Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Oda Sakunosuke

I “I won’t have you claiming ignorance. Go on then—say it if you dare: Osaka’s Futatsuidō ‘Makaranya’.” “The kimono shop manager was a man so vile he reeked of fresh shit—it’s harsh to say, but a murderer,” the grandmother instructed Junpei. ——‘Makaranya’ came twice a month—bundling flawed fabrics, stained goods, and whatever else into one furoshiki cloth, riding the Nankai Electric Railway to Kishiwada, then trudging two ri through mud to Rokkan Village to peddle kimono wares—and whenever they came, rain would fall reeking of fresh shit, marking them as rain-bringers. Three years ago too they came and made rain fall. Of all times—when Junpei’s mother went into labor—the midwife who should have come by bicycle instead trudged sluggishly through the rain under an umbrella, clomping on tall wooden clogs in dreary fashion. And so through some mishap Junpei was born, but his mother was taken. As for his brother Bunkichi—though it had been a difficult premature birth by one month—at least then the weather had been favorable...

Listening, Junpei felt nothing. Not yet of an age for such things, when he got into bed and habitually rubbed his big toe against the next one, he would inevitably get a leg cramp that left him both pained and dazed. As these repeated occurrences accumulated, he was startled by a cramping pain in his lower abdomen, but the grandmother did not notice the signs of a hernia. He wet the bed as he lay down. The grandmother barely slept at night to prevent accidents, waking him with a shake whenever he wet the bed. “Now Junpei,” she said, her voice trembling with spiteful satisfaction, “you listen well now.” “And you’re just a stepchild,” she continued, her voice quivering with spiteful delight.

Takamine Kotarou, proprietor of the Yorozuya General Store in Rokkan Village, Senboku District, had spent five years with the grandmother’s daughter Omura and sired two children—Bunkichi and Junpei—but when Omura died in childbirth, deeming it fortunate, he took a second wife. This fortune perhaps lay in the second wife’s advantageous circumstances, for Kotarou was a man of quiet repute who possessed some assets. As for the elder brother Bunkichi, it was good that he had been taken in as an adopted child by Kotarou's sister's husband Kinzou, but the younger brother Junpei, being a suckling infant and pitiable, was taken in by the grandmother, who raised him on milk. If the grandmother died, Junpei would have nowhere to go and would have to return to the house with his stepmother, and unless he cured his bedwetting now, he would ultimately be bullied. The stepmother already had stepchildren, and moreover, she had borne Kotarou's child—a boy.

...Had Grandmother secretly resented Kotarou? If only Junpei had never quickened in her daughter’s womb—if only Makaranya had never brought that cursed rain—this thought consumed her as she relentlessly subjected him to cruel words unbefitting her years, surrendering time and again to this vicious pleasure until gradually, it took effect. Though he couldn’t yet taste the full bitterness of being a stepchild, from around age seven Junpei found himself permeated by an inescapable sense of wretchedness. Grandmother’s demeanor turned strange, she visibly withered away and died, and Junpei was sent back to his father’s place.

Before long, the label of "the paranoid one" came to envelop Junpei's existence. There was a stepbrother one year younger than him and a stepsister two years older; even as a child, he understood that this stepsister was comely. Perhaps due to her mother’s proper upbringing, his stepsister would face Bunkichi and Junpei directly with pitying looks over their poor grades at the village elementary school. His brother Bunkichi, being eleven already, should have retorted somehow, but he always just guffawed. His eyes—not just the outer corners but their entirety—slanted downward at an angle; when he smiled they appeared amiable enough, though the expression could also pass for a tearful grimace. He was shorter than Junpei and had a sickly complexion. Though his brother was unreliable, for Junpei, he was the only person he could depend on, so when school let out, he decided to follow Bunkichi to Kinzou’s house.

Kinzou owned a citrus orchard and was called greedy. Having no sons of his own, he had taken Bunkichi in as an adopted child out of obligation, but when the daughter he’d sent to work at a factory in Kishiwada bore a child—a boy—he abruptly changed his tune, and Bunkichi was worked to the bone. He cleaned cowsheds. He plucked mandarins. He drew fertilizer. He split firewood. He babysat. He worked on various other tasks. Junpei helped Bunkichi.

“Brother!” “I took a shit in the classroom!” “Little brother—you best quit pissing your bed.” They reveled in this scatological banter. Kotarou’s eyes retained their obsidian hue, but this father had ceased being human. Ravaged by malignancy that seeped putrid vapors, he doused himself in cheap perfume—a cognitive dissonance villagers deemed baffling. They whispered how celluloid phantoms danced across his chamber walls during fevers. When a traveling balladeer’s performance beckoned one afternoon and Junpei moved to join the crowd, his stepmother roared: “Am I some madwoman?” Her face twisted like pickled ginger as she spat those words.

From that day onward, his decline grew rapidly worse; when his sister Omiyo—married into the Marugame catering shop in Osaka’s Ikutama-mae Town—rushed to his side, Kotarou regained his senses momentarily before breathing his last. Aunt Omiyo quarreled with her stepmother over the incense-offering order. "By any measure, aren’t Bunkichi and Junpei pitiful?" said Aunt Omiyo, and claiming they needed autumn-leaf viewing to lift their spirits, she took the two boys to nearby Mount Gyutaki. While feeding them daifuku at the teahouse before the waterfall, Aunt Omiyo drilled into them, "My condolence money was bigger than anyone else’s, so you can walk tall," then thumped her chest and jerked up her collar.

Ten-year-old Junpei was taken to Osaka by Aunt Omiyo. The two-ri path from the village to Kishiwada Station had a pond along the way. He was surprised by how large the pond was. Junpei vaguely recalled the line from the national textbook—“Sakutaro was led by his father over the mountain pass…”—but no matter how hard he tried, the subsequent words refused to surface in his mind. Bunkichi, who had come along under the pretense of seeing them off, admonished: “Junpei, you should be carrying Aunt’s luggage too.” Junpei was shouldering a cloth bundle, but his left shoulder remained unburdened. Bunkichi had luggage on both shoulders. Aunt, however, carried only a small basket of mandarins—a souvenir from Kinzou that was expected to multiply manyfold in value.

As Bunkichi turned back from Kishiwada Station, Aunt Omiyo took pity on him—night would soon fall and walking alone must be frightening—and offered fifty sen, but Bunkichi refused, saying, “I don’t need money. Uncle Kinzou has made me a savings passbook,” and went home. “What nonsense,” Aunt Omiyo said to Junpei as the train started moving. “Bunkichi’s being deceived by Kinzou. There’ll come a day when he realizes it.” Flustered by his first train ride and looking around restlessly, Junpei scarcely took any of it in. When the train arrived at Namba, a slight tightness formed in his heart. He recalled the words Bunkichi had admonished him with in brotherly fashion—if you don’t get your act together in Osaka, they’ll laugh at you for being a country bumpkin.

He arrived at his aunt’s house. Blinded by the electric lights, he was introduced to various people, but a deep ringing throbbed in his ears—faces shrank into the distance then suddenly loomed large—leaving him standing dumbfounded despite his resolve. When he clenched his lower abdomen to steel himself, a stabbing pain surged up, making endurance agony. Aunt Omiyo—sorting condolence acknowledgments and souvenirs—asked “Jun-chan, where’re your school things?” He snapped back “Right here,” pulling them from the cloth bundle with his first flicker of pride. But “Right here” drew mocking laughter—he later learned from the laugher: his aunt’s daughter Miss Mitsuko, a first-grader a year his junior. Mitsuko scratched her lice-ridden head furiously, hands shockingly white against the squalor.

