Pathway to Japanese Literature

I “Don’t you dare say you don’t remember! If you’ve got something to say, spit it out! Osaka’s Nitsuiido ‘Makaran’ya’—” “The chief clerk from that fabric store was ill-omened—harsh as it sounds—a murderer,” Grandmother told Junpei in their village. This “Makaran’ya” would come twice monthly—stuffing flawed fabrics, stained fabrics, and whatever else into a single furoshiki wrap—ride the Nankai Electric Railway to Kishiwada Station, then trudge two ri on foot to Rokkan Village to peddle his wares. Without fail, cursed rain would fall wherever he went. He had brought this rain three years prior too. Of all possible times, Junpei’s mother went into labor just then. The midwife who should’ve come by bicycle ended up shuffling through the downpour under an umbrella, clomping along in tall geta clogs until everything turned miserably drawn-out. Through some mishap Junpei was born—but his mother was taken. As for elder brother Bunkichi—born premature and delivered with difficulty—that time alone had clear weather fortune...

Listening, Junpei felt nothing. Though not at that age yet, when he would get into bed and habitually rub his big toe against the next one, his calf would inevitably cramp painfully, leaving him dazed. As this repeated, he grew alarmed by the wrenching pain in his lower abdomen, but Grandmother never realized it might be a hernia. He wet the bed as he slept. To prevent accidents, Grandmother scarcely slept at night herself, and whenever she found him damp, she would shake him awake: “Now Junpei, you’d best listen proper.” Her voice quivered with spiteful satisfaction: “You’re just a stepchild!”

Takamine Kotarou, proprietor of the Yorozuya General Store in Rokkan Village, Senboku District, lived with Grandmother’s daughter Omura for five years and fathered two children—Bunkichi and Junpei—but when Omura died in childbirth, he took this as good fortune and took in a new wife. Perhaps it was the stepmother Osoode who had seized this opportunity, for Kotarou was a man of unassuming reputation who possessed some property. As for elder brother Bunkichi, it was well that he had been adopted by Kotarou’s brother-in-law Kinnosuke, but infant Junpei seemed so pitiable that Grandmother took him in and raised him on milk. If Grandmother were to die, Junpei would have nowhere to go and would have to return to the house with his stepmother; unless he cured his bedwetting now, he would inevitably be bullied. The stepmother had children from a previous marriage, and moreover, she had borne Kotarou’s child—a boy.

…Had Grandmother secretly resented Kotarou? If only Junpei had never been conceived in her daughter’s womb, if only Makaran’ya hadn’t brought that rain—these thoughts consumed her as she repeatedly succumbed to a cruel sort of joy, using her age as an excuse to say things she shouldn’t have, until gradually her efforts took effect. Though he didn’t know the taste of being a stepchild, from around age seven, Junpei had somehow come to feel a pitiful emotion that seeped into his very bones. Grandmother’s demeanor grew strange, withering away day by day until she died, and Junpei was sent back to his father’s place.

The word 'bitter' soon came to envelop Junpei's world. There was a stepbrother one year his junior and a stepsister two years his senior, and even his child's mind understood that this stepsister was comely. Perhaps because her mother had raised her well, at the village elementary school she would face them with pitying looks, lamenting how unfortunate it was that Bunkichi and Junpei's grades remained so dismal. Bunkichi, being eleven already, ought to have fired back some retort, yet he always erupted in guffaws instead. His eyes—not merely the corners but their entire shape—sloped downward, lending his smile an endearing quality that might equally pass for a tear-stained grin. He stood shorter than Junpei and bore a sickly pallor. Though an unreliable elder brother, to Junpei he remained the sole person worth clinging to—so when school let out, Junpei resolved to trail after Bunkichi to Kinnosuke's house.

Kinnosuke owned a mandarin orange orchard and was called greedy. Since he had no son, he had taken Bunkichi as a foster son out of obligation, but when the daughter he had working at a factory in Kishiwada bore a child—a boy—he abruptly changed his mind, and Bunkichi was put to hard labor. He cleaned the cowshed. He picked mandarins. He hauled fertilizer. He split firewood. He babysat. He did all sorts of other work. Junpei helped Bunkichi.

“Brother!” “You’re the one who shit in the schoolhouse!” “Little brother, you’d better cut out the bed-wetting.” They took joy in trading these barbs.

Kotarou’s eyes were still black, but this father was no longer an ordinary man. He suffered from a malignant disease that emitted a foul odor, and to mask it, he made cheap perfume waft pungently about—but this very manner of applying his mind was deemed rather peculiar. When he slept, it was said that moving pictures would appear on the wall. One day, when a naniwabushi performer had come to perform in front of the shop and she told him to come watch—just as Junpei started to go—his stepmother barked, “Am I a madman?!” Having said that, the Stepmother looked bitterly resentful. From that day onward, his decline accelerated violently; when his sister Omiyo, who had married into the Marugame catering shop in Osaka’s Ikutama-mae-cho, rushed to his side, he regained his senses for a fleeting moment—and soon after, Kotarou drew his last breath.

Aunt Omiyo quarreled with Stepmother Osoode over the order of incense offerings. “By any measure, Bunkichi and Junpei deserve pity,” Aunt Omiyo declared, then took the two to nearby Ushitaki Mountain under the pretext of viewing autumn leaves to lift their spirits. At the teahouse before the waterfall, while feeding them daifuku, she told them emphatically, “Auntie’s condolence offering was bigger than anyone’s—so you can hold your heads high!” Then she thumped her chest and hitched up her collar.

Ten-year-old Junpei was taken to Osaka by Aunt Omiyo. The two-ri journey from the village to Kishiwada Station had a pond along the way. He was startled by how large the pond was. Junpei vaguely recalled the line from the state-mandated textbook—"Sakutaro was led by his father over the mountain pass..."—but try as he might, the rest of the passage refused to surface in his mind. Bunkichi, who had come along under the guise of seeing them off, admonished, "Junpei! Shouldn’t you be carryin’ Auntie’s luggage?" Junpei was shouldering a cloth bundle, but his left shoulder remained unburdened. There was luggage on both of Bunkichi’s shoulders. However, Aunt carried only a small basket of mandarins—a gift from Kinnosuke—with every expectation it would return multiplied severalfold over.

When Aunt Omiyo, sympathizing that Bunkichi—who was turning back from Kishiwada Station—must be scared walking alone as night was soon to fall, tried to give him fifty sen, Bunkichi refused, saying “I don’t need money—Uncle Kinnosuke’s made me a savings account,” and went home. As the train began moving, Aunt said to Junpei, “Such a thing couldn’t happen—Bunkichi’s being deceived by Kinnosuke. There’ll come a time when he realizes it.”

Flustered by his first train ride and gazing about restlessly, Junpei could scarcely take in her words. When the train arrived at Namba, a faint resolve tightened in his chest. He recalled Bunkichi’s words—how he had admonished him in brotherly fashion, saying that if he didn’t shape up in Osaka, they’d laugh at him as a country hick.

He arrived at his aunt’s house. Junpei was introduced to various people under the dazzling electric lights, but a dull ringing filled his ears; faces receded into the distance, shrinking one moment only to suddenly loom large the next—leaving him dazed contrary to his expectations. When he tried to brace himself by tightening his lower abdomen, a sharp pain shot through him, making it agonizing to endure. Aunt Omiyo, who had been sorting through condolence gifts and souvenirs, called out, “Jun! Where’re your school things?” He promptly replied, “They’re here.” Taking them out from the cloth bundle to show her, he felt a flicker of pride for the first time. However, his “They’re here” was deemed odd and laughed at, and he later learned this came from his aunt’s daughter Mitsuko-san—a first-year elementary student a year younger than himself. Mitsuko-san scratched her lice-infested head vigorously yet possessed hands startlingly white.

