Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue

Woman's Departure

“It’s quite dark—Kinu-san, I wonder what time it must be now?”

“Not yet—it probably hasn’t even reached three o’clock.”

“Good grief, a day in this valley lasts only half as long as anywhere else.” “We can’t even get half our work done.” “But in exchange, the nights here are twice as long as anywhere else.” “Even if they were twice as long, we don’t have electric lights, oil’s expensive—all we can do is sleep.” “I see clear as day why folks from this village keep flooding to the cities.” “Those going far off have even made it to Hawaii and Brazil.” “Plenty find success too.” “Once they’ve made good, not a soul comes back to these backwoods.” “Truth is, they never do come back.”

“Ms. Man, seems you’ve gotten the urge to leave too now.” “They say your brother Rinsuke went off toward Kanmon—reckon he’s doing alright?” “Yes, he’s been working offshore at Moji making good money—sent me letters plenty times telling me to come out.” “But regular folk shouldn’t go near port towns.” “Folks say the crowds there’re rough—young girls get all mauled about.” “……Ms. Man, best quit spreading those tobacco leaves now.” “Let’s head home.”

“Because Father’s been looking forward to it.” “That’s filial devotion for you.” “Your mother’d be at ease too.” “But are those tobacco leaves really safe?” “They’re perfectly fine.”

It was the bottom of a deep valley. Because the surrounding mountains rose steeply, the morning light reached this village late, and the sun set early. All the more so in autumn when days were short—though it was only three o'clock—it already felt like twilight.

The village was called Hiroshima Prefecture, Hiba District, Minetada Village, Aza Mine.

By the banks of a valley stream roaring with fierce rapids, two young village girls were talking. While their healthy appearance was something they shared, Man had a round face and petite stature, whereas Kinu had a long face and was remarkably tall.

Man, in her plain cotton kimono, squatted in a tobacco field about two tanbu in size by the riverbank, diligently searching for fallen old leaves and stacking them. Carefully, she smoothed out the wrinkles. Her motions were practiced.

Kinu, in work clothes and holding a sickle in hand, lay on her back in the susuki grass grove. "Oh my, those fox spirits are already making such a racket." Muttering to herself in a carefree manner, she meaninglessly swished through the susuki grass with rhythmic strokes of her sickle.

In the deep mountains, foxes, raccoon dogs, rabbits, monkeys, and others were abundant, and wild boars would sometimes appear. From ancient times to the present day, stories of people being bewitched by foxes are countless. In the valley river, there are said to be kappa. An old man who claimed to have wrestled a kappa would recount his firsthand account by the hearth with a serious face. Man intended to gather even one extra leaf for her tobacco-loving father. Strong-smelling yellow dead leaves accumulated in the basket.

Then Kinu, who had been lying down, suddenly sprang upright. She seemed to have found something.

“Ms.Man! Emergency—the demon’s coming!” “Quick! Hide!”

She shouted in a tense voice. Even the startled Man was flustered, but it was too late. “Hey! You’re not getting away!”

A deep voice echoed from the mountain path.

A large man appeared at the bend in the mountain path where the Kannon Hall stood, leaping down with spring-loaded strides. He wore a black bowler hat and black high-collared uniform, a black leather briefcase dangling from his right hand. His complexion—sunburned and alcohol-reddened to coppery hues—matched the black attire, while his stubble resembled charcoal smudges. “You’ve finally been found out. Quit the act already.”

Kinu had already turned pale. “Who cares?” Resigned to her fate now apparent, Man stood up within the tobacco field and waited for the man’s approach. Only the basket holding tobacco leaves did she conceal in a hollow of the field.

“You’re not escaping. Run all you want—I’ll find you, I tell you.”

The man, still shouting such things, came to the riverbank and crossed the decaying log bridge with precarious steps. He arrived where the two of them were.

“I knew it’d come to this. You’re Taniguchi’s girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” “Hand over the stolen leaves.” “I didn’t steal.” “I saw you clearly.” “Hand over that basket there.”

Man resignedly took out the basket from the hollow without a word. “Look! You’ve stolen this much!” “I didn’t steal. I just picked up what had fallen.” “How could this many leaves have fallen? The bastards around here are downright rotten. They’re mocking the government. This time I won’t forgive. I’ll punish you— Hey, you over there, girl! You were in on this too, weren’t you?”

“That’s ridiculous! I was just passing through on my way back from cutting grass.” “Suspicious. Well, fine. This could count as collusion, but I’ll specially hold back this time. Get going.” Kinu slung her basket on her back and bolted away.

“Taniguchi, come with me. I’ll meet your father, conduct a proper investigation, and then impose the fine.”

“Mr. Official, please have mercy on just that...”

“No.”

“I really didn’t steal anything.”

“Enough! Move!” Grabbed violently by the shoulder by the man, Man reluctantly took the lead.