A late dinner was served. When sashimi and other dishes were brought out, he fidgeted awkwardly with his head bowed down, silently finishing his meal. As he licked at the leftover soy sauce from the pickles, Aunt Omiyo said, "You're Marugame's young master now—quit with these cheapskate habits," then turned toward the maid and squeezed out conspicuously theatrical tears. After Uncle—who'd been drinking—mumbled a few words, Aunt remarked, "Still better than some stray kitten though, eh?" The uncle gave a gruff nod. "Skinny as he is, must've eaten two koku of rice by now just to reach this age."

He had been dressed in a crisp kimono, but for one who had always thought of adopted children as being like his brother Bunkichi, it left him feeling somehow ill at ease. When given money for snacks, he found it strange. The rural home had been a general store that sold penny candies like screw-shaped sweets, dog-dropping-shaped confections, and acorn-shaped treats, yet he'd never been allowed to touch them. On days ending with one or six, night markets would appear at Komagai Pond, while enka singers performed and ice cream vendors set up stalls before Marugame. When receiving two sen five rin each to visit these night markets with Mitsuko, he would tuck copper coins into his obi and put on airs like an urban child. Yet not realizing the ice cream container shaped like an inverted bamboo shoot was actually a rice cracker vessel, he kept licking until it crumbled—turning pale at imagined compensation demands while others laughed—and no matter how vigilantly his eyes darted about, numerous incidents still occurred that demanded stern reprimand thereafter.

One day, Junpei left the house to go to the public bathhouse. He ignored his aunt’s voice asking “Do you know the way?” and replied “I know it!” Emboldened by his own fluent Osaka dialect, he went charging out and leapt inside—only to freeze. In the sudden darkness after the bright outdoors, he soon realized something was wrong. “I... I...” His voice failed as he spun around—finding himself in the inner room of the confectionery shop next to the bathhouse, where a bedridden old man with palsy watched his retreat in bewilderment. When he emerged outside, an exceptionally tall errand boy who’d just returned asked “What business you got here?” Junpei flung down his one-sen bath coin without a word, snatched a mandarin orange, and fled. The stolen fruit turned out to be worth three sen. The errand boy who regularly delivered sweets to Marugame’s kitchen later recounted Junpei’s panicked antics to the cooks and maids amid laughter—until the story reached his aunt and uncle. “You pulled some sneaky stunt there,” Aunt Omiyo confronted him. When she said this, Junpei slapped both palms on the tatami. “I’ll never do it again!” He hung his head until tears welled up. Aunt Omiyo—who’d meant this as light teasing—found herself disarmed by this blood-related yet unsettling child’s pitiful display. “What’re you doing? No need for such formality,” she blurted in Osaka dialect. She followed this with exaggerated laughter. Relieved he wasn’t being scolded after all, Junpei plastered an ingratiating smile across his sallow face and babbled about how “Old Man Bonbon” from the confectionery shop had asked whose children they were and what grades they attended. But this “old man” had actually been mute—and soon passed away.

He entered fifth grade. The bedtime "goodnight" he'd begun without being taught by anyone had become thoroughly ingrained. He even learned to flatter Aunt Omiyo - who avoided tea believing it darkened her complexion - by complimenting her pale skin to her face. Moreover, he would often loiter about the kitchen, waiting for his uncle to assign him small tasks like fetching this or that. For through observing the household while being attentive, he had discerned his aunt and uncle's intentions - to train his kitchen skills with an eye toward making him Mitsuko's husband someday and transferring the family property to him.

Having drifted to Osaka from his birthplace Yokkaichi with a mere sixteen sen to his name, Uncle had begun by idling on Shimoderamachi slopes pushing carts for coins, then passed through various trades—day laborer, stevedore, diner dishwasher, kitchen hand, late-night udon stall worker, oden cart vendor—until establishing his catering business before Ikukunitama Shrine today. Since he prided himself on being a man of hardship, he believed training Junpei too must start with water discipline: making him wash dishes in ice-crusted buckets midwinter, then teaching daikon peeling for sashimi garnishes while fully expecting two or three finger cuts along the way. When the kitchen knife slipped and cut his hand, first they’d say, "The garnish is turning red." No one asked how his hand was doing. As whispers of "poor thing at thirteen" from the maids reached his ears, he felt wretched all over again—was this how adopted children differed from real ones?

However, his aunt and uncle did not deliberately treat Junpei as a stepchild. They wore expressions that said they had no time for such things. Even if they thought him an odd child, they did not dwell deeply on it. Due to the nature of their business—wedding banquets, neighborhood sports day bento boxes, Buddhist vegetarian cuisine for prayer gatherings—orders were their lifeblood, so maintaining a good reputation in the community was crucial. For the Ikukunitama Shrine’s summer festival, they even had matching happi coats made for the mikoshi carriers, just like the young masters of respectable families. At such times, burning with the hope that he could become Mitsuko’s husband, his eyes would gleam with greed. He thought of acting spoiled like a pampered young master, of showing off his knife skills while cutting daikon, of complaining about the dishes—imagining what faces his aunt and uncle would make—but Junpei could never bring himself to do it. By then, people must have noticed—yet he still felt an inferiority akin to a cripple over the grotesque sagging of his hernia, that one secret he wished none would discern. Resigned to the belief that this flaw doomed his entire life, he harbored a quiet despair. Every time he remembered, a guttural groan would rise from the pit of his stomach. He muttered strange, disjointed words to himself—nonsensical sounds bubbling up from his shame.

One day, Mitsuko took a basin bath. Her white body sprang upright. “Get out!” Junpei was overcome with shame, feeling there was nowhere to place himself. When nighttime memories surfaced, abrupt nonsense syllables tumbled out—*poka-poka pen-pen ura-ura*. He chanted like a Buddhist prayer. With a pale face, he chanted that Mitsuko clearly hated him. From the neighborhood café, a popular song drifted over. Somehow stirred by nostalgia—and thinking of Bunkichi and such—he kept repeating to himself that he might as well cry until tears began spilling over, and he wept his fill. He had resolved never to look again, but when Mitsuko bathed the very next day, he grew restless. The one who had trained this version of Junpei was Kinoshita from the kitchen.

Kinoshita from the kitchen said he had worked his way through school in Tokyo by delivering milk and newspapers while working as a restaurant cashier, but encountered the Great Kanto Earthquake and fled to Osaka. The day Kinoshita was hired in shabby clothes, they went to the bathhouse together. Seeing him peer into a small pouch and fish out coins one by one stirred Junpei’s sympathy. When Kinoshita told him about escaping the flames during the earthquake by jumping into the Sumida River and swimming—how a female student wearing hakama had been swimming alongside him but drowned when her clothes became a hindrance—Junpei found himself inexplicably drawn to him and grew fond of him. As Kinoshita—working shampoo into his long hair—asked, “Osaka must’ve shaken something fierce too, eh?” Junpei replied, “Shook like hell,” and explained in detail. But when the tremors began that day and he realized Mitsuko hadn’t yet returned from school, he rushed there with feigned desperation. “Must’ve scared you, eh?” he said, grabbing her hand. “What nonsense,” she scoffed, “Earthquakes? Not scary one bit.” Though her hand remained in his grip, she called him “Weirdo Jun-chan” and “Mr. Jinbei” (meaning lecher)—humiliations he naturally kept to himself.