A late dinner was served. When sashimi and other dishes appeared, he kept his eyes down and ate silently like some scolded pup; as he licked leftover soy sauce from pickles, Aunt Omiyo declared, "You’re Marugame’s young master now—no call for such penny-pinching ways," then turned to the maid with crocodile tears glistening. Uncle—who’d been nursing his drink—mumbled something, prompting Aunt to snort, "Better’n some stray kitten, ain’t ya?" The uncle gave a wet grunt of agreement. "He’s skin an’ bones, but hell—must’ve put away two koku o’ rice to make it this far."

He had been dressed in a crisp kimono, but for someone who’d always thought being a foster child meant being like his elder brother Bunkichi, something about this didn’t sit right. When he was given snack money, he found it strange. The country home was a general store that sold penny candies like stick-shaped screws, dog-dung sweets, and acorn treats, yet he’d never been allowed to touch them. On days ending with one and six, night stalls would appear at Komagaike, while balladeers performed and ice cream vendors set up shop before Marugame. Whenever he received two sen and five rin to visit the stalls with Mitsuko, he’d tuck copper coins into his obi and put on city-bred airs. Yet despite his vigilance—like when he mistook the upside-down bamboo shoot-shaped ice cream container for an inedible vessel rather than a rice cracker bowl, breaking it while licking the contents before turning pale at compensation demands amid laughter—there remained countless incidents thereafter demanding stern reprimand.

One day, he left the house to go to the public bath. Ignoring his aunt’s voice asking “Know the way?” he called back “Got it!” in Osaka dialect. Spurred by his own unexpectedly fluent Kansai accent, he clattered down the street and burst through a doorway—only to freeze mid-stride: Oh! Even through the disorienting shift from sunlight to shadow, he gradually realized his mistake—“I... I...”—but his voice died as he spun around to flee. There in the inner parlor of the sweets shop beside the bathhouse lay a stroke-paralyzed old man staring blankly at his retreat. Emerging outside, he collided with an absurdly tall delivery boy returning from errands—“Need somethin’?”—and in panic hurled his bath coin at the youth before snatching a mandarin orange and bolting. The stolen fruit—a three-sen luxury—became fodder for gossip when that same delivery boy later regaled Marugame’s kitchen staff with tales of his frantic antics, laughter echoing until word reached his aunt and uncle. “Shameful business you pulled there!” When confronted, Junpei slapped both palms flat on the tatami—“Won’t happen again!”— hunching over as tears pooled in his downcast eyes. Aunt Omiyo—who’d meant this as light teasing—gaped at this blood-related yet alien creature before her. “What’s with th’formalities? Act your age!” She barked a theatrical laugh. Realizing no punishment loomed, Junpei plastered an ingratiating grin across his sallow face and babbled about how “Old Man Bonbon” from the sweets shop had asked after their schooling. But that stroke-addled confectioner had been mute all along—and soon stopped breathing altogether.

He entered the fifth year of elementary school. Without anyone teaching him, he thoroughly ingrained the pre-sleep "goodnight" ritual into his being. Despite her dark complexion from abstaining from tea, he learned to flatter her to her face by saying she was fair-skinned. Moreover, he was constantly loitering about the kitchen, always waiting for his uncle to assign him small tasks—fetch this, bring that—in such a manner. By paying attention to the household’s affairs, he came to discern his aunt and uncle’s true intentions—to train him in kitchen work, eventually make him Mitsuko’s husband, and even pass down the family business to him.

When Uncle had drifted from his hometown of Yokkaichi to Osaka with a mere sixteen sen to his name, he began by loitering for work on Shimoderamachi’s slopes and pushing handcarts—a starting point that led him through various professions: day laborer, stevedore, kitchen hand at eateries, cook, late-night udon stall operator, oden cart vendor. Now established with a catering shop before Ikukunitama Shrine and priding himself on being a man of hardship, he approached Junpei’s training with the conviction that becoming a proper cook must begin with mastering water use. He had the boy wash dishes in ice-crusted buckets midwinter and taught him to cut daikon into sashimi garnishes ("ken"), fully aware that Junpei would slice his fingers two or three times in the process. When the kitchen knife slipped and cut his hand, they’d first remark that the ken had reddened up. No one asked how his hand was faring. As whispers of pity for a thirteen-year-old boy reached his ears—"Poor thing at his age"—Junpei felt anew the wretched certainty that a foster child truly wasn’t the same as one’s own flesh and blood.

However, Uncle and Aunt did not deliberately treat Junpei as a stepchild. They wore expressions suggesting they had no time for such considerations. Even when they thought him a peculiar child, they never dwelled deeply on it. Their business lived by orders—wedding feasts, sports meet lunchboxes, Buddhist memorial vegetarian meals—making neighborhood reputation vital. For Ikukunitama Shrine's summer festival, they even had proper mikoshi-carrying happi coats tailored like those of good families' sons. In such moments, Junpei's eyes glowed voraciously at Mitsuko, burning with marital hopes—he'd imagine acting spoiled like their pampered son, dramatically wielding kitchen knives while chopping daikon, lodging dish complaints just to see their reactions—yet he could never act on these impulses. By then, though surely noticed by others, Junpei still felt crippling shame over his grotesquely drooping hernia—a secret deformity that made him feel half-human, convincing him his life was doomed. Each recollection wrenched guttural moans from his gut. He muttered nonsensical chants—pokapoka penpen urara—under his breath.

One day, Mitsuko took a basin bath. Her white body shot upright. “Get over there.” Junpei was overcome with shame that left him nowhere to hide. When he thought back at night, suddenly—gibber-gabber mumbo-jumbo— He recited it like a Buddhist prayer. With a pale face, he chanted that Mitsuko clearly hated him. From the neighborhood café came the sound of a popular song. An inexplicable nostalgia washed over him—recalling Bunkichi must’ve made him cry then, he thought—but as the notion formed, tears spilled forth and he wept without restraint. He had resolved never to look again, but the very next day when Mitsuko was taking her basin bath, he grew restless. It was Kinoshita of the kitchen who trained this Junpei.

Kinoshita of the kitchen had worked his way through school in Tokyo delivering milk and newspapers while working as a restaurant cashier, but when he encountered the Great Kanto Earthquake, he fled to Osaka, he said. On the day he was hired in dirty attire, when they went to the bathhouse together, Junpei felt sympathy seeing Kinoshita peer into a small coin purse to fish out coins one by one. But when Kinoshita told him how during the earthquake a female student in hakama trousers had plunged into the Sumida River to escape the flames—swimming alongside others only for her clothing to become a hindrance until she drowned—Junpei found himself inexplicably drawn to him and grew fond. As Kinoshita worked soap lather into his long hair and remarked Osaka must’ve shaken something fierce too, Junpei replied it’d shaken like hell and launched into details. But when tremors began that day and he realized Mitsuko hadn’t returned from school yet, he’d rushed there with feigned desperation, grabbed her hand while saying “Scared of the quake, weren’tcha?” only for her to retort “What’re you on about? Earthquakes ain’t scary one bit,” leaving her hand limp in his grasp. That she’d called him “Weirdo Jun-chan” or “Mr. Jimpachi” (meaning “lecher”)—he never did mention how wretched that made him feel.

