Pathway to Japanese Literature

While descending the slope, Hikotarō placed his hand on the brim of his straw hat and looked up at the sky; thinking a rain shower might come, he surveyed his surroundings where shimmering heat waves rose scorchingly—then, as if on cue, a sudden gust of cold wind arrived and rustled the leaves of the watermelon field. Watermelons of various sizes lay scattered in the red clay, their dust-covered skins exposing a patchy, baldish blue. While descending, he formed a circle with both hands and put them to his mouth. When he shouted “Hey!”, the man who had been standing naked in the center of the small pond visible below, both hands plunged into the water, looked up. When he realized it was Hikotarō, the man below stretched his back, straightened up with a knock to his waist, and smiled toward him—a gesture discernible even from a distance. Kicking up dust as he ran down the slope, the momentum nearly sent him plunging into the pond, but he finally managed to grab hold of a fig tree on the bank. They looked at each other and burst into loud laughter. “Mr. Uhei, what’re you up to?” Hikotarō asked, already sitting down on the grass as he pulled out his hatchet-shaped tobacco pipe from his waist and began packing shredded tobacco into its bowl. Soaked through, with sweat dripping from his forehead into his eyes, Uhei couldn’t wipe it away with his mud-caked hands and instead roughly smeared his arm across his face. He said he’d been trying to catch edible frogs but couldn’t find any, so he’d resigned himself to draining the pond and had pulled out the drainage plug. “Are there edible frogs here?” Hikotarō asked back with a surprised look. “For about four or five days now, there’s been one making strange noises.” “I was sure it must be an edible frog and searched everywhere but found nothing. Figured it must be hiding at the pond bottom—stirred up the mud, still didn’t surface. Tried baiting with cattail spikes—wouldn’t bite. Then at night it starts up with this awful crying—ga-on, ga-on—like a mewling infant. With my wife in that state too, gets on my nerves so I can’t sleep at all. No choice but to drain this puny pond. Went in earlier to yank out the drain plug, but damn thing’s jammed with red clay—won’t budge no matter how I wrestle it. Gotta catch that bastard or I’ll never rest easy.” As he spoke, Uhei plunged both hands back into the reddish murk, sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, and vanished beneath the water with a splash. Hikotarō fixedly watched the gurgling bubbles for a while, growing uneasy as Uhei showed no sign of surfacing—then, the once-agitated water stilled, its ripples subsiding into perfect calm. Hikotarō’s chest suddenly began pounding; thinking he had gotten caught on something and couldn’t surface, he resolved to go in and help—and started taking off his shirt. Just as he gripped the band of his fundoshi, a gurgling roar erupted in the pond—a booming crash accompanied by water roaring like rending fabric as if being sucked downward—and there in the swirling vortex’s heart, Uhei’s face burst through the surface. Violently shaking his head, hawking up phlegm with a “gah” sound, he spat and growled “Damn thing put up one hell of a fight”—then flung the plug in his right hand onto the grassy bank. Catching sight of Hikotarō standing there dumbfounded, he burst into roaring laughter. From below the embankment came the fierce sound of draining water, and visibly the surface began to lower. Ignoring Hikotarō’s “You’re like a kappa now,” Uhei sharpened his gaze and began carefully scanning every corner of the pond.

After putting his shirt back on, Hikotarō scanned the clumps of riverside bushes. Water striders skittered across the surface in panic, small green frogs leapt about, and red-clawed crabs scuttled away—but no edible frogs appeared. “Ain’t none here,” Hikotarō tossed out, but Uhei kept silent, his gaze riveted to the pond’s surface. Hikotarō sat back down on the grass out of boredom, but when he casually glanced sideways, he nearly jumped out of his skin. In a hut’s window barely six feet away stood a white-robed woman—hair matted across her face, bulging eyes glaring fixedly at him. Flustered by his own shock, Hikotarō called to Uhei: “Looks like Goryon-san’s still not right.” Uhei finally looked up from the water, leaned out the window, and suddenly flung mud at his wife—her face contorted between rage and despair, eyes protruding grotesquely from emaciation as she cackled through clenched teeth—barking “Shoo!” like driving off livestock before roaring “Sit!” and reciting sutra-like chants. “Fool! Fool!” The wife hunched her shoulders deflatedly, retreating to slump on the dark earthen floor. “Damn nuisance,” Uhei muttered as grief flickered across his rugged features before vanishing into forced cheer. “Vindictive fox—ten days now! Skulks round doorways possessing her—stupid Inari vermin! Had to get Sōen’s exorcism—calmed her some.” “She’d rave nonsense, hurl anything handy—so dangerous we called that drunkard yamabushi Sōen from the hills. Folks call him a fraud but damn if he didn’t work magic—she’d slip my thickest ropes no matter how tight I bound her, yet he just tied her fingers with sacred cords and prayed once—froze her solid.” “Sōen swears he’ll drive it out in days,” Uhei’s voice dropped, “but watching her starve...” He rallied abruptly: “Wife’s cursed—made her suffer through my wild years, landed Boss Akase in trouble—ended up caretaking this mountain as apology. Worked her raw farming then this fox business tops it off.” Uhei laughed—a hollow, mirthless sound. That self-mocking chuckle hung emptily in the air before slamming into Hikotarō’s chest like a mallet. Hikotarō looked away, suddenly agitated. He stood and spat “Just tend Goryon-san proper!” before scrambling up the red clay slope like a fugitive. “What’s got into ya, Hiko-san?” Uhei called after him, baffled. “Pond’ll dry soon! Catch them frogs—grill ’em with drinks!” But his voice faded beyond earshot as Hikotarō fled. Through watermelon fields to the road he ran, vaulting into his waiting truck’s cab. He barked at driver Sawada to move. As the truck lurched forward, he peered downslope in relief. Uhei resembled a bean-sized speck in the pond. The prone figure seemed to pin something down—maybe finally catching a frog—but Hikotarō cared more about that hut window now hidden by winding roads’ curves. The truck tottered along switchback mountain paths through reclaimed land, churning dust clouds.

This area was the summit of Mount Sawayama, and until a few years ago, it had been a completely overgrown wasteland densely covered with dwarf bamboo and shrubs. The land had been deemed unsuitable for reclamation due to bamboo roots deeply intertwined through the soil, but when air defense drills were conducted in this region some years prior, it was decided to build an anti-aircraft gun emplacement atop Mount Sawayama. As the existing mountain path—barely three shaku wide—proved inadequate for ascent, military engineers arrived and within days constructed an impressive mountain road exceeding two ken in width. The year after the drills concluded, the Shanghai Incident erupted. The Three Human Bullet Heroes who perished in the Battle of Miaoxingzhen had been engaged in that road reclamation project, and atop Mount Sawayama stands an imposing monument to these three warriors. The opening of this mountain path was truly something for which this city should be grateful. With the opening of this road as a catalyst, Sawayama was developed into a park; new roads radiating out in all directions from the mountain were constructed; consequently, the city-owned wasteland around the mountaintop roads, which had been left wild, began to be rapidly reclaimed; and now, every hill and slope has become agricultural land—fields stretching continuously, fruit trees cultivated—yielding substantial harvests year after year. From there, one could directly gaze upon the vast and hazy Genkai-nada. This rough sea dotted with several islands was as beautiful as a painting, adorned with clouds, ships, and seabirds. Therefore, even though they suffered some wind damage from directly receiving the salt-laden sea breeze, through their unyielding efforts, the farmers came to abundantly harvest not only vegetables such as radishes, potatoes, and leeks year after year, but also fruits like figs, loquats, pears, and watermelons.

Hikotarō's truck sped along the roads built into the slopes where fields lay. The fertilizer barrels loaded on the truck clattered and banged against each other. Half of the twenty loads were empty, but since the other half were full, they occasionally made sloshing sounds. The reason Hikotarō had stopped by Uhei's place was because he'd been asked to deliver about four loads of fertilizer, yet now he was fleeing the scene, having completely forgotten about business. The words Uhei had uttered—"My wife's an ill-fated one all right"—pierced his chest like a needle. He recalled his own wife and children, whom he had continued to burden with hardship. Though this realization was nothing new, the sight of Uhei—ordinarily so stubbornly proud—unexpectedly baring his heart with such solemnity seared into his heart like a branding iron. Today marked nearly three months since he had last returned home. Even when he had returned three months prior, it had only been a brief stop while selling fertilizer to the village. Pushing open the broken bamboo-fence gate and entering, he found Toshino, his wife, weeding in the field. She showed no change in expression upon seeing him. As Hikotarō passed by the edge of the field toward the house, she—without lifting her face—merely muttered, "The Mujin Company came looking," in a single breath, then continued tearing at the weeds with clumsy hands. Rubbing his ruddy face with his hand, he stood blocking the front of the house, surveyed the sooty eaves and peeling earthen walls, stared fixedly at the nameplate where the characters had faded, and muttered like an incantation: "Just wait and see, just wait and see."

The Komori family, which had continued for generations as wealthy farmers in Sakata Village, now faced ruin in Hikotarō’s generation. Unable to suppress his surging business ambition, he mortgaged part of his mountain forest to secure capital from a credit company and launched a feces and urine collection business. Previously, farmers would hitch horse-drawn carriages and go out to the city to collect feces and urine, but they would cease this when they had no need for fertilizer themselves. The few businesspeople in the city all used either horse-drawn carriages or ox carts, and their efficiency was far from satisfactory. He purchased a truck capable of carrying barrels and twenty loads. By combining collection fees with revenue from selling the waste as fertilizer to rural areas, it was certain that through modern methods they could secure most citizens as regular customers; even after deducting all necessary expenses, a considerable surplus was assured. He exuberantly opened his business amidst the sneers of those around him. However, when he actually began, his calculations were met with miscalculations at every turn. First, the business permit issue became entangled in complications. Because the truck couldn’t enter anywhere in the city, they had no choice but to create hand carts for the barrels, gather the collected barrels at designated spots, and drive the truck around to load them. Moreover, since a single truck couldn’t handle even one location effectively, they ended up making two hand carts, producing eighty loads’ worth of barrels, and hiring six extra laborers for collection. Setting aside the complicated minutiae of various business endeavors, over the ten years since he began this trade, not only had the mountain forests and rice fields inherited from his ancestors been lost—down to the family estate—all had passed into others’ hands. What remained was nothing but Hikotarō’s obsession: that refrain of Just wait and see. The truck had been mortgaged multiple times and had suffered the misfortune of seizure on several occasions. That he had followed this path of unrelenting failure and ruin stemmed from two other critical causes: first, his considerable fondness for drink; and second, that this region was politically volatile to an extreme degree—where the influence of political parties and factions permeated every business transaction, such that no enterprise could succeed without deference to party interests. He stopped returning to both the village and his home. It might really be true that he could no longer return. He built a makeshift shack in a corner of the field near the seashore to park the truck, constructed a four-and-a-half-mat room beside it, and lived there, managing the inconveniences of cooking for himself. At first she had nagged him with scolding, then during the middle period she had grumbled complaints, but lately the wife had stopped saying anything at all. On occasion when he went out to sell fertilizer in the village, he would stop by his house, but no matter when he went, his wife Toshino was always working—either out in the fields, threshing straw, or weaving at her loom. Twelve-year-old Tokuji and eight-year-old Chiyoko, who had started school this year, had grown strong and healthy even without their father around. He felt lonely that his children didn’t show him heartfelt affection, but he believed that someday there would come a day when they could live together slowly, and that when that time came, he would truly be able to enjoy a happy life to his heart’s content.

He knew full well how everyone in the village mocked him—calling him dimwitted, a fool, a pushover, nothing but a one-trick idiot, “Chōkumei no Chōsuke” himself. The words “Just wait and see” had become his religion. The truck began descending the mountain path built by the engineers, its aged frame rattling. As he cautiously reduced speed, a sudden cold wind struck his cheek from the side. Snapping back to awareness, Hikotarō looked up to find towering cedars now smothered under an oppressive mass of black clouds. Meeting the gaze of Sawada—whose gourd-shaped face had similarly tilted upward—he saw the driver furrow his brows and purse his lips. At Sawada’s muttered “One’s coming” as a drop hit his cheek, thick white raindrops began falling in unison like a command. Thunder that had rumbled from afar like grinding millstones suddenly crashed directly overhead, pounding fierce rain against the cedar forest. Staring at raindrops piercing the red clay road like scattered beans, Hikotarō abruptly recalled Amano Kyūtarō—the stuttering Amano—and resolved that tonight he must persuade him to discuss union matters without fail.