The man in black was a Monopoly Bureau official. When tobacco became a government monopoly, strict regulations came into effect. Though many households in this village grew it, the number of plants per terrace was fixed and entered in the Monopoly Bureau's ledger. Seeds were obtained from the Monopoly Bureau, every leaf counted with precision—not one could be kept privately. Still, since upper, middle and lower leaves differed in flavor and some parts proved useless, smoking a few fallen ones for personal use alone met with tacit allowance.

The valley floor saw early sunsets, and as the two walked on, darkness fell. Lamps were lit in houses scattered here and there. Evening cicadas and foxes called. Beside the deep-pooled valley river stood a watermill hut. The waterwheel turned slowly. When they reached that point, the official stopped. Looking around,

“Wait a moment.” “What…?” “I have something to discuss.” “Go inside that watermill hut.” Man cast a fleeting glance at the watermill hut, her large almond-shaped eyes clouded with unease. “If you have something to say, I’ll hear it here.” “I just want to count the tobacco leaves you’re holding, but outside the wind would scatter them.” A strong wind had picked up. Inside the hut there’d be no worry about them scattering. “Go on, get in there.”

With that, the official pulled open the watermill hut’s single-panel door with a creak and entered first briskly. From inside, he urged Man. Man too reluctantly entered the hut, hesitantly.

Dark. In the faint light from the lattice window, three wooden mortars could be seen in a corner of the three-mat hut—half-sunken into the earthen floor. Inside them lay rice husks being pounded by three pestles driven by the waterwheel’s rotation, their slow thuds echoing through the space. The endless rush of water filled the air. The hut reeked of mold. “Show me the tobacco leaves.” The official spoke with sudden gentleness. His entire demeanor had transformed. This towering figure clad head-to-toe in black—from his hat and suit down to his shoes—now oozing honeyed words only deepened Man’s unease. Wordlessly, she extended the basket.

The official took out the leaves one by one, crushing them in his hands and sniffing them as he worked, "You've gathered these quite thoroughly. You don't seem like a bad woman—why would you steal government property?" "Father just loves tobacco so much..." "No matter how filial you are, the law's the law—pitiful as it is, we'll have to impose a fine." "Mr. Official, I won't do it again—please show mercy..."

“Who knows?” Suggestively, the official glared at Man. This Monopoly Bureau official nicknamed “Oni” appeared to have been stirred by base desires while walking behind Man earlier. The young woman’s firmly toned physique, the supple movements of her waist and hips, her pale bare feet in straw sandals, the disheveled locks cascading over her wheat-colored nape—this fresh, ripe fruit before his eyes must have made him want to pluck and devour it.

“Don’t want Taniguchi’s fine, do you?”

He approached Man with a lip-smacking tone. Triangular eyes glinted lewdly. "Yes... I don't want that." "Shall I make it go away for you...hmm?" "Please." "But nothing comes free." "You've gone this far yourself—surely you didn't think it'd cost nothing?" "What must I do to set things right?" "Well then... shall we settle this the simple way? ...Works for you?"

Man finally understood what the man was thinking. She recoiled violently. "I don't want that." "No? You don't want your sins forgiven even after doing such a fine thing? It's not like you're still a virgin anyway. Everyone does this, you know. That's the smart way."

Even as he spoke, the large black-clad man's body began coiling around the petite Man like a wrapping cloth. Man resisted fiercely but found herself overpowered by the man’s strong arms. She had become completely immobilized. The man’s doburoku-laced breath drew near her face. Man was thrown onto the dirt floor face-up and pinned down with terrifying force. Man had experienced this same situation once before.

It had been the evening of this summer's Bon dance. In the deep-grass mountain valley villages, the Bon Festival was the sole occasion where young men and women could truly spread their wings. The Bon dance was held at Nakazo Temple in the hamlet called Kakinosaka, famous for its thriving sericulture. The ancestral graves of the Taniguchi family were also at this temple. Father Zenkichi liked to bring his children to this temple, have them stand before the ancestral graves, and tell them old stories. The weathered gravestones, so ancient their era was indeterminable, had been chipped away in countless places until they retained no semblance of their original forms. The characters couldn't be read clearly. However, Zenkichi,

“Look here, see this crest,” he said, indicating the upper part of the gravestone with his gnarled fingers.

“There’s nothing there.”

When the children said this, Zenkichi puffed up with pride and began his tale. “You all might not see it, but Father here sees it plain as day.” “This here’s Lord Heike’s crest.” “The defeated Heike warriors from the Genpei War fled deep into mountains all over Japan—what with the Genji’s pursuit bein’ oh so fierce—but they came round these parts too.” “Now it’s cleared up this much at least, but when I was small, this valley was the sorta place where ghosts’d show even at high noon—Lord Heike’s remnants hid an’ lived here for ages.” “Come the national census, that’s when they first found out—turns out there were still these strange samurai sportin’ topknots up in them mountains. When officials went lookin’, one came out with his sword an’ asked—‘Have them Genji perished yet?’ so they say.” “The Taniguchi family’s a branch of Lord Heike’s clan too.” “We ain’t your common dirt farmers, y’hear?”

