Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Does the May rain kill people?
……

In the room of Kame of Dora-ya—a lodging house operator for transient workers—the daily wage laborers, all seven of them, had gone without work for ten full days due to the rain, their eyes hollowed like those of Brahmin ascetics.

Sajirō was lying in a corner.

Wrapped in a thin futon like a kashiwa mochi and narrowing his timid eyes as he listened to everyone’s foolish talk, he felt he would never grow tired of it.

As for conversation in this room, there was nothing but talk of romance and food—and above all, after ten days without work, discussions of eating flourished. Kan, Take, Yoshi, Ushi, Roku, and Sankō all wore faces like stomachs themselves,

“Quit your bullshit! You ain’t no monster—thirty bowls of soba and forty-five Sasaya saba-zushi? There’s no way anyone could eat that!”

“Nah, if you’re set on eatin’ it, you can.”

“You couldn’t eat that even if your life depended on it!”

“What could *you* even eat?”

“You can’t eat it!”

From their gluttonous discussions, it escalated even to arguing heatedly over eating gambles—spat flying between them—such was the scene.

Then, Sankō spoke up.

“In my country, there was this guy who made a bet about whether you could eat a whole box of mandarins or not.”

“If it’s just a whole box of mandarins, even I could eat it right here and now—show you how it’s done.”

“He’d eat up the peels, the box, even the rope—clean as a whistle, I tell ya.”

“Th-that’s crazy! That ain’t no proper bet!”

“But here’s the kicker—there was this guy who actually won by saying he’d eat it all. Weird, right?”
“But there was a condition—a rule that said he could eat it however he wanted.”

“Huh, but did he actually eat it all?”

“Before eating the mandarin fruit itself, he burned the peel, rope, and box into ashes, rolled them into a dumpling, and gulped it down in one go.”

“The guy who got eaten from—he’d wagered five ryō on it—ended up destroying his whole household.”

When Sankō’s story ended, Ushi pursed his lips as if he’d been waiting,

“See? Even this ranking can’t be called a lie!” he declared boastfully.

Sajirō, who had been excluded from the group and was lying down, wondered what was happening. When he craned his neck to look, he saw Ushi proudly displaying before everyone a torn scrap of a ranking list—now as dry as a sack of dried goods—that read: “In This Peaceful Reign, With Full Bellies Pardoned: Great Edo Gluttony Rankings.”

It was a scrap titled *In This Peaceful Reign, With Full Bellies Pardoned: Great Edo Gluttony Rankings*.

II

In recent years, competitive eating contests—though not gambling-related—had frequently been held at places like Manhachi of Yanagibashi and Shibakiyo of Nakasu.

On one front, there was uproar over repelling the Black Ships, debates about pro-shogunate loyalists, and imperial factions raising their banners; yet no matter how many prohibitions the authorities issued, clandestine prostitutes in illegal brothel districts did not decrease, underground lotteries flourished in secret, the omoto plant craze grew more fervent, extortion and fraud ran rampant, and obscene picture books continued to be printed covertly and sold widely—such was the state of the world.

In such an era of Edo, yet the daily wage laborers in Kame of Dora-ya’s room did nothing but talk of eating, never once dreaming of offering humble provisions like bamboo baskets of rice and jars of water.

So whenever they saw characters like “In This Peaceful Reign, With Full Bellies Pardoned” printed in Kantei script on the rankings, they’d grow frantic and indignant—they wanted to say, “How could anyone take these rankings seriously?!”

However, as eccentric eating contests became the root of a trend, even among this group of laborers, eating gambles had recently become a craze—so much so that the names of the top contenders written on that scrap took on the appearance of heroic figures. Grand Champions who devoured ten noshi mochi and two shō of boiled red beans, Junior Champions who gnawed through over sixteen large pickled radishes—they found themselves compelled to pay their respects to such titles.

Among them was a single name marked with the notation “ring fatality.”

“Well, this guy here—he only drank seven gō of soy sauce and kicked it!”

When Sankō found that pitiful name and burst into uproarious laughter, the elder Yoshizō shook his head gravely,

“Nah, downing seven gō of soy sauce takes guts.”

“How’s that take guts?”
“If you just treat seven gō like sake and chug it…”

“Don’t talk nonsense—unlike sake, four gō’ll make your vision swim till you’re red-faced and senseless.”
“I tried soy sauce gambling once myself—got through two gō five shō before a nosebleed stopped me cold.”
“Drink seven gō of that? No damn wonder he died.”
“First off—even if it was somethin’ else—the idiot referee who okayed soy sauce deserves a kickin’.”

“Is that so…”

And so, the group was impressed by Yoshizō’s extensive knowledge. However, there was one person who remained unimpressed—Roku, who was relatively sullen.

“But you, at the Hamachō gravel pit where I once worked, there’s this guy who nonchalantly does one-shō gambles.”

“Soy sauce?”