Kinoshita’s story about the female student’s hakama spreading open on the water… awakened the adult in Junpei. Kinoshita, who claimed to be taking Waseda University lecture notes to prepare for the bar exam, would invariably perform a hip-swinging dance whenever he encountered women of marriageable age on the street. Junpei also shook his hips, guffawed, and looked around.

One time when he came to his senses, he found himself lingering in the maids' room of all places. The next day at Sennichimae, he entered a sideshow tent called "Ama Performance" and stared fixedly at the divers' white legs and breasts swelling under bleached cloth wraps. Then on another day, he became entranced by the weary face of a rokurokubi woman with her elongated neck. He turned sixteen. Irresponsibly praised by Kinoshita—who said his second skin would soon make him a ladykiller—he stole Lait Cream from Mitsuko's vanity (she being a proper schoolgirl now) and smeared it on his face and hands. To avoid detection of the scent, he kept away from others. But when discovered—or so he thought—he believed he'd earned Mitsuko's mockery. Vainly peering at his second skin in the mirror showed him resembling Brother Bunkichi. The slanted eyes drooping downward, low nose on broad forehead, wide face tapering to narrow chin—all identical. Observing others' faces revealed every one handsomer than his own. Even sulfur-scented beauty lotion and makeup proved inadequate; resigning himself, he eventually turned nineteen. With numerous shortcomings already burdening him, the conviction grew stronger that Mitsuko would come to detest him for his looks most of all.

His single-minded reliance on his kitchen skills had progressed to the point where they could sufficiently sustain Marugame's culinary operations if this continued—a development his aunt and uncle rejoiced over. Junpei himself threw his entire being into the kitchen with humble devotion. Yet Mitsuko perceived this diligent attitude as lacking esprit and detested it. While looks were secondary, a certain student from Kansai University’s specialized department—who had begun casually speaking to her during her school commute around that time—had quite an odd face. However, this student understood what passed for esprit, and Mitsuko found little of value there. They exchanged letters sealed with 3√, and even Junpei realized how the swell of Mitsuko’s breasts had suddenly become noticeable. Mitsuko wandered out at night absentmindedly, had her chest pressed by a certain student, and trembled in a grotesque rattling manner. In the night air of Ikukunitama Shrine's precincts, teeth clattered with sharp clarity. Eventually, overwhelmed by emotion, Mitsuko said in a parched voice, “No—I don’t want to be abandoned,” yet abandoned she was.

Days passed until the parents realized Mitsuko was pregnant. That she had already completed her girls' school graduation ceremony left them relieved this wouldn't become fodder for scandal sheets. When rumors spread of someone lingering outside Mitsuko's bedroom late one night, suspicion fell upon Junpei. He found himself unable to muster denial, yet his eyes when looking at Mitsuko swallowed resentment. On a rainy night he swayed toward her sleeping face—still reckless. Mitsuko's eyes glared white-clear; all at once the terrible violent blood drained away.

When the Marugame couple were informed by Mitsuko that the other party wasn't Junpei, they panicked, adopted an excessively formal manner, summoned Junpei before the long brazier, and said: “She’s an unskilled daughter, but please take her.” Junpei placed his hands down sharply and said “Thank you very much”—a greeting as though he had long anticipated this very event. Looking down, tears streamed onto the tatami without him even wiping his eyes—such a theatrical display that the Marugame couple momentarily felt as though they had taken the stage themselves. Junpei humbly received the cup his uncle offered with “Let’s have a drink,” drained it in one gulp, and returned it. Even during those mere actions, a heavy silence hung in the air. Just as this oppressive atmosphere seemed to rupture, Junpei asked in an earnest manner—voicing the words he needed to utter even from his foolish self—“But does Miss Mitsuko consent to this?” Mitsuko, who had been warned they’d sew her mouth shut if she so much as mentioned wanting to become a nun, brazenly declared, “You and I were betrothed from the start anyway.” The parents grimaced despite themselves, but Junpei puffed out his chest in slack-jawed grinning, his joy at having his desires fulfilled plainly evident in his demeanor. He ingratiated himself with everyone to a nauseating degree. Aunt proved perceptive indeed when she observed there was nothing stronger than a fool.

The wedding day was hastened. It was hastened to take place before Mitsuko’s belly became noticeable. When they consulted the calendar and found no auspicious days whatsoever, they settled after much wavering on the fifteenth—a day of Buddha’s Demise—reasoning that mid-month dates fostered harmony. On the wedding day, Bunkichi from Rokkan Village left Kinzou’s house at dawn, shouldered a persimmon branch, walked two ri along the road, and boarded the Nankai Electric Railway from Kishiwada. He reached Namba Terminal around noon, but being unfamiliar with Osaka’s streets, dusk had already fallen by the time he appeared at Marugame’s kitchen before Ikukunitama Shrine—a distance of less than one kilometer.

When Junpei turned around from grilling the ceremonial glowering sea bream for that day’s wedding feast, Bunkichi stood there chuckling sheepishly. Though a decade had passed since their last meeting, Junpei recognized his brother instantly—unchanged as ever. “Brother! You came?” he said, keeping hold of the uchiwa fan as he approached. To Bunkichi’s eyes, Junpei cut an impressive figure in his white cook’s uniform, his posture seemingly straightened—a change he remarked upon. Junpei’s height came from the kitchen clogs he wore. At twenty-two, Bunkichi measured just four shaku seven sun. Junpei stood about nine sun taller. Junpei demonstrated by peeling a persimmon. When the peel spiraled cleanly away to reach the plaster wall, Bunkichi marveled and praised it.

That night, as the wedding feast was coming to a close, Bunkichi’s stomach began to ache. It was because he had eaten everything on the trays and drunk sake. He had long been harboring roundworms. When he tried to get up to go to the toilet, the hem of the borrowed formal kimono was too long and tangled around his legs. He collapsed right there and thrashed about while crying out in agony. He was carried to another room and a doctor was summoned. He expelled them from his intestines and soiled the nightgown. In the stench, Junpei nursed him. When Bunkichi finally settled down and fell asleep, Junpei went to the bedroom. The night had deepened, and Mitsuko was already asleep. Her hands were sprawled out carelessly. When he suddenly realized it—what a fool he’d been— he found himself shoved away.

The next morning, Bunkichi’s stomachache had completely subsided. When Bunkichi said he’d be scolded by Kinzou if he didn’t return soon, Junpei accompanied him all the way to Namba. They descended Genshojizaka slope, cut through Kuromon Market, reached Sennichimae, and entered Izumoya. Though worried about another stomachache, Junpei wanted his brother—who subsisted on radishes and leaves back home—to taste something exquisite. Having two yen to spare, he ordered eel rice and crucian carp sashimi. Partly because Izumoya’s menu was mediocre except for these dishes and liver soup—but mainly to showcase kitchen wisdom by declaring how their eel sauce and carp vinegar-miso defied imitation. Bunkichi slurped noisily through his praise: “That stepsister Hamako from Ma’s side graduated higher elementary and nurses at Osaka University Hospital—real impressive! But your Missus outshines her proper! Me though—shittin’ my nightclothes like some pathetic fool… Forgive me.” It emerged Kinzou exploited Bunkichi like a servant—that savings account lie laid bare when he’d stolen ten sen for Murasame yokan only to get beaten swollen. Parting ways with this brother on the return journey, Junpei vowed—even through Mitsuko’s coldness—to endure inheriting Marugame and rescue him. His habitual strut—back arched in ambition—strained his lower belly until hernia pains stabbed fiercer than ever.