Man didn't particularly care whether her ancestors were Heike or not. She found Father's boasting amusing. At times, she felt saddened by this, sensing her father's decline. However, in the village this matter was discussed with an air of tradition, and from the village headman's household came a marriage proposal for Man despite him being the second son. The second son was said to have graduated from university, but Man disliked this arrogant man with his pince-nez. No matter how many times they pressed her forcefully, she refused. Then on the night of the Bon dance, she was dragged into the cedar grove behind the temple and pinned down by this man. Despite his pale face, he had terrifying strength. At the critical moment, someone carrying a lantern passed by, allowing her to barely escape the peril.

When she returned home and reported this to her father, Zenkichi said, “You fool.” “That kind of thing will keep happening.” “Make sure you remember this,” he said, teaching her self-defense techniques.

As Man was seized by the Monopoly Bureau "demon," her father’s words from that time flashed through her mind. Man was already in a frenzy. Yet she made no sound. She clenched her teeth, eyes blazing with rage. Every ounce of strength poured into Man’s right hand thrust into the man’s crotch. The man who had emitted an unnatural scream turned daikon-leaf pale. After violent convulsions, "the demon" went limp and collapsed there.

Man sprang up. She dashed. Her face burned hot, her pulse pounded violently. Breathing heavily through her shoulders, she looked and saw the man lying in the dark earthen floor like a felled great pine tree. He didn’t move.

She quietly approached. His eyes were twitching, jagged teeth bared, his thick-lipped mouth hung agape. He looked like a raccoon dog. Man pressed her ear against the man's chest. Then she gathered the tobacco leaves scattered around and put them into the basket. Taking that, she exited the watermill hut.

In the sky that looked as if seen from the bottom of a well, pale red evening clouds drifted, and a single kite soared leisurely. There were no houses around, nor any human figures. A piercing cry—the voice of a fox—was heard in the distance.

Man came to the waterwheel. She put down the basket and squatted on the bank of the rapids that turned the waterwheel. She washed her hands in the flow of the mountain stream cascading down. Then she scooped water with both hands and gulped it down. Her throat was terribly dry. She could feel the clear cold water flowing down through her esophagus into her stomach, “Ah...good.” Before she knew it, a voice escaped her.

In the faint twilight glow, Man noticed a single dace in the stream right before her eyes. Though the water flowed quite violently, the small fish kept moving its fins against the current, remaining nearly stationary. It advanced little by little. Watching this, Man felt a hushed stillness settle over her and grew slightly calmer. Man scooped water with both hands once more, filled her mouth with it, and stood up. She trotted back into the hut.

She went to where the official lay collapsed and sprayed water twice—splurt, splurt—aiming at his face. Then the man's face twitched, his gaping mouth snapped shut, and a muffled groan—Ugh...—rose from deep within his throat. Realizing the official was starting to move, Man dashed outside. When she grabbed the basket she'd left by the waterwheel, she broke into a full sprint. Was it fear, sadness, anger, or perhaps even joy—she couldn’t tell. She simply wanted to return home quickly. She hurried along the path by the mountain stream without looking aside. As the gradually strengthening wind swept over the ripe ears of rice, it was like a lake. Again, a sharp fox's cry—kyoon—resounded, this time immediately near her ear.

She crossed many slopes. Finally, her home came into view ahead. When the quiet figure of her mother weaving straw sandals under the lamp entered her vision, Man suddenly felt her chest tighten. Biting her lip, she barely managed to suppress the impulse to burst into loud sobs. Tears overflowed, and the lamplight ahead swayed unsteadily.

At that moment, the sound of horse hooves came from behind her.

“Man,” she was called out to.

When she turned around, a young man on horseback in a tube-sleeved outfit emerged from the deep bend in the pampas grass path.

“Tokiji! You scared me!” “No need to be startled. Ain’t no fox here. Look—your mail.” “Where from?” “One’s from Brother Rinsuke in Moji... and this here’s from the Monopoly Bureau.” “The Monopoly Bureau?” Man’s heart leapt.

Okawa Tokijiro was a postal deliveryman. He rode on horseback to deliver the mail arriving at Kakinosaka Post Office to village after village. At times, since important items like registered mail and parcels required handling, these could only be entrusted to someone deemed trustworthy. In that regard, Tokijiro was indeed considered the model youth of the entire village. Moreover, since deliveries could not be skipped even during rain, wind, snow, or storms, only those with robust physiques could endure the work. In that respect as well, Tokijiro—being the village sumo champion—was indeed the most suitable candidate.

“Well now,” Tokijiro said from horseback, peering at Man’s face. “Man, haven’t you been crying?”