Kinoshita’s story about the female student’s hakama trousers spreading open on the water… awakened Junpei’s manhood. Kinoshita, who claimed to be taking Waseda lecture notes to sit for the bar exam, would invariably perform a hip-shaking dance whenever he encountered women of marriageable age on the street. Junpei also shook his hips demonstratively, guffawed loudly, and scanned his surroundings. At some point, he came to his senses only to find himself loitering in the maids’ room of all places. The next day, he entered a sideshow tent in Sennichimae advertising an “Ama Performance” and stared fixedly at the divers’ white legs and the swell of their breasts wrapped in bleached cloth. And on yet another day, he found himself entranced by the face of a woman who looked as weary as a rokurokubi. He had turned sixteen. Because he was in his second phase of puberty, Kinoshita irresponsibly praised him—saying he’d soon become a lady-killer of a man—so he stole lait cream from Mitsuko’s vanity (she was now a high school girl) and applied it to his face and hands. He decided not to go near others so as not to let them notice the smell. However, it became known, and he thought he had incurred Mitsuko’s ridicule. Conceited about entering his second phase of puberty, when he looked in the mirror, he resembled his brother Bunkichi. The downward slant of his eyes, the low nose bridging his wide forehead, the broad face narrowing into a recessed chin—every feature matched exactly. When he paid attention to people’s faces, they all had better ones than his own. Even when he applied sulfur-scented beauty lotion and tried putting on makeup, he realized it wasn’t enough and gave up—until eventually he turned nineteen. On top of his many existing shortcomings, the matter of his appearance now intensified his conviction that Mitsuko would come to detest him.

The single-minded kitchen skills he solely relied upon had developed enough to competently sustain Marugame’s kitchen at this rate—a fact his aunt and uncle rejoiced over. Yet Mitsuko perceived his attitude of humbly devoting himself to kitchen work with dogged dedication as lacking esprit, finding it thoroughly distasteful. Appearance being secondary—around that time, a certain student from Kansai University’s specialized department who had started casually speaking to her on her way to and from school had a rather peculiar face. However, this student understood concepts like esprit, but Mitsuko found little to gain from him. They exchanged letters sealed with "3√", and even Junpei noticed how Mitsuko’s chest had suddenly become more prominent. Mitsuko wandered distractedly through the night, had her chest pressed by a certain student, and shook convulsively with grotesque tremors. In the night air of Ikukunitama Shrine’s precincts, the clattering of teeth rang out with crystalline clarity. Eventually, overwhelmed by emotion, Mitsuko said in a dry voice that she didn’t want to be abandoned—and was abandoned.

Days passed until her parents realized she was pregnant. That she had already finished her girls' school graduation ceremony meant her parents could breathe easy, relieved this wouldn't become fodder for the scandal sheets. When rumors spread of someone lingering outside Mitsuko's bedroom late one night, suspicion fell on Junpei. Junpei felt no urge to deny the accusations, but his eyes when looking at Mitsuko brimmed with swallowed resentment. On a rainy night, he drifted toward Mitsuko's sleeping face—a reckless act after all. Mitsuko's eyes shone white and terrible as the feral blood drained from them all at once.

When the Marugame couple were informed by Mitsuko that the man in question was not Junpei, they panicked, became exceedingly formal, summoned Junpei before the long brazier, and said of their unskilled daughter, "Though she’s an awkward girl, please take her." Junpei suddenly placed both hands on the floor and offered a "Thank you very much" that sounded as though he had long anticipated this very moment. When they looked, there he was on the tatami, tears streaming down his face without even wiping his eyes—such a melodramatic display that the Marugame couple too found themselves momentarily immersed in a performance, as though standing on a stage. Junpei humbly received the cup his uncle offered as if to propose a toast, drank it dry, and handed it back. Even during those simple actions, a heavy silence hung in the air. No sooner had the tension shattered than Junpei—words he wanted even his foolish self to voice—asked with feigned earnestness, "But has Mitsuko-san consented?" Mitsuko, who had been warned that if she so much as mentioned wanting to become a nun they’d sew her mouth shut, brazenly declared, “You and I were betrothed from the start anyway.” Her parents grimaced in dismay, but Junpei merely grinned slackly, puffing out his chest—his manner making the joy of having his desires fulfilled plainly evident. He obnoxiously sought favor from everyone. Aunt’s keen insight saw the truth—nothing was stronger than a fool.

The wedding day was hastened. They hastened it so Mitsuko’s belly wouldn’t yet show. When they consulted the calendar and found no auspicious days at all, after much wavering they settled on the fifteenth—Butsumetsu—reasoning that mid-month days fostered harmony. On the wedding day, Bunkichi of Rokkan Village left Kinnosuke’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 his first time in Osaka, dusk had already fallen by the time he appeared before Marugame’s kitchen near Ikukunitama Shrine—a mere ri away.

When Junpei turned from grilling the ceremonial sea bream for that day’s wedding feast, he found Bunkichi standing there with an awkward chuckle. Though a decade had passed since their last meeting, Junpei recognized his brother instantly—unchanged as ever—and approached still clutching his uchiwa fan, exclaiming, “Brother! You actually came all this way?” To Bunkichi’s eyes, Junpei cut an imposing figure in his white cook’s uniform—even his posture seemed straighter now—and he remarked on it. Junpei’s height owed itself to the kitchen clogs he wore. At twenty-two years old, Bunkichi stood just four shaku seven sun tall (about 142 cm). Junpei measured nine sun higher (roughly 27 cm). Junpei peeled a persimmon to demonstrate his skill. The skin spiraled away in one unbroken coil that reached the plastered wall, drawing impressed praise from Bunkichi.

That night, as the wedding feast was winding down, Bunkichi’s stomach began to hurt. He had eaten everything from the banquet trays and drunk sake. His intestines had long been teeming with roundworms. When he tried to get up to use the toilet, the hem of the borrowed formal kimono was too long and tangled around his legs. He collapsed where he fell and thrashed about in agony. He was carried to another room, and they summoned a doctor. The worms were squeezed out from his intestines, and he soiled his nightclothes. In the stench, Junpei nursed him. When Bunkichi finally settled down and lay still, Junpei went to the bedroom. The night had deepened, and Mitsuko was already asleep. Her hands were sprawled out carelessly. When he suddenly noticed—the fool had been pushed away. He had been pushed away.

The next morning, Bunkichi’s stomachache had vanished completely. Because Bunkichi said he’d get scolded by Kinnosuke if he didn’t return soon, Junpei escorted him as far as Namba. He descended Genshōji-zaka slope, passed through Kuromon Market, went to Sennichimae, and entered Izumoya. He thought Bunkichi might suffer another stomachache, but Junpei wanted to treat his brother—who out in the countryside ate nothing but radishes and leaves—to something delicious. Since he had about two yen in pocket money, he ordered mamushi eel rice and crucian carp sashimi. For one thing—though Izumoya’s cuisine was mediocre apart from its mamushi, crucian carp sashimi, and kimojiru—Junpei wanted to show off kitchen-worker pride by remarking how only this establishment’s mamushi sauce and sashimi sumiso defied imitation elsewhere. Bunkichi slurped noisily as he ate, saying that Stepmother’s Hamako had graduated from higher elementary school and now worked as a nurse at Osaka University Hospital—quite the accomplishment—but Junpei’s bride was even prettier than Hamako; though he himself was a pathetic brother who’d shit his nightclothes, please forgive him. According to what he heard, Kinnosuke was so miserly that he treated Bunkichi like a servant, and that business about keeping a savings ledger for him seemed to be a lie—as proof, just the other day when he’d stolen ten sen to buy some Murasame yokan, he’d been beaten so badly his face swelled up. On his way back after parting with his brother, Junpei thought that even if Mitsuko continued to treat him coldly, he must endure, take over Marugame’s legacy, and go fetch Bunkichi. By habit he became excited and walked with an arched back, striving to succeed; when he strained his lower abdomen, the stabbing pain was worse than usual.