As a husband in name only, the days slipped by in futility. Even a worm will turn—wouldn't it be better to act cold and keep her waiting? So advised Kinoshita of the kitchen workspace who had sensed the situation, but Junpei lacked even a shred of such resolve or resourcefulness. They deliberately insisted it was Junpei's child, but the student's baby emerged from Mitsuko's womb. Drawn by curiosity, they approached, but Junpei was not permitted into the delivery room. However, the midwife, understanding the situation, handed the newborn to Junpei. When made to hold it and look, he saw that features like the low nose resembled him. The real father had also had a low nose.

Partly to keep up appearances with the neighbors and partly through being made to bathe and carry the baby around, Junpei found himself developing an inexplicable affection for the infant. However, the baby soon died. The doctor said it was because bathwater had entered its ear. Thus, abominable words were whispered—that Junpei had deliberately let the water enter. One day, when he was hiding in the toilet and crying secretly, Kinoshita came in and—saying he'd been meaning to speak up until now—comforted him earnestly for the first time. And then Kinoshita said, “I’ve resolved not to stay in this deceitful household any longer.” Though Kinoshita was still far from forty, his hair had thinned, and his prospects of becoming a lawyer remained distant. Because he hadn’t truly applied himself, his kitchen skills never amounted to much; in truth, all sorts of things had begun to disgust him. Having heard that a waitress he knew had recently gone to Tokyo, he had begun thinking of following after her. He had taken four months’ advance wages from Marugame to visit that waitress, but his true intention was to default on the debt.

That night, they went to a café. When the smell of cheap perfume from the woman who had approached them unexpectedly made Junpei recall his dead father—leaving him lost in somber thought—Kinoshita leaned close to his ear and whispered: “This girl’s available for cash. Want me to set it up?” Junpei was startled. “I’ll pay, Mr. Kinoshita—you go ahead and woo her. I’ll leave her to you.” Unbeknownst to him, he had become such a man. His setbacks—beginning with the hernia and countless beyond reckoning—clung to him like a second skin.

II

When Bunkichi was awakened in the dead of night, he loaded bamboo shoots onto the handcart. He pulled it along the pitch-dark country road to Kishiwada with a lantern attached. The sound of cartwheels resonated uneasily in his gut. Gradually the sky paled, and when he reached Kishiwada’s vegetable market, morning had come. They gave him thirty yen for the shoots. Remembering Kinzou’s instruction—tuck it deep into the bellyband’s fold and press lightly—he did exactly that. Suddenly realizing this money could take him to Osaka for mamushi and crucian carp sashimi, his legs shook. He rattled the empty cart to Kishiwada Station where train sounds called. After securing the cart to a utility pole and buying an Osaka ticket, he stood on the platform. The train delayed briefly. Restlessness eroded his resolve, sending him repeatedly to the toilet. Emerging just as the train arrived, he scrambled aboard. Motion lulled him into drowsiness. Jolted awake by the conductor’s shake—“Namba! Namba terminus!”—he blinked. Heart buoyant at their early arrival, he scampered through sunlit Nankaidori to Izumoya’s shuttered entrance.

Sennichimae was morning, and the stone pavement of the movie theater was still wet. He walked while gazing restlessly at the movie billboards. His neck began to ache. At the traffic signal crossing toward Dotonbori, he received a stern warning from the policeman. From Dotonbori, he crossed Ebisubashi Bridge and walked along Shinsaibashi Street. Having grown weary from peering into every shop window, he turned back and lingered on Ebisubashi Bridge when a police motorboat raced beneath it. A night soil boat passed behind him. Suddenly Rokkan Village came to mind, and Kinzou’s voice echoed: “You’re an Ise beggar—once you sink your teeth in, you’ll never let go.” Feeling sudden hunger, he started toward Izumoya but lost his bearings. Unable to decide whom to ask for directions, he grew despondent. Standing sullen before Nakaza Theater’s billboard, a man approached offering half-price movie tickets. Uncomprehending yet seizing the chance, he asked: “Izumoya?” “Across here,” the man snapped. Turning around revealed a sign—but this shop differed from where Junpei had taken him. Convinced multiple Izumoyas couldn’t exist, he suspected fox trickery. Yet lured by grilled eel’s aroma, he entered Mamayo, devoured food like a starved ghost, paid, and emerged with twenty-seven yen remaining. Beside Nakaza stood a phonograph shop. Next to the phonograph shop was a food vendor.

Between the phonograph shop and the food shop was a cramped alley. When he emerged from there, it was like a temple precinct. When he turned left, Rakutenchi came into view. He quickened his pace, buoyed by the joy of recognizing Sennichimae ahead. Because the bell at the movie hut across from Rakutenchi was ringing clamorously, he bought a ticket in some panic. Because the show hadn’t started yet, he felt let down and stared at the curtain as if trying to bore holes through it. The number of customers had also grown, and finally it began. He drank ramune, bit into fried beans, and when the film reached its climax—Yeah! Yeah! He hollered “Go for it!” and was scolded by the people around him. When a scene appeared of a beautiful woman being gagged with a muzzle, abruptly, desire for her arose. When he checked money upon leaving the hut, there was still twenty-six yen and eighty sen left. He recalled having once heard that Osaka had a brothel district. He had heard that the women there would be kind to him. With a sheepish chuckle, he asked people passing by where to find a brothel district, but they dismissed him—“What’s this precocious brat? How old are ya anyway?”—and paid him no mind. When he said twenty-three, the man wore a look of genuine disbelief but still kindly told him to take an automobile. He rode in his first-ever automobile to the main gate of Tobita Yukaku.

Twenty-six yen and sixteen sen. As he loitered through the brothel district, he was seized and swiftly dragged away. While he was dazed, ten yen was taken, leaving sixteen yen and sixteen sen.

When he sang a Bon dance song in the prostitute’s room, she exclaimed, “What a lovely voice! Sing another one for us!” Praised, he raised his voice even louder, making customers and prostitutes laugh throughout the rooms. “Hey listen,” she said, “I wanna eat sushi—won’tcha have some?” Pressed close against him as she urged “C’mon then!”, she had two portions brought over for eleven yen and sixteen sen. While they ate, someone came announcing “Time’s up.” “Don’t wanna go back—wanna stay longer,” he whined nasally on purpose, but when told to get up, couldn’t bring himself to move. He ached to the bone with joy at being treated kindly for the first time in his life. Lighting more incense made the last ten-yen note vanish. The prostitute lay sleeping in disarray—he lacked even the energy to call “Hey” and wake her. Suddenly Kinzou’s face surfaced in his mind, terrifying him. Leaving meant descending stairs where his figure appeared in a large mirror beside hers—that wizened four-shaku-seven-sun body feeling shriveled smaller still. Sent outside into night proper, he found the brothel district bright as noon with willows swaying in wind. Along Daimon Street he walked with tentative steps. Fifty sen bought student-style wooden clogs.

The thong straps dug into his feet, but their clattering against the pavement still made a satisfying sound. He bought the hunting cap he had always wanted to try wearing. One yen and sixty sen. His forehead was hidden, and the smell of new cloth wafted pungently. He drank rotgut. He drank three glasses, but after that, it wouldn’t go down his throat. One yen and ten sen. He entered an udon shop and ordered kitsune udon and ankake udon. He left half of both uneaten. Ninety-two sen. He walked through Shinsekai but felt no desire to look at the illustrated billboards or step inside any of the establishments. At a drugstore, he bought Neko○○, entered Tennoji Park, and sat down on a bench under a gas lamp. The hand gripping four ten-sen white copper coins and two one-sen copper coins was drenched in sweat. He thought he wanted to catch a glimpse of Junpei. But how could he meet Junpei with this face that had squandered thirty yen? he thought. What had become of the car he’d abandoned at Kishiwada Station? He had to light a lantern. He thought Kinzou wasn't scary. The gas lamp's light grew piercing as the night deepened. The roar of the zoo's tiger was heard. He entered the thicket and drank Neko○○.