Early in the morning, after Sawada drove the truck out for its vehicle inspection, Hikotarō washed his oil-stained hands with laundry soap, sat down against a pillar, remembered the shochu he had saved from the previous night, and retrieved the one-shō tokkuri from the water hut lined with fine wire mesh. Removing the stopper and peering inside to find it about half full, he broke into an amiable smile, poured some into a teacup, and gulped it down in quick swallows. As if savoring the tingling sensation piercing through his throat, he closed his eyes, pressed his right hand against his chest, and remained perfectly still for some time. He could clearly feel it pass through his esophagus into his stomach, sensing his entire body swell as if vitality had been restored. With this, he thought he could work energetically all day today—his forty-five years of hardship-filled life dissolving into this single cup of shochu like boundless relief flooding through him. After downing about three cups’ worth, he stood up and went out front with the collection ledger dangling from his hand. The glittering sand stabbed at his eyes, but beyond the heat-hazed dune lay a magic-lantern-blue sea where white spray crashed against the breakwater with booming roars. He let out a cavernous yawn and looked up at the newly repainted signboard recently mounted atop the truck shed.

The pure white paint color made Hikotarō even more cheerful. He gazed repeatedly at the three characters “City Designated” that had been newly added this time and nodded with ceremonious approval, as if murmuring “Good, good.” Then circling around to the back of the truck shed, he called out in a loud voice: “Hey there! Anyone here?” A dull “Haaai” echoed from within the shack. The rusted corrugated iron door creaked open, revealing Ri Seigaku’s lanky face as he stroked his long beard. When Hikotarō said “I’m about to make the collections—you coming along?” Ri suddenly grimaced. “Stomach’s been hurting since last night,” he replied, then—without waiting for a response—flashed a mocking smirk and slammed the door shut with a clang. Hikotarō clicked his tongue and walked along the drought-shrunken Tonningawa River when from behind came Ri’s voice bellowing a Korean song in peculiar cadence from inside the shack. Though the drawn-out melody clearly mocked him, Hikotarō showed no sign of comprehension—as if entranced himself—and began humming a passage from *Sanshō Hanshichi Sakuradana* while adding vocal shamisen flourishes. This carefree mood precipitated an event that would prove truly fortuitous for him. It happened as he finally began crossing the earthen bridge spanning the Tonningawa’s lowest reaches, clapping his hands to keep rhythm. This narrow stream—less than six feet wide—stood as the city’s sole mountain rivulet, originating deep in Sasakura-yama behind Sawarayama. Long ago during early Meiji when civilization’s tide first reached this remote village, someone built a coke factory nearby and hired a French engineer at a salary that made contemporaries gasp. When this foreigner claimed one could pan for gold here, commotion ensued. So thoroughly did this transform the downstream seashore that a settlement sprang up almost overnight. Though the river likely bore another name originally, it eventually became known as Tonningawa. By early Meiji this city had been a fishing village of fewer than two hundred households—yet through railways, port construction and coal shipping it rapidly grew. Meanwhile the settlement born of gold propaganda along Tonningawa’s lower reaches remained frozen in time, forgotten by progress. The coke factory vanished; the foreigner disappeared; yet this enclave outside town’s development sphere acquired new purpose. Donogoo-Tonka became a garbage-collecting hamlet instead of gold-panning hub. Fifty households clustered along the coast behind which rose a red-brick municipal incinerator—its 170-foot chimney spewing grayish smoke. Dust mounds lined every shore and roadside where thick-legged horses tethered to carts lazily shook patchy manes and whinnied. The moment Hikotarō stepped onto Tonningawa’s earthen bridge three half-coated men atop a garbage heap began jeering—“Look! Shitman’s coming! Cocky bastard’s been meddling!”—then bent to hurl tin cans, broken nails and bamboo scraps like shrapnel. These spiked projectiles fell like hail behind him yet—fortunately buoyant—he remained too cheerful to recognize their malice. Though a can struck his right leg he didn’t glance back. “Where might Hanshichi-san be now?” he mused cheerily, heightening his rhythm as he crossed unhurriedly toward town.

Flipping through the collection ledger, he stopped by various houses. The yellow purse adorned with Daikokuten’s image gradually swelled with coins, but he began losing his earlier mood and grew increasingly gloomy. Since it operated on monthly billing with minimal fees, it seemed collections could be completed quickly by simply making rounds—yet reality proved otherwise. After being made to visit three or four times with excuses like “No one’s here” or “Today’s inconvenient,” several households finally paid on about the fifth attempt. Some houses demanded discounts—“We had five family members until last month, but our daughter married off—deduct ten sen”—threatening to hire another collector if refused. Others berated him—“Your filthy methods aren’t worth paying for!”—and even after he bowed in apology, they hounded him with complaints about timing before dismissing him with “Come back the day after tomorrow.” The standard fee was thirty sen monthly, fifty for larger households. Though years of such encounters had dulled his initial outrage, each still left him bitter—and every time, Hikotarō remembered Mrs. Akase’s kindness. Whenever he collected at the Akase residence, Mrs. Akase would smile warmly—“Thank you for your hard work”—and always slip him extra money for shochu. Mr. Akase Harukichi was the savior who had revived his business. Yet by evening’s approach—when his rounds typically ended—he reverted to form, stuffing the swollen purse into his waistband and mustering confidence to visit targeted households for appeals. Exhausted from walking, he returned to the truck shed at dusk to find Sawada washing tires with a bucket of water. “Good work today,” he said. “Yeah,” came Sawada’s curt reply as he peered up through his glasses. “Lasted six months this time. Worked out, but you really should replace the cylinder now,” he added, lips pursed. “Can’t be helped,” Hikotarō answered, eyeing the aging truck whose repairs drained funds—not with resentment, but sorrow for this companion weathered by shared hardships. Momentarily sentimental, he tossed out, “I’ll talk to Boss Akase,” then circled behind the shed. Knocking on the corrugated door, he called, “Kanemoto! Truck’s back—make rounds to Takasaki Town and the school tomorrow morning. Tell the others.” Kanemoto was Ri Seigaku’s Japanese name. When Koreans came to mainland Japan, they all took Japanese names. “Yesss,” came a drowsy voice from within. Suddenly remembering his hunger, he returned to the shed, sat on the threshold, and gulped shochu from the one-shō flask until it burned down his esophagus and seeped into his stomach walls. Only one mouthful remained. As warmth spread through his flushed face and body, he lay down—fatigue overwhelming him even as Sawada finished cleaning and called, “Komori-san! We’re out of gas too!” He might have replied or not before collapsing onto the dirt floor, asleep.

Before long, he began grinding his teeth, then started snoring loudly.

When he came to his senses, Hikotarō was standing on a small hill with Amano Kyūtarō. The short, monkey-like Kyūtarō—who until now had been his business rival—stood beside him wearing an old-fashioned bowler hat, appearing first as two identical Kyūtarōs, then four, until he suddenly realized: *Of course—today’s the sanitation workers’ union inauguration ceremony.* Then a flag rose smoothly from beneath his feet—a strangely elongated white banner that fluttered into the sky he gazed upon. Amano Kyūtarō raised his face, his round eyes sparkling animatedly as he declared, “Up until now, our pointless competition has been a grave mistake.” Amano Kyūtarō began his speech: “Henceforth, let us march forward hand in hand through great cooperation! How gratifying that through our unity, even those arrogant clients will come to understand their place! What folly it was that our competition to poach customers drove collection fees ever lower! There’s no reason we should endure pitiful wages and intolerable insults while performing such filthy work! Now that our union exists, citizens can no longer hire anyone at rates outside our agreement! Their threats of ‘We’ll hire others unless you discount’ hold no power! Consider this—one yen per month for waste collection is already too cheap! If we refuse this sanitation work, what will citizens do? Haul their own shit? Or simply cease excreting altogether?” Yet even as Hikotarō thought *He’s absolutely right*, another part of him wondered *But Amano’s supposed to stutter…*, his eyes fixed in bewilderment on the man’s mouth as it continued pouring forth this torrent of flawless oratory. Applause erupted; then fireworks shot skyward as a seething, roiling sound began to rise. In the blink of an eye—just as shouts started thundering up from the town sprawling below—the streets surged and began sinking into a deluge of golden feces and urine that overflowed and cascaded upward. Among the drowning, pleading crowd, Hikotarō saw faces—the company employee who’d declared *he wouldn’t pay* because the waste collection was sloppy; the fruit shop housewife who’d demanded *a ten-sen discount* since her family had shrunk, threatening *to hire someone else otherwise*. The town sank into the roaring flood of feces and urine in an instant, and the rising sun reflected off the golden surface, shining beautifully. At the sound of Kyūtarō laughing like a monkey, baring his teeth, Hikotarō jolted awake. It was pitch black, so he thought he was still dreaming, but when he groped for the light switch and twisted it, the green-painted truck loomed before his eyes like a gigantic crouching insect. For some reason, he couldn’t suppress the laughter welling up inside him; his lips twitched into a grin, and finally, convulsing his belly, he burst into loud guffaws.

Akase Harukichi, who had left home after sunset, soaked in the bath with only his head above water while listening to autumn-heralding cicadas outside the window. At this nominally hot-spring bathhouse on a beach far from town, there was no one else present today. The sound of waves mingled with wind through pines—a tranquil atmosphere reminiscent of secluded mountain hot springs. He stretched both arms taut, leaned back against one side of the narrow tub, and braced his legs. As he enjoyed these childish motions while humming Noh-like melodies, the side door creaked open to reveal Osei—the bathhouse woman—announcing: “Mr. Tomoda has arrived.” Osei’s face emerging from between the sliding door’s rotten wood resembled a framed portrait in its beauty. Though her complexion was dusky, the crescent-shaped eyebrows on her slender face exuded elegance, while her single-lidded eyes brimming with sentiment instantly evoked ukiyo-e pillow book illustrations. Akase had already resigned himself to being haunted by Osei’s phantom—an obsession he could no longer suppress. Regaining awareness at Osei’s voice, he answered curtly: “I see.” Tomoda Kizō had been badgering Akase for a meeting, but Akase—deeming it pointless—had made excuses until Tomoda’s persistence forced him to name this remote location. Akase had chosen this bathhouse precisely because Osei worked here, calculating Tomoda would find the distance from town too bothersome. Yet Tomoda appeared as promised. Having seen Osei, Akase had hoped even more intensely for his absence—but now faced his rival’s resolve while resolving not to quarrel. The door slid open again to reveal a fully naked Tomoda dangling a towel as he entered with a casual “Well now!” After perfunctorily wetting his groin, he splashed into the tub. Pale water overflowed the narrow bath’s edge. “My apologies for the delay,” Tomoda formally greeted. Thus in the one-ken-square tub faced two faction leaders—their confrontation seemingly accidental. Tomoda scrubbed his neck with a towel, kite-like eyes glinting as he remarked: “Impressive physique you’ve got there. Must weigh a ton.” “Haven’t weighed myself lately,” Akase replied, “but back in Hiroshima around New Year I clocked twenty-three kan [86kg]. All bulk, no substance—rather embarrassing.” “How enviable! We couldn’t possibly disclose our weight in kan—too shameful.” Tomoda patted his lean ribs. “I indulge in luxuries and sweets myself, but”—he smirked—“constitutionally immune to their effects.” Raising tattooed arms where Jiraiya’s scroll-clenching toad glared through wet ink—its eyes rolling menacingly—Tomoda laughed humorlessly. Akase lifted his plump left arm to stroke his swirling dragon tattoo. “Ah, youthful folly—defiling these bodies our parents gave us. No undoing it now.” He chuckled ruefully. “These days I’m too self-conscious to strip carelessly.” “Quite right,” Tomoda agreed. “Your single sleeve’s bearable enough, but my full-body ink? Tolerable when young—now winter feels like being vise-gripped.” He shuddered theatrically. “Catch a cold and it throbs like hellfire! We endured such pains in our prime—though back then these tattoos intimidated better than swords in gambling dens.” His laugh rang hollow as wind through dead pines.

Akase forced a wry smile before their conversation lapsed into silence; as if by mutual agreement, both men turned toward the window where sweet potato fields stretched beyond the lower panes, broad leaves rustling like waving fans under the wind’s caress. “By the way,” Tomoda began with feigned nonchalance, small eyes darting, “what I’ve wanted to discuss is simple: we want you in Minseito.” When Akase kept staring at the fields without responding, Tomoda pressed on: “Truthfully—this isn’t just my wish but Councilman Toyoshima’s ardent desire too. You know how things stand here—those outside our party aren’t considered people anymore! We bulldoze opposition with numbers, yes, but lack men who can argue principles and enforce them.” He leaned forward, towel dripping over Jiraiya’s tattooed toad eyes glistening through bathwater steam. “Your Neutralists and Seiyūkai lot? Predictable—but you personally…terrify us.” A mirthless chuckle escaped him before he continued: “With Toyoshima-sama here, those factions’ squirming means nothing—they’ll never rise again! Join us now—we’ll be demons wielding iron clubs! You won’t stay a mere member—we’ve already decided: secretary-general position, next prefectural assembly candidacy.” “Your potential astounds us,” he added, voice dropping conspiratorially, “topping May’s council election votes! And our eighteen perfect wins? Proof of Minseito’s might! Will you consider it?” As Tomoda’s words faded into cicada-choked silence, Akase finally spoke without shifting his gaze from the undulating leaves: “Your intent is clear—and your flattery honors me beyond merit.” His voice carried bureaucratic precision honed through decades of political theater: “Yet I maintain—while parties plague national politics by necessity, they poison local governance.” A dragon tattoo rippled across his raised arm as he gestured toward unseen corruption: “Need I list how partisanship bleeds this city dry? Public discourse already exposes what Minseito’s ‘influence’ truly means under Toyoshima-sama’s banner—prioritizing faction over citizenry.” His eyes narrowed at last: “Eighteen victories? How else but through bribes could scorned men win?” “These truths need no elaboration,” he concluded, sinking deeper into murky water until only his mouth remained above surface—a politician’s smile preserved like floating wax: “Sheltering under umbrellas keeps one dry…but I choose rainstorms of principle instead.” Tomoda stood abruptly, water sloshing over tub edges: “Understood.” His effeminate lilt hardened into blade-sharp finality: “We’ll battle by our convictions then.”

