Pathway to Japanese Literature

When I was in middle school, Mother would often try to scare me by saying that. Uncle was Mother’s younger brother. Father was a teacher at a girls’ school, but Uncle being a high school teacher made him seem all the more imposing. However, according to Father, Uncle was an oddity.

“Uncle is a scholar, right?”

I asked Mother. “He’ll become a doctor before long.” “Shouldn’t it be about time he got it by now? It’s been since I was in elementary school.”

“There are such things as official considerations.” “But more than that, isn’t it because he’s been quarreling with university professors that he can’t get along properly?” “Even if you’re accomplished in academic study, being an eccentric won’t do, they say.” “Who told you such a thing?”

“I learned that in ethics class at school.” “Are you saying I’m lying?”

Mother glared.

From Uncle’s eccentricity problem, clashes of opinion occasionally arose between my parents. “He should have taken a wife by now, don’t you think? How about I try suggesting it to him?”

“Father said.”

I had thought he was talking about the doctorate, but it turned out to be about a bride. “That won’t work.”

“Why? Is it because he’s an eccentric?”

“He’s not some eccentric,” “His mind’s just crammed full of academic study—common sense gets crowded out.” “Regardless, he’s already well past forty.” “Shouldn’t that wait until after he earns his doctorate?” “Setting that aside—isn’t there some way to get him married off sooner?” “If we keep dragging our feet like this, the Ōno family line will die out.”

“That’s something I’ve been considering as well. I’ve already advised him many times before, though.”

“This time I’ll take charge.” “There’s just the right one available.” “A girls’ school teacher?” “Indeed.”

“Hmm.” “Could it be Ms. Yasui?”

“That’s right. When I casually brought it up during small talk the other day, he didn’t seem intent on staying single forever.” “Though she’s past thirty and no spring chicken for a bride, the groom-to-be’s already getting rather long in the tooth himself.” “I can’t help feeling there’s something fated about this.” “Coming from you, it might actually work.” “I’ll leave it in your hands.”

Mother was convinced. Father was a teacher of Japanese classical literature, so he was skilled at writing. He composed a lengthy letter and sent it. I went to mail it and, as a precaution, remember affixing three stamps. However, no reply came. Since we had already procured a photograph beforehand, we attached it and made another attempt to persuade him. This time, in response, a photograph arrived from Uncle. “Finally caved in, huh?”

Saying this, when Father opened it, it was the photo we had sent. Moreover, a mustache had been drawn on in ink. Father got angry.

“I’m done dealing with Kōtarō-san.”

Shortly after I entered a certain high school, Father was promoted to a girls' school in that location. Father thought it was a fortunate turn of events on his part, but in truth, it hadn't happened by mere chance. It was Mother who had asked Uncle. Since Uncle's friend was the head of that prefecture's education department, they had him arrange it skillfully. That summer, when Uncle stopped by during a plant-collecting trip, Father repeatedly thanked him. Uncle specialized in botany. He had discovered a moss unknown to anyone and given it the scientific name Ōnokōtariya. With this, Kōtarō Ōno meant to leave his mark on the world.

“You went to all the trouble of getting into high school—why aren’t you pursuing academic study?” Uncle asked in a reproachful tone. “Huh?” “If it’s all the same, you might as well do academic study.”

“I’m in liberal arts.” “Since I’m studying Japanese literature, that counts as academic study.” “Literature is not academic study.” “It’s common sense with an academic veneer.” “It’s not common sense.” “It’s a type of academic study.” “If you call it a type, I’ll allow that.” “Literature is scholarship devised by humans.” “I wanted you to pursue scholarship devised by nature instead.”

“Botany?” “Hmm. If you’d study botany for me, I’d make you my successor though.” “But there’s no changing course now.” “Take a year off and retake the entrance exams for science—what do you say?” “I’ve no interest in it.”

“There’s no cure for a fool.” “Oh dear.”

