t been in vain and began imagining that moment, an odd tightness welled in his chest, bringing tears to his eyes. Until achieving final victory—even if he grew somewhat weary—he had to continue the grueling city waste collection; he resolved never to abandon it no matter what. While clinging to this resolve, cleaning over thirty municipal buildings without delay proved no easy task. Every time without fail came harsh criticism. The sign ostentatiously displayed a telephone number, but this actually belonged to Shoshikiya—a shop about twenty ken away—whose owner Hikotaro had long associated with. However, the man was often absent due to side work hawking insurance or similar ventures, leaving his wife—a woman with a shrill voice like glass being scraped—to call from the entrance whenever a call came through. Initially, owing to her husband’s relationship with Hikotaro and their routine shopping there, she relayed messages without complaint. But as his absences increased—often requiring her to take notes and inform him later—and with over half the calls demanding Why haven’t you come collect yet? or The toilets are overflowing—it’s unbearable!, the proprietress began showing open displeasure. When she came to notify him of a message from Seamen’s Children’s Home one day, she snapped impatiently while leaving: You should at least get yourself a telephone. Thinking that even light rain wouldn’t excuse skipping waste collection at Seamen’s Children’s Home, Hikotaro poured shochu from a one-sho bottle into a teacup and drank as usual. He opened the front door and went around to the back spigot to wash rice. He put the pot on gas and prepared miso soup before going outside.

The water of Karamono River reflected the dark sky, stagnating and flowing like a muddy ditch. As he watched the water’s surface carrying planks and grass, suddenly—with a *wah!*—someone grabbed his rear, nearly sending him tumbling into the river. Startled, he spun around. Behind him stood a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy with a runny nose—someone he’d never seen before. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s dangerous!” Hikotaro snapped. The boy retorted, “C’mon, Mister—tell me somethin’ interestin’! I came all the way here to hear it!” With his face flushed red from shochu, Hikotaro wore a fleeting, satisfied smile. “I see,” he asked. “Who told you that… *you*?” “I heard you’re one helluva storyteller, Mister! C’mon, tell me somethin’!” the boy said impudently, plopping down on the riverbank. “Ah, sure thing,” replied Hikotaro, settling onto the grass and stretching out his legs. “Hmm, what story should I tell? Ah—the tale of Chōkyūmei no Chōsuke! Long ago, long ago, there was a mischievous brat. One day while play-fighting with neighborhood kids, he whacked a child’s head with a bamboo stick and gave ’em a big lump. ‘Ow ow!’ the kid started cryin’. The kid’s father came stormin’ over, steam practically shootin’ from his head! So the brat’s mother called him over and started scoldin’—but turns out this brat had a ridiculously long name! She began: ‘You—Jugemu Jugemu Gokō-no Surikire Kaijarisuigyo-no Suigyōmatsu Unraimatsu Fūraimatsu Kuunerutokoro-ni Sumutokoro Yaburakōji-no Burakōji Paipopaipo Paipo-no Shūringan Shūringan-no Gūrindai Gūrindai-no Ponpokopii-no Ponpokonā-no Chōkyūmei-no Chōsuke! Why’d you go causin’ trouble like that? Huh? Makin’ lumps on folks’ heads? Look at this poor child!’ But when she finally finished screamin’ that endless name and they checked the kid’s head—the lump had already vanished! Ahahahaha! Ain’t that a hoot?” Hikotaro laughed heartily, but the boy wore a thoroughly unamused expression. “So next,” he chattered rapidly, “Chōkyūmei no Chōsuke falls into a well, gets dragged out, they call a doctor, his mother puts her mouth to his ear and shouts that long name—and then the doctor says, ‘It’s too early for sutras!’ Right? What kinda story is that? You don’t know nothin’ else, do ya?” With a snarl that bared his teeth and flushed his cheeks red, he left Hikotaro gaping behind and tore off upstream along the riverbank in a sprint. After watching until the boy vanished from sight, Hikotaro finally snapped back to his senses. He tilted his head in bewilderment—*What on earth was that all about?*—then stood up upon hearing the sound of the pot boiling fiercely. As he approached the truck shed in a daze, something written in white chalk on the green truck’s cargo bed caught his eye. He thought there had been nothing written there, but when he approached, he found bent katakana—like hammered nails—lined up horizontally.

Ba

Ka No

Hi

To

Tsu O

Bo

E Thinking that even children were mocking him now, he went to the gas stove and removed the pot lid. After taking off the rice pot and replacing it with the miso soup pot on the burner, he sat down on the wooden frame. As he pulled out his hatchet-shaped tobacco pipe and began stuffing it with shredded tobacco, it struck him that he might indeed be just a fool clinging to one memorized trick—a realization that amused him despite himself. As a child, his storytelling-loving mother had told him countless folktales, yet strangely only this tale of Chōkyūmei no Chōsuke had stuck in his memory. He'd forgotten all the others, but had thoroughly memorized this impossibly long name that nobody else could ever retain. This became his secret pride—when people called him dim-witted, he'd privately counter that any fool could memorize one story, but only someone sharp could keep hold of such an endless name. No matter when or where, no matter how drunk he got, he could recite every syllable flawlessly any number of times. Blowing tobacco smoke into perfect rings, he rapid-fired through Chōkyūmei no Chōsuke's name one more time before finally starting his meal.

Sawada the driver was supposed to come at eight, but even by eight-thirty, there was no sign of him arriving. Hikotaro circled around to the back of the truck shed and knocked on the corrugated iron door. “Kanemoto—you in there?” he called out. A drowsy “Yeah…” sounded from inside, but with no movement to follow. When he opened the door, Ri Seigaku sat facing his wife—who had one knee raised—playing Korean chess. They had drawn lines on the dining table and were moving the black pieces there and sliding them here. “Ain’t ya comin’ out yet? Get a move on already—we’re in a bind! Today we gotta hit Yamate Elementary an’ the Seamen’s Home no matter what! Thought you’d be out by now—what’s the holdup?” Hikotaro grumbled impatiently. Without turning around, Ri replied: “It’s rainin’ today. Gonna hold off.” “The rain ain’t gonna fall—no, even if it does a bit, we gotta collect it today no matter what! Get out here now!” he pressed, but there was no reply. Stroking his long beard with his left hand in a leisurely manner, Ri showed no sign of rising. Suppressing his rising irritation, Hikotaro coaxed, “Hey, come on out,” whereupon Ri finally turned around and said, “Master… I’m thinkin’ ’bout quittin’ this job.” Hikotaro was startled. “What’s wrong? Is something the matter?” he asked. “Ain’t no particular reason,” Ri dismissed, turning his eyes back to the chessboard and moving a piece. “Just doin’ this filthy work for pennies.” Recently, the economy had shown some signs of recovery, leading to a trend of labor shortages, so workers could now earn decent daily wages no matter where they went. Such implications could be discerned in Ri’s attitude. Since finding new hires now that he was quitting would be nearly impossible, Hikotaro—with a flustered expression—blurted hurriedly: “You should’ve talked to me first if that’s how you felt! Quittin’ after all these years together—that’s cold! If a raise’ll keep ya, that’s easy enough—thirty sen more startin’ today!” Ri did not respond, but soon gathered up the shogi pieces, put them into a bamboo tube, and reluctantly stood up with great effort. Seeing that Ri had begun changing into his work clothes, Hikotaro finally felt relieved. He emphasized to everyone that they should start with the Seamen’s Children’s Home first, then returned to the truck shed. Given that the general labor wage had reached about eighty sen per day, he thought it unavoidable. He had hired them at one yen and thirty sen during the recession—initially six workers—but with financial imbalances reducing them to four now. Raising wages for just one was impossible; increasing all four by one yen twenty sen daily would throw off his monthly budget by thirty yen even after deducting days off. Even now he couldn’t balance the books and often ended in deficits at month’s end—he thought this had become catastrophic. There was no help for it; though it would be a hardship, he thought there was no choice but to refuse one person. After Ri passed by the front saying “Master, I’m off” and left—even as the hexagonal clock struck nine—the driver still hadn’t come. Hikotaro went to Shoshikiya at the corner and borrowed their bicycle when he found the owner present, speeding off toward Sawada’s house two *chō* upstream along Karamono River. After about ten minutes, Hikotaro came pedaling back along the same road.