And so, as if by mutual agreement, the two men finally averted their eyes from the sweet potato leaves and exchanged glances. Though a murderous glint lingered in both men’s eyes, Tomoda vigorously scrubbed his face with a towel and said, “But to change the subject—regarding this matter of the committee designating Hikotarō Komori’s Sanitation Office for waste collection at municipal buildings. I happened to miss that meeting due to a family bereavement, but they say *you* pulled considerable strings. Is that true?” “It is not that I exerted any particular effort for the Sanitation Office,” Akase began, “but with the city’s budget being limited, and Ōta—the prior contractor—insisting he could no longer continue due to persistent deficits, the committee reached a consensus to designate them precisely because they possess a truck. As you know, municipal buildings extend to thirty locations—six elementary schools, four public toilets, the Seamen’s Children’s Home, the public hall, city hall, teachers’ housing, and so forth—where oxcarts and horse carts simply cannot achieve efficient waste collection. The Sanitation Office with its truck—” Here Tomoda cut him off, turning his face aside to ask, “Is that *your* enterprise?” “I know nothing about th—” he began, only to be cut off by Tomoda’s interjection: “But you’re the one who lent Komori Hikotarō money, aren’t you?” “No—it seems that around last year, when Komori had his truck seized as collateral for debts to the Mujin company and was left unable to conduct business, teetering on the verge of tears, my wife took pity and lent him money. But I only learned of this afterward, and I have no involvement whatsoever in Komori’s enterprise.” “Is that so? That man is someone I went to considerable trouble for—but no—I quite understand. It seems I’ve stayed in too long and am feeling a bit lightheaded. They call this a radium spring,” he said while standing up and stretching before stepping out of the tub. He faced the window, showing his back to Akase, and said, “It’s autumn, isn’t it?”

The western sun shone directly sideways onto the sweet potato field, and the leaves cast long shadows on the soil. The eight heads of Yamata no Orochi gaped their massive jaws toward Susanoo-no-Mikoto, who raised a sword etched with crimson blood grooves. As Akase Harukichi stared at that long blade with its bloody channels, he found himself thinking—for no discernible reason—that this man would surely be killed by someone someday.

While gazing outside, Tomoda remarked, “Found any decent gambling lately?” From within the bath, Akase replied, “No—I’ve quit that.” “My apologies,” Tomoda said quietly, then slid open the door and left. The sliding door suddenly slammed shut with a violent bang. It was with such ferocity that the old nails along the frame went flying. As Akase forced a wry smile in the bath, the sliding door opened, and Osei’s face appeared. “Is everything all right?” she asked. He thought her beautiful. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “Since Mr. Tomoda has left, I’ll get out soon. Why don’t you prepare some sea bass back meat and get some sake ready? It’s been ages since I felt this good—today I’ll take my time.”

Efforts to form a waste collectors’ union within the city had seen dozens of meetings canceled due to poor attendance, but tonight—perhaps lured by Hikotarō’s promise to foot the bill for drinks—four out of six members had gathered. All that remained was for someone named Kumai and Amano Kyūtarō to arrive, and then everyone would be present. Hikotarō made the bold decision of emptying his empty pockets. I think that even if I spend a bit of money tonight, as long as we can form the union, I’ll be able to make it back. In the innermost room of the pleasure boat, with chicken boiling vigorously in the pot and cups already having been passed around haphazardly, everyone’s faces were flushed, and their voices had grown loud. A single broad-faced, middle-aged geisha chattered incessantly in a shrill voice. To colleagues who seemed utterly disinterested in union matters, Hikotarō tirelessly preached the necessity of forming one, somehow managing to cultivate an atmosphere where they might reluctantly agree to its creation. Yet these men—having long competed to poach each other’s clients—kept stealing furtive glances at one another’s faces, never shedding their deeply suspicious expressions. As the alcohol took hold, Hikotarō grew elated at his apparent persuasive success. “C’mon everyone, let’s drink merrily! No talk later about splitting fees over laborers’ squabbles—drink your fill! Mr. Kumai and Mr. Amano’ll be here soon. I guarantee Mr. Amano’s on board—why, just t’other night I had this dream... Listen here, you—” He launched into the dream tale. “Mark my words—it’ll come true! Mr. Amano said the same ideas I been thinkin’. Dunno ’bout Mr. Kumai yet, but he won’t oppose what all others want to build. Right, geisha? From now on, we’ll double fertilizer fees just for women! Men ain’t half as filthy—monthly cycles make ’em downright unbearable sometimes!” Clutching his cup, he laughed uproariously. “What nonsense! You men are far filthier,” she retorted, though her expression conceded defeat. “You lot’ve done nothing but shit-talk all night—can you even taste the feast?” She laughed.

Yoshimura Chōkichi—his white hair hanging down—scrubbed vigorously at his red nose and exclaimed, “Delicious! Even the golden flies have caught wind of this and come buzzing in!” As the alcohol took hold, the atmosphere gradually grew more relaxed. Songs began to flow—even the two Korean laborers among them started bellowing out a Korean folk song in some strange melody. “Ah, I know that one!” Hikotarō bellowed. “Kanemoto and Ōyama from my place are always drinkin’ and singin’ it—‘Chin, chin-chin-na-areh, chotta, chotta,’ right? C’mon now—” He launched into the tune himself: “Chin, chin-chin-na-areh, chiyotta, chotta!” The Koreans clapped their hands in rhythm, joining in. “None o’ that foreign noise! Sing Japanese songs!” protested the geisha, though she kept strumming her shamisen halfheartedly. The sliding door crashed open, revealing Amano Kyūtarō—a squat man built like an Indian laborer. Amano collapsed onto an empty cushion. With his trademark pre-speech gasp, he rolled bloodshot eyes and managed only: “S-s-sorry I’m l-l-late.” “Bout time! We started without ya!” Hikotarō shoved a cup forward, sloshing sake from the flask himself. “I’ve busted my ass for this union! We’ve jawed ’bout this enough—all that cutthroat bid’n was suicide! From now on—hand in hand! Show them high-nosed clients what’s what! We been undercuttin’ till fees hit bedrock—doin’ shit-work for pennies while takin’ their lip? No more! With our union set—citizens can’t hire nobody ’cept at our rates! No more ‘lower yer price or we’ll get Kumai!’ One yen a month’s robbery! What’ll they do if we quit? Haul their own turds? Or just stop shittin’?!” He spat out the speech in one breath—half-aware he’d lifted these lines from Akase’s old stump speeches. While Hikotarō orated, Amano—downing cup after solitary cup—suddenly gulped hard, puffed his chest, and rolled wild eyes before stammering: “I-I-I… ag-g-gainst… un-un-ion.” Hikotarō’s grin froze. “Why? You—why against it? You!” Amano’s monkey-face twisted into a smirk. “I-I-I… b-b-bought t-t-truck,” he spat. “Y-your u-u-union… w-w-won’t… b-b-bother!” He snapped to attention and marched out like an imperial soldier. As Hikotarō gaped, others began mumbling—“Our apologies,” “Didn’t mean to intrude”—scrambling over each other to flee through the doorway.

It was precisely as though a typhoon had swept through and passed. Gazing at the scattered feast table, Hikotarō remained dazed for a while, unable to comprehend what had just transpired. As the situation gradually clarified itself in his mind, he set down the empty cup he’d been clutching unconsciously, lowered his head with a sigh, then raised his face as if shaking off the gloom. “Good grief… What was that all about? Back to being Mokuami, eh?” he muttered before erupting in laughter—a hollow, metallic clang like an abandoned temple bowl. The geisha, at a loss for how to smooth things over, took the sake flask and simply said, “Here, have a drink.” “Yeah, thanks… Can’t even taste the sake anymore,” Hikotarō answered, but then abruptly straightened up as if shaking off his gloom. “The hell with those damn fools—no use dealin’ with ’em. Ah, let’s drink!” He drained the chilled cup in one gulp and poured a full one for the geisha.

Suddenly, Amano’s earlier words resurfaced in his mind—he’d said something about deciding to buy a truck. But Hikotarō couldn’t fathom Amano having that kind of financial leeway. Considering not just the truck but the recent sharp rise in material costs, he wondered if the man was full of hot air. “Something’s off… Doesn’t add up… Doesn’t add up,” he muttered. “They’re truly peculiar folks, aren’t they?” said the geisha, adopting a conciliatory tone as if seizing an opening in the conversation. “What a hassle, having to chat with all those odd characters.” “You’re right,” Hikotarō said, forcing himself into better spirits. “Let those shitheads do as they please! I’m a man—I’ll manage alone! I won’t lose!” He gulped down cup after cup in quick succession. He had the geisha play the shamisen and sang “Binbōtsu” in a husky voice himself, even making the woman sing along. The former libertine passed the time in high spirits, but upon hearing the radio downstairs announce the nine-thirty time signal, he snapped back to reality and called for the bill. The moment he saw the bill for around twenty-four yen, he clicked his tongue in apparent irritation, but he gave a one-yen tip to the geisha and another to the maid, then declined the geisha’s offer to see him off and left the place.

The town was still bright and crowded with people. The Suzuran lanterns’ intense neon stung his eyes with their flickering glare as Hikotarō, staggering through the crowd with unsteady steps, entered the theater district’s side street and ducked into an oden shop called Yajirōbē. A gust of wind from the ceiling-mounted fan swept across his face. Leaning his elbows on the vermilion-lacquered counter, he sat down and glanced at the group of five gathered around a table in the back—Hikotarō’s rough estimation, formed as he approached, proved spot-on. He knew this oden shop was Amano’s regular haunt and had stopped by at what he thought was the right time, hoping that coming here might lead him to some secret-revealing clue. But when he pushed through the straw curtain and entered, the boisterous laughter and loud conversation in the corner abruptly fell silent. The man with his back turned to them, shaking a broad, balding head at the center of the group, was unmistakably Amano Kyūtarō—the stuttering rival. Those who had been with him earlier on the pleasure boat included Kim Kyŏng-sŏn and Yoshimura Chōkichi, while Kumai Umpei—the crew-cut man absent from tonight’s gathering—had not shown his face. Directly across sat Minaida, the cleanly bald hardware store owner whose face Hikotarō always encountered during elections. The five men, having fallen silent moments prior, now huddled together whispering urgently—until Minaida called out, “Miss, the bill,” paid, and led the exodus: Amano first, followed by the others one by one, leaving only the old man behind. Minaida stood up, sat down beside Hikotarō, and said in a saccharine voice, “Ah, Mr. Komori! How unusual—first time since May’s election, isn’t it? Business must be busy.” “Ah, Minaida—good to see you in health,” Hikotarō replied, forcing a smile and nodding politely even as he struggled to suppress his rising disgust. “By the way, Mr. Komori,” said Minaida with a fox-like expression, leaning in to peer at Hikotarō’s face, “I heard you’ve withdrawn from the People’s Party. Is that true?” “No—I’ve grown sick of being tied to political parties,” Hikotarō answered. “Not just the People’s Party—I’ll never get involved with any party again, you hear?” At this, Minaida burst into laughter—“Ha ha ha ha ha!”—his toothless mouth gaping wide at some private amusement. “You’ve become Akase’s underling, haven’t you? Admit it!” he pressed, his tone sharpening to interrogation. “That’s not true!” Hikotarō began protesting, but Minaida cut him off mid-sentence. “Well, never mind that. It’s only natural you’d protect your own business—but I won’t have you nitpicking others’ work.” Hikotarō didn’t immediately grasp his meaning, so he stared intently at Old Man Minaida. As he studied the man’s thin lips and grimy forehead, it finally dawned on him—Minaida was a resident of Donogoo Tonka, the settlement beyond the earthen bridge over Tōjin River. The garbage collection enterprise—born from this gold dust dream among the people of the settlement—was accounted for within the City’s regular budget under waste disposal expenses as contracted fees for waste removal by horse-drawn carriage, thereby establishing them as designated cleaners. Similarly positioned alongside the contracted fees for excrement collection—also included within the City’s waste disposal budget—the amounts had long been contrasted, compared, and cited in various politically charged contexts. In short, the fact that waste removal carriage fees far exceeded those for excrement collection had remained a perennial subject of debate. In contrast to waste removal—which faced no issues whatsoever—excrement collection persistently caused problems. Several city-designated collectors had already been replaced, failing to endure in their roles. Ultimately, those possessing trucks came to be designated under the Sanitation Department for this very reason. To put it bluntly: if they didn’t increase excrement collection fees, waste removal fees would have to be reduced—hence the conflict that arose there. Finally grasping Minaida’s meaning, Hikotarō shook his head. “No no—I wouldn’t dream of interfering with others’ work,” he answered with a good-natured smile, then offered the tin flask. “Care for a drink?” Taking it, Minaida had the girl pour while saying “Mr. Komori—defying the People’s Party won’t end well for you,” his face fixed on Hikotarō with a vulgar smirk—mocking and threatening like a predator licking its chops before prey.