And I had no retort left. “Even Japanese literature—it’s not as though it isn’t academic study.”

Father interjected. Being a teacher of Japanese classical literature and Chinese classics, he felt insulted and couldn’t stay silent. Uncle had never been one to concede from the start. A debate erupted between them. Father was rather obstinate himself, making the situation hard to resolve. Mother stepped in and finally smoothed things over between both parties.

“Kōtarō, there are things more important than botany or Japanese literature.”

Mother said. Being his elder sister, she held some authority. “What is it?” “It’s about marriage.” “Hmm.” “You must take a wife soon.” “If you keep idling about like this forever, the Ōno family line will perish.”

“I am satisfied with Ōnokōtariya.”

“What do you mean?” “That...” “Even if the Ōno family continues, if good-for-nothings emerge, it would only become a laughingstock.” “Rather than that, there’s such a thing as *Ōnokōtariya*.” “Plants never do anything wrong.” “Not only that, but since they’re things that’ll never die out, they’re a blessing.” “They will eternally propagate the Ōno family’s esteemed name across the world.”

And Uncle remained botany through and through.

Mother had given up. Yet being born into the Ōno family, she felt responsible.

“Then how about making Masao study botany and have him succeed you?”

she proposed. Masao was a fourth-year middle school student. “That’s fine. Masao, will you do it?”

“I hate it! I—” “I’m going to devote myself to the nation!”

Masao snapped.

“You idiot!” Uncle thundered.

Uncle thundered. Uncle believed that botany was precisely what served the nation.

Each time Uncle visited, I felt he was growing more irritable. I thought it must be some kind of illness.

Whether it was the following year or the year after that, Uncle transferred to the Women’s Higher Normal School. When Father saw the appointment notice in the newspaper and sent a congratulatory letter, a reply came immediately. It was a postcard.

“In reply: This time, there is no promotion—rather, it is a demotion, I hereby inform you. After a debate with a colleague in Japanese literature culminated in physical force—such being the cause. This being the third quarrel, and feeling it would be unfair to burden the principal further, I have hereby taken my leave. May this amuse you. In haste, respectfully.” I surmised that it had likely been an assertion that Japanese literature was not a proper academic discipline. The fact that he had sent an immediate reply contrary to his usual practice might have been a demonstration that he was willing to stake his position on that argument. “After all, Uncle really is an eccentric, isn’t he?”

“An eccentric.” “There’s no such thing as him being an eccentric. It’s just that his mind is so full of academic pursuits that common sense ends up getting overwhelmed.” And Mother did not doubt her brother’s sanity.

Around that time, Uncle’s close friend Artist Shimazaki, who had come to the city to paint a portrait for a wealthy family, stopped by. Since their houses were close in their hometown, despite the age difference, they had been friends since childhood. “Kōtarō was transferred, wasn’t he?”

Father touched upon Uncle’s issue in the conversation. “Ah.” “He got into a fight.” “He really did it.” “What a troublesome man.”

“Actually, I had a run-in with him myself the other day. But since he was going to stop by here anyway, I thought there might be some message, so before setting out, I went to see him—and he said, ‘What did you come here for?’”

“Hah.” “I was being stubborn too. I said I came to take a piss at the gate and came out to do just that.” “Ha ha ha!”

“I’ve already done it dozens of times.” Mr. Shimazaki appeared to be a kindred spirit in this regard. “So it’s you, Mr. Kikuchi, and Mr. Takeuchi then—the ones who haven’t given up on that eccentric.” “We’re old comrades,” he replied. “We know each other’s true mettle.” “What sparked his quarrel this time?” “Go.” “There’s a saying that Go rivals inspire both resentment and fondness, but with Kōtarō-kun it’s resentment compounded by resentment—utterly insufferable.”