He wore a deeply sullen expression. He had raised Sawada’s wages. He realized it had all been discussed among them, but fearing above all the collapse of his business, he accepted every one of their demands—though he told himself it was just a matter of enduring a little longer. After returning the bicycle and coming back to the truck shed, he drank another teacup of shochu.

The dark sky gradually cleared from the south, and outside grew brighter. After sitting in a daze for some time, there came an energetic “My apologies!” as Sawada arrived. “Ah,” Hikotaro replied vacantly. “What’s this now?” he began reading the words scrawled on the truck. “Who the hell did this—” He cut himself off with a dry chuckle. “Huh—‘Ebōtsutohi no Kaba’ if you read it backward? What’s that supposed to mean? Some kid practicing their penmanship, I bet.” Pursing his lips in resignation, he dampened a rag and started scrubbing, grumbling to himself all the while. After wiping it clean, Sawada suddenly said in a thin voice, “Komori-san… I’m truly sorry.” When Hikotaro looked at him in surprise, Sawada—still gripping the rag and hanging his head—said: “You’ve looked after me for so long, and I didn’t want to make unreasonable demands like this time… But with three children to feed and prices soaring lately, I just couldn’t manage anymore. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. Thank you for understanding. From now on, I’ll work my hardest to support you.” Hikotaro felt a tightness gradually welling in his chest at Sawada’s uncharacteristically somber tone. “Nah, it’s fine—you… I’ve been thinkin’ myself that with prices skyrocketin’ like this lately, everyone’s strugglin’. Was just about to say we gotta raise wages anyway,” he said, uttering words he didn’t mean. Sawada climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine with a sputter, and the truck—shaking its decrepit frame—belched blue smoke from its rear as it departed the shed. “Please get in,” urged Sawada, prompting Hikotaro. Hikotaro closed the truck shed’s door, fastened the lock, and boarded the driver’s seat. “Last night there was a call—sounds like there’s business—so swing by the Red Team leader’s place,” said Hikotaro. After making a turn in front of the truck shed, the truck painted in youthful green paint began speeding along the Karamono River, its body swaying unsteadily as it twisted through the air. When they came to the front of Akase Harukichi’s house, Sawada stopped the truck, and Hikotaro got off. “The Seamen’s Children’s Home is next, right?” asked Sawada. After Hikotaro nodded, the truck left behind a trail of blue smoke.

“Good morning,” he called as he entered through the kitchen door, where a chubby maid peeling cucumbers at the counter laughed and said, “Mr. Komori—you don’t smell as bad today!” “Don’t joke like that,” Hikotaro laughed. “Is the boss in?” he asked. Directed by the maid, he headed along the garden path toward the detached room. There lay Akase Harukichi sprawled at length, while before him sat a young man in Western clothes with his back turned. “Hey, good work. Come on up here,” Akase said as he heaved himself upright. “No, here is fine,” Hikotaro said, sitting down on the edge and looking toward the garden. “You’ve added quite a number of carp, I see. Did you purchase them?” he asked. “No—Uhei from the mountains brought them over the other day. Apparently, there were supposed to be edible frogs in that mountain pond, so he drained it to catch them. Turns out there weren’t any frogs—just a bunch of carp fry he’d put in last year that had grown fat. After that heavy rain recently, I thought they’d all washed downstream since I hadn’t seen them. But looks like they stayed put after all.” With that, Akase called out “Hey!” toward the back and barked, “Heat up the higher-grade sake we got this morning and bring it here!” “By the way, Mr. Komori,” Akase began, “the reason I asked you here today is nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve decided to have Abe assist at Eiseisha for the time being, so I ask for your cooperation.” As he spoke these words, the man who had been facing away turned toward them and greeted, “How do you do?” “Oh, please,” Hikotaro responded skeptically, bowing his head. He had a dark-complexioned face, likely thirty-four or thirty-five years old, with a broad forehead that stood out, and a fiercely vigorous air filled his brow. He thought it was a face he had seen somewhere but couldn’t recall. Akase continued, explaining that Abe had gone to Manchuria for four or five years and done quite well there, but after losing his wife last year, he had grown homesick for Japan and returned. With that, Hikotaro recalled that this man was the husband of Akase’s third daughter. Last spring, when Akase had gone to Manchuria upon his daughter’s death, Hikotaro had sent a small, token condolence gift through someone. Akase continued, “As for Abe—he had a store in Shinkyo but entrusted its management to a reliable friend and set up a branch office here that he’s been running. Fortunately, he has some free time now that Eiseisha has been designated by the city. With the acquisition issue unresolved and accounting matters left in their current state being untenable, I think it would be good to have him assist you with various things,” he concluded. Hikotaro had heard that Abe had even attended university in Tokyo, and feeling greatly reassured, he bowed politely and said, “Oh, if you’d do that for me, it’d be a huge help. Please take good care of me.” Abe also gave a slight bow and said with a laugh, “Since I don’t understand a thing here, I’ll need you to show me the ropes.” “No, you’ll get the hang of it right away,” Hikotaro answered, puffing out his chest as if to say everything would be fine as long as he was there. Just then, Akase’s wife entered carrying a tray with a sake decanter and cups. “How about it, Mr. Komori—is your business going well?” she said with a laugh. Then came the sake, and they reveled in the affable wife’s skillful wit—Abe’s tales of struggle in Manchuria, Akase’s political discourses, and Hikotaro’s grumbles about the hardships of his business (having nothing else to speak of)—all mingling into a lively uproar of laughter and merriment. When the wife remarked, “To lose your house and fields over a shit job—now that’s a true shit-stained fool,” everyone burst into uproarious laughter.

He was told to eat before leaving, and only then did he realize it was noon. After being treated to lunch, Hikotaro left Akase’s house with Abe.

When Abe suggested grabbing a drink to get acquainted, Hikotaro—never one to refuse alcohol he so loved—followed him. They hailed a taxi and arrived at the entrance of Senri, the city’s first-class restaurant. Hikotaro demurred, “With these clothes, I can’t go up there—let’s find somewhere simpler,” but Abe brushed it off—“Nonsense! Please go up”—and took the lead, clattering up the stairs. Hikotaro removed his sandals and followed up. A fair-skinned, plump maid approached and exclaimed, “Oh my, Abe-san! What brings you here in broad daylight?” “Sake? Beer?” she asked. “Sake’s fine. We’ve already eaten, so something simple will do. And also, that—” he began, but the maid cut in with “Right, right—this isn’t some cheap place. I’ll have them treat you big later!” and left with a knowing look. From the west side of the room, Sawarayama came into view, white clouds streaming around the pine forest crowning its peak. The sky was deeply clear, now fully imbued with autumn’s presence.

Since they had been drinking heavily at Akase’s house, both men now sported red faces and booming voices, enthusiastically shouting “Let’s go all out! Yeah—all out! All out!” as they raised a clamor of aimless bravado. Hikotaro now felt completely at ease with Abe, sensing what seemed like an expansive future unfolding before him with reassuring clarity. When the sake arrived, they clinked cups vigorously. “Komori-kun, no need to fret about funds,” Abe declared. “That bank over there—one telegram from me, and they’ll wire tens of thousands of yen instantly.” “That’s an exaggeration, of course,” he added, “but I do have some resources. Consult me about such matters anytime.” Startled by this offer, Hikotaro remembered his truck’s worn tires but hesitated to mention them—having just met today, it felt too forward. Resolving to broach it later, he beamed, “Today’s been splendid—truly delightful!” Just then came a woman’s cry of “Much obliged!”, and in walked a tall geisha with a slender face, her hair coiled in a gingko-leaf twist. “Well if it isn’t Abe-san!” she exclaimed upon recognizing him, shedding all formality as she plopped down beside him. “What brings you here at this hour?” “Who cares if it’s noon or midnight?” Abe shrilled. “Keep pouring! Today we feast for my glorious shit company! Oh, Komori-kun—that bit about me loving this woman eight years? Pure fabrication!” As Abe launched into yet another Manchurian war story, Hikotaro gradually loosened up until he was holding forth with uncharacteristic eloquence, buoyed by alcohol and newfound confidence. “This line of work—lets you in on people’s strangest secrets! Me? Everywhere I go—toilets, toilets, toilets! Those waste chutes come in endless varieties, each with its quirks. Rarely find owners who care about their chutes though—polish their front gates while neglecting the reeking backsides! Makes you scorn even the most gentlemanly beard-sporters! The things you find dropped in toilets—red paper in women’s homes? Expected. But condoms in ordinary houses? Proof they’re limiting births! Letters, odd trinkets—folk think no one’ll know if they dump ’em there. Sometimes during collections—vents with glass panes at the bottom? Door swings open and there’s a pale woman’s leg...” As Hikotaro’s drunken ramble continued, Abe cut in: “Hold it! We can’t ignore this—Peeping Tom Komori Hikotaro! So this job’s just your excuse to spy?” The geisha grimaced in genuine disgust: “How vile.” Barreling ahead without restraint, Hikotaro pressed on cheerfully: “Listen—last year, minding my business near dusk—heard this ‘sploosh!’ Not pissing sounds. Peeked closer—hose nozzle blasting water down there! Nearly jumped outta my skin!” “Stood there dumbstruck till she finished scrubbing—‘No! No!’ she cried, bursting from the toilet. Ordered my laborer to handle the waste while I circled front.” “First time at that house—two months back when collecting from the neighbor. Front looked smart—lattice door slid open with a ‘Good day!’ Straw clogs suggested a married couple. Then inner shoji opened—front door too—and there I froze. Abe-san—I don’t fabricate—this felt straight from a novel! Thought I was dreaming!”