“That’s right. There’s this man who does one-shō gambles—polishes it off so easy that folks end up losin’ to him, got himself so notorious nobody’ll take him on anymore.”

“That’s strange. Is he even still alive with that?”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with him—he shows up every day to the gravel pit or Fukagawa’s Sagachō riverbank for cargo unloading, so you know it’s true.”

“That’s a lie! No matter how you look at it, drinking a whole shō of soy sauce would kill you.”

“But there’s living proof right now, so there’s gotta be a way. If you think it’s a lie, go ahead and try the gamble yourself next time.”

“Alright, I’ll take him on for sure. What kinda man is this bastard anyway?”

“In Sagachō, when they talk ’bout Dengō of soy sauce gamblin’—ain’t nobody who don’t know that name. But Dengō don’t bother with small-time bets—just shakes his head at ’em.”

“One shu? Two shu?”

“See here—unless fifteen or twenty guys at the counter pool together two-three ryō bundles, he won’t even spit on your offer.”

“You’re flappin’ your gums big—what happens if Dengō loses? No way some dock hauler or gravel-pit mule’s gonna cough up two-three ryō solo.”

“But that Dengō guy’s got quite a bit of money, I tell ya.”

“Hmm…”

“So everyone ends up fallin’ for his trap—that’s what makes it so damn interestin’.”

“What a bastard.”

Drawn in by everyone’s laughter, Sajirō inadvertently chuckled quietly under his futon.

“Oh, so you were here after all.”

“Yes.”

“For a fine young man, you’re one lazy bastard. The rain’s let up, so you’ll get work tomorrow. Cheer up now, cheer up.”

“I suppose it’s from resting too long—my body aches…”

And Sajirō once again showed only his lank, oil-less forelock before curling back into the futon.

“Mr. Sajirō”—from beyond the Osaka lattice came Kame of Dora-ya’s wife’s voice.
“The Master’s callin’ for ya—says he wants you to come to the back.”

Three

“You’re a samurai’s son, aren’t you?”

When Sajirō sat before Kame of Dora-ya and was abruptly addressed this way, he looked flustered.

"Does it show that much?"

"You do look like one."

And so, Kame of Dora-ya took a smoke break there and waited for his wife—who was bundling up the pawned goods—to leave.

The master’s rice chest also seemed empty.—Sajirō gazed at his chrysanthemum stone, which had given the lodging its nickname “Dora-ya,” while thinking such thoughts.

“If I may ask—are you perhaps someone seeking to carry out a vendetta?”

When suddenly spoken to in a hushed tone, Sajirō grew increasingly flustered.

“Nothing of the sort! I am most certainly not such a person.”

“But you’re a samurai’s son, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“How old?”
“Your age?”

“Nineteen.”

“With that pale, willow-like body of yours, daily wage labor must be rough.”
“You’ve only been in our room about two months, but even in that time, I’m impressed you’ve worked so hard.”
“And that kind of endurance—I figure it’s a feat you can’t pull off without some kind of hope…”

Sajirō was picking at the dust on the tatami.

His grime-stained work clothes and roughly tied sash made for a wretched appearance, but the pale skin visible at the collar marked him as a crane among crows in this communal lodging house.

“If it were other circumstances, there’d be no harm in you confiding everything. Useless as I am—it’s this wretched Edo curiosity… Just can’t stop myself from asking.”

“Then Master—please keep this secret from the others.”

“Who do you think I am, going around telling others?”

“The truth is, there is something I am searching for, and so I have taken leave from my lord.”

“See there! My eyes weren’t wrong after all.”
“And where’s your home province, then?”

“I serve the Ikeda family of Tottori—yes, Inshū Province.”
“My father served as steward of the storehouse with an income of seventy koku, but he recently passed away, leaving our family name on the brink of ruin.”

“Ain’t that a spineless tale? Can’t you inherit the family succession?”

“That may not be entirely accurate. In truth, my foster mother—a woman named Ōsaki—left for Kamigata with a companion some six years ago and has yet to return home.”
“However, at that time, I was entrusted with two hundred gold coins by a senior official of our domain to retrieve an Annan-painted vase—a former Bun ware piece promised to be transferred from a certain Karasumaru family—and thus I departed upon their request.”

“I see.”

“However, not only have my foster mother Ōsaki and her companion Ippei failed to return to Tottori, but there has been no word or news from them for six full years now.”
“The one who was perplexed was my impoverished father.”

“Of course he was.”

“Moreover, being naturally sickly from birth and tormented by this affliction, it’s believed he somewhat shortened his natural lifespan.”

“So the reason you’re here’s ’cause neither the money nor that Annan-painted vase’ve been settled yet?”

“As for the other party—my father’s superior—they haven’t made any stern demands, but you see, within the household, such rumors have spread. Furthermore, the Annan-painted vase from former Bun ware is an item that once came to our lord’s attention—he expressed a desire to see it. Thus now my foster mother cannot return empty-handed without it.”