Flustered and suddenly realizing Minaida was Tomoda Kizō’s trusted confidant—sensing Tomoda’s kite-like eyes glaring behind him—he felt utterly at a loss. But finally regaining his composure, he resolved that no matter what happened, he must protect his own business. Leaving the persistently pestering Minaida behind, he paid the money and fled into the night. Amidst an anxious feeling that those threatening the enterprise he had staked his life on were closing in from behind, an inexhaustible affection for his business welled up fiercely within him. Unable to organize his increasingly chaotic emotions, he quickened his stride and walked in a smoke-shrouded daze—until, as if breaking free from the tangled mass of thoughts, a single phrase sprang up within him like a fireball: *Just wait and see*.

It was a certain day when the autumn wind began to rise.

Though he thought dawn should have broken, the outside remained stubbornly dim. When he opened the front door to check, the sky hung dark and oppressive as if a downpour loomed at any moment. The south wind brushed cold against his face, and through a gap in the southern sky that opened like a freshly wiped pane, he thought it wouldn’t rain after all—soon it would clear. Yesterday, because the toilets at the Seamen’s Children’s Home and Yamate Elementary School had filled to the point of overflowing—and because the city office had kept hounding him about it—he absolutely had to collect the waste today. In truth, since becoming city-designated, Hikotarō had gradually come to understand why previous designated collectors inevitably failed to last—quitting only to be replaced by new appointees—and by now he himself was growing weary of it all. Ultimately it came down to meager contract fees. Whenever Hikotarō went to city hall—which he did occasionally—he would vent his frustrations to Section Chief Sugiyama. But the man remained unmoved, repeating like a broken record: *“Regrettably there’s no budget—nothing can be done. If you can’t manage it, we’ll have no choice but to replace you.”* And so they got nowhere. “It’s not impossible,” he pleaded imploringly, “but how can we manage waste collection for thirty municipal buildings at rates that don’t even cover costs?” Yet Mr. Sugiyama—exhaling cigarette smoke like a chimney, his bleary eyes glinting behind glasses—retorted that the excrement they collected could be sold as fertilizer in rural areas, which should provide decent income and make the work worthwhile. “No matter how much you bellyache,” he insisted, his voice rising as he slapped the desk in finality, “nothing will change. If you have grievances, take them to the mayor.” Of course he couldn’t go complain to the mayor, and so he returned as he was; were it not for the buyout issue, he’d have quit altogether by now. Recently, the City’s initiatives to regulate various enterprises had progressed steadily into implementation. Services previously operated privately—ferries, beaches, electric lighting—were being municipalized one after another, with the most recent being the municipal buyout of city buses. The city bus company—operated with four dilapidated old vehicles—had been acquired for 60,000 yen and replaced with new silver-painted buses now traversing the streets. Hikotarō Komori believed waste collection was inherently destined for municipalization—that when his rights were finally bought out for a substantial sum, it would mark the fulfillment of his long-awaited revenge: *Just wait and see*—a phrase clinging to him awake or asleep. This hope alone revitalized him, filling him with vigor. When he thought all his past hardships hadn’t been in vain and imagined that moment, his chest tightened strangely until tears threatened to spill. Until achieving final victory, he told himself he must endure this grueling municipal waste collection—no matter how sick of it he grew, he couldn’t abandon it now. With this resolve, cleaning over thirty municipal buildings without delay proved no easy task. Every single time brought loud complaints. The sign ostentatiously displayed a phone number connecting to Shoshikiya—a shop thirty-six meters away. Though Hikotarō had long ties with its master, the man was often absent doing side work like insurance solicitation. The wife—her voice shrill as glass being scraped—would call out whenever a call came through. Initially, owing to her husband’s connection and Hikotarō’s regular shopping there, she relayed messages without complaint. But with frequent absences requiring note-taking and later deliveries—plus over half the calls being gripes like *“Why no collection yet?”* or *“Toilets reeking!”*—she’d lately begun showing open irritation. When informing him of a message from the Seamen’s Children’s Home, she snapped while leaving: “For pity’s sake get your own phone!” Thinking even light rain shouldn’t delay collecting from the Children’s Home at least, Hikotarō poured shochu from the one-shō flask into a teacup and drank—his daily ritual. He opened the front door, went around back to the water spigot, and rinsed rice. He set the pot on gas flames, prepared miso soup, then stepped outside.

The waters of Tōjin River reflected the dark sky, flowing stagnant like a muddy ditch. As he gazed at the water’s surface where wooden debris and grass drifted, someone suddenly grabbed his rear with a “Wah!” nearly pulling him into the river. Startled, he whirled around. Behind him stood a snot-nosed boy of twelve or thirteen—someone he’d never seen before. “What’re you doing? That’s dangerous!” Hikotarō said. The boy retorted, “C’mon, old man—tell me a fun story! I came all this way to hear one.” A satisfied smile flickered across Hikotarō’s shochu-reddened face. “Oh? Who told you that?” he asked. “Heard you’re one helluva storyteller,” the boy said with cheeky familiarity, plopping down on the bank. “A’right then,” Hikotarō replied, settling onto the grass and stretching his legs. “Now… what tale to tell? Ah! The Legend of Nagakumyō no Nagasuke! Long ago, there was a mischievous lad. One day while play-fighting, he whacked another kid’s head with a bamboo stick—wham!—leaving a huge lump! ‘Ow ow ow!’ wailed the child. The father came storming over madder than a hornet’s nest. So the brat’s mother drags him out scolding—but this boy had a name longer than a winter night! She starts: ‘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 Ponpokopī-no Ponpokonā-no Chōkyūmei-no Chōsuke! Why’d you go putting lumps on folk’s heads? Look at this poor child!’ But by the time she finished that mouthful of a name—poof!—the lump’d vanished! Ahahaha! Riotous, eh?” Hikotarō laughed heartily, but the boy wore a stone-faced expression. “Then what? Nagasuke falls down a well, they haul him up screaming that name till the doctor says ‘Too early for funeral chants!’ That’s it? Don’t know any other stories?” The boy bared his teeth in a mocking grin before Hikotarō could react, then bolted upstream along the bank and vanished. Hikotarō stared after him until he disappeared, then finally shook himself alert. Tipping his head quizzically at the strangeness, he stood upon hearing the pot’s vigorous boil. Like a man fox-bewitched, he wandered to the truck shed—where chalk scrawls on the green vehicle’s flank caught his eye. Certain nothing had been there before, he approached to find bent katakana—like crooked nails hammered sideways—stretching across the metal.

Ba KA NO HI TO TSU O BO E Even children looked down on him now, he thought as he came to the gas stove and removed the pot lid. After removing the rice pot and replacing it with the miso soup pot on the stove frame, he sat down, took out his tobacco pipe, and began packing it with shredded leaves. When it struck him that he might indeed be like that fool who only remembered one thing, he couldn't help but find himself ridiculous. In his childhood, he had been told many different folktales by his story-loving mother, but strangely, only this tale of Nagakumyō no Nagasuke remained in his memory. He had forgotten all the other stories, yet he had thoroughly memorized this long name that no one could ever remember. Therefore, even when people called him low-intelligence, he prided himself on not being unintelligent in the least. No matter when or where, no matter how drunk he was, he could repeat this long name flawlessly—not a single word out of place—time and time again. He blew tobacco smoke into rings, rapidly recited Nagakumyō no Nagasuke’s name once more, and then began eating his meal.

The driver Sawada was supposed to come at eight, but even by eight-thirty there was no sign of him arriving. Hikotarō circled around to the back of the truck shed, knocked on the corrugated iron door and called out “Kanemoto—you there?” A drowsy “Yeah” came in response, but no movement followed. When he opened the door, Ri Seigaku sat cross-legged facing his wife—who had one knee raised—playing Janggi. They’d drawn grid lines on the meal tray and were sliding black pieces back and forth. “Still not out? We’ll be screwed if you don’t get moving! Gotta hit Yamate Elementary and the Seamen’s Home today no matter what! Thought you’d left already—what’s the damn hold up?” Hikotarō snapped impatiently. Without turning came the reply: “Rainin’ today. We’re waitin’.” “Ain’t gonna rain—hell, even if it drizzles we gotta collect! Move it now!” he pressed, but Ri kept stroking his beard with his left hand, showing no intention of rising. Swallowing his irritation, Hikotarō coaxed “C’mon man—get going,” at which Ri finally turned and said “Master—quittin’ this job I am.” Hikotarō stared. “What’s wrong? Some problem?” “No problem,” Ri tossed back, eyes returning to the board as he moved a piece. “Just dirty work for shit pay.” Recent economic recovery had created labor shortages—workers could now demand decent wages anywhere. This reality hung unspoken in Ri’s posture. Knowing replacement workers were impossible to find, Hikotarō blurted in panic: “Should’ve talked first! After years together—quitting now’s cold! Raise your pay then? Fine! Thirty sen more starting today!” Ri didn’t answer but gathered the pieces into a bamboo tube and heaved himself up with exaggerated effort. As he began changing clothes, Hikotarō finally relaxed. “Tell the others—start with the Seamen’s Home first,” he instructed before returning to the shed. With standard wages now around eighty sen daily, he had no choice. Hired at ¥1.30 during the slump—originally six men pared down to four as finances failed—he couldn’t raise one alone. Boosting all four by ¥1.20 daily meant monthly budgets overshooting ¥30 even after holidays. Already struggling with abacus calculations that often showed red at month’s end—this would ruin him. No help for it—he’d have to cut one worker despite the hardship.

After Ri Seigaku passed by the front of the shed, said “Master, I’m off,” and left, the hexagonal clock on the shed wall struck nine—yet still the driver hadn’t arrived. Hikotarō came to Shoshikiya at the corner, and since the shopkeeper happened to be there, he borrowed the store’s bicycle and rushed to Sawada’s house about two blocks upstream along Tōjin River. After about ten minutes, Hikotarō came pedaling back along the same road. He wore an extremely displeased expression. He had gone to raise Sawada’s wages. He realized they had all colluded beforehand, but fearing above all the collapse of his business, he had accepted every one of their demands—though in truth, he thought it was nothing more than a matter of enduring just a little longer. After returning the bicycle and coming back to the truck shed, he drank another cup of shochu from the teacup. The dark sky gradually cleared from the south until outside grew bright.

After sitting in a daze for a while, Sawada came rushing up with an energetic “Sorry about that!” Hikotarō answered with vacant detachment—“Ah”—then began reading the scrawled letters on the truck: “The hell? Who wrote this damn...” but suddenly cut off his voice. He chuckled dryly, “Wait—‘Ebōtsutohinokaba’ read backward? What’s that even mean? Some kid practicing penmanship drills, I bet.” Pursing his lips in resignation, he muttered to himself while wetting a rag and wiping the letters away. After wiping it clean completely, he suddenly said in a thin, hesitant tone, “Mr. Komori... I truly am sorry.” When Hikotarō looked at Sawada in surprise, Sawada—still gripping the rag, head slightly bowed—said, “I’ve been under your care for so long, and I didn’t want to make such a demand this time. But with three children to feed and prices skyrocketing lately, I just couldn’t manage anymore. I’m sorry for saying what I did... Thank you for understanding. From now on, I’ll work my hardest to support you properly.” Hikotarō felt his chest gradually tighten at Sawada’s uncharacteristically somber tone. “No—it’s fine,” he said, uttering words he didn’t mean. “You... I’d been thinking myself that with prices skyrocketing like this lately, everyone must be struggling. I was just about to raise your wages anyway.”

Sawada climbed into the driver’s seat, started the sputtering engine, and the truck shook its aged frame, belching blue smoke from its tailpipe as it left the shed. “C’mon, get in,” Sawada urged Hikotarō. Hikotarō closed the truck shed door, locked it, and climbed into the passenger seat. “Got a call last night ’bout some business,” Hikotarō said. “Gotta swing by Boss Akase’s place first.”

After making a turn in front of the truck shed, the truck—painted in youthful green—began speeding along Tōjin River, its frame lurching and swaying unsteadily. When they reached the front of Akase Harukichi’s house and stopped the truck, Hikotarō got out. “The Seamen’s Children’s Home is next, right?” Sawada asked. After Hikotarō nodded, the truck departed, leaving behind a trail of blue smoke.