“Back in my wilder days, I loved my drink and didn’t mind women—lost what little fortune I never really had because of it. Back then, I took in a geisha and looked after her. But as Eiseisha started going downhill and I got poorer, she grew increasingly cold. So I gave up and left her. The woman standing before me now was her. She seemed to gasp softly in surprise too—it’d been over ten years since we parted. She’d changed a lot from back then, but that alluring charm of hers hadn’t faded a bit—still looked youthful. Ah—so she was the one I’d seen in the toilet earlier? A strange emotion gripped me. When did she get married? I wondered. ‘Long time no see,’ was all I said. Her hair was disheveled; she’d hastily thrown a kimono over her underrobe and tied the obi—looked like she’d just been in bed with a man. When I said ‘Long time no see,’ she echoed ‘Long time no see’ back and asked, ‘What do you want?’” “What do you want?” she asked. “Still in this line of work, eh? Came to collect fees,” I replied. At that, the woman withdrew. Through the shoji’s gap, I glimpsed a futon—someone lay beneath it, though only the swollen bedding was visible, not their face. She returned, said “This’ll do,” and placed one yen on my palm. The moment her hand touched mine, a shiver ran through me inexplicably. Stepping outside, I entered the neighboring cheap candy shop, drank a ramune, and asked the shopkeeper about her. She wasn’t married, it turned out—kept as a mistress by some rice merchant, a balding man in his mid-fifties who stayed over once every five days or so. Teruha—that was her name—still living as another man’s concubine. I felt pity for her somehow, yet disgusted too that this wretched job had exposed her secret.” As Hikotaro’s story grew reflective midway, his tone turned oddly somber. While speaking, an ache swelled in his chest—tears threatened to spill—and helpless to stop it, he rubbed his eyes repeatedly, feigning distraction. “What a touching story,” said the geisha, her voice tinged with a sigh and a look of resignation—perhaps moved by a sense of kinship with someone treading a similarly precarious path. “What’s this? We’ve gone all maudlin! Since when did a peeping Tom’s toilet tales turn into a Shinpa tragedy? You’ll sober us up at this rate! Let’s start drinking over!” Abe shouted. “True enough! Let’s drink our fill!” Hikotaro replied with a congenial smile. “How about a song?” At this, the geisha rose to fetch her shamisen. When the shamisen arrived, everyone began singing, but as Abe had the woman play the shamisen and sang *Kishi no Yanagi* in a wavering melody—which went on far too long—Hikotaro, who had lain down, drifted off to sleep without realizing. When he awoke, no one was there; the already slanting western sun hung crimson over the pines of Sawarayama, pouring its light directly into the room.

After this incident, Abe became a reliable confidant for Hikotaro. His sole asset—the truck—had deteriorated from years of use, and at each vehicle inspection they would loudly complain about its condition. But with no funds for repairs, he had kept putting them off—until through Abe’s goodwill, the tires were replaced and all damaged parts thoroughly repaired, leaving the truck’s body unrecognizably sturdy. The barrels—rotting wood now leaking excrement and urine—were promptly replaced with sixty new ones. Thanks to Abe’s connections, they gained new clients—shops, companies, factories—that could provide substantial payments. Until now, he had been scraping together his daily shochu money from collections—occasionally drawing sarcastic remarks from Akase—but these days, with Abe deducting the shochu expenses beforehand, he could drink freely without reservation. Abe drafted the petition to be submitted to the city on Hikotaro’s behalf, then—incorporating Akase’s input—mimeographed dozens of copies for distribution to council members and influential figures. Until now, every time Hikotaro went to city hall, he would corner Mr. Sugiyama, the sanitation department head, venting half-baked complaints that always ended in quarrels leaving matters unresolved. Though Akase Harukichi would say things like “Since those Democratic Party bastards oppose us, draft a formal petition to sway public opinion,” he found actually creating it too bothersome. But the obliging Abe thoroughly inquired about realities from Komori, solicited Akase’s input, and promptly produced the petition: Respectfully submitted. Since being designated by the city this year, our Eiseisha has diligently collected excrement from assigned locations in good faith. Yet results remain deeply unsatisfactory. Despite repeated negotiations with city authorities citing budget constraints as their sole refrain—and this being no issue to neglect even a day—we hereby appeal for your wise understanding. As known, municipal toilet collection fees fall under the twelfth section of city waste disposal expenditures—600 yen annually, 50 yen monthly. Designated sites include six elementary schools, five public toilets, City Hall, Employment Office (listing municipal buildings), totaling thirty-two locations. Elementary schools require sixty truckloads monthly; others thirty—ninety total for full cleaning. Required expenses per truck trip—factoring distance—include laborer wages, driver fees, gasoline: minimum 1 yen 50 sen actual cost. Thus ninety truckloads demand at least 135 yen monthly. While collected waste generates fertilizer income, most—schools, Seamen’s Children’s Home—prove unusable, merely dumped. Of ninety truckloads, under thirty sell as fertilizer. At ten sen per load (twenty loads/truck = two yen), thirty trucks yield sixty yen—but thirty trips cost forty-five yen at 1 yen 50 sen/trip, netting fifteen yen. For comparison: horse-cart waste removal contracts total 15,617 yen annually under same expenditures. Cleanliness Law special costs (biannual cleanings) add 1,420 yen—17,037 yen total. Nineteen carts mean 896 yen 70 sen annually per cart—74 yen 72 sen monthly. Compared to excrement fees: fifty yen monthly can’t match one cart’s cost. Comparing work natures: excrement collection’s difficulty dwarfs garbage removal’s. Why such disparity in waste disposal costs? We await experts’ judgment. That this major health issue is manipulated by party tactics constitutes a grave social problem.

It was a humanitarian issue. That some received preferential treatment solely for belonging to a political party entrenched in this region, while others faced unfair exclusion for lacking such affiliation, constituted an absolute impermissibility in matters of this nature. From the standpoint of social justice, we hereby appealed to the court of informed public opinion. Since receiving municipal designation, our Eiseisha had devoted itself wholeheartedly—at great sacrifice—to work addressing critical public health concerns. We had already endured losses surpassing one thousand yen, yet now found ourselves at the end of all expedients. Though until this day we had meekly obeyed the city office's strident demands, continuing operations with nothing but deficits had become untenable—leaving us no choice but to perform only those tasks covered by the fifty yen monthly allocation. Henceforth, negligence might prevail in our work, potentially allowing excrement accumulation in some areas—a circumstance for which we must beg your forbearance. We respectfully requested investigation of these actual conditions and appropriate remedial measures.

Such was the intent of the petition. To this, Hikotaro spent his entire morning meticulously signing and stamping each one. After mailing them off, he read through his retained copy of the petition again, nodded with a smile, and was impressed by how scholarly Mr. Abe was.

This petition inadvertently stirred up significant reactions across various quarters and caused numerous problems. People with no political party affiliations—beginning with the elementary school principal, who had occasionally heard Hikotaro’s complaints firsthand and sympathized with him—questioned the city authorities’ negligence.