“Hmm, I see. A troublesome affair indeed.”
“So you can’t even idly submit a succession petition either.”

“Truly, I have been utterly at a loss.”
“Were she my true mother, she might understand my heart, but she’s merely a foster parent I lived with for barely two years when I was twelve or thirteen.”

“About these household rumors—what exactly are people claiming? You must’ve overheard some of it yourself.”

“Well…” Sajirō suddenly stammered, bowing his flushed face,

“Lady Ōsaki would never return—they claimed she’d been closer than mere master and servant with her companion Ippei from the start.”
“Given that my father’s illness had been prolonged for years, it seems only natural that such rumors would arise.”

“Hmm, hmm. Quite so.”

And Master Kame of Dora-ya’s worldly-wise mind seemed to align with this, for he nodded a couple of times.

“And so, Mr. Sajirō left your home province—”

“Well, you see, there’s a rumor that they’re here in Edo, so…”

“A man and a woman?”

“That is correct.”

“But even if you track them down after six years, they wouldn’t be carrying around that Annan-painted vase anymore. And if you don’t have the money either, I mean—this whole thing’s a dead end, you know.”

“Samurai are such sticklers—the members of our household say that now that Sajirō has turned nineteen, he ought to avenge his father’s grudge or that there’s no way to leave my dishonorable foster mother as she is.”
“Moreover, my relatives could never repay such a large sum as two hundred gold coins, and the item in question has surely reached our lord’s ears.”
“If there is no way to obtain that vase, then at least bring back the head of my companion Ippei to Tottori—they cornered me with such reasoning.”
“And so I came to Edo, but having exhausted my travel funds and with no idea at all where my foster mother Ōsaki and Ippei were living, I ended up being taken care of in Master’s room in the end.”

“I see. Then rather than chasing that Annan-painted vase worth two hundred ryō, bringing back this Ippei bastard’s head would suit a samurai better. First off—since it’s free, easier to grab too.”

“However, this proves most inopportune.”

“What’s this ‘inopportune’ horseshit?”

“Perhaps because my father was weak, I too am frail as you can see—ultimately, I cannot bear the worry of whether I can accomplish such things.”

“Hey now, Mr. Sajirō—even with a meager stipend of seventy koku, you’re still the son of a samurai, ain’t ya?
“Toughen up, toughen up.”
“If you think you’re weak, then while working as a day laborer, toughen yourself up good and proper with a carrying pole.”
“Now, if the opponent’s some skilled rōnin or whatnot, that’d be a problem—but hey, if you’re sayin’ he’s just a guy you used to run with, no matter how tough he acts, we can measure his limits easy enough.”
“Once we’ve found where he’s holed up, I’ll lend you my strength.”

Mr. Kame of Dora-ya grew enthusiastic.

As the rainy season seemed about to clear, anticipating tomorrow’s work, he had the landlady—who had returned from the pawnshop—buy sake.

In a corner of the laborers’ room, where they had drunk humidity-chaser sake and fallen into thunderous snores like a pack of snoring monks, only Sajirō lay wide awake, staring intently into the darkness.

And just when it seemed he had fallen asleep, he kept muttering something deliriously.

Four

Sankō, the most energetic person in the room, had become sullen. Every day, he went out to work but didn’t go to the baths or visit sushi stands—just puffed on powdered tobacco and moped.

“Hey, what’re you gonna do?”

When Ushi and Yoshizō pressed him, he finally confessed.

“Truth is… I got done in.”

“What d’ya mean, ‘got done in’?”

“I did a soy sauce gamble with Dengō and blew through all that advance money from the other day.”

“You damn bastard!”

They struck his back—

“This is what happens when you try sneakin’ off without tellin’ a soul,”
“Serves ya right!”

With that laugh, they passed round a donation ledger for their comrade’s sake.

Now with tobacco money scraped together, Sankō bounced back full of life, and that night—all carefree-like as they lay abed—he spun this tale:

“Day ’fore yesterday, at Fukagawa’s tally office, I crossed paths with that Dengō bastard.”
“Right when we shoulda quit at lunch—oi!—he starts yappin’, ‘Drink one shō five gō o’ soy sauce an’ I’ll stake two ryū!’”
“Then that Dengō prick pulls this ‘hmph’ face an’ growls if it’s one shō five gō, he won’t settle for less’n five ryū.”
“So we haggled down to one shō three gō an’ got it started, but two ryū’s steep—our side came up short on warm bodies.”
“That’s how yours truly got suckered in too.”

“And what does Dengō plan to do now?”

“He poured three gō more soy sauce than usual into a bowl, sucked it all down smoothly, and since today’s pay was two ryū, he just said something like ‘Well then—’ and coolly headed home after half a day.”

“What a detestable bastard.”