“Ha ha ha!” “If I won, he’d start disparaging my paintings.” “He says it’s because I lack scholarly learning that all the plants I paint are dead.” “When I retorted, ‘Ah yes, your stones there are dead,’ that’s when he came out with it.” “He usually prepares insults in advance and trots them out depending on how the board looks—it’s absolutely infuriating.” “If he were such a quick-witted man, that’d be commendable, but he thinks only botany qualifies as true scholarship.” “He’s utterly ignorant of the world.” “That must have been the argument, don’t you think?” “The school quarrel too, I suppose?”

“I’ve heard the full story. A colleague brought some rare flower and asked for its scientific name. Since Kōtarō-kun didn’t immediately know, he retorted, ‘Those without academic knowledge ask questions the wrong way.’ Because it’s confrontational, that won’t do.” “It’s because he lacks charm. Even when saying the same thing, it comes off as abrasive.” Father had ample experience with this as well. “The other party must have gotten irritated. ‘Then how should one ask properly?’ ‘When requesting botanical identification, you should bring both flowers and fruits.’ ‘I see.’ ‘Come back when you understand.’ But this would be impossible for Kōtarō-kun. Flowers and fruits can’t possibly exist at the same time.”

“I see.”

“The other party also noticed that point, so they retorted, ‘Saying such unreasonable things won’t work.’” Almost simultaneously, Kōtarō-kun’s palm struck their cheek with a sharp smack. “Since it was the faculty room, everyone swarmed over and caused an uproar.” “It seems you witnessed it firsthand.” “That’s where a painter’s imagination comes in.” “Kōtarō-kun had frequently quarreled with other colleagues too, so when things turned sour, he scribbled out his resignation.”

“Conveniently, there happened to be an opening for a transfer, I take it?”

“No, Professor ○○ intervened and had him wait about half a year.” “We have Professor ○○ to thank for that.” “I’m constantly worried Professor ○○ might lose all patience with him.” “Professor ○○ must actually be somewhat exasperated too, don’t you think?” “Do you know the story of Konronsō?”

“No.”

“During his student days, he was taken by the Professor to Mount Amagi for specimen collecting.” “While giving instruction, the Professor apparently told him about Hiraga Gennai.” “Gennai was so erudite there was nothing he didn’t know.” “After the Professor remarked that Gennai would instantly devise apt names even for unknown plants, Kōtarō-kun found a weed and asked its name.” “The Professor answered ‘Konronsō.’” “‘Professor—isn’t this pure Gennai methodology?’ Kōtarō-kun fired back.” “It must have been delivered in his trademark combative tone.” “The remark carried no trace of jest.” “They say the Professor became thoroughly incensed.”

Mr. Shimazaki was remarkably well-informed. The conversation blossomed naturally—after all, the topic concerned an eccentric. “He says he won’t marry, but what’s your view on that?” “Until about ten years back, we all pressed him to wed, but we’ve abandoned hope now.” “He remains beyond reproach in conduct, I presume?” “In that regard, he stands peerless.” “Neither Takeuchi nor Kikuchi could rival his virtue.” “His unwavering principles are admirable yet vexing.” “What strategy might exist to dispatch a fitting companion and facilitate their interaction?”

“Utterly impossible.” “He’s the complete opposite of me.”

“In what way?”

“He says there’s nothing as filthy as women.” “I, on the other hand, think there’s nothing as beautiful as women, you see.”

“You’re an exceptional case.” “Extremes colliding with extremes.” “Ha ha ha!” “Will the Ōno lineage end up dying out altogether?” “No—he’s been crowing about how he’ll endure eternally through Ōnokōtariya.” “That’s textbook academic intoxication for you.” “Nothing to be done about it.”

Father seemed to have increasingly thrown in the towel.

One day, during an English translation exercise at school, when it came to my turn in the group reading session, “He, who detested sweating on his brow, was waiting for the shoes of his unmarried uncle who had found success in the colonies. Etc.” I presented. Because I hadn’t properly researched it, I ended up fudging it.