“Nope, ain’t cryin’.” “Even so, your eyes’re brimmin’ with tears. Ain’t like you to turn weepy, Man—looks like that village head’s second boy’s been botherin’ ya again, eh?” “Who’d bawl over some... pince-nez…” “Even if you feel that way, Kei-yan still ain’t given up on ya. Crafty bastard at heart, ’sides bein’ some college-educated schemer—head over heels for ya, who knows what tricks he’s got up his sleeve. Best watch yourself now, hear?”

“No matter why they come, I won’t lose.” “Well then, that’s fine...” From beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat, a sharply defined oblong face imbued with some unspoken emotion gazed at Man. Though somewhat dull, his eyes held a resolute light, and his thick black eyebrows were robust.

Man knew well what that thought lingering in Tokijiro’s eyes was. And Man, for her part, harbored certain feelings toward Tokijiro. “Man, are you free tonight?” “Well... I’ve got a bit of business tonight.” Though she had no actual business to attend to, given what consequences the incident at the watermill hut might bring, she could hardly claim to be free. Far from it—Man was trembling with fear, certain that the “demon” who had just regained his breath would come chasing after her trail.

“I see. If you’re free, I was hoping to come by tonight and talk things through at length.” “...What about tomorrow night?” “That, I can’t say.” “You’re terribly busy these days, ain’t ya.” “Sometime, won’t ya make some time for me?” “One of these days, I guess” Tokijiro clearly showed disappointment at Man’s aloof attitude but nevertheless forced a cheerful face,

“Well then.”

With that, he turned his beloved horse's head. A tall, sturdy chestnut-coated four-year-old horse.

“Tokiji!” Man suddenly called out to stop him with a slightly flustered expression.

“Huh?”

“You’ll be passing by the waterwheel at Nanase on your way home, won’t you?”

“That’s right. “There’s no other way.” “Is there something wrong with that?” “I can’t really say.”

Man spun around sharply and sprang into motion, running toward the house. When she reached the cliff below the house, she muffled her footsteps. She quietly climbed the slanted stone steps. She circled around toward the cowshed at the back so her mother wouldn’t notice her. Then, from who knows where, her beloved dog Shun came leaping out of the darkness. Shun wagged his tail vigorously, letting out whimper-whimper sounds through his nose as he clung to her. "Shh, shh" Startled, she chased after him, but Shun didn’t run away. Having not seen his most beloved master since daytime, he must have been overjoyed. He leapt about so boisterously, playfully clinging to her that he nearly knocked over the basket filled with tobacco leaves.

At that commotion,

“Man?”

From beneath the lamp, Mother Iwa paused her hands weaving straw sandals and peered into the darkness outside. “Yes.” she answered reluctantly.

“Didn’t ya meet Pa?” “Nope.” “Wasn’t he up in the mountains?” “He went to the tobacco field.” “Oh dear, oh dear. Pa went up to the mountains to fetch you, sayin’ you’d be at the charcoal hut, but...” “Today, since crack of dawn, them Mr. Foxes been cryin’ somethin’ fierce—said we can’t have you gettin’ bewitched now...” “I’m sorry.”

Man went to the cowshed. The dog followed along. The cow, having already recognized Man’s footsteps, began butting the wooden wall of the shed with its horns and stamping its hooves. The two calves born last year along with their parent had both become quite attached to her. They let out rumbling snorts through their noses. They let out welcoming cries.

When she entered the cowshed, Man lit the lamp on the shelf. She put straw into the feed bucket. The cow and her calf immediately began eating it. Man closed the cowshed door and took out two sealed letters from her breast pocket. She listened carefully, confirmed that no one was coming, then first opened the letter from her brother Hayamasuke. The letter from her brother, who had dropped out midway through third grade, was written in katakana with scattered kanji characters—all of them fake. Yet she could understand the meaning.

“In the Kanmon Strait, many foreign ships have been entering, and offshore work keeps increasing—our group is seeking young, capable workers. I’m waiting for you to come out here. Do you think staying in these mountain backwoods to end your whole life ain’t stupid? Make up your mind and get out here!” Then came details about how his boss’s Hamao-gumi would always take her in as a chambermaid, along with housing arrangements, wages, the bustling port and town of Moji, and the allure of city life—all written in an awkward yet irresistibly thrilling manner, meticulously laid out.

Man opened the second sealed letter. The Monopoly Bureau's letter was also written in katakana script, but unlike her brother's, it contained no fake characters and was printed with official formality. "Regarding the application submitted previously, after due deliberation, we hereby notify you that Taniguchi Man has been determined to meet the qualifications for tobacco factory worker and is hereby appointed." Man stood frozen in the cowshed, her eyes taking on a slightly crazed, dreamlike quality as she repeatedly compared the two letters. (What would be best?)