The days passed emptily as a husband in name only. Kinoshita of the kitchen, sensing the situation, advised him that even a tiny worm has half its soul—wouldn't it be better to act coldly and keep her waiting?—but he lacked both the spirit and cunning for such tactics. They deliberately claimed it was Junpei's child, though Mitsuko had actually borne some student's baby. He approached out of curiosity—but they wouldn't let him into Mitsuko's birthing room. Yet understanding their ploy, the midwife handed Junpei the newborn. When he cradled it and peered down at its face, features like that low nasal bridge resembled his own. Though truth be told—the real father's had been just as flat.

Partly for appearances with the neighbors and through being ordered to bathe and carry it about, Junpei found himself developing unexpected affection for the infant. Yet the baby soon died. The doctor claimed bathwater had entered its ear. Hence arose vile whispers that Junpei had deliberately poured it in. One day while hiding tearfully in the toilet, Kinoshita entered and offered his first sincere consolation with words long withheld: "..." Then Kinoshita declared he'd resolved to quit this house of deceit. Though nowhere near forty yet balding, his road to becoming a lawyer stretched endlessly ahead. Having never committed fully, his kitchen skills remained mediocre—truthfully, everything disgusted him now. Hearing his regular waitress had gone to Tokyo recently, he began yearning to pursue her. He'd taken four months' salary advance from Marugame for these visits, planning all along to default.

That night, the two of them went to a café. As the scent of cheap perfume from the woman who approached them unexpectedly made Junpei recall his dead father, leaving him lost in quiet melancholy, Kinoshita—interpreting his demeanor however he pleased—leaned close to whisper, “This girl’s available for cash. Want me to arrange it?” Junpei recoiled in surprise. “I’ll cover the money, Mr. Kinoshita—you go charm her. I’ll pass her to you.”

Before he knew it, he had become that kind of man. Starting with his hernia, countless shortcomings—too many to number—clung to him like a second skin.

Two

Bunkichi, awakened in the dead of night, loaded bamboo shoots onto the handcart. Along the pitch-dark country road, he pulled the handcart with a lantern fastened, all the way to Kishiwada. The sound of the cart wheels echoed hollowly in his gut. Gradually, the sky lightened, and by the time he reached Kishiwada’s vegetable market, morning had already come. When he handed over the bamboo shoots, they gave him thirty yen. He recalled what Kinnosuke had told him—to tuck it firmly into the bottom of his belly band and press down on it now and then—and did exactly that. Suddenly, the thought that with this much money he could go to Osaka and eat mamushi and crucian carp sashimi made his legs tremble. When he pulled the empty cart rattling to Kishiwada Station, the sound of a train could be heard. He tied the handcart to a utility pole in front of the station, bought a ticket to Osaka, and stepped out onto the platform. There was a short interval before the train arrived. He grew restless, his resolve wavering until he found himself needing to visit the bathroom again and again. When he came out of the bathroom, the train had arrived, so he hurriedly boarded. Once it started moving, he fell soundly asleep. When shaken awake by the conductor, he heard: "Namba~, Namba terminal station this is~." Thinking happily that he’d arrived early, he scampered through the station grounds and dashed straight down the sunlit Nankai-dori to Izumoya’s entrance—but the shop hadn’t opened yet. In Sennichimae, morning had come, and the stone pavement before the nickelodeons was still wet. While glancing around restlessly, he walked looking up at the nickelodeon posters. The back of his neck began to hurt. While crossing toward Dotonbori at the go-stop, he received a stern warning from the police officer. He crossed Ebisubashi Bridge from Dotonbori and walked along Shinsaibashi-suji.

Having grown tired from peering into each and every shop’s display window, he turned back and lingered on Ebisubashi Bridge—where a river police motorboat raced beneath him. A boat loaded with night soil passed by afterward. Suddenly he was reminded of Rokkamura Village, and Kinnosuke’s voice came to him. “That's an Ise beggar for ya—once they sink their teeth in, you'll never shake ’em loose.” Suddenly feeling hungry, he started walking toward Izumoya but couldn’t figure out the direction. He wanted to ask someone for directions but had no idea who to approach, leaving him with a lingering sense of vulnerability. As he stood before Nakaza with a sullen face, looking up at the posters, a man approached offering half-price tickets for the moving pictures. He had no idea what buying a half-price ticket entailed, so he couldn’t answer—but seizing this chance, he asked, “Might I inquire about something? Where is Izumoya?” “It’s across here,” the man said in a tone that sounded irritated. When he turned around, sure enough, there hung a sign. But this didn’t seem to be the same shop Junpei had brought him to. He couldn't believe there could be multiple Izumoya branches, so he thought he'd been tricked by a fox spirit. However, fiercely tempted by the smell of grilled eel, he entered Mamayo restaurant, ate like a starving child, paid the bill, and upon exiting still had twenty-seven yen and some change left. Next to Nakaza stood a phonograph shop. Next to the phonograph shop stood a food shop. Between the phonograph shop and the food shop was a cramped alley. When he passed through there, it was like temple grounds. When he turned left, Rakutenchi came into view. Realizing that was Sennichimae, he quickened his pace in delight. Because the bell was clanging noisily at the nickelodeon hut across from Rakutenchi, he bought a ticket in a fluster.

Because the show hadn’t started yet, he felt let down and stared at the stage curtain as if to bore a hole through it. The number of customers also increased, and at last, the show began. He drank ramune, nibbled on fried beans, and when the film reached its climax, shouted, “Yeah!” Yeah! He bellowed “Yeah! Go on!” and was scolded by the surrounding people. When the scene of a beautiful woman being gagged appeared, he was suddenly overcome with desire for her. When he checked his funds upon leaving the hut, he still had twenty-six yen and eighty sen. He recalled having once heard that Osaka had a brothel district. They said women would be kind to you there. He chuckled sheepishly and asked passersby where to find women, but they dismissed him with remarks like “What’s with the kid? How old are ya anyway?” When he said he was twenty-three, the man made a face like it was truly impossible, but still kindly told him to take a car. He went to the main gate of Tobita Yūkaku in the first car he’d ever ridden in. Twenty-six yen sixteen sen. As he wandered aimlessly through the brothel district, he was grabbed and swiftly pulled upstairs.

While he was dazedly spacing out, ten yen were taken from him, leaving sixteen yen and sixteen sen.

When he sang a Bon Festival song in the courtesan's room, she said, "What a fine voice ya got! Sing us another one, will ya?" When he, being praised, belted out even louder, laughter erupted from customers and courtesans in rooms throughout the brothel.

“Hey now, I wanna eat sushi—why don’t we get somethin’?” “Let’s eat,” she pressed against him. “There we go.” She ordered two portions, costing eleven yen and sixteen sen. While they were eating, someone came to announce, “Time’s up, y’hear?” “Don’t wanna go back—wanna stay longer,” she said in a deliberate nasal whine, but when pressed, he couldn’t bring himself to get up. The joy of being treated kindly for the first time in his life throbbed all the way to his bones. He lit another incense stick, and the last ten-yen bill vanished. The courtesan slept in disarray. He didn’t even have the energy to call out “Hey” and rouse her. Suddenly Kinnosuke’s face surfaced, and he froze in fear. It was time to leave. As he descended the stairs, a large mirror reflected his figure beside the courtesan. His wizened frame—four shaku seven sun—felt like it had shrunk further still. Having been seen off, night had already fallen outside. The brothel district blazed bright as noon, willows swaying in the wind. He shuffled along Daimon Street. With fifty sen, he bought student clogs.