“What is this?” “What does this ‘waiting for your uncle’s shoes’ mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You shouldn’t casually say things you don’t understand,” the teacher pressed. “Who would?” “That means waiting while counting on the inheritance,” answered the grade-hungry student. And that was just fine. I thought at that moment: Uncle was single. He likely wouldn’t take a wife going forward either. The person closest to Uncle was me, his eldest nephew. I’ll just wait for Uncle’s inheritance, I resolved.

Just as I was about to graduate from high school, Father sent a letter to Uncle. It requested that I be allowed to serve as a gatekeeper under supervision while attending university in Tokyo. Staying at Uncle's place would cost less than a boarding house. Though supervision was part of it, that was the main purpose. But Uncle refused outright. He wrote that I likely wouldn't be able to handle it and therefore had to decline. Moreover, he added there was no merit in dealing with someone not pursuing academic study. Then Mother made her appeal. Uncle generally acquiesced to whatever Mother said. This time he not only agreed to take me in but offered to cover all educational expenses—though he kept pressing whether I could manage it. I naturally intended to handle it.

Both Father and Mother were pleased. The family had effectively been saved by Uncle. Since my younger brother had already entered high school and below him two younger sisters were attending girls’ schools, my studying in Tokyo was no easy matter. Father was saying he would dispose of our hometown property. Uncle had discerned the need in those circumstances. I moved to Tokyo and began commuting to university from Uncle's house. There had been nothing more than being pressed about whether I could manage it.

Uncle lived in a large house, but managed his morning and evening meals by getting boxed lunches from a nearby shop. He likely ate school-provided lunches during the day. There was a housekeeper, but being live-out, she only kept watch during daylight hours. She would arrive each morning and leave by evening. Apparently she brought her own boxed meal too. Households making boxed meals their regular fare were practically unheard of. I concluded Uncle was merely indifferent to leading such an austere existence, and soon proposed an improvement plan. Three boxed meals daily left me thoroughly unsettled.

“Uncle, how about having the housekeeper stay over and handle the meals?”

“Why?” “Boxed meals are uneconomical.”

“But it’s better without the trouble. “I’ve been eating boxed meals for about twenty years now.” “I see.” “You’ll get used to it too.” “Ah. But since it’s inconvenient when you go out at night, how about having the housekeeper stay over anyway?” “I absolutely never go out at night.”

“In cases like banquets or similar occasions. “They might conflict with my comings and goings.”

“I’ve resolved never to set foot in such places.” “I detest looking at human faces.” “To this day, I haven’t properly seen this housekeeper’s face either.”

“I see.” “Ever since you came here, my routines have gone completely awry.” “In the morning, I wake up and open the door.” “As long as it stays open, consider that means I’m still alive today and come in—that’s what I told you.” “I see.”

“You’re not to go out at night either. If I think the gate’s open I get concerned and can’t settle down.”

“I see.” “Even if you stay home, talking won’t accomplish anything. Once we’ve eaten the evening boxed meal and retreated to our rooms, consider that day’s connection severed.”

“I understand.”

“You’d best not cough or sneeze.” “I see.”

There was no room for improvement. Not only was I prohibited from going out at night, but I was also ordered to observe a vow of silence. Uncle truly did not speak. Indeed, when I thought about it, everything necessary was taken care of in silence through this arrangement. The housekeeper prepared the boxed meals and,

“Your meal is ready.” The housekeeper would call out from the tearoom through the sliding door, and by the time Uncle and I entered, she had already withdrawn to the maid’s room. This was how mornings and evenings went. Even on Sundays, lunch followed the same routine, but I would go out under the pretext of making notes. Shortly after finishing the evening meal, the housekeeper,

“Good night.”

She would bid farewell through the sliding door and leave.

The only ones who came to visit were Mr. Shimazaki, Mr. Kikuchi, and Mr. Takeuchi. Since they were all childhood friends, there was no need for reserve. Since I was considered a junior from the same hometown, I would come forward and listen to their esteemed discourses. This was my sole respite. At these times, even if I talked or sneezed, I wouldn't be scolded.