Man hesitated. In the village, there were many aspirants wanting to become tobacco factory workers for the Monopoly Bureau. For village girls, it might have been their one and greatest aspiration. Yet the qualifications came with numerous troublesome conditions, and acceptance rarely came. That golden opportunity was what Man had seized. Under normal circumstances, anyone would have leapt for joy.

However, Man's face looked perplexed, her eyebrows drawn together.

—The city. —Port. —A world of freedom. —Brazil. I want to leave this cramped valley-bottom hometown for the wide-open world. The yearning for wandering and roaming that stirs her youthful blood had long since become an irresistible passion burning in Man’s breast. No matter where you went—narrow mountain recesses where your nose practically bumped against cliffs; even if you tried to cultivate paddies and fields—there wasn’t even five tan’s worth of continuous land. Her mother’s brother—a man who was Man’s uncle—had succeeded as an immigrant in Brazil and managed a large plantation. There stretched farmlands reaching beyond where the eye could see, where they could farm freely throughout all four seasons, it was said. Man’s imagination flew far across the sea to the vast lands of Brazil.

—First go to her brother Hayamasuke in Moji Port, establish a foothold there, then on to Brazil. This was the blueprint of Man’s yearning.

Okawa Tokijiro's face floated into view. Man also liked this young man who worked at the post office. She thought he was the best man in the village. Tokiji also wanted to make Man his bride. However, Tokiji was the only son and had to succeed the Okawa family, meaning he must spend his entire life in this hamlet. Tokiji himself also had a hesitant streak and lacked any active desire to leave the village. His ultimate aspiration seemed to lie in becoming the postmaster of Kakinosaka. *I don’t want that.*

Man thought. Outside came footsteps. They stopped before the cowshed.

“Manbo?”

It was Father Zenkichi's voice. "Yes." She answered, then hurriedly hid her brother Hayamasuke's letter in her bosom. She opened the shed door. Before Man could move, the dog rushed out. The tall father stood there with firewood on his back and a sickle in hand.

“What’s this? You’ve gone and closed the door…” “Father, this.” Man handed over the envelope from the Monopoly Bureau. As he read it by lamplight, an expression bordering on ecstasy rapidly emerged across Zenkichi’s sunburned face.

“Ah, that’s grand, huh!” “Banzai! Banzai!” With that, he raised both hands in a banzai gesture and brought one down with a thump on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Man, you must be happy too, huh?” “Yes.” She had no choice but to answer that way.

At the hearthside, the family began a lively dinner. Zenkichi, Iwa, eldest brother Kurasuke, his wife Miki, their three-year-old child Matsuo, younger brother Ushizo, and Man—seven people in total. To celebrate Man’s employment, Zenkichi had heated some sweet potato shochu, but then, as if suddenly remembering, he began: “Speaking of the Monopoly Bureau, that devil from the police box at Nanase’s watermill hut...” Man felt as though her heart did a complete somersault in her chest. Her face burned. She widened her eyes until they were saucer-like and looked at her father’s face.

Zenkichi, in high spirits, poured himself shochu from the tokkuri as he drank alone, "Well, apparently... he’s finally been bewitched by a fox." "That devil was always strutting around like he owned the place." “Every last one of ’em in this valley’s a damned good-for-nothing fool.” "In this age of civilization, how could there be such an absurd notion as foxes bewitching humans?" “I’ll be the one to trick the fox.” "...and he kept going on like that." "This time, he was done in by Mr. Fox." “Divine retribution.”

“Well, serves ’em right, but how in blazes’d he get tricked like that?”

Kurasuke, already red-faced from tilting a bowl of shochu, asked this as well. “I’ve only heard this secondhand, so I don’t know the details, but according to Takakado’s Mr. Takeju, here’s how it went.—The master was passing by Nanase’s waterwheel—” “Then from inside the hut came groaning sounds, and something came crawling out through the entrance.” “The master seemed startled, but being a man of stout heart, he held out his lantern and tried to get a look.”

“So that was the Monopoly Bureau, was it?”

Mother Iwa leaned forward.

“That’s right. Who knows what exactly happened, but he turned into a complete wreck—even when the master called out, he didn’t answer, just staggered to his feet and went swaying along the riverbank like a drunkard, falling down several times as he went, they say.” “Which direction?” Man asked in a tense voice.

“Toward Kakinosaka. Even if he’d been bewitched by a fox，seems he still knew which way led back to the police box. They say the clothes were caked in mud，but he didn’t even seem to notice something like that.”

“Didn’t he have the briefcase?”

“The briefcase? I hadn’t heard about that until now,” he said, then suddenly asked suspiciously, “How do you know the official had a briefcase?” “No reason... It’s just... Mr. Official always carries a black one, so I was wonderin’ what happened to it...” Man answered flusteredly.

Man did not tell her father about the incident at the watermill hut. She told no one. On the night of the Bon dance, she had immediately confided in her father about nearly being assaulted by the village head’s second son, yet today, though she faced the same situation again, she kept this hidden.