“Good morning,” he said as he entered through the kitchen entrance, where a plump maid peeling cucumbers laughed and remarked, “Mr.Komori, you don’t reek as much today.” “Don’t tease me,” Hikotarō laughed back.“Where’s the Boss?” Following her directions through the garden to the detached room, he found Akase Harukichi sprawled out lengthwise.A young man in Western clothes sat with his back turned before him. “Ah! Good of you to come—up here,” Akase grunted as he heaved upright. “No need—this’ll do.” Hikotarō settled on the veranda edge.Gazing at the garden pond,he asked,“You’ve stocked quite some carp.Bought them?” “Uhei from the hills brought ’em last week.Heard about edible frogs in some mountain pond,drained it clean—no frogs.Just these carp fry I’d tossed in last year,fattened up proper.We figured they’d washed downstream after that downpour,but seems they stuck around.” Akase bellowed toward the interior,“Oi!Heat that premium sake from this morning!” “Now,Komori-kun—” He gestured at the turned back.“Abe here’ll assist with sanitation affairs from now on.Treat him right.” The man turned.“Pleased to meet you.” “Likewise,” Hikotarō bowed,doubt lingering. The man’s sun-darkened face boasted a broad forehead,vigorous spirit etched between his brows.Hikotarō felt recognition flicker,but couldn’t place him. “Abe spent four,five years in Manchuria,” Akase continued.“Did well till my daughter died last year.Got homesick,came back.”Memory struck—this was his third daughter’s widower.Last spring,Hikotarō had sent token condolences when Akase traveled there. “Had a store in Shinkyo,but left it with reliable pals.Opened a branch here instead.With sanitation becoming city-designated and acquisition issues brewing—can’t have accounting stay slipshod.He’ll advise you.” Hearing Abe attended Tokyo University,Hikotarō swelled with relief.“This’s a godsend.Sincerely—your guidance’s appreciated.”He bowed deeply. Abe nodded.“I’m green as grass here—you’ll have to show me ropes.” “You’ll pick it up quick,” Hikotarō puffed his chest. Mrs.Akase entered bearing sake.“Business treating you well,Komori?”she chuckled. Laughter flowed with her ribald wit—Abe’s Manchuria struggles,Akase’s politicking,Hikotarō’s trade woes.When she quipped,“Losing house and fields over shit-work?Now that’s true shit-stupidity,”the room roared.

“Stay for lunch,” he was told, and only then did he realize it was noon. After being treated to the meal, Hikotarō left Akase’s house together with Abe.

When Abe suggested grabbing a drink to get acquainted, Hikotarō—never one to turn down alcohol he naturally loved—followed along. They hailed a taxi and arrived at the entrance of Senri, a first-class restaurant in the city. “Since I can’t go up dressed like this, let’s find some cheaper place,” Hikotarō demurred, but Abe brushed him off—“Nonsense, don’t worry about it. Come on up”—and took the lead, briskly climbing the stairs. Hikotarō removed his sandals and followed up. A fair-skinned, plump maid appeared. “My, my, Aah-san! What brings you here in the middle of the day?” “Sake? Beer?” she asked. “Just sake will do. Since we’ve already eaten, something simple is fine. And then, that—” he began, but she cut him off with a knowing look. “Yes, yes, not cheap, I know. I’ll make sure you treat me big later,” she said before leaving.

To the west of the room, Mount Sahara could be seen, white clouds flowing as if enveloping the pine forest at its summit. The sky was deeply clear, its air now fully carrying autumn’s presence. Having drunk heavily at Akase’s house, both men wore flushed faces and boomed with loud voices, raising boisterous cries of “Let’s go all out!” “Yeah—all out! All out!” Hikotarō felt thoroughly at ease with Abe, sensing a dependable promise as if boundless prospects were unfolding before him. When the sake arrived and they clinked cups vigorously, Abe declared, “Komori-kun, don’t fret over money! That bank over there’ll send tens of thousands with one telegram from me.” “That’s half bluster,” Abe continued, “but there’s truth to it. Come to me for such matters.” Startled, Hikotarō recalled needing new truck tires but deemed it too forward to ask today. “This has been most delightful—you,” he said cheerfully. Just then came a woman’s cry of “Much obliged!” as a tall geisha entered—her face slender beneath a ginkgo-leaf bun. “Oh! Aah-san!” she exclaimed, shedding formality to plop beside Abe. “What brings you here midday?” “Who cares about day or night?” Abe shrilled. “Pour! Keep pouring! Today we feast for our shit company!” Turning to Hikotarō, he added, “I’ve loved this woman eight years—no, that’s a lie!” As Abe retold his Manchurian struggles, Hikotarō gradually loosened up until he grew downright garrulous. “This job lets you learn folks’ secrets—fascinating stuff! Me? Everywhere I go—toilets! Chutes vary wildly—each with quirks! Rare when care extends to chutes...” Abe cut in: “Can’t ignore this! Peeping Tom Komori Hikotarō caught spying! You joined this trade just to peek!” “How vile,” the geisha grimaced. Hikotarō barreled on: “Last year—listen! Not peeping! Stumbled into it! Dusk—heard splashing unlike piss... Saw a hose nozzle blasting water down there!” “Stood dazed till she finished scrubbing—‘No!’ she cried—emerged from toilet... Front looked stylish—lattice door snapped ‘Good day!’ Tatami-clad geta suggested married couple... Then sliding doors opened—” He froze mid-sentence: “Mr. Abe—I’m no liar—this felt like a novel... a dream.”

“Back when I was deep into drinking and women—which cost me a fortune I never really had—I once took in a geisha and looked after her properly,” Hikotarō continued, his voice thickening with emotion. “But as my sanitation business started failing, she grew colder by the day until I finally gave up and left her.” He paused, staring at his sake cup. “And there she was—the woman who appeared before me that day.” The geisha leaned forward slightly, her shamisen forgotten on the tatami. “She let out this small gasp of surprise—must’ve recognized me too,” he said, fingers tightening around his cup. “Over ten years since we’d parted... She’d aged but still carried that same coquettish charm.” His rough laugh scraped the air like gravel. “Younger-looking than I remembered too—probably from not working nights anymore.” Abe smirked but stayed silent, swirling his drink. “When I realized she was the one I’d seen scrubbing herself earlier...” Hikotarō’s voice dropped to a raspy whisper, “something twisted in my gut.” He mimed clutching his stomach dramatically before continuing: “‘Long time,’ I croaked out like some lovesick fool.” The geisha’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. “Her hair was all mussed up,” he gestured wildly now, “kimono thrown over her underrobe like she’d dressed in a panic—obviously just rolled out of bed with some man.” His imitation of her flustered voice came out shrill and mocking: “‘Long time indeed! Need something?’” Abe snorted into his drink. “When I said I came collecting fees,” Hikotarō’s tone shifted abruptly sober, “she ducked behind the shoji so fast you’d think I carried plague.” His calloused hand sliced through air where the screen would’ve been. “Through the gap I saw this swollen futon mound—bald old bastard’s head poking out like a rotten melon.” The geisha’s lacquered nails dug into her knees. “She comes back all prim,” he sneered, miming someone placing coins delicately, “‘This should cover it.’” His hand jerked away suddenly as if burned. “Her fingers brushed mine and—” He broke off with a violent shudder that made his empty cup rattle. Outside, cicadas screamed in the afternoon heat. “Later at the candy shop,” he continued hoarsely, “the old hag told me she’s some rice merchant’s kept woman now.” His voice cracked on ‘kept.’ “Fifty-four, fifty-five years old... bald as an egg... visits every five days...” Each detail fell like a stone into sudden silence. Tears glistened at the corners of his bloodshot eyes as he ground his fists against them roughly—a man trying to erase memories through sheer physical force. “What a moving tale,” the geisha murmured after a beat, her smile not reaching her eyes as she reached for the shamisen again. “Enough with the waterworks!” Abe slammed his cup down hard enough to slosh sake across the table. “Since when do toilet stories turn into Shinpa tragedies? You’ll sober us up at this rate!” His booming laugh rang false as he refilled everyone’s cups to overflowing. “Drink! Drink till we forget our own names!” Hikotarō’s answering grin stretched too wide across his weathered face as he grabbed his refilled cup with both hands like a drowning man clutching driftwood. “Right you are! Let’s drink till dawn! Hey—” He jabbed a finger at the geisha now tuning her shamisen with trembling hands, “play us something lively! None of those weepy ballads!” As the first plucked notes of “Kishi no Yanagi” quivered through the stuffy air, Hikotarō threw back his head and sang loudest of all—a ragged baritone drowning out both instrument and Abe’s off-key tenor until his voice finally cracked into silence mid-verse, body slumped unconscious against the wall. When he awoke alone hours later, the setting sun hung red and swollen over Mount Sahara’s pines like some drunken deity peering through branches—its bloody light pooling in sticky patches across empty sake bottles and abandoned cushions.

After this event, Abe became Hikotarō’s trusted advisor. His sole asset—the truck—had deteriorated through years of use, drawing harsh criticism during every vehicle inspection. With repair funds unavailable, he had kept deferring maintenance until Abe’s goodwill intervened: replacing tires, thoroughly mending damaged sections, until the vehicle emerged sturdier than ever before. The rotting barrels leaking feces and urine were promptly replaced with sixty new ones. Through Abe’s connections, they gained lucrative new clients—shops, companies, factories—that paid substantial fees. Until then, he had scraped together daily shochu money from collections while enduring Akase’s occasional sarcasm. Now Abe deducted liquor expenses upfront, letting him drink freely without concern. Abe drafted the petition Hikotarō would submit to City Hall; following Akase’s guidance, they mimeographed dozens of copies distributed to council members and power brokers. Previously, whenever Hikotarō visited City Hall, he’d corner Public Health Chief Sugiyama with half-formed complaints that inevitably escalated into fruitless arguments. Though Akase urged drafting a formal appeal—“Those Democratic Party rats oppose us—muster public opinion!”—he balked at the effort. But affable Abe extracted operational details from Komori and strategic notes from Akase, swiftly producing the petition himself.—“Respectfully submitted: We humbly petition...” Since receiving municipal designation this year, we of the Sanitation Department have dedicated ourselves wholeheartedly to waste collection at designated sites. Yet results remain profoundly unsatisfactory. Despite repeated negotiations with city authorities fixated solely on budgetary constraints—making resolution impossible—this crisis demands immediate attention. We hereby present this appeal seeking Your Wisdoms’ profound understanding.

As you are well aware, the contracted fees for waste collectors of city-owned toilets fall under the twelfth section of regular expenditures in the City’s budget for waste disposal expenses, with an annual allocation of 600 yen and a monthly budget of 50 yen. The locations mandated for waste collection comprise six elementary schools, five public toilets, City Hall, the Employment Office (here follows a list of municipal buildings), totaling thirty-two sites. Among these, elementary schools require the greatest effort, necessitating sixty truckloads per month, while all other locations combined total thirty truckloads. Thus, ninety truckloads are required to complete all sanitation work. To itemize expenses: accounting for minor variations due to distance and other factors, each truck trip requires a minimum actual cost of 1 yen 50 sen when calculating laborer wages, driver fees, gasoline costs, and miscellaneous expenses. Therefore, ninety truckloads demand a minimum monthly expenditure of 135 yen. However, while income exists from selling collected excrement as fertilizer, the majority—from elementary schools, the Seamen’s Children’s Home, and similar facilities—proves unfit for agricultural use and must be discarded. Fewer than thirty of the ninety truckloads can be sold to rural areas. Calculating at ten sen per load—with one truck carrying twenty loads totaling two yen—thirty trucks yield sixty yen. Yet as previously stated, thirty trips at 1 yen 50 sen per trip cost forty-five yen, leaving a mere fifteen yen in actual income. For comparison, examining horse-drawn carriage waste removal fees under the same budget category reveals an annual total of 15,617 yen. Adding special expenditures from Cleanliness Law enforcement (1,420 yen for biannual cleanings) brings the sum to 17,037 yen. With nineteen carriages operational, this equals 896 yen 70 sen annually or 74 yen 72 sen monthly per carriage. When compared to waste collection fees, the monthly fifty yen allocation fails to match even one carriage’s cost. Comparing work nature reveals excrement collection’s difficulty far exceeds garbage removal. Though both constitute waste disposal, we defer to experts’ judgment regarding this vast cost disparity. That political factions manipulate such critical public health matters constitutes a grave societal ill. This is a humanitarian crisis. Preferential treatment for affiliates of a locally dominant political party—while penalizing non-affiliates—remains utterly impermissible in such matters. From social justice principles, we appeal to informed public discourse. Since receiving municipal designation, our Sanitation Department has sacrificed greatly while wholeheartedly addressing vital public health work. We have endured losses exceeding 1,000 yen but now face exhausted options. Though we previously obeyed City Hall’s demands without question, sustaining pure losses forces us henceforth to perform only work covered by the fifty-yen monthly stipend. Negligence may now cause fecal accumulation in some areas—we beg your understanding. We humbly request investigation of these realities and appropriate action.

It was a petition to this effect.