“Just hearing about it makes your blood boil, doesn’t it? Put yourself in my shoes—it’s so frustrating I can’t sleep a wink!”
“Enough already—learn your lesson from this.”
“It’s a matter of pride! This time I’ll do a one-shō-five-gō gamble and make that bastard puke blood—otherwise I won’t rest easy!”

“But it’s downright strange, isn’t it?”

Yoshizō, whom they had thought already asleep, suddenly growled from his position near the group’s rear.

“Win or lose aside, the fact he’s surviving that’s downright strange. After all, that bastard ain’t even human.”

Ever since then, Sajirō had heard nothing but talk of soy sauce gambling.
And so, every time he went out to work in various places, he had taken to casually searching for any sign of Dengō—but he had yet to catch even a single glimpse of him.

It was the day he was assigned to the Hamachō Gravel Pit.

The work there was rough, so even day laborers had shoulders thick with muscle.

Now, Master Kame—who always protected them with work assignments—had deliberately avoided sending Sajirō there, but with other job sites dried up, he asked him to endure it for a while.

The Tamagawa gravel bound for Ninomaru castle construction was unloaded at this riverbank.

A kobushin official sat perched on a campstool, keeping watch.

Two hundred paiske skewer loads from the gravel pit constituted a full day’s work.
Each time they carried a load from boat to shore, the foreman handed them one bamboo tally—these tallies determined their earnings come evening.

The sturdy ones could haul one and a half times the standard skewer count.

Since this was a worksite for capable men, nobody so much as glanced sideways.

Sweat streamed down as gravel crunched underfoot; footsteps, work chants—everything fell into a relentless rhythm.

“Clumsy oaf! What the hell are you doing?!”

On the gravel mound on land, a rough voice suddenly rang out.

“What’re you doing flopping around under people’s noses like this? You’re clogging up the whole damn path!”

“My apologies—I’m still new to this work.”

Sajirō was breathing through his nose, his face pale.

“Idiot! If you knew you weren’t cut out for this work, you shouldn’t have the nerve to come to a workplace like this! Who the hell do you think you are, you bastard?”

“I’m staying at Master Kame’s place in Dora-ya.”

“Even in Dora-ya’s rooms, they’ve got spineless cowards like you, huh? Tomorrow, you better come back after eating a proper meal!”

By mid-morning, the skin on his shoulders had peeled off completely, coming with a stinging heat.
He pretended to wipe away sweat, all the while brushing at tears that wouldn’t stop.

He had tried his best to be careful, but after two hours of continuous labor, his lower back could no longer endure it, and he ended up dropping his carrying pole with a thud at someone’s feet once again.

He had just registered the thought when—

“Scrawny toad!”

Sajirō was kicked down from the gravel pit’s measuring box.

Then a man who saw this shouted at the back of the laborer who had kicked Sajirō.

“Hey!
“Hey!
“Don’t put on airs like some big shot!
“It’s just Forelock here!
“You oughta look out for him a bit.”

The man was also a fellow laborer from the gravel pit.

Rubbing his lower back, he came over to Sajirō, who stood dazed,

“Hey Forelock Brother. I’ll help you out—don’t lose heart and keep at it. You’re bunching the paiske rope like this—no wonder your footing’s off. Hand it here—I’ll fix it proper.”

With that, he tossed his own carrying pole off his shoulder.

5

The man showed kindness and then persistently followed behind Sajirō.

After adjusting the carrying pole further forward on his shoulders and having the man behind him take hold of one end of the rear load’s rope, Sajirō found himself working more easily than before, his footing steadied as well.

“Thanks to you, it’s easier now.”

At lunchtime, when he approached and formally expressed his gratitude once more,

“If you keep holding your shoulders like that, gravel pit work’ll be impossible for you.”

With that, the man cradled a lunchbox large enough for three portions and began devouring its contents with gusto.

Not only was the lunchbox large, but the man’s build was splendidly muscular—hard-packed flesh over thick bones, his frame towering above others. He appeared to be around thirty-two or thirty-three.

Sajirō found himself reassured all at once: whether it was the man’s bristly shins, his sun-seared skin, or those bright eyes, every feature now radiated a rough-hewn kindness that made him seem utterly dependable.

Moreover, as they spoke, traces of an Inshū lilt in the man’s speech kindled an unexpected nostalgia within Sajirō—this heart adrift in a foreign land amid harsh circumstances.

Suddenly noticing the tobacco pouch he’d been using—a lacquered leather specialty from Furuichi in Tottori—
“Pardon me—might you be from Tottori?”

The man had been sifting through the gravel with his kiseru pipe to retrieve the ember he’d dropped when he abruptly lifted his face sideways—

“Why?”

“But you have Furuichi’s lacquered leatherwork with you.”

“Oh, this thing…,” he said, reexamining the tobacco pouch. “This was given to me as a souvenir by someone four or five years ago.”
“...So you’re from Tottori?”

“No.”

Sajirō had panicked at his own line of questioning.