“Hey. “Painter, how about it?”

Uncle puffed himself up arrogantly.

“Enough with ‘Painter’.” “Poor me—I’m still an Imperial Exhibition-recommended artist, you know.” Mr. Shimazaki protested. He likely wanted to be addressed as “Artist,” but Uncle would never grant him that courtesy. Mr. Kikuchi was dubbed “Dead Scholar.” Though a company executive, he perpetually carried Western books under his arm—a bibliophile through and through. Yet since his expertise lay outside botany, Uncle scorned him with that epithet. Mr. Takeuchi earned the moniker “Almsman.” The nickname stuck without protest, as he himself joked about making daily alms rounds to Kabutocho’s stock exchange. Among Uncle’s acquaintances, Almsman commanded the most respect. Every stitch of his clothing came tailored by Almsman’s wife.

“Almsman, thank you for this kimono the other day.” “Give my regards to your wife.”

Uncle expressed his thanks.

“No need for thanks. It suits you well, but you’ve already managed to stain it, haven’t you?” “This is Lysol. I disinfected it myself. Used a bit too much.” “To spare you such worries, I had my wife sew it entirely by hand—no assistants involved.” “But how can you prove your wife didn’t leave any germs on it? Can you demonstrate that?” “It’s perfectly safe.” “That sort of amateur reasoning is precisely what’s most dangerous.” “Thoroughness can’t be faulted, but...”

Mr. Takeuchi conceded, but he likely didn’t feel too pleased about it. Uncle was obsessively fastidious. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he disinfected anything that came from outside. When letters arrived, spraying them with Lysol, letting them dry, and taking them over had become my role.

“Uncle, is it okay not to disinfect the newspaper?” When I asked, he answered that newspaper ink contained coal tar, so that alone sufficed as disinfection.

“The boxed meals also come from outside.” “How about that?” “You idiot!”

When I returned home for summer vacation, Mother scrutinized my face and,

“Is there something wrong with you?” “You’ve gotten terribly thin!” Mother worried. Part of it may have been due to unaccustomed circumstances, but the silent asceticism and boxed meal lifestyle were truly this grueling. I told them about Uncle’s daily routine, “Uncle is your younger brother, but he’s such an eccentric.” I protested. Even Mother had to acknowledge it. However, since I was being allowed to attend university for free, there was no choice but to endure. Moreover, if I set aside matters of comfort and considered it objectively, it was something that was for my own benefit. Uncle remained in good spirits as long as I was studying.

One evening, Mr. Shimazaki came over, but Uncle refused to meet him.

“He’s furious, you know.” “He’s impossible.” “Michihiko, please—just listen.” And Mr. Shimazaki came to my room and launched into a discussion. At that time, Artist Shimazaki had borrowed a plot of land and was building a new house. Uncle also had the intention to build a house, so he proposed that Mr. Shimazaki cede half of his plot of land to him. Because he had resolved to remain single forever, people worried about his old age. He had resolved that if he lived with a close friend, they could take care of him. However, Mr. Shimazaki refused, saying he would be troubled because he would lose his garden. Then Uncle flew into a rage. “Which is more important—friendship or a garden?” He declared he would no longer associate with such a man.

“He’s such a troublesome one.”

“I quarreled with every last one of my friends until only the three of us remained. Since I’m the one narrowing my own world, it’s a rather self-sabotaging nature.”

“But his temper will likely settle in time.” “You must do your part to mediate properly too.” “Had you told me that initially, I would’ve sought a larger plot to divide equally. But now that construction has begun, there’s no alternative.” “Painter, leave at once.” “Go play Go with the garden pine!”

Uncle bellowed from the study. The one who ended up suffering this misfortune was me. After Mr. Shimazaki fled,

“Michihiko, you and Shimazaki were bad-mouthing me.”