The straps dug into his feet, but the clogs still clattered with a satisfying sound. He bought the hunting cap he’d always wanted to try on. One yen and sixty sen. His forehead disappeared under the brim, and the pungent smell of new fabric wafted up. He drank rotgut. He managed three cups before it refused to 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 bowls untouched. Ninety-two sen. He wandered through Shinsekai but felt no urge to gaze at picture signboards or step inside anywhere. At the pharmacy he bought cat medicine, then entered Tennōji Park and sat on a bench beneath a gaslight. His hand—clutching four ten-sen white coins and two one-sen coppers—glistened with sweat. He wanted to see Junpei just once. But how could he face Junpei with this thirty-yen squandered face? he wondered. What became of that car abandoned at Kishiwada Station? Had to light the lantern. Kinnosuke thought he wasn’t scared. The gaslight’s glare intensified as night deepened. A tiger roared from the zoo. He pushed into the thicket and drank the cat medicine.

The sky loomed over his vision, smoke pouring from his mouth again and again as he thrashed about for what felt like an eternity.

III

Dawn broke, and Bunkichi was carried into Tennōji City 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. When the nurse told him Bunkichi had been faintly emitting smoke, Junpei cried out loud. There was no suicide note to speak of, but because a crumpled old letter he’d once sent had been stuffed inside the bellyband—allowing Junpei to be notified and at least see his brother’s death-paled face—people said it proved the bond between brothers still held. Junpei kept grumbling, though he couldn’t grasp the full circumstances: If only Bunkichi had visited just once or sent a letter before resolving to die, there might’ve been some way to save him. As he hunched over a bowl of tamago don in the hospital cafeteria, tears fell, and somehow, anger toward Kinnosuke began constricting his chest.

But when he had finished the funeral in the village and suddenly realized it, it seemed he still hadn’t uttered a single resentful word toward Kinnosuke. After being persistently pressed about the thirty yen he’d taken, he formally offered to repay it and slunk back to Osaka—arriving just as a household bustled with wedding feast preparations that same day. He delivered their order, stayed late into the night adjusting soup seasoning and handling sake bottles in their kitchen, then stepped outside with a congratulatory envelope into a moonlit night sharp enough to slice through shadows. The slope from Shimoderamachi to Ikukunitama Shrine lay deserted—only clattering geta ascending and a dog’s distant howl… In that midnight urban void, nostalgia stabbed through him: “Brother… you’re dead now.” Fueled by ceremonial sake’s haze, he wheeled around mid-slope, descended to Dotonbori, and let his feet drag him toward the theater district’s brothels. Among shuttered facades, he spotted one where a madam snoozed beneath the eaves and slipped inside. Left waiting in a grimy room unbefitting customer service, he jolted when the courtesan barged in.

When an acrid stench assailed his nose, Junpei found this courtesan unreal as a fever-dream. Yet instinctively dreading female rejection, he wavered even to brush her shoulder—and in this fumbling hesitation, she slipped into sleep. Her snores resurrected those days of hollow wretchedness spent by Mitsuko’s side.

In the morning, as he made his way back to Marugame, his heart was heavy with dread of being scolded by his uncle and aunt, but when he suddenly resolved to run away from Marugame, relief washed over him. He returned home, ignored the voices calling What’ve you been doin’? Open up!, retrieved the secretly saved congratulatory money—now amounting to about two hundred yen—that he’d collected here and there, and changed his clothes. He glared at his uncle, aunt, and Mitsuko with a look that screamed I’m gettin’ outta here and never comin’ back!, but they didn’t seem to notice. He had wanted them to notice—to stop him or say something kind so he might reconsider—but since they couldn’t read his heart, his resolve wavered. After lingering indecisively for a while, he finally left the house dejectedly, thinking that having changed into his kimono meant there was nothing left but to run away.

Later, Aunt spread the word that he’d been egged on by bad sorts and run away from home. The phrase "running away" was one he’d always liked. Uncle had thought he’d pass on the family business, but "That damn fool"—this seemed his true sentiment.

Mitsuko appeared likely to be restricted from outings for some time, which put her in an irritable mood that made her pout. Being abandoned by Junpei again left her socially embarrassed, though she couldn’t deny feeling a faint loneliness creeping in. She briefly wondered whether there might have been—buried deep within her—some willingness to eventually forgive Junpei’s relentless pursuit, but she instantly brushed this aside as too absurd a fantasy.

Junpei stayed at a cheap inn in Sennichimae Kotohiraura. He couldn’t even convince himself what state of mind had driven him to flee Marugame—in the end, it might have been nothing more than an empty gesture. He bought a dark indigo kasuri kimono and wandered about aimlessly like some pampered scion from a respectable family. During the day, he went to the entertainment stalls in Sennichimae and Dotonbori. At night, he amused himself at the café-bar "Rian" near his lodgings. Even as he felt a pain like being flayed alive watching five-yen coins, ten-yen coins disappear at Rian, he still delighted in being called "Takamine-san"—letting the waitresses swarm around him all the same.

One night, he deliberately ordered clear broth with rice cakes, took a sip, and began flaunting shallow knowledge—"Who could eat this poorly seasoned slop? Listen, the key to good broth lies in how you fry the kelp for dashi"—when a long-haired man suddenly sidled up to him. Putting on an exaggerated show of misplaced gangster etiquette, the man drawled: "Well now, today marks our first meetin’, sir. Though I’m just some greenhorn punk, I’ve gone and borrowed three sun under your eaves—my apologies for this breach of gangster code!" As Junpei turned deathly pale and trembled, the waitress abruptly said, "Mr. Takamine, let’s buy cigarettes!" With that, she pulled out Junpei’s fish-market-bound oversized wallet and opened it. The man peered inside and suddenly burst into a wrinkled-face laugh, exclaiming "Damn, that’s one helluva big wallet ya got there!" before going limp like a drunkard. The man was called Kitada of Oicho-Kabu, and in the Sennichimae district, he was a well-known gambler.

Incited by Kitada of Oicho-Kabu, that night he gambled with four or five lowlifes at a house in Shinsekai. He learned the names of card combinations like Inketsu, Nizo, Santa, Shisun, Goke, Roppō, Nakine, Oicho, Kabu, and Nige. When he placed bets half-heartedly, the kabu outcome known as "a load dropped outside the pawnshop" would come up, turning into cash. For the first time in his life, he felt a faint glimmer of victory, and some semblance of confidence warmed the blood in his chest. But as he kept betting, he ended up having all his remaining money taken—of course, it had been a scam. However, even knowing this, he felt no urge to confront Kitada. The next day, Kitada fed him stew and hanjima at the ※ shop. As Junpei abruptly bowed his head in thanks for the meal—perhaps finally pitied by Kitada—the man offered: “How ’bout I set you up with a woman?” When Kitada hit the mark by pointing out he’d been favoring Komaru from Rian, Junpei flushed crimson with embarrassment. Though backing him up indeed, Kitada added, “But hey big brother—I ain’t exactly popular with ladies myself. Why don’t you step in and win Komaru over for me?” That attitude mirrored how he’d once spoken to Kinoshita, but knowing Kitada had already claimed Komaru made it all the more unsettling.