“I am not from Tottori either…”

Noticing that the man seemed somewhat displeased, he let the matter drop and fell silent.

But even in the afternoon work, his kindness did not change.

He looked after him in every way.

In the evening as well,

“Hey, I’ll give ya a bit of my share—take this to the tally area, will ya?”

With that, he reduced his own tally sticks and added them to Sajirō’s meager count.

The harsh workplace became something Sajirō looked forward to more each day.
In the mornings, at the riverside leading to the gravel pit, seeing the man’s imposing physique became something indispensable for bolstering Sajirō’s spirits each day.

In that way, a little leeway began to form in Sajirō’s heart, right around the tenth day.

Usually, since his lodgings were in Mitsujimachi, he would return straight from Ōkawabata along Shinbori Street, but having been asked by the master to deliver a message to a fellow laborer’s house in Honjo, he ended up delayed and arrived near Warishita, where willow leaves in the dark narrowed around the water—

“Psst…”
In a low voice, someone called.

A woman heavily caked in white powder.

A white hand was beckoning from beneath the willow’s shade.

Sajirō turned back nervously, seeing there happened to be no passersby. Stories about night hawks appearing in this area—their rates, the various ribald tales of women of the night—were things the men in the lodging house always pretended not to hear being discussed, even as a certain curiosity burned keenly within them.

“Hey…”

The night hawk let out a coaxing squeak,

“Hey… c’mere,”

She grinned slyly, directing a lewd smile his way.

She appeared to be middle-aged but slender—a woman of vivid beauty to eyes starved and curious—

Sajirō, his heart pounding even more violently than when he carried gravel,

“H-how much…?”

In a dry voice, he was being drawn toward the woman, but at some critical moment—

“Ah!”

With that, he cast aside all awareness and fled headlong.

Startled as if officials had come raiding, the night hawk too, with a hand towel clenched between her teeth, darted restlessly into a nearby alley.

6

By what forceful means they had managed it, the Dora-ya crew had scraped together five ryō and stood with arms crossed.

At that moment, Sajirō returned,

“Hey, we’ve been waitin’ for ya.”

At once, Sankō got carried away and,

“You’re in on this split too, so get ready.”

“Wh-what is that?”

“The hell you’re panting like that—what happened to you?”

“I had to run a bit because I was late.”

“Ah, screw it—doesn’t matter either way.”
“’Cause it’d be a pain if ya ain’t in on this with us.”

Yoshizō intervened,

“We bundled together everyone’s wages and your labor—seven people’s worth—and managed to forcibly borrow it all in advance from the master tonight. The money’s right here—keep an eye on it.”

“What’re you plannin’ to do with that?”

“Think of it as the room’s communal fund.”

“That’s all well and good, but…”

“Starting tomorrow, we’ll be working at the gravel pit for seven days straight. Now, this bastard Sankō here says he can’t stomach the aggravation no more—wants another round of soy sauce gambling. Since everyone’s half-in on this scheme, winning’ll double our take. But don’t you go sniveling if we lose it all.”

The talk of his comrades, burning with spite over the soy sauce bets, held no interest for him.

Having heard enough, he pulled the futon over his head.

And then, under the bedding, he tightly closed his eyes and recalled the night hawk's face from earlier.
But even that white-powdered countenance that had struck him so intensely in that moment was now being churned by mounting doubts, leaving only a disjointed impression.

“No way!”

He tried to force himself to calm his mind,

“……A case of mistaken identity… a trick of the mind… No matter how you look at it, there’s no way a foster mother could be a night hawk…”

he shouted inwardly.

However, on the other hand—almost immediately—
"But she looked so much like her.
Though her white powder was thickly applied, she looked younger than she had six years prior…"

7

That night, at last, he began thinking about Ōsaki, the Annan-painted vase, and his late father’s final moments, and found himself unable to sleep a wink.

And then, the next morning.

“I seem to have caught a bit of a cold, so please allow me to take just today off.”

After informing Master Kame, he spent yet another day curled up like a bagworm.

After the room’s occupants had filed out, Master Kame of Dora-ya also ventured out somewhere—a rare occurrence for him, given his paralysis.

Sajirō was able to think about whatever he pleased without any interruptions.
Even if his foster mother Ōsaki were in Edo, there was no indication she was living in comfort, and even if he were to encounter his comrade Ippei on the streets, he himself knew he lacked the strength to confront him.

Even so, doing this merely as a formality for his uncle’s sake only made his own position more untenable.

"I'll disappear from Edo and resolve never to meet my uncle or the people of Tottori again."

He thought such things.

However, having gotten caught up in the soy sauce gambling, even seven days' worth of daily wages had been borrowed from the master. Without even having his immediate pocket money—penniless and with nothing to his name as he was—there was simply nowhere he could go or anything he could do. Such a reclusive disposition was inherent to Sajirō's character.