Opposition newspapers blared garish headlines like “Democratic Party’s Tyranny Ignores Humanity” and sensationalized the story. Even the police sent their Sanitation Bureau Chief to City Hall to investigate. Given the very nature of the issue, criticism welled up like a tide of public opinion against the servile, impotent city authorities—paralyzed under a single political party’s dominance.

The Democratic Party immediately convened an executive committee meeting. Four days after receiving the petition, the city called an emergency session of the municipal council. The agenda included a proposal to increase contracted wages for excrement collection laborers. Following an explanatory briefing by Mr. Sugiyama, head of the Sanitation Department, the council moved into deliberations. Neither Tomoda Kizo nor Akase Harukichi appeared at the proceedings.

This had been politically exploited by someone. While some argued, “We need not fall for the opposition party’s schemes; a budget increase is unnecessary,” ultimately, given the nature of the issue, they could not sustain outright opposition. Already, as the Sanitation Department had attached an investigative report on actual conditions, the current situation—where excrement was accumulating in municipal buildings starting with elementary schools—remained undeniably grave. Some suggested revoking Eiseisha’s designation, but with the contract period set at one year and no particular faults to justify cancellation—and since any replacement would yield the same result—the Democratic Party committee’s insistence on this opinion failed to pass. After extensive debate, they resolved to finalize the amount at the next budget council meeting, temporarily supplementing it with 1,560 yen annually from reserve funds. This amounted to 130 yen per month. Furthermore, while the city authorities proposed retroactive payments from the designation month to avoid harming the contractor, Democratic Party committee members—who had begrudgingly approved the 1,560 yen earlier—now unanimously opposed it, seizing this moment to vent their pent-up frustration. In the end, payments were set to begin that month, and the meeting adjourned.

The following day, Hikotaro was summoned to city hall and received the notification from Mr. Sugiyama, the Sanitation Department Head. After he stamped the documents, Mr. Sugiyama peered out from beneath his Lloyd spectacles with bleary eyes and said, blowing frequent smoke rings: “It’s been quite an ordeal, but yesterday’s city committee meeting settled on this arrangement for now. You may still have grievances, but hold out at this level until the next budget council meeting—I don’t intend to treat you unfairly. It took considerable effort on my part to reach this point.” “Thank you so much! What could I possibly have to complain about? If you’ve gone this far for me, it’s a real help. I’m truly grateful for all your efforts,” he said, beaming uncontrollably as he thanked them again and again. “However, Komori-kun, there’s one thing I must clarify,” said Mr. Sugiyama. “It concerns your belief that City Hall is being manipulated for the Democratic Party’s benefit. For the honor of this esteemed institution, I must speak out loudly: The city operates under its own principles—solely for the welfare of all citizens and its own development—with absolutely no ulterior motives. We do not concern ourselves with political parties. I want you to clearly understand this and dispel your misunderstandings.” “Understood. Thank you very much,” said Hikotaro as he gripped the documents and reached the glass-paned exit door—when “Ah, Komori-kun! Wait a moment!” Mr. Sugiyama hurriedly called out. When he turned back, squinting his bleary eyes even more to press him—“You do understand what I just said, don’t you?”—Hikotaro nodded emphatically. “Yessir, I understand perfectly.” Then, timidly, he added, “Keep what I told you to yourself, all right? Best not to go spreading it around.” Though he hadn’t fully grasped the meaning, “Very well, sir,” he answered—but when the other pressed again, “You must,” he declared clearly, “I’m a man of my word—once I’ve agreed, I won’t say a thing,” even as he wondered why such a trivial matter required such insistent secrecy. On his way back, he stopped by Abe’s house and showed him the new contract from city hall. Abe, as if his own will had prevailed, held his sides and roared with laughter. “No—a grand success! A grand success! I never imagined it’d go this smoothly! Getting 130 yen a month should keep you comfortably afloat for now. I wrote down an actual cost of 130 yen per month in that petition, but seems those folks never caught onto the number trickery. City hall folks are so buried in numbers and statistics year-round, they’ve gone numb to true numerical magic—and the other lot, city council members and such, never knew a damn thing about figures to begin with! Delightful! Let’s raise a celebratory cup!” Abe rapped his broad forehead and declared cheerfully. Hikotaro was naturally in high spirits; thinking that everything would now go smoothly from here on out, he felt buoyed by hope for the future.

One morning, when Hikotaro came to Sumi no Moroshikiya at the corner to buy canned crab as a snack for drinks and was having the lid opened, someone called out “Komori-kun” from behind. When he turned around, a man in Western clothes wearing a hunting cap stood twirling a cane. At first he couldn’t recall who it was, but eventually remembered the man was a Democratic Party journalist. When they stepped outside, the man said “I need a moment of your time,” and started walking. Hikotaro followed until they reached the willow tree on the bank of Tonjingawa River, where the man stopped and turned to face him. Thinking the man had a cunning look in his eyes, Hikotaro asked, “Is there something you need?” “Let’s get straight to the point,” said the journalist, twisting his beardless chin. “Who wrote the petition you submitted earlier?” “The manager and I wrote it,” he answered without hesitation—then immediately wondered if he should have said that. “Manager?” With a dubious expression, the man pressed: “Who’s this ‘manager’?” “Mr. Abe,” Hikotaro answered. “Abe?” “Abe?” The journalist repeated blankly before finally connecting: “Ah—Abe Ushinosuke from Western Transport? That’s the one?” When Hikotaro nodded, he frowned skeptically. “So *that* Abe’s your Eiseisha’s manager? Wait—isn’t he Akase Harukichi’s son-in-law? Now I see…” Nodding repeatedly to himself, he fixed Hikotaro with a stare. “Komori-kun—aren’t you fundamentally misunderstanding your position here?” “What do you mean?” “You know exactly what I mean! You’re a lifelong Democratic Party man in this village—deeply indebted to Mr. Tomoda! Yet now you’ve turned traitor to become Akase’s lackey! Isn’t that... ungrateful?” The journalist spat out these words rapid-fire and waited. “It’s true—I *was* with the Democrats before,” Hikotaro began. “My old man too. During elections I worked myself raw for them—poured my own money into their campaigns! But when I started this business fifteen years back? Not one Democrat lifted a finger! All talk, no help! I had to protect this business alone! Even when I kept failing—no one cared! Still I busted my ass for them every election! When my truck got repossessed? Not one lent me a yen! This past May—when Mr. Tomoda asked me to buy votes from the village and fishing co-op—I walked a razor’s edge for him! Did bribes, got arrested—talked my way out every time! In town they call me trash—but back home I’m still ‘Mr. Komori’! Then after the election? My truck got seized again over loans from that mutual-aid company. Went begging to Mr. Tomoda five times—six times! He shut me out cold! On my way back, stopped at Mr. Akase’s place—mentioned the truck offhand. His wife took pity—loaned me money! Akase’s been my savior ever since! Truth is—in this town? Seiyūkai or Democrats—nobody knows their policies! People join parties just for gain! Me? I don’t know squat about either party! Bet even city councilors don’t!”

“But for me, this business is my life! If a political party helps my business, I’d be grateful—but I’ve had enough of parties! To hell with parties and all that nonsense!” As he spoke, Hikotaro grew increasingly agitated, his tone turning confrontational. The newspaper journalist, who had been listening with a sarcastic expression, snapped, “Fine, understood. I’ll go back and tell Mr. Tomoda everything you said.” Hearing this, Hikotaro abruptly snapped back to his senses and protested frantically, “No—I didn’t mean it about Mr. Tomoda! You—” His tone suddenly shifted to pleading as he mumbled evasively, “This isn’t something you need to tell him, right?” “No trouble at all,” said the journalist with a look that saw through Hikotaro’s desperation. He loftily turned on his heel. “I’ll inform Mr. Tomoda you said, ‘To hell with him!’” He made to leave with deliberate theatricality. Hikotaro clung to him desperately. “There’s no need to take it so seriously! Please wait!” Yet even as he pleaded, he imagined the calamities Tomoda’s wrath would unleash—the man would surely resort to violence. Vividly, he pictured over a dozen underlings storming his truck shed, reducing both vehicle and shack to splinters. In a flustered panic, he pulled out a ten-yen bill from his pocket and thrust it into the man’s hand. Then he bowed repeatedly, enduring any humiliation to protect his business. “Please—keep this secret.” The journalist snorted—“Hmph”—licked his lower lip with a flick of his tongue, and casually stuffed the bill into his purse. Twisting his chin mockingly, he dismissed, “Since you understand how things stand, I won’t stir trouble. Much obliged for your hospitality.” With a final “Rest assured—I’ll say nothing to Mr. Tomoda,” he strode off.