When Kitada of Oicho-Kabu ran out of money, he returned to his original trade. He chose late-night entertainment districts to sell pictures that—when secretly opened—revealed poorly drawn Western beauties or scenes of the Loyal Retainers' Raid. "This ain't no scam at all!" he'd proclaim while Junpei, playing the sakura decoy, would crouch halfway in feigned nervous excitement—chattering rapidly with restless fidgets that pretended to fear something—and when suckers drew near, Junpei always thrust out money first. Kitada, who had some artistic skill, sometimes sold copied paintings too. During these times however, the watchful eyes from those circles grew even sharper. Decoy Junpei often felt chilled by the sense of crossing dangerous bridges, yet precisely because of this, his walking manner changed as if he'd entered a world of deadly weapons.

The fickle-minded Kitada sometimes worked as a peddler. At a secondhand shop in Tenma Keihanura, they purchased Osaka ×× Newspaper happi coats for 1 yen and 20 sen, then peddled their wares door-to-door in suburban homes—back-issue Sunday Mainichis and Weekly Asahis, or Osaka Puck volumes with covers scrubbed of publication dates using paper—selling three volumes for fifteen sen while putting on a pitiful act about the bargain prices. Then they’d suddenly switch to selling five mixed volumes of month-old new issues—King, Kodan Club, Fuji, Shufu no Tomo, Kodan Magazine—for fifty sen, mainly targeting late-night waitresses returning home in front of Ebisubashi-dori’s day-and-night bank. The source was Namba's Motoya, where old books bought at scrap prices were stripped of their contents, then stacked haphazardly without coordination to add bulk. Plausible covers were attached, edges neatly trimmed, until month-old new books took shape. Since the contents weren’t meant to be read with their pages scattered, they pre-wrapped them in cellophane to prevent anyone from reading them on the spot—making them look just like new books. Junpei became a decoy or sometimes the main performer in their nocturnal dealings, his complexion growing deathly pale from the late-night work. Junpei thought of Kitada of Oicho-Kabu—who properly gave him a share of their profits—as a meticulous man, and suddenly felt a nostalgic sentiment reminiscent of a woman’s heart.

One day, having grown tired of both gambling without capital and peddling, Kitada said, "Takamine, ain’t there somewhere you can go beg for cash?" Behind those words, Junpei could tell he was being urged to ask for money in Marugame, but even as he prayed against that very idea, his thoughts suddenly turned to his stepsister Hamako. The deceased Bunkichi had said she was working as a nurse at Osaka University Hospital. When he went to visit, Hamako—now grown into a tall, beautiful woman—let out a cry of nostalgic surprise upon recognizing Junpei. But the moment she swiftly took in his disheveled appearance, which clearly betrayed no semblance of proper living, she abruptly composed her expression into one of nonchalance. Approaching him as if addressing a patient with “Is something troubling you?”, she then wordlessly guided him outside the hospital with a glance. At the edge of Tamae Bridge, just as Kitada had instructed him, he pleaded his case—though hesitating to reveal the full story—that he had fled Marugame and was now penniless, having eaten nothing since morning. Hamako reluctantly pulled out a five-yen note from her red wallet. After exchanging brief words about the deceased Bunkichi and such, Hamako counseled that losing his temper would only bring loss—he must return to Marugame, rise in status, and come back to Rokkan Village draped in glory. As Junpei thought Yes, yes, a sudden urge to weep welled up inside him, tears streaming down copiously. "I’ll make something of myself, Sis! I’ll wash my hands of this life and go straight!" he blurted out unnecessary promises—growing inexplicably agitated until he clenched his fists, trembled violently, and jerked up his bowed face only for his blurred eyes to meet the filthy river water. As Hamako scurried off toward the hospital, Kitada of Oicho-Kabu emerged from somewhere and praised him: "Not bad at all, Takamine! You played that crying act so smooth it was downright impressive." But Junpei just thought, Is that really how it was? That money was immediately lost in gambling and taken away.

One day, he heard a rumor that Mitsuko would soon be taking in a groom. The next day, when he went to subtly check on the situation around the neighborhood, it appeared to be true. He immediately headed for Osaka University Hospital. Without even needing to wait for Kitada’s advice about putting on a crying act—the moment he was urged on, tears began flowing freely. 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 a note reading “Congratulations from Junpei Takamine,” then gambled away what remained until that foolish glint in his eyes whenever he won grew so intense it twisted his face beyond control.

He split the money with Kitada and boarded the Tokyo-bound train from Umeda Station under Kitada’s watchful send-off. Hearing that Mitsuko was taking a husband made even Osaka’s soil seem cursed to him—yet this terror mingled with an urgent need to claw his way up in society. Kinoshita should be in Tokyo; back in Marugame days, he’d sent a postcard urging Junpei to visit. After arriving at Tokyo Station came half a day’s search before he found Kinoshita’s dwelling near the Arakawa Floodway—not the lawyer’s quarters he’d imagined but unmistakable slums where each night Kinoshita hauled his yakitori cart to Tamanoi. Nearing forty now, Kinoshita had clearly given up his legal aspirations. His two-sen skewers ran eighty percent scallions to twenty percent offal; his liquor—sake, port wine, awamori, whisky—stood thinner than any competitor’s brew. Every night saw meticulous accounting: forty percent for living costs matched by forty in untouchable savings, leaving twenty for the women’s fund that filled his box between purchases.

While Kinoshita entertained women, Junpei had to manage the stall alone. The stench of ditches and disinfectant hung unnervingly in the air. As night deepened, an unfamiliar masseuse's flute wailed mournfully through streets grown desolate under clear moonlight, until the very atmosphere seemed charged with violence. When locals—crisp-mannered beyond any Osaka lowlife—parted the stall's curtain, he froze. "You're from Kansai, eh?" they'd say, prompting him to rub his hands nervously while botching skewer counts with his habitual "Y-yeah, that's right." Still he worked diligently—procuring offal, cooking rice for beef bowls, scrubbing pots—all while pretending not to hear Kinoshita's dismissive "Take it easy." Only gradually did he realize how his presence grated. Through veiled words like "You've got real talent for better things," Junpei discerned Kinoshita's true intent: find another job and leave. What truly pained Kinoshita was watching rice vanish faster since Junpei's arrival. Yet worse than any hardship was kitchen air reeking of fish guts—stench that resurrected Marugame's kitchens. And beneath it all festered Mitsuko.

However, finding it unbearable to stay, he ended up being hired as a live-in worker at a sushi restaurant in Asakusa. Though he demonstrated fully capable skills when put to work, they deemed him too unreliable for a twenty-three-year-old man—precisely why he was designated as their errand boy, easy to exploit. "Finish up." "Right." "Grate the wasabi." "Right." "Wash the plates." "That'll do." He was run ragged until his head spun. As he grated the wasabi, tears welled up, and before he knew it, they became real tears and he sobbed quietly. Though he had come to Tokyo determined to make something of himself, there was no way any future prospects could take shape.

One night, a sudden pain struck his lower abdomen. Unable to endure it, he obtained permission to rest and lay down in the low-ceilinged second-floor servants' quarters. As he lay there, the pain intensified until his body convulsed—It hurts! "It huuurts!" he howled. The maid, startled by the cry, rushed upstairs; when she saw his ashen face, she panicked and ran to fetch a doctor. His hernia had worsened, requiring surgery. After over ten days of bedridden recovery, when he finally managed to sit up, the master asked him for the first time: "Don't you have any family?" When he answered they were in Osaka, the master gave him ten yen for train fare. Clutching the money with both hands, he vowed through tears—as he always did—to repay the kindness once he found success, his face set with determination as he boarded the Osaka-bound train.