To this, Hikotarō spent the entire morning meticulously signing and stamping each one. After mailing them off, he read through the retained copy of the petition once more, nodded with a grin, and marveled at how scholarly Mr. Abe truly was. This petition unexpectedly stirred up significant repercussions across various sectors and spawned numerous complications. People with no political affiliations—starting with the elementary school principal who’d occasionally endured Hikotarō’s direct complaints and sympathized—began interrogating the city authorities’ negligence.

Opposition newspapers splashed bold headlines like “Democratic Party’s Tyranny Ignores Humanity” in sensational coverage. The Public Health Director himself came from police headquarters to investigate. Given the gravity of the issue, criticism surged against the city authorities—subservient and powerless under single-party dominance—like rising public outcry. The Democratic Party hastily convened an executive meeting. Four days after receiving the petition, the city called an emergency council session. The agenda included raising contract fees for waste collectors. After Public Health Section Chief Sugiyama’s explanation, deliberations began. Neither Tomoda Kizō nor Akase Harukichi attended. Some argued this was political manipulation—“We needn’t dance to opposition schemes; no raise required”—but ultimately couldn’t sustain absolute resistance given the sanitation crisis. The Public Health Section’s attached investigative report made clear the dire reality: feces piled up in elementary schools and municipal buildings—an intolerable situation. A motion to revoke the Sanitation Department’s designation emerged but failed—the annual contract had no breach, and any replacement would face identical issues, despite Democratic committee support. After heated debate, they provisionally set next year’s budget at 1,560 yen annually using reserve funds. 130 yen monthly. City officials proposed backpay to the designation month to avoid contractor losses, but Democratic committee members—already fuming over approving the base amount—unanimously opposed this. Payments would start this month. The session closed. Next day, Hikotarō received summons to City Hall where Section Chief Sugiyama delivered the verdict. After Hikotarō stamped the documents, Sugiyama peered through Lloyd glasses with bleary eyes, blowing cigarette rings: “This was grueling, but yesterday’s committee settled this arrangement. You might still object, but hold firm till next budget council. I’ve no intent to wrong you—getting here cost me dearly.” “Thank you kindly—what’s to object? This’ll tide us over fine.” Hikotarō beamed, gratitude overflowing as he bowed repeatedly. “But Komori-kun,” Sugiyama pressed, “I must clarify this City Hall puppetmaster nonsense! For our honorable institution’s sake—” His voice rose—“The City acts solely for citizen welfare and development! No partisan agendas! Understand this clearly—correct your misunderstanding!” “Understood! Many thanks!” Clutching documents, Hikotarō reached the glass exit when—“Ah! Komori-kun! Wait!”—Sugiyama’s flustered cry stopped him. Turning back, he found Sugiyama squinting harder: “You grasped my meaning?” Hikotarō nodded vigorously: “Absolutely!” The bureaucrat added timidly: “Keep this between us—best not broadcast it.”

Though he hadn’t fully grasped the meaning, Hikotarō answered, “Very well,” and when pressed again with “You’re certain?” he declared, “I’m a man of my word—once I agree, I’ll say nothing,” all while wondering why such a trivial matter warranted such insistent secrecy. On his way back, he stopped by Abe’s house and showed him the new contract from City Hall, whereupon Abe shook with belly laughter as if everything had unfolded exactly to his design. “No—a grand success! A grand success! I never imagined it would go this smoothly! Getting 130 yen monthly should keep us comfortable for now. I did write ‘actual monthly expenses: 130 yen’ there, but it seems those fools never unraveled the numbers game in the petition. City Hall staff live walled in by numbers and statistics year-round—they’ve grown numb to real numerical magic! And those council members? They never knew a damn thing about figures to begin with! Delightful! Simply delightful! Let’s raise a toast!” Abe declared in high spirits, slapping his broad forehead. Hikotarō naturally shared this elation, convinced everything would now proceed smoothly, his mood brightening with hope for the future.

One morning, Hikotarō came to the corner Shoshikiya shop, bought canned crab as a snack for drinking, and was having the lid opened when someone behind him called out, “Komori-kun.” When he turned around, a man in Western clothes wearing a bird-catcher hat stood twirling his cane nimbly. At first, he couldn’t quite place who it was, but finally recalling that the man was a Democratic Party newspaper reporter, he stepped outside. The man then said, “I’d like a moment of your time,” and began walking. Hikotarō followed along until they came to a stop beneath a willow tree on the bank of Tōjin River, where the man turned to face him. Thinking he had a crafty look, Hikotarō asked, "Do you have business?" “Let’s get straight to it,” said the newspaper reporter, twisting his beardless chin. “I want you to tell me who wrote that petition you submitted earlier.” "I answered without hesitation, 'The manager and I wrote it,' but immediately afterward wondered if I should have said that." “Manager?” With a look of uncomprehending skepticism, he pressed further: “Who exactly is this ‘manager’?” “It’s Mr. Abe, I tell you,” he answered. “Abe?” “Abe?” “Abe?” he repeated, feigning forgetfulness before adopting an air of sudden realization. “Ah—Abe Ushinosuke from Western Transport, yes? That’s the one?” When Hikotarō confirmed, the reporter frowned skeptically. “So that Abe is your Sanitation Department manager?” He paused, tapping his chin. “Wait—wasn’t he Akase Harukichi’s son-in-law? Ah, I see now.” Nodding repeatedly to himself, he fixed Hikotarō with a piercing stare. “Komori-kun—you’re not laboring under some fundamental misunderstanding here, are you?” “What’re you on about?” “You needn’t ask what—the answer should be clear if you search your heart. You’re a dyed-in-the-wool Democratic Party man in this village—ought to be deeply indebted to Mr. Tomoda and others. To switch sides now and start kowtowing to Akase—doesn’t that cross the line of basic decency?” The newspaper reporter waited for Hikotarō’s response, having delivered his rapid-fire remarks. True, I was part of the Democratic Party before—my old man was, so I followed suit. Come election time, I worked my ass off for them, did everything I could. Hell, I was practically a political fanatic back then—poured my own money into the party too. But when I started this business fourteen, fifteen years ago? Not a single soul from the Democrats lifted a finger to help. All sweet talk, zero action. I had to protect this business on my own. And when I kept failing after that? Not one of them checked in on me. Still, come elections, I’d bust my balls for the party—even when my truck got repossessed over and over, none of those Democrats would lend me a damn yen! This past May’s election? Mr. Tomoda himself asked me to buy up village votes and fishing union ballots. I walked a tightrope doing that dirty work—canvassing, bribing. In town, they treat me like trash, but back in the countryside? They still call me ‘Mr. Komori’ with some respect. Got hauled in by cops plenty of times for questioning—talked my way out every time. Did some real risky stunts for Mr. Tomoda too—almost ended up behind bars! Then right after the election? My truck got seized again over debts to the mutual loan company. Went begging to Mr. Tomoda five, six times—got nothing but cold shoulders. Finally got kicked out his front door! I was lost—on my way back, stopped by Mr. Akase’s place. Asked about my lapsed insurance, paperwork to reinstate it… mentioned the truck offhand. Mr. Akase wasn’t home, but his wife took pity—loaned me cash outta nowhere! They’ve helped me ever since—Mr. Akase’s a godsend for my business! Truth is, in this town? Seiyūkai, Democrats—nobody knows squat about their policies! People join parties ’cause it benefits their lives or businesses! Me? I don’t know what Seiyūkai stands for—or the Democrats either! Bet half the city councilors don’t either!

“But for me, this business is my life! I’d be grateful if political parties helped it, but I’m done with them—to hell with parties and all that nonsense!” Hikotarō gradually grew more excited, his posture turning confrontational. The newspaper reporter, who had been listening with an ironic expression, tossed out his words: “Fine, understood—I’ll go back and tell Mr. Tomoda exactly what you said.” Hearing this, Hikotarō abruptly snapped back to his senses. “No—I didn’t say that to Mr. Tomoda! You—” he blurted in a suddenly pleading tone, then muttered indecisively, “It’s not something you need to tell Mr. Tomoda, is it?” “No—that’s quite alright. I’ll go back and tell Mr. Tomoda you said, ‘To hell with him!’” With that, the reporter—as if he’d sized up his mark—put on airs and made to leave with deliberate theatrics. Hikotarō clung desperately. “There’s no need to take it so seriously—wait a moment!” Even as he spoke, he imagined Tomoda’s wrath—certain violence would follow—and saw vividly in his mind: a dozen underlings storming his truck shed, obliterating both vehicle and shack. In flustered panic, he pulled out a single 10-yen bill from his pocket and shoved it into the man’s hand. Then he bowed repeatedly, humiliation endured for business survival. “Please keep this confidential.” The reporter snorted through his nose, licked his lower lip with a flick, and—matters settled—casually produced a purse for the bill. “My apologies for the intrusion. Rest assured, I’ll say nothing to Mr. Tomoda,” he declared, twisting his chin before striding off. Relief washed over Hikotarō—crisis averted—yet simultaneously, he pitied his own aimless actions. But he resolved: No matter how humiliating, how disgraceful—even forehead pressed to dirt—it meant nothing if he kept 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 truck’s frame and opened his lunchbox. Stuffing his mouth with rice—his usually sharp features growing even more pronounced as he chewed—he said, “Mr. Komori, today at the public hall I met Old Man Kaita from Yabashi Village. Looked like some meeting was happening there. When I stopped the truck, he must’ve heard the noise—came out and told me to tell you: ‘We absolutely won’t tolerate dumping feces and urine at Tōjin River’s mouth anymore.’ Acted all high and mighty about it.” The feces and urine collected until then had been processed in three ways. The first was selling it as fertilizer to farming villages around the city. There was substantial demand from a wide range of rural areas, particularly from the city-owned reclaimed land near Mount Sahara’s summit—recently developed wasteland—which had become a reliable client. Until then, many farmers had personally hauled oxcarts into town to collect waste themselves, but recently buying fertilizer trucked in by the Sanitation Department had become both more convenient and cheaper, making most regular clients of the Department. The second method involved loading it onto specially designed waste vessels to transport and sell across the sea to regions on the opposite shore. There was only one such vessel; once fully loaded and departed, selling its contents took three or four days before returning, often failing to cover expenses. This ship—originally a water supply vessel rented from its owner after aging out of service—had grown increasingly unprofitable due to rising fertilizer prices and opposing coastal regions adopting self-sufficient methods; lately they more often rowed it out to dump waste into Genkai Nada. However, with a cunning old boatman aboard, they frequently didn’t row far enough out, dumping waste halfway instead—or in extreme cases mooring at shore, pulling the plug overnight to drain it out, then excusing themselves when confronted: “The plug must’ve loosened on its own—we didn’t notice a thing.” In any case, they’d only kept using this method out of prior necessity—hauling barrels to shore and loading them onto ships—a supremely inconvenient process given limited capacity. The third method was digging storage pits at Tōjin River’s mouth and other locations. They’d dug numerous cement-reinforced pits in rural areas and near Mount Sahara’s summit to store feces. However, rural pits held only fertilizer-grade waste—material from elementary schools and other non-fertilizer sources went onto ships or into pits at Tōjin River’s mouth and Sasakura Mountain. But since Sasakura Mountain’s valley lay quite distant, they mainly used Tōjin River’s mouth. This too operated under city approval—when designating the Sanitation Department, authorities had planned to build a municipal disposal site with purification systems at Sasakura Mountain’s base—yet it remained unrealized. The budget had already been allocated; construction was expected imminently. The Tōjin River site sat precisely on garbage collectors’ district outskirts—a flashpoint even before these disputes—but with no alternatives and purification facilities supposedly forthcoming, things stayed unchanged pending construction. There’d been countless requests from Donogoo-Tonka to stop dumping—they claimed compliance yet still used Tōjin River’s mouth almost exclusively for convenience. But now Sawada’s rice-muffled report of Old Man Kaita’s grandstanding carried new tension amid the recent petition turmoil.