First, Hikotaro felt relieved that things had turned out okay, but at the same time grew bitterly ashamed of his own aimless behavior. But he told himself: No matter how degrading, no matter how humiliating—even if he had to press his forehead to the dirt—none of it mattered as long as he didn’t lose his business.

Around a little past noon, the truck that had been making rounds to collect waste from the public hall, employment office, and teachers' housing returned. The driver Sawada sat down on the threshold and opened his lunchbox. With rice stuffed in his mouth—sharpening his already pointed lips even further—he mumbled through chews, "Mr. Komori, I met Mineta from Yabashi Village at the public hall today. Looked like some meeting was going on there. When I stopped the truck, he must've heard the noise—came out and told me to tell you: 'We absolutely cannot have you dumping excrement at Tonjingawashiri anymore.' Put on some real airs about it, he did."

Traditionally, the collected excrement and urine were processed in three ways. The first was to sell it as fertilizer to rural areas surrounding the city. There was considerable demand from a wide range of farming communities, particularly from city-owned reclaimed land around Mount Sahara's summit—recently developed wasteland—which had become a reliable client. In the past, many farmers personally hauled oxcarts into town to collect waste themselves, but recently purchasing fertilizer from Eiseisha—delivered by truck—proved both more convenient and cost-effective, making most regular customers of Eiseisha. The second method involved loading waste onto specially designed excrement vessels for transport and sale across the sea to regions on the opposite shore. Only one such vessel existed, and once fully loaded, it took three or four days to sell its cargo and return—often failing to recoup costs. This ship had originally been a water supply vessel leased from its owner after aging out of service. Recently, rising fertilizer prices and self-sufficient methods adopted by the opposite shore region caused further decline in profitability. Increasingly, crews simply rowed offshore to dump waste into Genkai Nada. However, a cunning old boatman aboard often avoided rowing far out, dumping waste haphazardly mid-journey. In extreme cases, he left the vessel moored overnight at shore with its plug removed—claiming ignorance when confronted: "The plug must've loosened itself." Regardless, they continued using this method due to prior arrangements—laboriously transporting barrels to shore and loading minimal amounts onto ships—an exceedingly inconvenient process. The third method involved digging storage pits at Tonjingawashiri and other locations. Numerous cement-reinforced pits were dug in rural areas and near Mount Sahara's summit for fertilizer storage. However, rural pits stored only agriculturally useful waste, while non-fertilizer materials from schools and elsewhere were either shipped out or dumped into pits at Tonjingawashiri and Sasakurayama. Given Sasakurayama valley's considerable distance, Tonjingawashiri became the primary dumping site. This occurred with city authorities' tacit approval—though plans existed to designate Eiseisha officially while building a municipal disposal site with purification systems at Sasakurayama's base, these remained unrealized. The budget had already been allocated for imminent construction. Tonjingawashiri's dumping ground lay on garbage collectors' settlement outskirts—a location already seeding discord between perpetually feuding factions. With no alternatives available and purification-equipped municipal facilities supposedly nearing construction, operations continued unchanged. Despite repeated requests from Donogoo Tonka to cease dumping—and promises to comply—convenience ensured Tonjingawashiri remained in near-exclusive use. Yet now Sawada's report of Old Man Mineta's imperious demeanor—mumbled through mouthfuls of rice—carried unusual gravity amid recent petition controversies. Hikotaro vividly conjured Mineta's arrogant bearing and resolved to remain vigilant.

Starting around three o'clock, he borrowed a bicycle from Sumi no Moroshikiya at the corner and ascended the mountain, pushing it up sections with steep inclines along the way. The autumn wind stirred the sweet potato leaves, but the sun glared down on his back, sweat streaming forth. The fig fruits had fully opened their large red mouths, while persimmons glistened as green orbs. As he climbed the slope drenched in sweat, a woman carrying firewood on her back descended toward him. He hadn’t recognized her until they drew close, but as they passed each other, a voice called out: “Why, isn’t that Mr. Komori?” When he looked up in surprise, the woman—her large eyes blinking—said, “It’s hot out, isn’t it? Business must be keeping you busy.” That was Uhei’s wife. Hikotaro stared at her face momentarily startled, but there was none of the maddened intensity she’d shown by the mountain pond—instead, she smiled. Finally realizing the fox spirit must have left her, he asked, “You… recovered then?” “Ah,” she suddenly lowered her eyes as if embarrassed, cheeks reddening. “Thank you for your help back then. It’s so shameful—I can hardly face people,” she said with a self-conscious laugh. “My husband’s up there—he’s been sowing daikon seeds. You should go see him at the upper field.” With that, she briskly descended the slope. Gazing at her figure half-hidden by firewood, he thought she’d grown thin and recalled his own wife and child left behind in the countryside long ago. He’d caused them hardship, but his final victory wasn’t far off—soon they’d laugh and join hands. His heart swelled at that awaited day. “Just a little longer… Ah, just a little longer,” he muttered to no one, pushing his bicycle onward, sweat-drenched as he climbed higher. Today he’d come to meet Uhei and ask about fertilizer quantities for the agricultural cooperative on city-owned reclaimed land. When Hikotaro finally reached the summit path, Uhei was busily digging furrows in the upper field. Hearing a call from below, Uhei raised his hand, shouldered his hoe, and came running down. “Hot as hell! It’s autumn but still scorching—damn hot!” he complained, ducking into a shack’s shade. Hikotaro parked his bicycle and joined him, pulling out his hatchet-shaped tobacco pipe from his waist. Then, sucking repeatedly on a pencil, he noted down the fertilizer amounts Uhei specified. When Hikotaro mentioned Mineta’s warning from earlier that day, Uhei fumed as if it were his own problem. “What’s that old fool spouting? The city approved it! Tell him to come at me—I’ll handle him!” He glared toward Yabashi Village. “Thank you,” Hikotaro replied, appreciating the man’s empty but earnest support. He knew Uhei was useless in practice yet felt oddly reassured by his indignation. “You’re sweating buckets! Stop by Sentani Hot Spring on your way back—baths are nice now,” Uhei laughed. “They say there’s a real beauty working there too.”

“Ah, that’s not a bad idea. Lately, I’ve been so tangled up in this mess I haven’t had time for a proper bath. No business left today—maybe I will soak in the hot spring. But some beauty or other? That’s the last thing I care about,” Hikotaro answered. “Don’t give me that! You were quite the ladies’ man back in the day, Hiko-san!” Uhei retorted, giving Hikotaro’s shoulder a light poke before bursting into loud laughter. Hikotaro smirked and said, “That’s all in the past! These shitty struggles made me forget about women. You need real horsepower to want one these days!” The two exchanged glances and roared with laughter as if acknowledging their mutual folly. But Uhei added with a chuckle, “Still, Hiko-san—you’ve always had a weakness for that sorta thing. They say that woman at Sentani Hot Spring’s a real looker. Better watch yourself!” To which Hikotaro laughed back, “You’re right—gotta be careful!” Then, mounting his bicycle, he called out, “I’ll deliver all the fertilizer without fail the day after tomorrow!” With a kick-off, he sped away down the ochre dirt road, trailing a cloud of dust as the path sloped steadily downward.

A cool breeze struck his cheek, and it felt good. After pedaling for about ten minutes, he emerged onto the prefectural road along the coast where Sentani Hot Spring's large signboard stood.