The sky loomed before his eyes; he spewed smoke from his mouth again and again, and thrashed about for a long time.

III

Dawn broke，and Bunkichi was carried into Tennoji Municipal Hospital. By the time Junpei rushed over，still in the clothes he’d worn returning from the fish market，it was of course too late. Upon hearing from the nurse that he had been faintly exhaling smoke，Junpei cried out loud. There was no suicide note to speak of，but because an old letter he had once sent had been crumpled up inside his belly band，Junpei received word and was at least able to see his brother’s face in death—which people said was still proof of their fraternal bond—and Junpei repeatedly lamented，though he didn’t understand the circumstances，that if only Bunkichi had visited him once or sent a letter before becoming so desperate，there might have been some way to save him. In the hospital cafeteria，as he shoveled egg rice into his mouth with his face thrust into the bowl，tears fell，and somehow anger toward Kinzou began tightening his chest.

But when he finished the village funeral and suddenly realized it, it seemed he still hadn’t uttered a single resentful word toward Kinzou. After meekly offering to compensate for the thirty yen that had been persistently brought up, he hurried back to Osaka—on that very day delivering food to a house bustling with wedding banquet preparations—staying until late into the night adjusting soup seasoning in their kitchen and assisting with sake flasks, until finally receiving a congratulatory envelope and stepping outside into a moonlit night bright enough to read by. The slope from Shimoderamachi to Ikukunitama Shrine stood empty—only the clack of tall geta ascending, the far-off howl of a dog... In the loneliness of this midnight townscape, he felt a sudden pang of nostalgia. Brother, he thought, you're dead now. Fueled by ceremonial sake's warmth, he wheeled about abruptly, descended the slope into Dotonbori's glow, his feet carrying him toward the brothel quarter behind the theaters. Nearly every latticed door stood shut save one where the madam snoozed beneath eaves; he slipped inside. In a grimy room unfit for commerce, he waited listlessly until the prostitute barged in without ceremony.

When the choking stench assailed his nose, Junpei felt this prostitute's presence had become unreal. Yet held back by his instinctive fear of female rejection, he hesitated to touch even her shoulder, and while he fumbled indecisively, the prostitute had fallen asleep. Listening to her snores, he found himself recalling those days of futile misery spent beside Mitsuko.

In the morning, as he walked back toward Marugame with his heart heavy at the thought of being scolded by his uncle and aunt, he suddenly felt relieved when he resolved to run away from Marugame. He returned home, ignored the voices calling "What happened?" and "Open up!", took out the secretly saved congratulatory money from various places that had grown to about two hundred yen, and changed his clothes. He glared at his uncle, aunt, and Mitsuko with a face that said he was leaving for good and never coming back, but they didn't seem to grasp his intent. He had wanted them to notice and either stop him or say something kind so he might reconsider, but since they couldn't read his heart, he lost all resolve and lingered indecisively for a while. But in the end, having changed his clothes, there was nothing left but to leave—with that feeling weighing on him, he dejectedly walked out of the house.

Later, Aunt spread the story that he had been egged on by bad influences and that running away was for the best. He liked the phrase "running away." Uncle had thought about handing over the family business, but "You damn fool!"—this seemed to be his true feelings. Mitsuko, now restricted from going out for the time being, felt an unpleasant sensation and was sulking. Moreover, being abandoned by Junpei made their reputation suffer, but they also felt a faint loneliness in their hearts. It occurred to her that perhaps deep down she might have harbored some willingness to eventually forgive Junpei, who had been persistently pursuing her—but she immediately dismissed this as too absurd a fantasy.

Junpei stayed at a cheap inn in Sennichimae Kotohira-ura. He himself couldn’t make sense of what feelings had driven him to flee Marugame; in the end, it might have been something like a farce. He bought a dark indigo kasuri-patterned kimono and wandered aimlessly about town like some young master from a respectable family, with no particular purpose in mind. During the day, he went to the movie theaters in Sennichimae and Dotonbori. At night, he amused himself at the café-bar "Rian" near his inn. At Rian, he felt a pain that felt like being flayed every time he saw five yen, ten yen disappearing, yet being called "Takamine-san" over and over made him so happy that he let the waitresses crowd around him.

One night, after deliberately ordering clear ozoni soup and taking a sip—Who could eat this poorly seasoned slop? No, listen—the taste of clear soup all comes down to how you fry the kombu for the dashi—he was spouting this shallow wisdom when a long-haired man suddenly sidled up to him. “First time payin’ respects to you today, sir,” the man said with misplaced formality, laying on a showy gangster act. “Just a young punk borrowin’ three inches under your eaves here—hope you’ll pardon the intrusion.” While Junpei was turning deathly pale and trembling, the waitress suddenly said, “Mr. Takamine, let’s buy some cigarettes,” and took out his large fish market wallet, opening it. The man peered in, then abruptly changed his demeanor. With his face creasing into countless wrinkles, he burst into laughter about the ridiculously large wallet, then slumped drunkenly as if thoroughly plastered. The man was Oicho-Kabu Kitada, a well-known swindler in the Sennichimae district.

Egged on by Oicho-Kabu Kitada, that night he gambled with four or five swindlers at a house in Shinsekai. He learned the readings for cheating terms like Inketsu, Nizo, Santa, Shisun, Goke, Roppō, Nakine, Oicho, Kabu, and Nige. When he placed bets half-heartedly, a kabu situation arose—“the pawnshop’s load falls outside”—and the money became his. For the first time in his life, he dimly felt a sense of victory, and something like confidence warmed the blood in his chest. But as he kept placing bets, all the money he had was eventually taken—of course, it had been a scam from the start. But even knowing this, Junpei found himself unable to muster any desire to confront Kitada. The next day, Kitada treated him to stew and half-portions at ※([reversed gamma] < 又, shop emblem). As Junpei bowed his head in gratitude for the meal—perhaps Kitada truly pitied him at last—he offered, “How ’bout I set you up with a woman?” “When they called me out for buttin’ in with Rian’s Kogane—said I must be sweet on her—I went red as a beet, thinkin’ how reliable you were, Big brother. I am lookin’ out for her, see? But I ain’t no ladies’ man. You take Kogane for me, yeah?” That attitude was the same as when he had gone to Kinoshita once before, but since Kitada had already gotten Kogane for himself, it felt all the more unsettling.

When the money ran out, Oicho-Kabu Kitada returned to his main trade. The paintings he sold in the late-night entertainment districts would turn out to be clumsily rendered Western beauty photographs or scenes of the Loyal Retainers' Raid when secretly opened. "It's absolutely not a scam," Kitada would rattle off in a fidgety manner—half-crouched as if feigning excitement or fear—and when people gathered, Junpei, acting as the decoy, would be the first to produce money. Kitada, who had some artistic talent, would sometimes copy paintings and sell them. In such cases, however, the scrutiny from that quarter grew even harsher. The decoy Junpei often felt a chill at the thought of crossing dangerous bridges, but precisely because of this, he began walking with a different bearing, as if he had stepped into a world of lethal weapons.