During the Bon festival, her father had told her, “Such things will keep happening. Make sure you remember this,” and though she could have proudly reported her success—having executed exactly as taught the women’s self-defense techniques—Man maintained her silence. Though she had unexpectedly managed to protect herself from danger, the method had plunged the pure and earnest young woman into intense shame. Far from reporting triumphantly, she feared the truth being discovered. Man had acquired a new secret.

However, deep within Man’s heart, a peculiar strength had also taken root. Even a woman, if she strives desperately, can perform work that rivals any man’s. It was a heart-swelling awareness and confidence.

About a week had passed.

A grand opening ceremony was held for the village tobacco factory. Despite being an impoverished hamlet, they had this habit of making every event extravagant, and on this factory opening day, it turned into a veritable festival commotion. “Such an honor, ain’t it.” “With this, I don’t mind dyin’ anytime now.”

The Village Head tapped his bald head and spoke from the heart. In this remote mountain village where even electric lights had yet to be installed, the establishment of a government-designated institution might well have been the crowning achievement of the Village Head’s life. “Village Head, I’m every bit as happy about this as you are.”

The one who said this was Takakado's Mr. Takeju. Though called a tobacco factory, it was merely a remodeled warehouse belonging to Takeju, the village’s major landowner. They only handled the initial process of shredding tobacco leaves, and with just sixteen female workers, that was actually sufficient.

“Village Head, Mr. Takeju, this matter’s added about three years to my life.” “Thank you ever so much.”

Taniguchi Zenkichi’s words were no empty flattery. Not only had his daughter Man been hired, but she had also been appointed as the factory supervisor. On the day of the opening ceremony, a young field officer from the Monopoly Bureau who had come from Hiroshima also greeted everyone with a cheerful smile.

“That we have brought this endeavor to fruition owes itself to the ardent dedication of Mr. Village Head and members of neighboring communities. I, as an official of the Bureau, am convinced that our selected female workers of exceptional caliber will undoubtedly yield results surpassing all expectations. “Particularly profound are our expectations for Ms. Taniguchi Man’s contributions in her responsible role as factory supervisor... While it pains me deeply that our local station officer Mr. Matsutomi Gohachiro cannot grace us today, he has been bedridden since suddenly suffering an attack of his chronic gastric spasms one week past during an investigation of illicit tobacco leaves concealed within Nanase’s watermill hut...”

A burst of explosive laughter erupted throughout the hall. The young official, who had been delivering his speech with confidence, couldn’t comprehend why he was being laughed at and assumed a slightly sullen expression, “Mr. Matsutomi is a man of unparalleled skill and integrity, who while guiding you all daily, has today met with a near-sacrificial hardship due to his excessive dedication to his work…” Once again, the hall buzzed with strange laughter for a while. They showed deference to the officials, but no one could contain their amusement.

The only one who couldn't laugh was Man. She had been sitting at the head of the sixteen female workers’ seats arranged at the center, but her face burned crimson and she couldn’t lift her head. “Ms. Man… Hehehe…”

Kinu, who had been right behind her, poked Man’s waist with her finger and gave a knowing smirk. Kinu had also been hired as a factory worker. Man felt a chill as though an icy sickle had sliced through her waist. A wave of dizziness washed over her.

“Seems nobody knows what really happened, but I know everything.” Kinu’s muffled laughter spoke those unvoiced words as clearly as speech.

After that, every day, Man went to work at the Takakado Tobacco Factory. Though her inner self was in violent turmoil, on the surface she appeared to be delightedly engrossed in this new work.

“As expected, Manbo’s different.”

Mr. Takeju was thoroughly pleased with her work performance. Every day, he praised her to her face. “Oh no, sir, I couldn’t possibly keep up.” “To produce three cups of first-grade leaves in a single day—you outdo even the machines. Even with fifth-grade leaves, there are those who can’t manage three cups no matter how hard they try…” Tobacco leaves were divided into good parts and bad parts, categorized from first-grade to fifth-grade. They would shred them, but producing one cup (1 kan 600 me) of first-grade leaves in a day was quite a task. Man accurately produced three cups of it. As for fifth-grade leaves shredded carelessly, there were some workers who could produce about six cups. The wage per cup: three to four sen.

“Manbo, you’re going to become Mr. Village Head’s Keizo’s bride, I hear.”

One day at the factory when Mr. Takeju told her this, she was taken aback. Upon inquiring, she learned that both Man’s hiring at the tobacco factory and her appointment as supervisor had all been due to the second son’s influence and connections. Man stood dumbfounded, nausea rising in her throat.

Keizo began visiting the Taniguchi household nearly every night. In a smirking voice yet with threatening intensity, he pressured Zenkichi.

“If I say a word, Manbo could get fired from the factory even today.” “It’s entirely thanks to me.”