Hikotarō could vividly picture Old Man Kaita’s imperious manner that Sawada had described and thought he needed to stay vigilant. Around three o’clock, he borrowed a bicycle from the corner Shoshikiya shop and began ascending the mountain, pushing it up the steepest slopes. Though autumn winds stirred the sweet potato leaves, the sun scorched his back until sweat poured down. Figs gaped their crimson mouths wide while clusters of green persimmons glowed like jade orbs. As he labored up the sweat-drenched slope, a woman descended toward him with firewood strapped to her back. He didn’t recognize her until they nearly passed—then a voice called out: “Mr. Komori?” Startled, he looked up to see the woman’s large eyes darting beneath her load. “Sweltering day! Business must be booming,” she said. It was Uhei’s wife. Hikotarō stared—the mad intensity she’d shown by the mountain pond was gone, replaced by a warm smile. Realizing the fox spirit must have departed, he asked, “You’re better now?” “Oh!” She suddenly lowered her gaze, cheeks flushing. “Thank you for your help then… Too ashamed to face anyone.” Her laugh held self-conscious restraint. “My husband’s up top sowing daikon seeds—head to the upper field.” She hurried downhill. Watching her figure retreat beneath the firewood bundle—she seemed painfully thin—he recalled his own wife and child left behind years ago. Though he’d burdened them greatly, Hikotarō’s chest swelled imagining their imminent reunion when final victory came. “Almost there… Ah, almost,” he muttered to the empty air, pushing his bicycle upward through drenched clothes. Today’s purpose was meeting Uhei to discuss fertilizer needs for the city-owned reclaimed land’s agricultural cooperative. Reaching the summit path at last, he found Uhei vigorously tilling ridges in an upper field. Hikotarō called up; Uhei waved, shouldered his hoe, and bounded downslope. “Autumn my ass! Year’s gone mild-crazy—hot! Hot!” Complaining nonstop, he ducked into a hut’s shade. Hikotarō parked his bicycle inside and drew the hatchet-shaped pipe from his waist. Gnawing his pencil tip, he recorded the fertilizer quantities Uhei specified. Mentioning Sawada’s report made Uhei erupt as if personally slighted: “That senile Kaita yapping? City-approved work! Tell him bitch to me—I’ll settle it!” He glared toward Yabashi Village. “Thanks,” Hikotarō said, appreciating the man’s fiery loyalty. He knew Uhei’s bluster rarely helped, yet found comfort in this wholehearted indignation.

“You’re sweating buckets! Why not stop by Ōgitani Hot Springs on your way back? They’ve cleaned up the baths real nice lately—and word is they’ve got some proper beauties working there now,” Uhei said, chuckling through his words. “Ah, not half bad,” Hikotarō answered. “Been buried in work lately—no time for a decent soak. No pressing business today... Might just take that dip.” He wiped his brow before adding, “But those ‘beauties’? Couldn’t care less.” Uhei jabbed his shoulder with a knuckle and guffawed: “The hell you couldn’t! Weren’t you quite the lady-killer back when?” Hikotarō smirked, tobacco-stained teeth flashing. “Ancient history! Shit work’s drained all that juice.” Their eyes met and they roared with laughter like two old mules recognizing their shared yoke. Uhei pressed on, grin widening: “Still—that hot spring girl’s a real stunner they say. Watch yourself, Hiko-san!” To which Hikotarō shot back through wheezing laughs: “You’re one to talk!” He swung onto his bicycle, calling over his shoulder: “Fertilizer’ll reach you day after tomorrow—count on it!” Then he was off, tires spitting ochre dust down the mountain road. Cool air whipped his cheeks as he rode. Ten minutes later, the coastal highway appeared—Ōgitani’s garish signpost looming over crashing waves.

He soaked his body in the bathtub and closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, he felt thoroughly relaxed and deeply enraptured. In a cramped bathtub barely four tatami mats wide, since no one else was present, he stretched and flexed his arms, bellowed out chants, and recited passages from "Sankatsu Hanshichi Sake Shop's Tale." Through the waist-high window there was a sweet potato field, and seeing the large leaves swaying, he wondered what fertilizer they used around here. He reminisced about recent events and found himself generally content. He scrubbed his arms vigorously with a hand towel and washed his neck. He dunked his face under water to sink down, then immediately bobbed up spluttering. Remembering how Uhei had once stayed submerged for ages in that mountain pond, he thought in amazement: That guy's like some river demon—how does he stay underwater so long? He pinched his nose again took a deep breath and tried sinking down. He quickly grew short of breath and surfaced gasping. Convinced it was hopeless he gave up and looked out at the sky through the window keeping only his head above water. Though climbing that sweaty mountain path had still felt like summer now through the window the sky stretched deep and blue—autumn had truly arrived. As he gazed rapturously at the sky there came a clatter from the side hatch opening. When he turned Hikotarō started. A beautiful woman's face had appeared through the hatch smiling brightly. Maintaining her smile she asked “Shall I prepare something for you?” “Can you really do anything?” Hikotarō asked heart pounding at his own audacity voice catching hoarsely as he spoke only with his head exposed not wanting to show his grimy body. “I can do anything” the woman answered simply awaiting his response. “Prepare some side dishes and keep my sake cup filled” Hikotarō said staring intently at her face. “Understood I’ve laid out a yukata there” she replied before withdrawing as the hatch clicked softly shut.

Hikotarō suddenly sighed, thinking that must be the woman Uhei had talked about. "Indeed," he thought—the former libertine recalled his heyday—"there might be men willing to go through some trouble for her." Remembering a woman he'd encountered once over a decade ago, he sighed repeatedly. He meticulously scrubbed his face, changed into a yukata, and when he opened the hatch, there was a staircase right in front, so he climbed up. When he reached the top, a deep blue sea suddenly spread out before his eyes, and a salty wind rushed straight at his flushed face. The room was a compact four-and-a-half tatami mat space with a tokonoma alcove; atop the dining tray, food and drink had already been arranged. When Hikotarō entered the room, the woman from earlier came close on his heels, her lightly powdered figure appearing ethereally beautiful. As Hikotarō sat down, she picked up the sake bottle and held out a cup with her left hand. "Please," she said. He took the cup and downed it in one gulp. To Hikotarō’s throat—accustomed to shochu—the sake initially felt watery and unsatisfying; in any case, he thought it wasn’t particularly good. He drained cup after cup so rapidly that she looked puzzled. At first it was like water, but once he started drinking more steadily, flavors emerged—getting rapidly drunk was Hikotarō’s habit. Hikotarō—timid as a boy—regained vigor through sake and gradually returned to his usual self. Having recovered his energy, he asked about various bathhouse matters until relaxed enough to crack jokes. Her single eyelids—seeming to brim with emotion—were most beautiful. Her thin eyebrows arched sharply like ink strokes. The way she slightly tucked her chin when speaking reminded him faintly of Teruha; as intoxication deepened, Hikotarō found himself helpless against rising disquiet. Perhaps that blissful feeling from soaking had drawn out an unprecedented ease of mind. "Oh! They're hauling in bream nets!" she exclaimed by the window facing seaward. Evening wind carried white face powder’s scent sharply into his nostrils. From her wind-lifted hem peeked something red. By now Hikotarō could no more escape wicked thoughts than if possessed by a heavenly demon.

The woman said, “Oh, there’s no sake bottle,” and went out. Before he knew it, he had downed over ten bottles of sake in rapid succession. While trying to drive away the persistent memories of Teruha that kept resurfacing, the resemblance of her receding chin provoked and agitated his emotions. At some point, the memory of a woman’s body he’d glimpsed through a toilet’s waste port one twilight hour flickered before his eyes, and Hikotarō, already thoroughly drunk, lay in wait like a beast awaiting bait. He closed the shoji window facing the sea. Before long, footsteps were heard on the stairs, and the woman entered carrying a sake bottle. “Oh, closing the shoji when it’s so hot,” she started toward the window, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her back. “It’s fine—you sit down.” “Oh, the sake will spill,” the woman exclaimed, grabbing the sake bottle, but allowed herself to be pulled down to sit beside Hikotarō. The warmth of the woman’s body spread from where it had collided with Hikotarō’s shoulder, seeping deeply through his entire being. Losing all restraint, Hikotarō suddenly wrapped both hands around her shoulders. As if propelled by a spring, he was sent flying backward, and Hikotarō landed on his backside with a thud. As the enraged Hikotarō rose to approach again, the woman stood up straight and said, “You’re Mr. Komori from the Sanitation Company, aren’t you? You should stop this joking around,” adjusting her collar while pulling in her chin and smiling alluringly. Astonished, Hikotarō remained prostrate, bewildered by the strange turmoil, and began staring holes into the woman who had called his name. As he stared, he suddenly let out a startled scream, his face instantly turned pale, and in an instant, his drunkenness completely faded as he began trembling violently. What a fool I was. He had once heard from someone that Boss Akase was keeping a woman at some hot spring; the wife herself had asked him if he’d heard anything about her husband having a mistress lately. He’d assumed it must be at a distant resort—Boss Akase traveled often, after all—never imagining it could be nearby. Ah, this was the woman—this woman! The moment he realized it, Hikotarō stood frozen as if sentenced to death. Suddenly, he raised his resolute eyes; when he stared at Osei, he firmly placed both hands there. “Ah, I was entirely in the wrong—please keep this matter secret from Boss Akase. Due to my poor drinking habits, I committed an outrageous blunder. Please, I beg of you—grant me your forgiveness.” Having said that, he bowed his head repeatedly and deeply. Osei, who had been standing, also sat down there. “Well, just be careful from now on,” she replied resignedly.

“Please—I beg you—don’t tell the Boss,” he repeated the same plea over and over, then pulled out three ten-yen bills from his wallet and placed them on the dining tray. He stood up and left with slumped shoulders. From halfway down the stairs, he turned back once more, emphasized, “Please—without fail—keep this secret,” and then descended.

He took off his yukata and changed into work clothes, then headed out to the beach at dusk by bicycle, but feeling uneasy, turned back again. When he couldn’t see Osei anywhere and was searching around, he heard the sound of a phone call. Startled, he crept closer and strained his ears—but she wasn’t calling Mr. Akase. She was placing an order at the local liquor store. As Osei hung up and approached, Hikotarō began, “I’m truly sorry about earlier—I didn’t know anything, so I acted rudely—this is the plea of a lifetime, please keep it secret from the Boss—” but she cut him off: “You’re being tedious. I understood the first time. The Boss has told me about you before anyway. If I told him this, your work would be ruined in an instant—I wouldn’t do something so cruel.” With that, Osei walked toward the kitchen. After she disappeared from view, Hikotarō, grateful for her kindness, said “Thank you very much,” and bowed deeply toward the kitchen. Then, dejectedly turning around, he mounted his bicycle and set off down the twilight road toward home.

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 doorframe and was sipping slowly at the remaining shochu when a woman’s voice called, “Mr. Komori!” When he stepped outside into the dimming twilight of dusk, the proprietress of the corner Shoshikiya was standing there and shouted, “There’s a phone call for you!” “Oh, thank you,” he answered and ran off. When he picked up the receiver: “Ah, Komori-kun?” Abe’s familiar voice came through: “Are you busy? What are you up to? I’ve sent a car—get in and come over.” Just as he tried to respond, the call disconnected. Just as he was wondering what this could be about and about to step back over the shop’s threshold, the telephone bell rang piercingly again. When Hikotarō picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear: “Komori-kun?” Abe’s voice came again. “I forgot to mention—don’t forget to bring your registered seal when you come.” With that, the call disconnected once more.

Thinking it was strange, he returned to the truck shed where a taxi waited. “You must be Mr. Komori?” asked the driver. Though still confused, he slipped the registered seal into his pocket and boarded the car. Assuming they were headed to Abe’s house, he grew more perplexed as they veered off course until the car halted before Senri—the upscale restaurant he’d once visited. Guided inside, he entered a familiar room where Abe sat crimson-faced at the head, cross-legged between the same woman from before and a serving maid. “There you are! Been waiting!” Abe slurred, then barked at the women: “Keep that sake flowing!” Snatching his cup, he thrust it before Hikotarō’s eyes. “Now—let’s do this proper!” He grabbed the sake bottle himself and poured until liquid gurgled at the brim. Never one to refuse a challenge, Hikotarō smirked and drained the cup in three loud gulps. “Bravo! Bravo!” Abe waved his fan like a ceremonial scepter lacking Nihongō’s legendary spear until his eyes lit up. “Ah! Here’s your prize!” He seized the geisha’s shoulders. “Lord Komori here fancies women—though compared to Teruha, this one’s scraps!” His cackle rattled the screens. The moment “womanizer” left Abe’s lips, Hikotarō stiffened. Had Abe learned about that humiliating incident at Senrigatake Hot Springs? But seeing no hidden malice, relief washed over him. “You’re joking,” Hikotarō forced a laugh, shoving his empty cup at Abe. “Another round!” Abe reclaimed the cup, making the woman pour—but raised it after barely a third full. Cups circulated haphazardly until drunkenness blurred Hikotarō’s vision. Eventually Abe slapped his thigh— “Ah! Nearly forgot!”—and barked at the women: “Out! We need privacy.”