“That’s not true.” “No, there was. “I had even considered your future, but I’ve given up on you.” “I wasn’t bad-mouthing you. “If you were to ask Mr. Shimazaki, you would understand.” I protested, but Uncle remained single-mindedly fixated. I counted myself lucky just to avoid being driven out. I gave up on Uncle’s shoes for good.

A few days later, Mr. Kikuchi came and broached the issue. While playing Go, he intended to soothe Uncle’s feelings. “You dismissively say there’s no friendship, but even Shimazaki has circumstances beyond his control.”

“Why?” “That guy’s house—unlike mine or Takeuchi’s—is under the wife’s thumb.” “Even if Shimazaki wants to lend you the land, his wife won’t agree.” “The world isn’t as simple as single people think.” “Every household has its own circumstances.”

“I won’t ask that bastard for another thing. Consider us severed.” “This won’t do.” “Shimazaki bears no blame.” “Show forbearance given his henpecked household circumstances.”

And Mr. Kikuchi placed the responsibility on Mrs. Shimazaki. He must have figured it was safe since they’d never meet anyway. “Fine.” “Do you understand?” “Hm. In return, lend me half of your garden. Your place is your own plot of land, and it’s much wider than Mr. Shimazaki’s.” “That’s a problem!” “Didn’t you just say it’s under the wife’s thumb? Then does that mean friendship counts for nothing? It could all be resolved with just a single thought from you, and yet...” “But it’s been a garden from the start.”

“Is your garden more important than friends? You don’t need to come here anymore then. Go home and play Go with the pine tree in your garden!” Uncle snapped back at Mr. Kikuchi. I listened from the side and was utterly appalled. Even though he was my own uncle, I couldn’t help thinking what an utterly unreasonable man he was, and I felt ashamed.

Mr. Shimazaki managed to have his apology accepted, but it was the mediator Mr. Kikuchi who ended up suffering the humiliation. He continued to be turned away at the door for nearly half a year. Even so, he steeled his resolve and came to visit. "This sort of thing happens often," he said. It was a noble friendship.

One evening, a burglar broke into Uncle’s house. I, of course, hadn’t noticed, but it was Uncle who discovered it the next morning. Upon investigating, there were signs that someone had rummaged through various rooms. However, since the house contained nothing but books, there was nothing to take. Despite this, Uncle was extremely flustered and made me run to Mr. Takeuchi’s place. Mr. Takeuchi came immediately.

“You, what will we do if another burglar breaks in?” “They won’t come again. They’ve already figured out there’s nothing worth taking in your house.” “No, other burglars might come. It’s a precaution for that situation.”

“You can’t take what isn’t there.” “It would be fine if they just gave up and left like the one from last night, but there’s such a thing as robbers.” “Even if there’s truly nothing, if they think there is, they’ll take a life.” “How much should I keep on hand for such situations to make them spare me?” “Hmm.” “How about 100 yen?”

And Mr. Takeuchi had intended it as a joke. However, from that point on, Uncle always kept 100 yen in cash at the ready. I reached a definitive judgment through this single incident. As Mother had said, Uncle’s common sense had been utterly overwhelmed by his academic pursuits. As a scholar, he might have been appropriately impressive, but as a member of society, he was nearly incompetent.

Only Mr. Takeuchi never had a falling out with him. To my uncle—consumed as he was by academic obsession—a stockbroker should have been beneath his notice, yet this Almsman lay devotee was the one he respected most. The Almsman lay devotee did not play Go. It might have been because he didn’t provoke Uncle’s emotions. They always got along.

But one evening, Uncle said, “Lend me half.”

When Uncle said this, I grew somewhat uneasy. "Agreed."

“You really do understand how things work.” “It’s none other than you.” “It must be some kind of fate.” “Let’s split half the plot and keep each other company into the next life.”

“That set my mind at ease too. If someone goes first and waits, that would be just fine.”