Zenkichi did not answer, his face twisted as if he’d bitten into a bitter bug. He frantically puffed smoke from his hatchet-shaped pipe. Iwa, too, silently wove straw sandals. One drizzly rainy day, when Man saw the man entering through the factory entrance, her hands faltered involuntarily. With the kitchen knife, she cut her finger.

“Well now, aren’t you working hard.” It was the demon. As usual, the large man in his black high-collared uniform carrying a black briefcase and wearing a black hat came walking straight toward Man with a grin. Suppressed giggles rippled through the female workers. As Man stood silently with her bleeding left thumb pressed to her mouth, “Hurt yourself?” said the official.

he said kindly, thrusting out his flushed face. It reeked of homemade sake. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Is that so,” he nodded spitefully, then surveying the working women added, “What an exhibition of model girls we’ve got here.”

With that, he shook his entire body and bellowed with laughter—a laugh heavy with implication.

Man clenched her teeth. When "the demon" had demanded her body in the watermill hut under the pretense of erasing her crimes, she recalled his words: "Everyone does it, you know." Could there be others among these female workers who had fallen prey to the demon's venom? The official had long since decided peasants would swallow their tears in silence. He might have been startled by Man's defiance. But rather than repent his wrongs, the demon seemed to dig in his heels, now fixing his sights on Man with fresh determination.

Then, a few days later, Tokijiro again delivered registered mail from the Monopoly Bureau to Man's place. It was an order document stating: "Pay the fine of 2 yen and 50 sen for violation of the Monopoly Law."

Matsutomi Gohachiro, the resident agent, came to visit the Taniguchi household, staring sideways at Man as he did so.

“Mr. Zenkichi, I hear the fine has arrived?” “It has arrived.” “I suppose the boss girl’s filial piety has backfired on her, one might say.” “…But hey, Mr. Zenkichi… There might be a way to settle this fine without paying it, you know.” “No need. I’ll pay.” “I’ll pay it.” “Putting on that brave front won’t do you any good.” “Even the government has blood and tears, you know. Why not bathe in its benevolence?” “There’s an expedient method, but…” “…The penalty itself isn’t substantial, but it’ll brand you with a criminal record—and worst of all, you’d have to trek all the way to Okayama Court to pay it.”

“I’ll go.” “Defying the authorities brings no gain.”

"The demon" sneered and stood up. With large strides, he walked back leisurely.

“Father, I’m sorry.”

“Manbo, oh, there’s no need to worry.” “Father knows full well.” Man burst into tears and collapsed.

Zenkichi departed for Okayama to pay the fine. While two yen and fifty sen was the minimum penal fine, going to pay it was a tremendous ordeal. It could indeed be called a grand journey.

From the deep mountains of Hiroshima, crossing valleys and mountains, staying over many nights, he finally reached a place with railways and boarded a train. Upon arriving in Okayama City and paying the fine at the court, he retraced the same route. After using expenses several times greater than the fine itself, Zenkichi returned to the village on the thirteenth day after leaving home.

Zenkichi showed no sign of weariness as he tightly wrapped his cherished hatamame tobacco pipe, tobacco tray, pouch, and other accessories in oiled paper before cramming them into the storage space beneath the household Buddhist altar. Iwa pulled a peculiar face. "What in blazes you done now, Father? Gone and locked up your precious smoke things..." "It's my tobacco habit that drives Manbo to sin through worry. From today on—done with it for good."

Tears welled up in Man again. Despite all this, she continued attending the tobacco factory with a heavy heart, until one windy twilight when she saw Okawa Tokijiro and Kinu engaged in friendly conversation by the Nanase Watermill Hut. From the shadow of the Kannon Hall, she fixed her gaze. Though she couldn’t make out their words from afar, they stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing uproariously about something. A jealousy she had never felt before—this inexplicable emotion—overflowed within Man’s chest.

(What is this...) Hic, hic—something between a laugh and a sob welled up from the depths of her chest. The two figures looked like foxes and tanuki.

The waterwheel turned at a leisurely pace, scattering the twilight's faint light across the clear stream.

Then, a few days later, her figure had vanished from this valley-bottom village.

Meiji 35, late autumn.

Taniguchi Man, nineteen years old.

The Man's Departure

"What fine weather we're having. The castle looks so beautiful today, I tell ya." "Even if the weather's fine, over here it's downpours, gales, and tempests." "That serious? Kinbo." "Even if I say it's bad, someone like you—a blacksmith's son—wouldn't understand. If the wholesaler doesn't take these mandarins loaded on the cart today at our asking price, Father says we'll go bankrupt." "Hunh." "So he's tellin' me to go negotiate. Big brother's a smooth talker, but since he's always gettin' sweet-talked by the wholesalers, he ain't doin' it. They always send me—the youngest son—to handle the tough negotiations."

“See? Told ya I’d get it.” “Your father’s thinking—I understand it now too, I tell you.” “What’ll happen? I mean to crash through and find out. But Father said if things go well, I could stop by Dogo hot springs for a soak and some fun on the way back.” “When that time comes, take me along too, won’t ya?”