“What?” “A private talk?” The geisha looked displeased as she ushered the maid out. “Komori-kun,” Abe began, his earlier drunkenness gone as he spoke in a sober tone, lowering his voice. “Did you bring your registered seal?” “Yes, right here,” Hikotarō answered. Abe continued: “To be frank—the timeline has grown urgent for municipal control of the waste disposal operations we’ve been grappling with since last year. With public opinion boiling over after that petition business, city authorities now have no choice but to bring this under municipal regulation. Once that happens, acquisition becomes inevitable. Now comes our matter—we must solidify those rights definitively before acquisition proceeds. To that end, Sanitation Company needs to formally establish these rights through proper channels. After thorough consideration of past developments and financial relationships—extensive research—we’ve prepared this notarized document here.” With that, Abe withdrew a thick sheaf of documents from his breast pocket. As Hikotarō listened, his heart pounded wildly. “I’m truly grateful for your help—these legal matters are beyond me,” he said, pulling out a black leather pouch and pushing it toward Abe. Abe took it and began stamping page after page with his seal. Hikotarō felt tears well up uncontrollably as he realized his lifelong ambition was finally nearing fulfillment—a sharp tingle rising in his nose. He watched Abe’s sturdy hands stamping seals with boundless gratitude. When finished stamping, Abe carelessly shoved the documents back. “You should look through them to avoid future complications,” Abe said. Hikotarō flipped through pages but only recognized names—Akase’s and Abe’s alongside his own—amidst incomprehensible legal jargon. “I don’t understand,” he said deferentially. Abe resumed calmly: “Let me summarize—this notarized document determines rights distribution upon municipal acquisition: Akase Harukichi fifty percent, Abe Ushinosuke twenty-five percent, Komori Hikotarō twenty-five percent.” “Wait—” Hikotarō interjected frantically. “What do these percentages mean?” “The rights ratio—whatever amount they pay for acquisition will be split accordingly.” “So if rights were ten parts,” Hikotarō pressed urgently, “Boss Akase gets five? You get two and a half? And I... two and a half?” “Exactly,” Abe replied coolly. Hikotarō’s drunkenness evaporated as comprehension dawned—his face paling, knees trembling violently. Noticing this, Abe softened his tone: “You seem unconvinced—I understand your perspective as founder and nominal owner expecting majority rights—that seems fair superficially.” He leaned forward. “But consider: Yes, this was your enterprise initially—until you mortgaged your truck during financial trouble! Without Mr. Akase’s bailout then—your business would’ve died! You kept begging him for investments afterward! Even municipal designation came through his influence! My own investments have been substantial too! Legally and practically—this ratio stands firm! It’s no exaggeration to call this Mr. Akase’s enterprise now!” His quiet voice pressed down like an iron weight.

As he listened, Hikotarō fell into a trance-like state, his body feeling as though it were floating in midair. "You seem dissatisfied, but do consider this carefully," Abe continued. "I’ve merely made a reasonable proposal based on legitimate grounds—not some scheme to snatch away your business rights from the sidelines. But I can’t kill you, nor can I fight you. If you object, you may defer your decision—so think it over thoroughly. Now—enough of this talk! Let’s drink anew. How about regaling me with one of your vivid bawdy tales?" His tone suddenly turned boisterous as he tucked the documents into his breast pocket and clapped his hands.

From afar came a woman’s voice: “Coming!” Large teardrops streamed from Hikotarō’s eyes. He appeared utterly devoid of the energy to wipe them away. “Thank you for all your assistance. I’ll give my answer in time—I must take my leave now.” Having said that, he stood up but staggered unsteadily.

A woman entered and said, "It's time to leave," but he simply descended the stairs with faltering steps and went out into the nighttime town.

As he staggered through the town with unsteady steps, someone suddenly tapped his shoulder from behind. When he turned around in alarm, a blast of breath reeking of overripe persimmons hit him, and a man—exclaiming "Ah, President of the Sanitation Company! How fares thee?"—collided into him as though lunging. It was Public Health Section Chief Mr. Sugiyama. Too drunk to form coherent words, clinging to Hikotarō's arm rather than grasping it, he squinted his bleary eyes and declared, "Tonight we drink like emperors!" then dragged Hikotarō bodily into an alley toward the theater district, tumbling into Yajirōbē oden shop. Half-dragged along, Hikotarō—who had been numb since earlier—began feeling resigned, deciding he wanted to drink himself into oblivion tonight. "Women! More sake!" Mr. Sugiyama bellowed, his loosened tie dangling as he collapsed onto the floor. "Life's got its liquor, eh? C'mon, President!" He shoved a tin cup forward. Hikotarō felt surreal disbelief—*Was this the same man who glared sternly at city hall?*—as Mr. Sugiyama blinked rapidly behind his glasses and slurred, "Komori-kun, don't resent me for always being harsh... This job... political parties... damn pests! City officials shouldn't... cower before parties! But everyone fears dismissal... Not me anymore! Even now... they say my petition methods were wrong... demand my removal!" "Don't mock me! Ah, Komori-kun—shake hands! The people... only the people are pure!" Mr. Sugiyama suddenly wailed, tears cascading down his face. As his fading drunkenness surged back, Hikotarō pounded Mr. Sugiyama's shoulder like a brother. "Chief... I understand... truly understand!" he nodded fervently—though understanding nothing—and shook the man's hand violently. "Let's toast! We'll purge the people's enemies... world's gone mad!" Mr. Sugiyama shrieked before dissolving into sobs. Hikotarō grew agitated too; though unclear what "people's enemies" meant, he felt camaraderie as recent events flashed through his mind like a magic lantern show. As they drank while embracing, someone abruptly tapped their shoulders. Mr. Sugiyama remained obliviously drunk, muttering as he drank, but when Hikotarō looked up, he faced Amano Kyūtarō—simian-faced and equally plastered. Kyūtarō's eyes darted wildly as he convulsed, struggling to articulate: "M-M-Mr... Komori... s-s-sorry... I-I-I... was d-d-duped too!" His stutter worsened with each spasm, tears pooling in his eyes. When Hikotarō stared dumbfounded, the stuttering man's meaning emerged: Tomoda had bribed Amano to sabotage the waste collectors' union by promising truck funds—a blatant deception. The three weeping oddballs continued their endless revelry—arms linked, backs slapped, cups exchanged—utterly oblivious to other patrons pointing and laughing at this farcical spectacle.

Autumn winds had fully set in, the sunlight softened, the evening cicadas fallen silent, nights now clamorous only with countless insects. Boundlessly obsessed with his business, Hikotarō sat like an empty husk in the speeding truck’s driver seat. Sawada pursed his lips and spoke consolingly, but with Hikotarō responding only in vague “yeahs” and “nahs,” he gripped the steering wheel awkwardly. The notarized document Abe had presented the previous night wasn’t final—Hikotarō had been told revisions were possible—yet it bore stamped seals already, submitted unbeknownst to him to the notary office. Hikotarō knew no way to protest and seemed to have lost even the will to try.

Akase Harukichi looked at the notarized document Abe had prepared and remarked that allocating fifty percent under his own name seemed rather excessive. But when Abe began explaining with his first-rate eloquence, Akase irritably fell silent and left, saying his wife had the seal. Mrs. Akase was deeply displeased with Abe’s arrangement—*Wasn’t this going too far?* she protested—for even if Komori had later struggled financially to the brink of collapse, this was originally the business he had started, a lifelong enterprise he had clung to after losing everything: his house, his land, his fields and paddies, sacrificing his entire existence. However much money *they* had provided, granting the original founder Komori a mere twenty-five percent was unconscionable; he deserved at least half the rights. If things stood like this, *her* own gesture—having pitied him when his truck was mortgaged and lent him that small sum—would be rendered meaningless. *Don’t you think it’s too much?* she said repeatedly—to Akase himself, and especially to Abe every time she saw his face. Abe initially tried various excuses and explanations, but no matter how persistently he argued until he was blue in the face, the wife remained unconvinced, repeating only "Isn’t this going too far?" until finally his patience wore thin. Lately, he had rarely visited the Akase household. In the end, Abe’s plan became legally binding. He had spent his entire life on this business, battling every hardship, enduring insults and subjecting himself to persecution solely out of his obsession with the enterprise. But now, caught in the midst of recent events, he could no longer make sense of anything—only a vast loneliness crept steadily into his heart. He felt an emptiness of heart, having forgotten both sorrow and joy. He had felt he'd gained an ally in Section Chief Sugiyama from city hall—the man who'd patted his shoulder while drinking together one evening, both declaring themselves companions. But when he went to city hall the next day and said, "Mr. Sugiyama, my apologies for last night," the section chief squinted his eyes with a puzzled look and retorted, "What?" showing no recollection whatsoever before resuming his usual harsh, grating manner. Disappointed, he left city hall dejectedly. As he was jostled by the truck, Hikotarō chewed on his hatchet-shaped bean pipe and stared into the depths of autumn. In the truck’s cargo bed rode a single laborer. The twenty-load barrels collided, sloshing noisily. With a screech, the truck came to a sudden stop, and he nearly struck his forehead against the front board. The truck had come to a stop at the edge of the earthen bridge by Tōjin River’s mouth. Sawada gave a "heave-ho" shout and jumped down. Komori also thrust his hatchet-shaped bean pipe into his waistband and climbed down after him. They had come to dump feces and urine into the pit at the mouth of Tōjin River. Reluctantly, Ri Seigaku twisted his long beard as he sluggishly climbed down from the truck bed and removed its 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 a four-load handcart, Ri Seigaku pulled, and Komori pushed from behind. However, an unexpected event occurred.

When the two of them pushed the handcart to the feces pit, they found seven or eight men in happi coats standing beside it. A short, dark-skinned man among them rushed forward and blocked Ri Seigaku’s path with an imposing demeanor. When Ri Seigaku asked in surprise, “What’s happening? Please explain,” the short man—with a booming voice incongruous for his stature—bellowed, “Shut your trap! You lot scram! We ain’t lettin’ you dump shit here no more from today!” He grabbed the handcart’s grip and began shoving it back with forceful thrusts. The men at the edge of the feces pit also raised a raucous clamor, rising to their feet as they made moves to attack. The happi-coated men seemed to be burying the feces and urine pit with shovels. Komori moved from behind the handcart to the front and asked timidly, “What’s going on here, you?” “What’s ‘what’s going on’? Ain’t ya got ears, you damn fool?” barked the short, bearded man from earlier, his shoulders squared aggressively. Hikotarō softened his voice and asked timidly, in a defensive stance, “This feces pit here is being used with the city hall’s approval. The city’s purification system will be completed soon, and we’re just using it until then. Why are you all interfering?” “What kinda reason or shit you talkin’ ’bout? Quit yer smart talk!” he barked, already in a fighting stance as he menacingly raised his shovel. Frightened, Ri Seigaku and Sawada began to back away. When Hikotarō suddenly looked toward the earthen bridge at the mouth of Tōjin River, he saw Old Man Kaita standing at the bridge’s edge, with a boy crouching primly beside him. He thought it was a child he had seen before, but he immediately realized it was the boy who had scribbled on the truck and run away. While he remained under the impression that they had comprehended the full circumstances, the emboldened happi-coated men—led by their tallest member standing at the pit’s edge—thrust a shovel into the soil, then shouted “Take this!” and suddenly flung a clod of earth upward. The soil rose into the midheaven like black snow and came pattering down onto Hikotarō’s head. A stone flew onto his hat and knocked up the brim. As sand particles scattered across his face, Hikotarō lowered his head and shut his eyes. When one man did this, the other happi-coated men also began kicking up dirt and flinging mud pellets in the same manner. Beneath the blizzard of assailing dirt, Hikotarō—trembling violently as rage welled up within him—crouched to evade the clods of earth. But when a large stone thudded against his shoulder, he suddenly straightened his body, thrust out his chest, and stood resolutely before his enemies. His face swiftly flushed crimson with violent rage, trembling as if convulsing, and he screamed as though his throat would tear, “You bastards—what do you think you’re doing?!” He suddenly thrust with all his might at the barrels loaded on the handcart. The barrel tumbled off the handcart. From the fallen barrel came a thick, sloshing noise as yellow liquid splattered out, and feces and urine began pouring from its mouth.

As soon as Hikotarō yanked out the long feces ladle propped beside the handcart, he charged into the dumbfounded men, swinging it wildly while roaring "You bastards! You bastards!" over and over. Overwhelmed by this ferocity, the happi-coated men raised panicked cries and scattered in both directions. Ri Seigaku and Sawada could only stare blankly at Hikotarō’s unanticipated behavior. Hikotarō reached the feces pit’s edge—half-filled yet still brimming—plunged the long ladle inside, screamed "Take this!", scooped up its contents, and flung them at the happi-coated men with a violent splash. With a collective roar, the men shouted as the previously drenched short man tried fleeing only to trip backward. "You bastards! You bastards!" Hikotarō kept shouting like a madman, repeatedly plunging the ladle into the pit to scatter feces. The happi-coated men broke ranks and fled in disarray. Feces spraying from the ladle both repelled enemies and rained down on Hikotarō’s head. Even while smearing his own body, undeterred, Hikotarō felt surging triumph strike him—possessed-like—and began screaming through lips drenched in waste. "You bastards! You bastards! I won’t lose! Never lose again! Nothing scares me now—anyone at all! Why was I such a sniveling coward? Come at me! All of you come!" His chest swelled with newfound confidence in this strength he’d just discovered. "Come all at once! I won’t lose! You pack of fools who ganged up on me—no coward now! No idiot! Me an idiot? Chōkumei no Nagasuke of endless life! Chōkumei no Nagasuke! Come then! Think I’ll lose?!" With terrifying fury contorting his face, Hikotarō stood imposingly beneath the fecal downpour—his magnificent screams transforming him into a golden demon. At that moment, the setting sun dipping behind Sarayama’s pines cast crimson sidelight, making Hikotarō’s rigid figure blaze radiantly.