“Tonight’s conversation has taken an unusually somber turn, hasn’t it?” Mr. Takeuchi laughed. It was about graves. Mr. Takeuchi had bought and owned a burial plot at a temple in Tsurumi. The uncle who wanted half the land had requested exactly half of it. I continued eating boxed meals for three years and, immediately after graduating from university, took up a post at a middle school in the Chūgoku region. The fact that it was near Father’s post proved convenient in every way.

At first, I occasionally sent letters to Uncle, but since he never replied, I gradually grew distant. Years passed with nothing but New Year’s cards. When I saw the notice of Uncle’s leave of absence in the newspaper, I wrote a long letter and sent it, but again there was no reply. I learned through a letter from Mother that he hadn’t withdrawn due to a quarrel but because of illness. Soon after, a telegram arrived from Mr. Takeuchi.

“Uncle Kôtarô critical. Come at once.”

I immediately headed for Tokyo. Along the way, I coordinated with Mother and she joined me. But we didn’t make it in time. Mr. Takeuchi greeted us, tears streaming down his face. There was no one else besides the doctor, the nurse, and the housekeeper. Uncle was once again in the midst of quarrels with both Mr. Shimazaki and Mr. Kikuchi, so he hadn’t allowed them near.

“I cried,” “When Kōtarō saw my tears, he looked utterly bewildered, as if witnessing something truly unfathomable.” “Having quarreled with every friend, colleague, and acquaintance, he seemed astonished that anyone remained who would weep for his sake.” “Thank you,” he smiled faintly, and with that remained still. “It was a good death.” Mr. Takeuchi finished recounting the final moments.

The illness had been nephritis. Upon receiving the notification, Mr. Shimazaki and Mr. Kikuchi rushed over. “Ōno… so you didn’t make it in the end?” “Why didn’t you meet us while you were alive?”

And the two men wept as well.

Mr. Takeuchi had been entrusted with the will and unsealed it in front of everyone.

1. I am satisfied with Ōnokōtariya. The rest requires no further provisions.

1. All deposits at XX Bank shall be donated to the Botanical Society. 2. The real estate in my hometown shall be disposed of and converted into cash, then divided equally among my four nephews and nieces: Michihiko, Masao, Fumiko, and Kikuko.

I had completely resigned myself during those three years living with my uncle, yet I still came into possession of his shoes.

“Wasn’t he enrolled in insurance?” asked Mr. Shimazaki. “Why do you think? I once introduced an insurance salesman and got my head bashed in,” Mr. Kikuchi answered.

Uncle's funeral presented an unexpectedly grand spectacle. Death seems to settle all accounts. The crowd that gathered for the second-night wake consisted entirely of people he had quarreled with.

“I got hit too.”

Ten or so former colleagues made such confessions. "He was such a virtuous man." "Having beaten everyone up, he never once got hit back." "That's because they all had wives and children to worry about their necks." "This guy was a bachelor, so he had nothing holding him back."

“I got hit too.” said one of them.

“Ha ha ha ha”

And it was Professor XX of Konronsō who burst out laughing at that moment. “I wasn’t hit myself, but my hat was.” “He came to me for counsel.” “That was after he’d gotten into a fight at the high school and came asking how to sort himself out.” “I gave him a mild rebuke.” “Then he smacked my hat lying on the desk and marched out.” “This might have been Ōno’s notion of respect toward his former teacher.”

Uncle was laid to rest at the temple in Tsurumi. As promised, I received half of Mr. Takeuchi’s cemetery plot. The stone monument of my deceased uncle and that of the still-living Mr. Takeuchi stand amicably side by side.

“A paired grave for two men must be unparalleled under heaven.” “Judging by how I’m the only one left after everyone else got cut off, maybe I’m a bit of an eccentric myself?”

Mr. Takeuchi declared with evident satisfaction.

(August 1934 [Showa 9], Sunrise)