The fickle Kitada sometimes worked as a peddler. In the backstreets of Tenma Keihan, he would procure Osaka XX Newspaper happi coats from a secondhand shop for one yen and twenty sen each, then peddle his wares door-to-door in suburban homes—tearfully hawking three outdated magazines for fifteen sen each: issues of Sunday Mainichi and Weekly Asahi with their publication dates scrubbed off the covers using paper scraps, or Osaka Puck issues with the dates erased. Then he would bundle five backdated new volumes—King, Kōdan Club, Fuji, Shufu no Tomo, and Kōdan Magazine—for fifty sen, mainly targeting barmaids returning late at night in front of the Ebisubashi-dori day-and-night bank. His supplier was Namba's Motoya, where he bought up old books at scrap prices, peeled them apart, then haphazardly stacked the pages without any continuity to add bulk, attached plausible covers, trimmed the edges—and outdated new books were born. Since the jumbled contents weren't meant to be read immediately, he pre-wrapped them in cellophane to prevent browsing, making them look just like new books. Junpei would become the decoy or sometimes take on the role of top swindler, his complexion growing deathly pale from their late-night dealings. Junpei thought of Oicho-Kabu Kitada—who properly gave him a percentage of their earnings—as a methodical man, and he suddenly felt a nostalgia tinged with something like feminine tenderness.

One day, when Kitada had neither gambling funds nor patience for peddling left, he said, "Takamine, ain't there nowhere we can hit up for cash?" Behind these words, Junpei understood the implication was to go beg at Marugame, but even as he hesitated at that very notion, the image of his stepsister Hamako suddenly floated into his mind. The dead Bunkichi had said she worked as a nurse at Osaka University Hospital. When he went to visit her, Hamako—now grown tall and blossomed into a proper woman—let out an instinctively nostalgic cry upon recognizing Junpei. But having swiftly taken in Junpei's disheveled appearance that betrayed no semblance of respectable living, she abruptly composed her expression into one of practiced nonchalance. Approaching him as one might address a patient—"Is something troubling you?"—she silently guided him outside the hospital with her eyes. At Tamae Bridge's edge, following Kitada's instructions—though ashamed to disclose the reason—Junpei pleaded that he'd fled Marugame penniless and hadn't eaten since morning. From her red purse she reluctantly produced a five-yen note. After exchanging brief words about deceased Bunkichi, Hamako advised that losing his temper would only bring loss—he must return to Marugame, make something of himself, and come back to Rokkan Village in splendor. As Junpei thought Yes, yes, that's right, a sudden urge to weep welled up inside him until tears streamed freely. "Sis," he blurted needlessly—"I'll make good! Wash my hands of this life! Do things proper!"—growing inexplicably agitated until he clenched his fists, shook violently, and jerked up his bowed face to see filthy riverwater reflected in blurred eyes. As Hamako scurried back toward the hospital, Oicho-Kabu Kitada materialized from somewhere praising, "Takamine! You put on quite the act! Crying them crocodile tears so smooth-like—that's real talent!" But Junpei wondered if that were truly so.

That money was immediately lost in gambling and taken away. One day, he heard a rumor that Mitsuko would soon be taking a husband. The next day, when he went to subtly investigate the situation in the neighborhood, it seemed to be true. He went straight to Osaka University Hospital. Before he could even wait for Kitada’s advice about going to beg with tears, when counseled, tears flowed abundantly. He received five yen. With part of it, he bought a bottle of premium sake for one yen and eighty sen, had it delivered to Marugame with "Congratulations, Takamine Junpei" written on it, and when he gambled the remaining money, he got so lucky that people started grasping at his "auspicious face" as if even a fool could strike it lucky.

He split the money with Kitada and boarded the Tokyo-bound train from Umeda Station, seen off by Kitada. When he heard Mitsuko was taking a husband, the very ground of Osaka seemed to fill him with dread, while simultaneously feeling driven by the relentless urge to rise in the world. Kinoshita was supposed to be in Tokyo; back during his Marugame days, Junpei had once received a postcard urging him to come visit.

After arriving at Tokyo Station, it took half a day to finally locate Kinoshita's residence near the Arakawa Waterway. He had thought Kinoshita would have become a lawyer, but the place was clearly a slum, and each night Kinoshita headed out to Tamanoi to run a yakitori stall. Nearing forty, Kinoshita seemed to have privately abandoned any hope of becoming a lawyer. The skewers he sold for two sen each consisted of eight parts leeks to two parts offal, while his sake, port wine, awamori, and whiskey were all more diluted than at any other stall. Every night Kinoshita meticulously calculated his profits, using forty percent to cover living expenses, setting aside another forty percent as untouchable savings, placing the remaining twenty percent in a box that would eventually fund his visits to brothels.

While Kinoshita entertained women, Junpei had to manage the stall alone. The stench of drainage ditches and disinfectant hung thick in the air. As night deepened, the mournful notes of a masseur's flute—unfamiliar to Osaka ears—drifted through the darkness. On moonlit evenings when foot traffic dwindled, an ominous tension seemed to permeate the streets like gathering malice. When locals with crisp accents—unlike Osaka's wheedling swindlers—parted the stall curtain, he grew flustered. When customers remarked, "You're from Kansai, eh?" he'd rub his hands together—"Yeah, that's right"—often miscalculating skewer counts. Still he worked diligently: procuring offal, cooking rice for beef bowls, scrubbing pots—all while pretending not to hear Kinoshita's half-hearted suggestions to take it easy. Yet when realization struck, he understood—Kinoshita resented this freeloading arrangement. In veiled terms came the words: "You've got proper skills for better work," but Junpei discerned the true message—leave. Kinoshita agonized over rice vanishing since Junpei's arrival as if his own flesh were being pared away. Any hardship he could endure—except that kitchen air steeped in fish-gut stench. It reeked of Marugame's kitchens. And beneath it all—Mitsuko.

However, finding it unbearable to stay, he was hired as a live-in worker at a sushi restaurant in Asakusa. When put to work, he demonstrated full-fledged skills, but being twenty-three, he was seen as a man so unreliable it beggared belief—precisely why they deemed him qualified to be driven like a packhorse. “The tea’s ready.” “Right.” “Grate the wasabi.” “Right.” “Wash the dishes.” “Get to it.” He was driven to the point of dizziness. While grating the wasabi, tears welled up, and before he knew it, they became real tears as he sobbed quietly. He had come to Tokyo intending to make something of himself, but there was no way any prospects could take shape.

One night, a sudden pain struck the lower abdomen. Unable to bear it, he was permitted to rest and lay down in the low-ceilinged second-floor servants' quarters when the agony intensified until his body nearly leapt up—It hurts! "It hurts!" he yelled. The maid, startled by the cry, came upstairs and upon seeing his ashen face rushed off to call a doctor. The worsening hernia necessitated surgery. After over ten days of bedridden recovery when he could finally sit up, the master asked for the first time: "Do you have no relatives?" When he answered they were in Osaka, the master gave ten yen for train fare there. Accepting it with both hands while declaring "I'll repay your kindness once I succeed," he wept as always, face set with resolve as he boarded the Osaka-bound train.