As this went on, evening fell, and the group that had gone out to the gravel pit that day trudged back, everyone listless and barely uttering a word.

“Starting tomorrow, I’m gonna catch a cold too, just like you, Saji.”
“I’m sick of working already.”

After someone had shouted this loudly just once, they all stretched their legs out like beriberi patients, with no one taking the lead to go to the bathhouse.

At that moment, Master Kame lumbered back in,

“I’ve got something to discuss. Everyone, form a circle.”

With that, he plopped down heavily.

Kikukaseki’s face grew slightly stern, his right eye twitching like lightning as he furrowed it repeatedly.

As if to say, “He’s here”—the group listlessly adjusted their kneeling positions, but Sajirō alone did not rise.
It wasn’t feigned sleep—truly by that time, he had finally grown sluggish.

“What is it, Master?”

“You bastards got cleaned out today, didn’t ya.”

Having their defeat in the soy sauce gamble bluntly pointed out right from the start, they looked as if struck by a hammer blow,

“Right.”

And all six of them hung their heads in defeat.

“You’re acting oddly quiet for bastards who got cleaned out. If you’re gonna snivel over losing, then don’t gamble in the first place!”

“Right… We’re deeply ashamed.”

“Ain’t no call to be groveling. You had the nerve to gamble, but now you’re skulking around like starved grasshoppers, grinding your teeth—what kinda sorry bastards do that?”

“We’ve had enough.”
“It’s unbearably frustrating, but we’ll give up.”

“Don’t you go spouting that spineless crap.”
“Tomorrow—though it’s a bit early to say that—wait four or five days and give it another try.”

“Huh?
………”

“I’ll have you win for sure.”

“You mean it, Master?”

Everyone revived as if they had regained their breath,

“Well then, Master—if you’d be so kind—this time, put up our bodies as collateral to get us ten ryō. And we’ll force that bastard into a two-shō-five-gō gamble—either we starve or Dengō coughs up blood—and end this for good.”

“Sure thing. Even if I gotta take pledges, I’ll scrape together ten ryō.”

“We’re obliged, Master. We’ll owe you our lives.”

“But our old methods won’t cut it anymore.”

“Huh? …Is there another way?”

“To tell you the truth now—since you bastards were actin’ all weird askin’ to borrow five ryō—I headed out to check on the gravel pit after you left for work today.”

“So you were watchin’ the soy sauce gamblin’ they were doin’ at lunch break too, Master?”

“Hmm, I was watchin’—and it was a sight to behold. No matter how much you challenge ’em to drink one shō or one shō five gō, they’d swindle you outta half your stakes every time.”

“Hmm, you think so?”

“But I’ve learned my lesson a bit from gamblin’ too—and I’ve got memories from my younger days. After that, I saw Dengō cut his work short at half a day’s labor and head home cool as you please, so I tailed the bastard and dug up a bit about his usual doings around the neighborhood. So I came back late tonight, but in exchange, I’ve got a souvenir…”

With that, Kame of Dora-ya grinned smugly, each chrysanthemum stone on his face seeming to laugh one by one.

Then, after about three days had passed,

“Mr. Sajirō, we’re short-handed today, so I’m afraid you’ll have to come out to work even if you’d rather not.”

And so, Master Kame, having prepared the accounts, had come to Sajirō’s bedside early in the morning.

Eight

Because the worksites had split into two locations, Take, Roku, Kan, Yoshizō, and Master Kame—five in total—branched off from Ryōgoku in separate directions, while only Ushi, Sankō, and Sajirō came to labor at the usual gravel pit.

The tall figure of that kind man holding a lacquered leather tobacco pouch immediately caught Sajirō’s eye.

As Sajirō chatted familiarly with the man during a work break, Sankō—

“Saji, you cozyin’ up with that bastard?”

He glared resentfully.

He nodded unthinkingly and said.

“Yes, I’ve never seen such a kind person before.”

“Tch, what the hell are you spouting off about?!”

Sajirō, thinking he was about to be kicked, jumped back.

Actually, he thought it would be rude not to eat with the others in the room, but because of that incident, Sajirō brought his lunchbox over to the man he hadn’t seen in a long time and began wolfing down his meal.

Then Ushi and Sankō came over, chewing their rice with grim determination,

“Come on, Dengō—let’s have a two-shō-five-gō gamble!”

With that, they rolled up their sleeves and stepped forward.

“Dengō…?”

Sajirō furtively stole a glance at the man’s face.

The man—clamping the usual lacquered leather tobacco pouch between his fingers—blew a stream of smoke into his own face and chuckled under his breath with a shrug.

“Ah, let’s call it quits today.”

“You’re runnin’ away now! What’d you say the other day? ‘I’ll take any bet—five ryō, ten ryō!’ But then you spat out that even if all us gravel pit bastards scraped together every coin, we’d never rustle up that much!”

“There’s no grudge in gamblin’—so don’t go barkin’ just ’cause you got taken.”