In the evening, he arrived at Umeda Station and went straight to "Rian". The lineup of waitresses had changed, and Kozue was gone. The only familiar waitress there said Kozue had eloped to Beppu. "The man’s the son of a picture framer—you know the one, right? The guy who’d nurse a single Tanchī all night but would tip three yen in return." Before he knew it, he too was now only ordering a single Tanchī. He ordered just one drink, treated her to some sweets, and when he asked about Kitada of Oicho-Kabu—of all things—it turned out Kitada had apparently followed Kozue to Beppu too. After paying the bill and stepping outside, he had only twenty sen left. He wandered aimlessly through the night streets, ate kitsune udon at Umegae on Ebisubashi Bridge, bought a bat, and had one sen left over. As night deepened, the nearing-winter wind seeped into his bones until his nose throbbed with cold. Seeking warmth, he went down from Namba Station toward the subway and crouched before the iron door in Nankai Takashimaya’s basement—soon flopping onto his side and unknowingly falling asleep.

In the morning, he stood for a while in the shadow of Ikukunitama Shrine’s torii gate before his feet carried him toward Osaka University Hospital at Tanimikobashi Bridge. Having wandered aimlessly all the way to Ikukunitama left him even hungrier; the one-ri journey stretched endlessly. As he walked, he wondered why he hadn’t gone to Marugame to beg for money but found no satisfactory reason. When he visited the hospital, Hamako now had tears welling in her eyes and a trembling voice. Though born from anger at having funds squeezed from his meager earnings, Junpei’s wretched appearance defied such simple explanation. Her words were futile but insistent—"Can’t you show some spine and manage without leaning on me?"—before she gave him seven yen. He pulled out the bat case from his pocket, tucked the money inside while tears fell, then forced a faint grin. Parting with Hamako left him clinging to that saccharine afterglow—wanting more of her scolding. He entered a diner near Tamae Bridge and ordered a beef bowl. Osaka’s beef bowls truly use real meat, he thought. The ones at Kinoshita’s stall had been stringy horseflesh—dull red and coarse. Chewing mechanically, it struck him that Beppu might offer a one-in-a-thousand chance to find Kozue or Kitada of Oicho-Kabu.

At Tempozan’s Osaka Merchant Shipping waiting hall, after buying a ticket to Beppu, eighty sen remained. He spent twenty sen on a red bean bun and boarded the ship. He felt wretched having fifteen sen taken for a blanket aboard, but brightened when they served a meal. He’d meant to stretch the red bean bun until Beppu. Fog off Shōdoshima slowed the ship’s progress, and when they entered Beppu Bay, night had already fallen. Lights at the mountain’s base gradually drew nearer as the Morinaga Caramel neon sign flickered over the pier.

The ship pulled alongside, and as the pier's lights flashed on—Ah! Junpei's eyes involuntarily welled with tears.

Kitada of Oicho-Kabu, wearing a ryokan happi coat and holding a lantern, glared this way with his trademark menacing eyes. “Big bro!” “Big bro!” He shouted while disembarking from the ship. Kitada stood momentarily stunned into silence, but when Junpei said, “Big bro—didn’t ya know I was comin’ to Beppu?” he hissed sharply under his breath—still mindful of eavesdroppers—yet with undiminished edge: “Idiot—I ain’t here to welcome you lot. I’m here to reel in customers.”

It turned out that Kitada was now working as a tout at a hot spring inn, and Kozue had become a maid at the same inn—so to speak, the two had become a genuine working couple. As he gradually learned more details, it turned out Kitada had long been intimately involved with Kozue, who eventually became pregnant—unquestionably by him—but Kitada initially tried to dodge responsibility, dismissing it with “Who knows whose bastard seed this is?” Yet against all expectations, Kozue eloped with the picture framer’s son who frequented Rian. Seething with rage—So she did have another man after all!—Kitada caught wind that their destination was likely Beppu and rushed there immediately, only to find them. He cornered them at the hot spring inn while they were having a quiet moment, dredged up some pretext to force them apart—and sure, he got them to split up—but then Kozue… what do you think she said then? “Then,” Kitada suddenly asked Junpei, but when Junpei could find no way to respond and simply stared blankly, Kitada immediately continued his story— “I eloped ’cause I felt sorry for the kid.” “Rather than lettin’ her kid grow up feelin’ ashamed ’cause she was carryin’ some nobody’s bastard seed—no clue whose horse-bone trash it came from—and couldn’t even get the father to own up, she took advantage of that dim-witted picture framer’s son. Badgered him into elopin’, forced the kid to be recognized as his whether he liked it or not—figured once they were proper husband and wife, who knows how happy the brat in her belly might’ve been.” “You made an issue of her elopin’ with that mindset—Kitada of Oicho-Kabu, how’re you plannin’ to explain yourself?” He hadn’t been defeated by her infidelity—whether it was paternal instinct or foolishly believing her claims of having done nothing with the man she’d been with, or perhaps rekindling feelings for her now—but his resolve crumbled. With his scam earnings dried up and lodging fees mounting, Kozue got hired there as a maid, while he negotiated to become a tout by relying on his smooth-talking skills. From the very day he donned the happi coat and stood on the pier, he’d sidle up to pairs of young women disembarking from ships—leaning in close as if to collapse onto them—grab their bags, then usher them to a secluded annex with whispers of “Our rates are quite reasonable” and “We’ve got lockable family baths,” pocketing three yen in profit including tips. Kitada said he intended to save up money and live modestly with Kozue and their soon-to-be-born child as a family of three; then he advised Junpei, “Takamine, you should get into kitchen work at a hot spring restaurant too—save your wages and at least become determined enough to set up a yakitori stall on the waterfront.”

That night, Kitada spent his own money to let him stay at his inn. When Kozue served them during the meal, he had forgotten how Kitada once teased him about favoring her—"Want me to hook you two up?"—and offered stilted congratulations upon hearing she and Oicho-san had become husband and wife.

The next day, Kitada arranged for him at a small restaurant called Miyatei on Nagarekawa Street. From Miyatei's master came an explanation: he had trained at a kaiseki restaurant in Osaka and spent time at a sushi shop in Asakusa—but this place was just a makeshift establishment that didn't serve formal kaiseki courses or other elaborate dishes, focusing solely on seasonal pufferfish dishes now. When asked if he knew pufferfish preparation, Junpei couldn't bring himself to say "I don't know." There was also Kitada's pride to consider. His kitchen skills were his sole remaining point of dignity. "I see—you know how to handle it? That's a relief," said the master, but ultimately he was just put to work as an errand boy for the time being—which somehow felt reassuring.

About a month later, one morning, a group of four customers arrived first thing and ordered pufferfish sashimi and hot pot. Of the two kitchen workers, one had taken leave four or five days earlier, while the other had gone out to play after closing up the night before and still hadn't returned—leaving Junpei, the dogsbody, alone cleaning the kitchen. When he consulted the master, who asked, "You can handle this, right?" he replied in a newly confident voice: "Sure can!" Having thoroughly memorized the kitchen's methods over the past month, it posed no problem. Seeing this as his chance to prove his skills, his knife work became brisk and precise as he carefully selected the vinegar.

That night, police officers came and took the master of Miyatei into custody; soon after, a summons arrived for Junpei as well. Trembling violently as he went, it turned out just as feared—the morning customers had been poisoned by the pufferfish dish; three out of four had barely survived, but one had died. The master was temporarily released, while Junpei was detained. Day after day of sitting on the wooden floor with his kimono spread limply, neck craned forward in a disheveled state, he no longer had the energy left to cry. Thinking he must be cold, Kitada sent in a blanket for him.