He soaked his body in the bathtub and closed his eyes. For the first time in ages, he felt profoundly relaxed and blissful. In the cramped bath barely six square feet wide—with no one else present—he stretched his arms, pulled them back, shouted encouragement to himself, and growled verses from *Sankatsu Hanshichi Sakaya no Dan*. Through the waist-high window lay a sweet potato field; watching the large leaves swaying, he wondered what fertilizer they used around here. Reflecting on recent events, he found himself generally content. He scrubbed his arms vigorously with a hand towel and washed his neck. He stuck his face in the water, tried sinking down, then immediately resurfaced with a sputter. He remembered Uhei staying submerged forever in that mountain pond—how did that water imp manage it? He pinched his nose again, took a deep breath, and tried sinking once more. Instantly distressed, he bobbed up sputtering. Conceding defeat, he kept his neck out while gazing through the window. Though climbing that sweaty mountain path had still felt like summer earlier, through this window the sky now stretched deep and blue—undeniably autumn. As he stared skyward entranced, a clank sounded beside him—the small side door opened. When he turned around, Hikotaro started. A beautiful woman’s face peered through the doorway smiling sweetly. Keeping her smile perfectly composed, she asked, “Shall I prepare something for you?” Even as his heart raced at his own reaction, Hikotaro managed to ask hoarsely, “Can you do anything?” His voice caught strangely; bewildered by this response yet wanting to hide his grimy body, he spoke while keeping only his head above water. “I can do anything,” she answered simply, awaiting instructions. “Prepare some snacks and pour me sake,” Hikotaro demanded, staring fixedly at her face. “Understood. I’ve left a yukata there for you,” she replied before withdrawing, the door clicking shut softly behind her.

Hikotaro suddenly sighed and thought: That must be the woman Uhei had talked about. "Ah, with her around, a man might even feel motivated to put himself through some trouble," mused the former libertine as he reminisced about years gone by—recalling a woman he'd encountered some ten-odd years prior—and heaved sigh after sigh. He meticulously scrubbed his face, changed into a yukata, and upon opening the small door to find a staircase immediately before him, climbed up. When he reached the top, a vivid blue sea suddenly spread out before his eyes as a sharp salt wind blew straight against his flushed face.

The room was a compact four-and-a-half-tatami space with a tokonoma alcove, and on the dining tray, arrangements of sake and appetizers had already been prepared. When Hikotaro entered the room, the woman from earlier came in as if chasing after him, her lightly powdered figure appearing ethereally beautiful. When Hikotaro sat down, she picked up the sake bottle, held out a cup in her left hand, and said, “Please.” He received the cup and drank it down in one gulp. For Hikotaro—whose throat was accustomed to shochu—the sake initially felt disappointingly watery; in any case, he thought it wasn’t particularly good. He kept emptying his cup so rapidly that the woman looked at him with puzzlement. At first it was like water, but once he drank a little more, the flavor emerged—this was Hikotaro’s habit of getting rapidly drunk. Hikotaro, who had been shrinking like a timid boy, regained his vigor through the alcohol and gradually returned to his usual self. Having recovered his energy, he asked various questions about the bathhouse until he relaxed enough to crack jokes. Her single eyelids—which seemed brimming with emotion—were more captivating than anything else. Her slender eyebrows arched sharply like ink strokes. The way she slightly pulled her chin while speaking reminded him faintly of Teruha, and as Hikotaro grew drunker, he found himself powerless against the strange urges rising within him. Perhaps the blissful sensation from soaking in the bath had drawn out this unprecedented state of relaxation. “Oh! The sea bream nets are being hauled in!” she exclaimed, moving to the window to gaze at the sea. The evening wind carried a puff of face powder scent that struck Hikotaro’s nostrils. As the wind blew up her hem, a flash of red peeked out from beneath. By now Hikotaro—as if possessed by a demon—could no longer escape his lecherous thoughts. “Oh dear—the sake bottle’s empty,” she said before leaving. Before he knew it, he had gulped down over ten bottles in quick succession. While trying to banish the incessant memories of Teruha, that receding chin’s resemblance agitated his mind like a provocation. One dusk-filled evening’s memory—of glimpsing a woman’s body through a toilet waste port—flickered before his eyes. Now thoroughly drunk, Hikotaro waited like a predator stalking bait.

He closed the shoji window facing the sea. Soon footsteps echoed on the stairs as the woman entered carrying a sake bottle. "My, closing the shoji in this heat..." she began moving toward the window, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her back. "It’s fine. You—sit down." "Oh, the sake’s spilling!" she exclaimed while clutching the bottle, yet allowed herself to be drawn down beside Hikotaro. The warmth of her body collided against his shoulder and seeped through his entire being. Losing all restraint, he suddenly wrapped both hands around her shoulders. Then—as if sprung from a coil—he was flung backward, landing hard on his rear with a thud. When the enraged Hikotaro scrambled up to approach again, the woman rose abruptly. "You’re Mr. Komori of Eiseisha Sanitation, aren’t you? These jokes aren’t wise," she said, adjusting her collar while tilting her chin downward in a bewitching smile. Stunned, Hikotaro remained crouched on all fours, bewildered by this surreal turmoil as he began staring holes into the woman who’d named him. As he stared, he suddenly cried out—"Ah!"—his face paling instantly. Within moments his drunkenness evaporated entirely, leaving him trembling violently. What a fool I’d been! He’d heard rumors that Akase-sama kept a woman at some hot spring—his wife had once asked if he knew anything about her husband’s alleged mistress. He’d assumed it must be some distant resort given Akase’s frequent travels. Ah—this was her. This woman. The realization struck him like a death sentence, freezing him in place.

Suddenly, he raised his resolute eyes, stared at Osei, and firmly planted both hands on the floor. “Ah! I was wrong! Please keep this secret from Akase-sama! My wretched drinking habits made me commit this outrage. Please... please forgive me!” Having said this, he bowed his head repeatedly. Osei, who had been standing, sat down beside him. “Just be more careful from now on,” she replied with an air of resignation. “Please... I beg you... don’t tell Akase-sama,” he repeated endlessly. He pulled three ten-yen bills from his frog-mouthed purse, placed them on the serving tray, stood up, and left despondently. From halfway down the stairs, he turned back once more to emphasize, “Please—without fail—keep this secret,” before continuing his descent. After changing from his yukata into work clothes, he rode his bicycle to the evening beach but turned back uneasily. When he couldn’t find Osei anywhere and searched around frantically, he heard her making a phone call. Startled, he crept closer to eavesdrop—only to discover she was ordering sake from a town liquor store, not contacting Akase. As Osei hung up and approached, Hikotaro began apologizing again: “I’m truly sorry about earlier—I didn’t know anything! Please keep this—” “Enough!” she cut him off sharply. “I understood after hearing it once! Akase-sama told me about you long ago anyway. If I reported this, your business would be ruined instantly—I’m not that cruel.” With that, Osei walked away to the kitchen. After she disappeared from view, Hikotaro felt grateful for her mercy. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, bowing deeply toward the kitchen. Then he turned his steps dejectedly, mounted his bicycle, and rode home along the twilight road.

One day, having finished work and thinking he’d go see a moving picture for the first time in ages, he sat down on the threshold and was nursing the remaining shochu when a woman’s voice called out, “Komori-saaan!” When he stepped outside into the twilight of the setting sun, the proprietress of Moroshikiya at the corner stood there and shouted, “You’ve got a telephone call!” “Oh, thanks,” he answered and ran off. When he picked up the receiver—“Ah, Komori-kun?” “Are you busy? What’re you doing? I’ve sent a car—get in when it comes,” came Abe’s familiar voice. When he tried to respond, the call cut out. As he wondered what was happening and was about to step over the shop’s threshold again, the telephone bell clanged harshly once more. When Hikotaro pressed the receiver to his ear—“Komori-kun?” Abe’s voice returned. “Forgot to mention—don’t forget your registered seal when you come.” The line went dead again.