In the evening, he arrived at Umeda Station and went straight to “Ririan”. The lineup of waitresses had changed, and Kozuzu was gone. The only familiar-faced woman there said Kozuzu had eloped to Beppu. “Her man’s the scroll-mounter’s son—you know the one, right? The guy who’d nurse a single Tanchī but tipped three whole yen each time.” When I realized it, I found myself now only ordering a single glass of Tanchī. He ordered just one drink and treated her to sweets, but when he asked about Oicho-Kabu Kitada, to his surprise, it seemed Kitada had followed Kozuzu to Beppu. After paying the bill and stepping outside, only twenty sen remained. He wandered aimlessly through the night streets, ate kitsune udon at Umegae near Ebisu Bridge, bought a bat, and had one sen left over. As night deepened, the nearing-winter wind seeped into his body, making his nose ache. Seeking warmth, he went down from Namba Station toward the subway and crouched before the iron door in Nankai Takashimaya’s basement, but eventually lay down and fell asleep without realizing it.

In the morning, he stood for a while in the shadow of Ikukunitama Shrine's torii gate before making his way toward Osaka University Hospital at Tanabashi Bridge. Having wandered aimlessly all the way to Ikukunitama, his hunger intensified further, making the one-ri journey feel endless. As he walked, he wondered why he hadn't gone to Marugame to beg for money instead, though no convincing reason came to mind. When he visited the hospital, Hamako's eyes now brimmed with tears and her voice quivered. While this stemmed from resentment over having funds squeezed from her meager wages, Junpei appeared so wretched that this explanation alone felt insufficient. Though knowing it futile, she persisted—"Can't you show some spine and manage without leaning on me?"—before pressing seven yen into his hand. He pulled out the bat case from his pocket, slipped the money inside, and while securing it away tears surfaced even as he forced a faint smile. After parting from Hamako, a lingering sweetness remained—he found himself wishing she'd scolded him more harshly still. He entered a diner near Tamae Bridge and ordered a beef bowl. These Osaka beef bowls use real meat after all, he thought through mouthfuls—unlike Kinoshita's stall fare with its stringy horse flesh dyed dull red to pass for beef. Between bites came the sudden notion: if he went to Beppu, there might be one chance in a thousand of finding Kozuzu or Oicho-Kabu Kitada.

At Tenpozan's Osaka Shosen waiting area, when he bought a ticket to Beppu and eighty sen remained, he used twenty sen to purchase a red bean bun and boarded the ship. On board, being charged fifteen sen for a blanket left him feeling wretched, but when the meal arrived, he felt delight. He had planned to sustain himself with the red bean bun until Beppu. In the fog off Shōdoshima's waters, the ship's progress slowed, and it was already night when they entered Beppu Bay. The lights at the mountain's base gradually drew near, and at the pier, Morinaga Caramel's neon sign tower flickered.

The ship came alongside, and as the pier's lights flashed on—Ah! Tears involuntarily welled up in Junpei's eyes.

Oicho-Kabu Kitada, wearing a ryokan happi coat and holding a lantern, was glaring fixedly in this direction with those fearsome eyes of his. “Big bro!” “Big bro!” he shouted while disembarking. Kitada stood dumbstruck for a moment, speechless. When Junpei said, “Big bro knew I was comin’ to Beppu, didn’t ya?” he hissed sharply—keeping his voice low enough not to carry—“Ya dumb shit. I ain’t here t’welcome you lot. Came t’snag customers.”

Upon hearing this, it turned out Kitada was now working as a tout at a hot spring inn, and Kozuzu had become a maid at the same establishment—in other words, the two had become a true working couple. As he pressed for details: Kitada had long been intimate with Kozuzu, who eventually became pregnant—unquestionably by him—but he initially planned to brush it off, snapping that no one could prove whose seed it was from some stray cur's get. To compound matters, Kozuzu then eloped with the mounting shop owner's son who frequented Rian. His chest seethed—so she did have another man after all!—and upon catching wind that their destination was likely Beppu, he immediately followed only to find them there. He caught them being all sentimental at the hot spring inn, invented some pretext to make them break up—and he did make them break up—but then Kozuzu at that moment... “Wanna know what she said?” Kitada suddenly asked Junpei, but when he could only stare blankly with no means to reply, Kitada immediately continued: “I eloped ’cause I felt sorry for the child.” “Rather than havin’ the kid feel ashamed carryin’ some stray cur’s get that nobody’d claim as theirs, I took advantage of that dim-witted mounting shop brat—kept pesterin’ ’em till they eloped. Made ’em swear the kid was his whether they liked it or not. Figured if they got hitched proper-like, who knows? Maybe the belly’s child’d end up happier that way.” “Usin’ that belly-mindset as yer excuse t’elope—Oicho’s Kitada-san here, how you plannin’ t’paint this pretty now?” He wasn’t one to cave to such faithless wiles—whether it was paternal love or him playin’ the dimwit believin’ her claims they’d done nothin’ together, or maybe fallin’ for her all over again—but his resolve broke. With the capital from their scams dried up and lodgin’ fees pilin’ on, Kozuzu got hired as a maid there while he bargained his way into becomin’ a tout, leanin’ on his silver tongue. From the day he threw on that happi coat and stood at the pier, he’d sidle up to young pairs of women comin’ off ships like he was ’bout to collapse on ’em, grab their bags, then lead ’em to some secluded annex whisperin’ “The baths’re right nearby” and “We got lockable family tubs”—walked out three yen richer with tips included. Kitada said he intended to save money and live modestly with Kozuzu and their soon-to-be-born child as a family of three, then advised, “Takamine, you get yourself into a hot spring resort kitchen, save up your wages, and at least become man enough to set up a yakitori stall along the waterfront.”

That night, Kitada dipped into his own pocket and ended up putting him up at his inn. During the meal, Kozuzu served them, but he had completely forgotten how Kitada used to tease him about favoring her—"Need me to set you two up?"—and offered a perfunctory congratulations on her apparently becoming Mr. Oicho’s wife. The next day, Kitada arranged for him at a small restaurant called Miyakotei on Nagarekawa Street. The master of Miyakotei mentioned that he had trained at a kaiseki restaurant in Osaka and spent some time at a sushi shop in Asakusa, but added that his own place was just a small restaurant as one could see, not serving elaborate dishes like kaiseki—currently specializing solely in seasonal pufferfish cuisine. When asked if he knew pufferfish, Junpei couldn’t bring himself to say he didn’t. There was also the matter of saving face in front of Kitada. His kitchen skills were his sole remaining pride. "I see, you know it? That's a relief," said the master, but in the end, he was only put to work as a chaser for the time being—which he actually found reassuring.

About a month later, one morning, a party of four customers came and ordered pufferfish sashimi and hot pot. Of the two kitchen staff members, one had taken leave four or five days prior while the other had gone out somewhere after closing the previous night and still hadn't returned—leaving Junpei, the chaser, alone cleaning the kitchen. When he consulted the master, he was told, "You can handle this, right?" and this time replied with confidence, "Oh yes, I can manage that." Having properly learned the kitchen's methods over the past month, there was no issue. Seeing this as his chance to have his skills recognized, his knife work became razor-sharp as he meticulously adjusted the vinegar.

That night, police officers came and took the master of Miyakotei into custody, and soon a summons arrived for Junpei as well. Shivering violently as he went, it turned out exactly as feared—the morning customers had been poisoned by the pufferfish cuisine; three of the four had narrowly survived while one died. The master was temporarily released while Junpei remained detained. Days passed with him sitting on the wooden floor, kimono spread limply around him and neck craned forward in filthy posture until he no longer had energy left to cry. Thinking he must be cold, Kitada sent in a blanket.