Around noon after about ten days had passed, a well-dressed man in a crested formal kimono staggered into the detention cell as if collapsing. Sporting a mustache and engrossed in silent contemplation, his demeanor exuded such an air of dignity that Junpei found some solace in the thought that even someone so distinguished could be detained. Suddenly, it occurred to him that this man must have committed an election violation. He politely greeted [the man], offered the blanket, and said, "Please use this," whereupon the man shot him a sharp sidelong glare and silently accepted it. Later, when summoned for investigation and asking the detective in charge, he was told that man was a mountain confectionery thief—a habitual offender who would attend funerals pretending to be an acquaintance, using flimsy business cards to receive condolence gift passes and merchandise coupons, with damages reaching several thousand yen. He thought it utterly absurd but couldn’t muster the courage to reclaim the blanket. The moment he became convinced poisoning someone might mean capital punishment, Junpei began muttering "Namu Amida Butsu" with desperate fervor. Viewing this pitiful spectacle with equal parts compassion and derision, the confectionery thief comforted him—precedents for manslaughter charges being rare—saying at worst his master would face suspended business; now this man became his sole anchor.

However, the master of Miyatei did not face a suspension of his business. The master of Miyatei argued that establishing such a precedent would bring disgrace not only upon his own establishment but upon all hot spring resort restaurants as a whole—that ultimately, warnings against eating pufferfish here would significantly impact the city’s prosperity. Thus he mobilized the restaurant association. While one could certainly argue that Miyatei’s master bore responsibility for the incident, the true and direct cause lay unequivocally with Junpei—a vagrant turned kitchen drifter. Entrusting pufferfish preparation to such a shady wanderer stemmed from credulously accepting his lie about culinary expertise—a credulity that amounted less to negligence than to being deceived. In reality, Miyatei’s reputation had been tainted by a swindler, however briefly—like compensating a thief while getting stung by a bee mid-sob. Of course penalties were needed to prevent recurrence—but should one punish the weeping victim or the stinging insect? Framing it as an issue affecting the entire hot spring district, he desperately lobbied. Kitada of Oicho-Kabu initially seethed—his guts roiling with fury—but he now enjoyed local standing, and Kozue’s delivery date loomed near. Through Nakitan’s intercession, he pleaded for Junpei’s acquittal, but achieved nothing.

Soon after, Junpei was transferred to prison and sentenced to one year and three months. While there were indeed circumstances that might have warranted leniency, the fact that he had deceived the master of Miyatei to become a grave danger to society and thereby taken a precious life was deemed worthy of punishment. When he heard "one year and three months," tears streamed down his face.

He was sent to Tokushima Prison. He was put to work in the mess hall since they wouldn't have him preparing pufferfish dishes here. He felt an odd sense that his kitchen skills had found use in such a place. The mess work itself was easy, but keeping to the rule about never tasting what he cooked was agony. One day, unable to bear it any longer, he was caught breaking the prohibition and transferred to Sendai Prison as punishment.

During the transfer, the train passed through Osaka Station. Peering out the train window from under his woven sedge hat, he saw two large theaters now standing 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 into something with sweet bean paste—his first in months.

As befitting its purpose as punishment, the work at Sendai Prison was harsh. Carrying soil and assembling wood—he never understood the purpose of the work, but the same labor continued day after day. His complexion changed. Unaccustomed to the work, he remained in constant panic. When heading out to work each morning, thoughts of Hamako floated into his mind. In the evening when returning from labor, he thought of Mitsuko; during meals, he pictured Kozue’s smiling face. At night when he slept, he dreamt of them. No sooner would he find himself carrying Mitsuko in her sailor uniform than she would shift into Hamako; just as he registered Hamako in her nurse’s whites, it became the softness of Kozue’s shoulders.

When a year had passed and it was announced that his sentence would end two days early due to the general amnesty for Empire Day (Kigensetsu), he wept with joy. When leaving prison, upon stating he would work in Osaka, he received twenty-one yen for train fare to Osaka, meal expenses, and additional labor compensation. In Sendai's streets he spent fourteen yen on personal necessities: a secondhand rayon Oshima-patterned obi, shirt, tabi socks, geta sandals and such. He started at finding prices had risen without his noticing. When buying things he would take money from the paper bag - look at it and put it back - take it out again; when handing it over he'd check each bill individually, ponder something then finally pass it with a nod; when receiving change he'd put it in the bag only to take it out again for inspection, think deeply then tuck it away - this routine became ingrained. As he walked along roads again he'd suddenly lose his bearings; unable to distinguish between paths taken and paths ahead he'd stand frozen at street corners for long stretches.

He boarded the train from Sendai Station. The train bento tasted good. When transferring trains at Tokyo Station, he thought about getting off to see what the town was like, but driven by some urgent impulse, he immediately boarded the Osaka-bound train instead; when he arrived, it was night. Not knowing it was for power conservation, he found Osaka's nighttime darkness—neon signs and streetlights extinguished—strangely disorienting.

In any case, he went to Sennichimae, ate coffee and jam toast at Kimuraya’s five-sen café, and was charged eleven sen. Unaware that the coffee had gone up by one sen, when receiving his change at the counter, he deliberated repeatedly, making the process painfully drawn-out. He listened to a free maiden jazz band in the basement of Osaka Theater, and then went to Ikukunitama Shrine. Thanks to enduring his vigil until late into the night, he finally managed to catch sight of Mitsuko. Mitsuko seemed to be heading to the bath—even in the night’s darkness, he could tell the bundle wrapped in a furoshiki was a metal basin—but as his eyes chasing her receding figure suddenly welled with tears, he could see nothing more. Whether due to his heart’s cry—Look at me crying like this, just once!—Mitsuko suddenly turned around; but as it turned out, she was nearsighted.

That night, he slept in a twenty-sen-per-night partitioned room at the Daiichi-Misakakan behind Kotohira in Sennichimae; when he awoke in the morning, he jolted upright with a start—but upon realizing this wasn’t prison, he felt such joy that it sent shivers through him at the thought that he could still sleep as much as he wanted, and he hummed the Beppu Ondo folk song while envisioning faces glimpsed through steamship windows on Beppu-bound voyages...

As per the regulations of twenty-sen lodgings, by nine in the morning futons were put away and lodgers driven out. He left the lodging at nine, ate an eleven-sen breakfast, and took the streetcar to Taniminohashi Bridge. Impatient even while crossing the bridge, he hurried to Osaka University Hospital only to find Hamako wasn’t there. Having been informed of her marriage, he sat down on the bench for outpatients and remained motionless for some time. Today wasn’t about asking for money—he was just muttering over and over that he’d only wanted to see her face once as he walked all the way to Tamae Bridge. As he looked down at the river flowing beneath the bridge, he felt a wretched emptiness utterly devoid of purpose. Suddenly remembering the money in his pocket—oh right, he still had usable funds—he pulled out the paper bag and, after a long while spent counting, found six yen and fifty-two sen. He pondered what to use it for. Since no good ideas came to mind, he decided to count it again—the moment he pulled the paper bag from his pocket—ah! He ended up dropping it into the river. In that moment when everything seemed to plunge into darkness, there remained but one slender hope—to report it to the police box. Starting to walk, he gazed at his right hand that had let the paper bag slip. In his ugly body, only that hand had a lively color and plump flesh, bearing the sharp beauty honed through kitchen training. That's right—as long as I have this hand, I can still make a living—the realization brought a faint flush to his pallid face. The moment he stopped after losing his way to the police box, he suddenly found himself disoriented, his head ringing with a dull, feverish throbbing.

Junpei tilted his head and stood motionless indefinitely, just as his father Kotarou used to do.