Thinking it was strange, he returned to the truck shed to find a taxi waiting. "Komori-san?" asked the driver. Though unclear about the situation, he put his registered seal in his pocket and got into the car. Assuming they were heading to Abe’s house, he grew increasingly puzzled as they drove in a different direction—until the car stopped before Sen-nari, the restaurant he had visited once before. Guided inside to the same room as before, he found Abe sitting at the head with a flushed face and crossed legs, flanked by the same woman and maid from last time. "We’ve been waiting! Over here!" Abe slurred, his speech thick and unsteady. "Women! Keep pouring!" He grabbed his cup and thrust it before Hikotaro’s eyes. "Let’s make this count!" Taking the bottle himself, he poured with glugging sounds until it overflowed. Hikotaro—never one to retreat—grinned slyly and drained the cup in one continuous gulp. "Magnificent!" Abe jeered, waving a fan theatrically. "Alas, I’ve no Nihongo spear to award you!" His eyes roved mockingly before seizing the geisha’s shoulder. "Here—this girl shall be your prize! Lord Komori fancies women, no? Or does she pale beside Teruha?" He erupted in shrill laughter. The moment he heard "fancies women," Hikotaro froze. He wondered if Abe knew about the Sentani Hot Spring incident and was mocking him. But realizing this wasn’t the case, he relaxed. "You’re joking..." Hikotaro forced a bitter smile and offered his cup to Abe. "Let me catch the overflow," he said, accepting the pour from the woman but reclaiming it before it reached a third full. Then the cups began circulating erratically as Hikotaro’s drunkenness deepened. After a while, Abe exclaimed—as if suddenly remembering—"Ah! Critical business forgotten!" He ordered the women: "Make yourselves scarce."

“What?” “A private talk?” The geisha looked thoroughly displeased as she ushered the maid out and left. “Komori-kun,” Abe began, his earlier drunkenness gone as he spoke in a sober tone while lowering his voice, “there’s actually an important matter to discuss. Did you bring your registered seal?” “Ah, I brought it,” Hikotaro responded. Abe continued: “The timeline for municipal management of the excrement disposal business—an issue we’ve been grappling with—has become urgent. Due to the recent petition controversy, public opinion has surged, forcing municipal authorities to bring it under public control. Once that happens, acquisition will proceed imminently. We must solidify our rights definitively. To that end, Eiseisha Sanitation must formalize its rights through proper procedures. After thorough consideration of past circumstances and financial relations, we’ve prepared this notarized document. With municipal acquisition likely finalized tomorrow, we must act swiftly. Since Mr. Akase and I have already agreed, I need your seal here.” With that, Abe pulled a thick document from his breast pocket. As Hikotaro listened, he felt his heart pound with anticipation. “Ah, you’ve been so helpful,” he said. “I don’t understand these documents at all—I’ll leave it in your hands.” He pulled a black leather pouch from his pocket and pushed it toward Abe. Abe took it, produced his seal, and flipped through the documents while stamping several pages. Hikotaro now clearly sensed his lifelong ambition nearing fulfillment. His nose tingled sharply as he struggled to suppress welling tears. He gazed at Abe’s sturdy stamping hand with infinite gratitude and trust. When finished stamping, Abe stuffed the documents into the pouch and casually shoved them toward Hikotaro. “Best to check now rather than deal with hassles later,” Abe said. Hikotaro took the documents and flipped through them, recognizing only his name beside Mr. Akase’s and Abe’s—the complex legal jargon made no sense. “I don’t understand,” he replied cautiously. In a slow, measured tone, Abe responded: “Let me explain briefly. This notarized document determines our rights division upon municipal acquisition. After thorough consideration, the allocation stands at Akase Harukichi—50%, Abe Ushinosuke—25%, and Komori Hikotaro—25%. In other words—” Hikotaro interjected frantically: “Wait—what do these percentages mean?” “The distribution ratio of rights,” Abe explained. “While the acquisition amount awaits future decision, this determines each party’s share: Akase Harukichi—50%, Abe Ushinosuke—25%, Komori Hikotaro—25%.” As he spoke, Hikotaro gradually grasped the meaning. “So... if we’re talking ten rights,” he pressed urgently, “Akase-sama gets five, you get two and a half, and I get two and a half? Is that it?” “That’s right,” Abe replied calmly.

Hikotaro finally comprehended the full situation. As his drunkenness gradually faded and his face grew pale, his knees began trembling violently. Observing this reaction, Abe softened his voice. “You seem unconvinced. I understand your position—as the business’s registered owner and its founder, you believe you naturally deserve the majority of rights. On the surface, that seems reasonable. But consider this carefully: Yes, it was originally your business. However, you put up your truck as collateral for financial reasons. Had you failed to reclaim it, your enterprise would have ceased then and there. It was only through Mr. Akase’s economic support that you could restart operations. And even then, financially crippled as you were, you repeatedly sought further investments from him to barely sustain yourself until today. The municipal designation itself was achieved solely due to Mr. Akase’s influence. Later, I joined Eiseisha as a partner—my own investments have been substantial.” His tone grew quieter, more oppressive. “After thorough examination of past circumstances and financial relations—legally speaking—this ratio is the most equitable outcome. In both practical and legal terms, it’s no exaggeration to call this Mr. Akase’s enterprise now.” As he listened, Hikotaro fell into a dazed state, his body feeling as if it were floating in mid-air. “You seem dissatisfied,” Abe continued, “but think carefully.” His voice regained its edge yet stayed controlled. “I’ve no intention of snatching your business rights—I’ve merely formulated a reasonable plan based on sound grounds.” Then abruptly, his manner shifted—boisterous again as he tucked the documents away and clapped his hands: “Now—enough talk! Let’s drink! How about another one of your heartfelt lewd stories?” A woman’s voice called out “Haaai!” in the distance. Large teardrops streamed down Hikotaro’s face. He appeared utterly devoid of energy to wipe them away. “Thank you for all your assistance,” he said mechanically. “I’ll... give my answer later.” Having said that, he stood up—and staggered unsteadily.

A woman entered and said, “It’s time to leave,” but he continued down the stairs with unsteady steps and wandered out into the night town.

As he staggered through town with unsteady steps, something suddenly tapped his shoulder from behind. Startled, he turned to find a man reeking of overripe persimmons colliding into him while declaring, “Ah! President of Eiseisha! How goes it?” It was Mr. Sugiyama, the Sanitation Department Head. Slurring beyond coherence, he clung to Hikotaro’s arm like a drunkard’s lifeline and bellowed, “Tonight we drink till dawn!” Dragging his dazed companion through alleyways toward the theater district, he crashed into Yajirobei Oden Shop. Hikotaro—still numb from earlier shocks—felt resignation crystallize into reckless abandon: tonight demanded obliteration through alcohol. “Women! Sake!” roared Mr. Sugiyama, his tie undone as he flopped onto the floorboards and shoved a tin cup forward. “No life without drink! Here, President!” “Is this really the same bureaucrat who glared daggers at me?” Hikotaro wondered, but Mr. Sugiyama blinked owlishly behind smudged glasses and slurred: “Komori-kun… don’t resent my harshness… Duty crushes us… Damned politicians! Why must honorable officials grovel before parties? Cowards fear dismissal… But I’ll cower no more! They say my petition handling failed… demand my removal!” “Don’t mock me!” Mr. Sugiyama suddenly wailed, tears cascading down his cheeks as he grabbed Hikotaro’s hands. “Ah, Komori-kun… shake hands! Only the people remain pure!” Hikotaro’s fading drunkenness resurged violently. He pounded Mr. Sugiyama’s shoulder like a comrade-in-arms while parroting: “I understand… Truly understand!”—nodding fervently despite comprehending nothing—before crushing the bureaucrat’s hand in a drunken handshake. “To arms!” screamed Mr. Sugiyama between sobs. “We’ll purge society’s enemies! The world’s gone mad!” Though unclear what “enemies” meant, Hikotaro felt solidarity surge through him—recent betrayals flickering through his mind like a broken newsreel. As they sat entwined exchanging cups, another tap struck their shoulders. Mr. Sugiyama kept muttering obliviously into his drink while Hikotaro looked up to find Amano Kyutaro—simian features distorted by intoxication—leering down. “K-K-Komori-san…” Amano’s eyes darted like cornered rats as he spasmed with stuttering effort: “S-s-sorry… I-I was d-d-deceived too!” His jerky movements worsened the stammer until tears pooled in his bloodshot eyes. Through fractured syllables emerged this truth: Tomoda had bribed Amano with truck funds to sabotage the waste collectors’ union. Thus did three weeping men—shoulders interlocked, arms flailing—persist in their farcical symposium, heedless of pointing fingers and sneers around them.