“Wha—what the hell’re ya spoutin’? With all due respect, whether you take or get taken for five ryō or so in rotten coins—that ain’t the kinda man who’s gonna change his tune over that.”

“Oh… Quite the big spender.”

“Now that it’s come to this, it’s a matter of pride—either you vomit blood clots or we starve to death.”
“C’mon, bring it!”
“Can’t do that. I refuse.”

“Can’t? Why the hell can’t you?”

“Why? ’Cause two penniless bastards puffin’ up their shoulders ain’t worth my time.”
“Soy sauce gambling’s life-and-death—this ain’t no lunch-break tea session. Wanna flap yer gums ’bout two-shō-five-gō bets? Go find yerself a moneybags an’ come back proper.”

“You bastard!”

Sankō turned crimson and jammed both hands into his pockets.

Just when I thought he might flash that Kurikara tattoo, he gritted his teeth and ripped open his collar,

“Don’t forget those words of yours—I ain’t Baichū, but since this ain’t counterfeit, don’t you go closin’ your eyes to it.”

And with that, he slammed down the ten koban coins he’d gotten Master Kame to arrange in front of Dengō.

Nine

Sajirō, overwhelmed, paced restlessly.

The man who had been kind to him was Dengō, the soy sauce gambler.

Even if that was Dengō, there was no change in the goodwill Sajirō held.
If anything, Sankō’s corny lines struck him as irritatingly pretentious.

But—there it began again!
Just then, the gravel pit workers who had swarmed in—all of them part of the group that had once been bested by Dengō—clapped their hands and cheered in response to Sankō’s Baichū-like challenge, adding to the fervor.

Dengō pursed his lips and abruptly rose atop the gravel pile.

“Fine, I’ll take your bet.”

“You show me yours too—you got ten ryō in real cash?”

“Hmph…”

He took out ten ryō from his tobacco pouch.

“I’ll even spot you the powder!”
“Come on, get ready.”

“Two shō and eight gō!”

Having made sure there was no escape, Ushi there added three-gō extra to the agreed amount.

"Hell yeah."

Dengō did not flinch.

It’s impressive—like a samurai about to engage in a duel, Sajirō thought admiringly, captivated by his imposing physique.

Immediately, someone rushed off to the liquor store. Someone went to fetch a measuring cup. Some went out of their way to summon strangers. Amidst such commotion, even officials from the maintenance office and guards from the river checkpoint came running to the crowd, wondering what was happening.

“Don’t you dare pour a drop until I say it’s good.”

Dengō shifted his position slightly and leisurely sat down atop two stacked Ōya stones.

And for a while, he glared at the Ōkawa River.

Indeed, during this time, no one made any jeers, and at first,

“Such stupidity defies reason. What could possibly be amusing about such a foolish spectacle?”

Even the faces of the officials who had been smiling wryly now tightened strangely, their eyes unblinking.

“Alright, pour it.”

No sooner had he spoken than Dengō’s face was already hidden behind a large bowl.

Glug, glug—the jet-black liquid surged in waves into his belly. The sight left no time for rational thought; they could only stare in shock.

“Thanks to you all, I got to laze around another half-day today.”
“Well then, I’ll be taking the ten ryō.”

With that, Dengō stuffed the twenty ryō into his tobacco pouch and, to the still-stunned onlookers around him,

“So long.”

With that, he put on a good-natured face and laughed.

Ten

Dengō had a household.
The house stood in an alley by Takahashigai, its path strewn with crushed asari clam shells.
As soon as Dengō crossed over to the far side of the Ōkawa River and disembarked from the ferry, his behavior began to change slightly.
There was something off about Dengō now compared to his earlier composed self.

He hurried back to his house along the straight path.

There seemed to be signs of a woman’s presence, but the house appeared empty—only everyday under-robes lay scattered about.

He stripped off his work clothes as soon as he stepped inside.
Then, after throwing on a yukata and slinging a hand towel over his shoulder, he strode out into the side street and hurried to the corner bathhouse. But when he grabbed the door and tried to open it, the handle only rattled uselessly in its frame.

“Oh…”

When he noticed and looked, the noren curtain of the Chidori-yu bathhouse—the one he always ducked under—had been taken down, so

“Oh… It’s closed?”

As if propelled, he left that place and rushed off to the next bathhouse.

However, the noren curtain there had also been taken down, and the latticed shutter door was shut tight.
This was Fukagawa—a district teeming with gallant men.
There was no conceivable reason for bathhouses to be closed like this during daytime hours.
He recalled the Kisen-yu bathhouse in that back alley and broke into a full sprint.

“It’s closed!”

Dengō panicked.

With his face twisted in agitation, he battered the bathhouse door while roaring something unintelligible, but no clanging bucket sound answered.

“Tch!” he stamped his feet, then charged into the street like a galloping horse. The only bathhouses he remembered nearby were Komachi-yu and Otoyo-buro—just those two left.