Around noon after about ten days had passed, a man dressed in formal attire with a family crest staggered into the detention cell. The man, sporting a mustache and engrossed in silent contemplation, exuded such an air of dignity that Junpei found some small comfort in the thought that even someone as esteemed as this could be detained. Suddenly, he thought, this man must have committed an election violation. When he politely greeted him and offered the blanket, saying "Please use this," the man glared sharply at him out of the corner of his eye and silently accepted it. When he was later summoned for questioning and asked the detective in charge, the detective replied that the man was a funeral offering thief. He was a habitual offender who would attend funeral halls and memorial services by pretending to be an acquaintance whenever there was a funeral, using nothing more than a flimsy business card to receive funeral attendance thank-you passes and product coupons, with damages reportedly reaching several thousand yen. He thought it was utter nonsense, but he couldn’t muster the courage to take back the blanket. When he suddenly became convinced that having killed someone through poisoning meant the worst-case scenario would be execution, Junpei began frantically muttering "Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu" over and over. The funeral offering thief viewed Junpei with both pity and derision, thinking it absurd that someone would be reduced to such a state over merely killing a person with pufferfish cuisine. Since there were few precedents for anything worse than negligent homicide, he comforted Junpei by saying the master would likely just face suspension of business—and now this man was his sole remaining support.

However, the master of Miyakotei did not face suspension of business. The master argued that creating such a precedent would bring disgrace not merely upon Miyakotei alone but upon all restaurants in the hot spring resort—that rumors would spread warning people against eating pufferfish here, dealing a significant blow to the city's prosperity—thereby rallying the restaurant association. While one could certainly say the responsibility lay with Miyakotei's master, the true and direct cause rested entirely with Junpei—that vagrant kitchen hand—for entrusting pufferfish preparation to such a shady drifter amounted to being duped by his lie about culinary competence. Having believed him constituted less negligence than falling victim to fraud—indeed, Miyakotei having its reputation tarnished by this swindler was like compensating a thief only to be stung by a bee on tear-streaked cheeks. Of course punishment was necessary to prevent recurrences, but should one penalize the tearful victim or the stinging insect? This concerned the entire hot spring resort's interests—or so he desperately maneuvered. Oicho-Kabu Kitada initially seethed with indignation, but having now gained social standing locally—and with Kozuzu's delivery date approaching—he restrained himself. Through Nakitan's connections, they petitioned everywhere for Junpei's acquittal, but achieved nothing.

Before long, Junpei was sent to prison and handed a sentence of one year and three months. While there were indeed circumstances that might have warranted leniency, having deceived the master of Miyakotei to become an extremely dangerous figure to society—resulting in depriving someone of a precious life—it was judged deserving of punishment. Upon hearing "one year and three months," he shed tears.

He was sent to Tokushima Prison. Since they weren't going to have him prepare pufferfish cuisine here, he was put to work in the mess hall. He felt a peculiar sensation that his kitchen skills might actually be useful in such a place. The mess hall work itself wasn't hard, but obeying the rule forbidding him from tasting anything simmering on the stove became torture. One day, unable to endure any longer, he was caught violating this prohibition and consequently transferred to Sendai Prison as a disciplinary measure.

During the escort, he passed through Osaka Station by train. Peering out the train window from under his woven hat, he saw that two large theaters now stood side by side in front of the station—when had they been built? The escorting police officer bought him anpan at the station. His hands trembled as he tore off pieces of the bread—his first taste of sweet bean paste filling in months. As befitting its purpose as punishment, the work at Sendai Prison was harsh. He carried soil and assembled wood, never discerning the purpose of the work, but the same labor continued day after day. His complexion changed. Because the work was unfamiliar, he was constantly in a lather. When heading out to work in the morning, thoughts of Hamako would surface in his mind. When returning from work in the evening, he thought of Mitsuko; at mealtimes, of Kozuzu’s smiling face. When he slept at night, he dreamed of them. No sooner would he find himself carrying Mitsuko in her sailor uniform on his back than she would transform into Hamako; no sooner did he sense Hamako in her nurse’s uniform than it became Kozuzu’s soft shoulders.

A year passed, and when it was announced that his sentence would end two days early due to the Kigensetsu amnesty, he wept with joy. When leaving prison, upon stating he would work in Osaka, he received train fare to Osaka, lunch money, and an additional twenty-one yen as labor compensation. In Sendai, he spent fourteen yen to buy personal items: a used rayon obi with an Oshima pattern, a shirt, tabi socks, geta sandals, and other necessities. He was shocked to find that prices had risen without his realizing it. Whenever he bought something, he would take money out from the paper bag, look at it and put it back, then take it out again; when handing it over, he would verify each and every bill, ponder something, then finally hand it over convinced. When receiving change too, he developed a habit of putting it in the bag only to take it out again for inspection, pondering, before finally convincing himself to put it away. As he walked along the street, he suddenly lost his sense of direction; unable to distinguish the path he had come from from the one ahead, he stood motionless at a street corner for some time.

He boarded the train from Sendai Station. The train meal tasted good. When transferring at Tokyo Station, he considered getting off to see the town but felt compelled to immediately board the Osaka-bound train, arriving at night. Unaware this darkness came from power conservation measures, Osaka's extinguished neon signs and streetlights felt unnervingly alien. He went straight to Sennichimae where Kimuraya's five-sen café charged him eleven sen for coffee and jam toast. Having missed the one-sen price hike, he agonized over the change at the counter until holding up the line. After hearing a free girls' jazz band in Osaka Theater's basement, he proceeded to Ikukunitama Shrine. His vigil until late night finally revealed Mitsuko's figure. She appeared headed to the baths, her cloth-wrapped golden basin discernible even in dim light—but tears blurring his vision as she retreated left him staring at nothing. Perhaps responding to his mental scream of "Look at me crying just once!", she turned abruptly only to confirm her nearsightedness.

That night, he slept in a twenty-sen-per-night partitioned room at Daiichi Mikasa-kan in Sennichimae Kotohira-ura. When he awoke in the morning, he jolted upright with a start, but realizing this wasn't prison and that he could still sleep as much as he wanted, he felt such thrill that his body shivered. He hummed the Beppu Ondo song, fragments of faces glimpsed through steamship windows bound for Beppu floating through his mind. By the rules of the twenty-sen lodgings, at nine o'clock they put away the futons and drove out the lodgers. He left the lodging at nine, ate an eleven-sen breakfast, and took the train to Tanimibashi Bridge. Impatient even while crossing the bridge, he rushed to Osaka University Hospital only to find Hamako wasn't there. When informed she had married, he sank onto the outpatient bench and remained motionless for some time. "This ain't about begging for cash—just wanted to see her face once," he muttered repeatedly as he walked all the way to Tamaebashi Bridge. Looking down at the river flow from the bridge, he felt a wretched emptiness devoid of any purpose in life. Suddenly remembering his money, he thought Oh right—still got usable cash and pulled out the paper bag. After laboriously counting it out, he found six yen and fifty-two sen. He pondered what to use it for. With no good ideas surfacing, he decided to count it again—the moment he took the paper bag from his pocket—Ah! He dropped it into the river. As everything turned dark before his eyes, one slender hope remained—to report it to the police box. He started walking and gazed at his right hand that had let the paper bag slip. In his ugly body, only that hand retained healthy color and plump flesh, bearing the keen beauty honed through kitchen training. Right—long as I got these hands, I can feed myself, he realized, his pallid face faintly flushing. When he lost his way to the police box and stopped moving, he suddenly lost all sense of direction, his head throbbing dully with feverish heat.

Junpei tilted his head and stood rooted to the spot indefinitely, just as his father Kotaro used to do.