Autumn winds had fully set in; the sunlight softened, the evening cicadas fell silent, and nights grew clamorous with countless insects. Due to his endless obsession with the business, Hikotaro now sat in the driver’s seat of the speeding truck like an empty husk. Sawada pursed his lips and spoke in a comforting tone about various matters, but as Hikotaro only responded with half-hearted “Yeah”s and “Nah”s, he gripped the steering wheel with an awkward expression. The notarized document Abe had presented the other night was supposedly not final—Hikotaro had been told he could request revisions after reconsidering—but it had already been stamped and, without him realizing, submitted to the notary office. Hikotaro did not know how to protest and appeared to have lost even the energy to do so. When Akase Harukichi saw the notarized document Abe had prepared, he remarked that allocating fifty percent under his name seemed rather excessive. But as Abe launched into an eloquent explanation, Akase irritably fell silent and then, grumbling that his wife held the seal, stormed out. Mrs. Akase was deeply displeased with Abe’s arrangement—“Isn’t this going too far?” she would say. Though Komori had later struggled financially and nearly collapsed, this was originally his business from the start. He’d lost everything—his house, his land, even his fields—throwing away his entire life to cling to this lifelong enterprise. “No matter how much money we provided, giving Komori just twenty-five percent is unacceptable! He deserves at least half! If things go this way, what becomes of my position? I was the one who took pity when his truck was mortgaged!”—she repeated to Akase and Abe whenever she saw them. Abe initially tried various explanations and justifications, but no matter how vehemently he argued, Mrs. Akase refused to accept them, endlessly repeating “Don’t you think this is excessive?” until he finally lost patience. Lately, he had all but stopped visiting the Akase household. In the end, Abe’s proposal had taken on legally binding force. He had spent his entire life on this business—battling every hardship, enduring insults solely to remain fixated on his enterprise, exposing himself to persecution—but now, caught in recent chaotic events, he could no longer discern anything clearly, only a vast loneliness lapping at his chest.

He was in an empty state of mind, having forgotten both sorrow and joy.

There had been a night when he'd drunk with Mr. Sugiyama from city hall's sanitation department—slapping each other's shoulders in a show of camaraderie—and he'd felt he'd gained some sort of ally. But the next day, when he went to city hall and said, "Mr. Sugiyama—my apologies about last night," the man blinked his bleary eyes with an uncomprehending look, retorting "What?" as if remembering nothing at all, then proceeded to berate him harshly in his usual manner.

Disappointed, he left the city hall in low spirits. Now, jostled by the truck, Hikotaro clenched his tobacco pipe between his teeth and gazed into the depths of autumn. In the truck’s cargo bed rode a single laborer. Twenty-load barrels collided, sloshing noisily. With a creaking groan, the truck came to a sudden stop, causing him to nearly smash his forehead against the front panel. The truck was parked at the earthen bridge by Tōjin Kawajiri. Sawada gave a heave-ho shout and jumped down. Komori also tucked his tobacco pipe into his waistband and climbed down after him. They had come to discard excrement and urine into the pit at Tōjin Kawajiri. Ri Seigaku reluctantly climbed down from the cargo bed in a sluggish manner, twisting his long beard, and took off the lid. They removed the small handcart tied to the side of the truck, and the three of them worked together to lower the barrels. They loaded them onto the four-load handcart, Ri Seigaku pulled it, and Komori pushed from behind. However, an unexpected event occurred here. When the two pushed the handcart to the excrement pit, seven or eight men in work coats stood beside it. A short, dark-skinned man among them rushed forward and planted himself imposingly before Ri Seigaku. When Ri Seigaku, startled, said, “What’s happening? Please explain,” the short man—in a booming voice belying his stature—roared, “Shut your trap! You bastards get lost! From today onward, we won’t let you dump shit here!” He grabbed the handcart’s handles and began shoving it back forcefully. The men at the edge of the excrement pit also raised a raucous clamor, surging to their feet as they made as if to attack. The men in work coats appeared to have been burying the excrement pit with their shovels. Komori moved from behind the handcart to the front and asked timidly, “What’s going on?” “What’s there to explain? Don’t you get it unless I spell it out, you damn fool!” barked the short, bearded man from earlier, his shoulders squared aggressively. Hikotaro softened his voice and asked timidly, yet defensively, “This pit here is approved by city hall for use—the municipal purification system will be completed soon. We’re just using it until then. Why are you people interfering?”

“What fucking reason do you need? Quit your smart talk!” roared the man in a fighting stance, brandishing his shovel threateningly. The frightened Ri Seigaku and Sawada began to back away. When Hikotaro suddenly glanced at the earthen bridge at Tōjin Kawajiri, he saw Old Man Mineta standing at its edge with a boy crouched beside him. He thought it was a familiar child, but immediately recognized him as the boy who had once defaced the truck with graffiti before fleeing. While Hikotaro still believed he understood the situation, the emboldened men in work coats sprang into action—the tallest among them at the pit’s edge thrust his shovel into the soil and shouted “Here, eat this!” as he kicked up dirt. The soil arced through the air like black snow before scattering over Hikotaro’s head. A rock struck his hat’s brim and ricocheted off. As sand particles pelted his face, Hikotaro bowed his head and shut his eyes. When one man began this assault, the others followed suit—kicking up soil and hurling muddy gravel. Crouching beneath the blizzard of debris while trembling with mounting rage, Hikotaro dodged stones until a large rock slammed into his shoulder—then he suddenly straightened up, thrust out his chest, and stood resolute before his enemies. His face flushed crimson with fury as violent tremors wracked his body—then he screamed with a throat-rending shriek: “What do you think you’re doing, you bastards?!” He violently shoved the barrels loaded on the handcart. A barrel tumbled off—yellow liquid splattered from its fallen form as excrement gushed from its mouth. Yanking out the long excrement ladle propped beside the handcart, Hikotaro charged into the stunned men—swinging wildly while roaring “You bastards! You bastards!”—and leaped into their midst. Overwhelmed by his ferocity, the work-coated men scattered with shouts. Ri Seigaku and Sawada could only gape at Hikotaro’s unprecedented ferocity. Hikotaro reached the half-buried pit still brimming with filth—plunged in the ladle—screamed “Take this!”—and hurled its contents at the men. The mob roared as the short man—drenched from his left shoulder—tried fleeing but fell backward. “You bastards! You bastards!” Hikotaro kept shrieking like a madman—dipping the ladle repeatedly to scatter excrement. The work-coated men scattered in panicked flight.

The excrement gushing from the ladle drove off the attackers while scattering like rain over Hikotaro’s head. Smearing his own body without hesitation, Hikotaro found himself overwhelmed by a rising tide of triumphant fury and began screaming through excrement-soaked lips like a man possessed. "You bastards! You bastards! I won’t lose! I won’t lose anymore! There’s nothing to fear from anyone now! Why was I such a spineless coward all this time? Come at me, anyone! Come at me!" As his chest swelled with newfound faith in his own strength—a power he had only just discovered—he roared his defiance. "Come at me! I won’t lose anymore! You pack of jackals who ganged up to mock me—I’m no weakling now! No fool! Ah, how could I ever be a fool? Jugemu Jugemu Unko Nageki Ototoi no Shin-chan no Panku de Shinpachi no Jinsei Barimu no Harioni Honnōkawano Shujin wa Jugemu Jugemu Go-Kō no Surikire Kaijarisuigyo no Suigyōmatsu Unraimatsu Fūraimatsu Kūnerutokoro ni Sumutokoro Yaburakōji no Yaburakōji Paipo Paipo Paipo no Shūrinmaru Shūrinmaru Shūrinmaru no Gūrindai no Ponpokopī no Ponpokonā no Chōkyūmei no Chōsuke! Jugemu Jugemu Unko Nageki Ototoi no Shin-chan no Panku de Shinpachi no Jinsei Barimu no Harioni Honnōkawano Shujin wa Jugemu Jugemu Go-Kō no Surikire Kaijarisuigyo no Suigyōmatsu Unraimatsu Fūraimatsu Kūnerutokoro ni Sumutokoro Yaburakōji no Yaburakōji Paipo Paipo Paipo no Shūrinmaru Shūrinmaru Shūrinmaru no Gūrindai no Ponpokopī no Ponpokonā no Chōkyūmei no Chōsuke! Come on! You think I’ll lose?!" With a visage contorted by rage, Hikotaro stood imposingly amid the cascading filth, his blazing screams transforming him into nothing less than a golden demon. At that moment, the setting sun dipping behind Sarayama’s pine forest cast crimson light sideways, making Hikotaro’s rigid figure blaze with brilliant radiance.