“Dammit! Closed!”

He shouted, spitting as he did so, and raced to the next place—only to find there too a closed sign hung like some prearranged pact.

“What day is it today?”

Dengō pressed a hand to his spinning head and thought.
It wasn’t a closing day!
Even if it were a bathhouse holiday, there was no reason every single one would be shut like this.

Then Dengō began raging like a madman, scouring bathhouse after bathhouse with bloodshot eyes until the dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him. Clutching his head with both hands, he turned deathly pale and collapsed into his house the moment he staggered through the doorway.

“Ugh…”

He arched his body back like a drawn bowstring and sank his teeth into the base of the pillar like a lion.

Eleven

“That bastard—seems he panicked good and proper today.”

In the back of Hamaguri-nabe-ya, the neighborhood boss was laughing.

“Thank you most sincerely,”
“Thanks to you, we were able to exact our revenge, so to speak...”

Kame of Dora-ya and the four men expressed their gratitude there in perfect unison.

Today’s bathhouse closures had been arranged through this boss’s mediation.
Of course, the one who had pleaded for it was Master Kame.

The reason they had targeted the bathhouses was that they had discovered whenever Dengō engaged in soy sauce gambling, he would invariably quit work after half a day to return home and then immediately visit a nearby bathhouse.

So, when they asked the bathhouse owner,
“Hmm…” he said with a nod of understanding,
“At our place too, we kept saying to each other, ‘Something’s wrong, something’s wrong.’
“You see, when Dengō-san comes rushing in and soaks in the hot water for a long time, groaning, the bathwater ends up strangely dirty and completely salty.”
“Oh, so he’s been doing soy sauce gambling. That explains it.”

After explaining its efficacy, he went on to say,

“People from mountain regions who eat snakes would know about that. For instance, when someone ate too much miso-pickled python and then got into scalding water, enduring it with grunts, all the strong essences and salt would get squeezed out through every pore on their body. That’s the trick, see? That must’ve been the method he came up with from that. When I heard how someone forced to drink a full sho at Manpachi’s eating contest had died, I thought to myself—Edo folks are surprisingly lacking in wisdom.”

Having heard this, Master Kame of Dora-ya saw his chance and had the neighborhood boss arrange a complete shutdown of all bathhouses for just four hours.

—and there they were, drinking merrily together when—

“It’s terrible! Dengō vomited blood and died, they say.”

Just then, someone came to deliver the news.

Surely, they had thought it wouldn’t come to something as fatal as death,
“What?!” they exclaimed, turning pale as they all leapt to their feet.

“If he’s dead, this means an inquest’ll be a hassle. Anyway, we can’t just dump it.”

Now belatedly startled, only the neighborhood boss and Master Kame visited the depths of the alley where the usual clamshells crunched beneath their feet.

A woman with smeared white powder clung to Dengō’s corpse and wept.

While it was self-inflicted, he couldn’t help feeling pity, and as he gradually pieced together the circumstances, Kame of Dora-ya was astonished. That woman was Ōsaki—Sajirō’s foster mother whom they had heard about earlier. Then, thinking that perhaps—he inquired about the man and learned that Dengō the soy sauce gambler was an alias he had adopted after coming to Edo; his real name was Ippei, a former comrade who had served Sajirō’s father. However, it seemed Sajirō hadn’t noticed because Ippei’s constitution and appearance had completely changed since he began soy sauce gambling.

Ōsaki revealed everything without concealment.

The fact that she herself was now working as a shameful night hawk in Warigesui，tugging at people’s sleeves.

The reason the man and woman had gone so far as to sell their bodies and gamble for money was that their motive lay in the hope of somehow obtaining that Annan-painted vase from the Genyun kiln and returning to Tottori once more.

As payment for it，the money they had initially brought from their home province was，due entirely to a mishap on the road，stolen from Ōsaki by petty thieves.
Sympathizing with this，her comrade Ippei planned to go even to his hometown to arrange funds，but as days passed，missing every mark，he ultimately lost the opportunity to return to Tottori.

Saving hundreds of ryō through honest labor would have taken a lifetime of impossible toil, but after Ippei devised his wicked scheme of soy sauce gambling, Ōsaki too resolved to sacrifice her body and descend into night hawk work—yet in truth, they had already accumulated far more than enough money to procure the Annan-painted vase.

But—as the money accumulated far beyond what was needed, both Ippei and Ōsaki suddenly found themselves unable to relinquish their obsession.

And so, breaking through the barrier of master and servant, they became husband and wife just last year, it was said.

The story seemed to contain no lies.

Mr. Kame of Dora-ya, wanting to get word of this strange coincidence to Sajirō’s ears as soon as possible, sped back that night in a town palanquin he rarely rode.

However, Sajirō had vanished from the gravel pit’s office earlier that day and never returned to Dora-ya.