“Yeah… But what’ll come of it…?”

Against an intensely deep and clear blue sky that stung the eyes, the keep of Matsuyama Castle stood out sharply. At the center of the city, Shiroyama rose to a height of about 130 meters, its entire mountain densely covered with abundant trees like a green protuberance. The white castle at the summit resembled a stylish bowler hat.

While viewing this castle from afar, a single carriage traveled along the road winding through mandarin orange hills. On the carriage, mandarin orange crates were stacked in several layers, while on top of the frontmost crates sat two young men side by side.

The man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat skillfully guided the horse with the reins and whip held in both hands as he drove the carriage forward. He was the one called Kinbo, with a sturdy build and broad shoulders. His rounded face was tanned, but the sturdy arms emerging from his rolled-up shirt sleeves were gleaming white. The other youth was stubby, dark-skinned, and sickly-looking. The bird-hunting cap he wore was deeply stained as if boiled in grime, riddled with holes.

Both were youths from this village blanketed by mandarin orange hills.

The carriage had departed from this hamlet called Yoshifuji, Shiomimura Village, Onsen District, Ehime Prefecture.

The carriage advanced along the tortuously winding road toward Matsuyama City. This highway known as “Seven Bends” was said to have been deliberately made to wind and twist long ago so that from the castle keep, one could discern whichever path enemy troops might take when attacking. “Kinbo, your sister-in-law—still not working out?” “No matter how you look at it, she just ain’t working out. She just keeps getting meaner. I don’t mind her working me to the bone, but hearing her badmouth Elder brother like that—I can’t take it. ‘You’ve got to watch out for Kingoro—that youngest son’s got designs on taking over this Tamai family.’ ...she goes on saying things like. If she gives five sen to the janitor, she claims she gave ten to Elder brother, and if she gets ten sen for a haircut, she tells people she gave fifteen.”

“Is that how ’tis…? “If…”

“Sei-chan.”

Kingoro thought of something and made his eyes gleam.

“Yeah.” “I’ve got a lifelong favor to ask of ya.”

Seiji the blacksmith was famous for being good-natured and slow-witted. Kingoro always teased him, saying, "You’re the type who gets smacked on the head in the morning and goes ‘Ouch’ come evening." And so even now, when his close friend spoke with a tense expression and urgent tone about having a lifelong request to make, he maintained an easygoing face without changing his expression,

“What’s that?” “If…”

He merely asked back in a drawn-out voice, still picking his nose incessantly. “I’d like ya to make me a key.” “What kinda key we talkin’ ’bout?”

“That’s... well... I don’t quite know...?” “Can’t make a key if I don’t know what kind.”

“Sei-chan, since it’s you, I’ll come clean. The truth is, there's a chest where my brother and his wife always keep their money. The key to that chest—my sister-in-law’s got it. I want a key that’s exactly like that one.” “You planning to steal the money from that chest, then?”

“No—I ain’t stealing. Just borrowing.” “You planning to open the chest and just quietly borrow it?” “That’s right.” “If you’re borrowing it, I could make you a key.” “How do you make a key that’s exactly the same?” “Coat the keyhole with ink, press tissue paper against it, and take an impression to bring back.”

“I see. Thanks.” Though slow-witted, Kingoro trusted Seiji’s craftsmanship. Whether horseshoes, carriage axles, or citrus-pruning shears, Seiji poured such painstaking care into his work that they became several times sturdier and longer-lasting than those from other blacksmiths. Without doubt, a duplicate key that properly fit the chest would surely be made.

Eventually, the carriage entered Matsuyama City.

Old houses retaining vestiges of the castle town stood everywhere, and from rooms with warrior windows came the clack-clack of looms weaving Iyo-kasuri. They came to the front of a fruit wholesaler in Kayamachi and stopped the carriage—a shop marked by a reversed Γ symbol combined with the character 甚 that exclusively handled Iyo mandarins.

Passing through the noren, Kingoro entered. In the darkness, the aromatic scent of fruit hung thickly. In the hushed shop’s accounting area, the shopkeeper’s wife sat alone wearing reading glasses as she perused a magazine, though her gaze kept drifting toward the entrance.

“Who could it be, I wonder?” she asked, raising her face.

“It’s Tamai of Yoshifuji.” “Ah, Mr. Kin! “Just wait a moment now.” “My husband’s been waiting for you since before you came.” “He’ll be right out to fetch you...” The master appeared, trading places with the shopkeeper’s wife—a pallid, diminutive middle-aged man yet renowned as a shrewd merchant. In the depths of his golden-jar eyes lay a cunning stagnant light. Immediately negotiations commenced. Between the two men seated on the shop’s threshold sat an abacus.

This deal would determine whether the Tamai family's fate prospered or perished—considering the weighty responsibility his father had entrusted him with, Kingoro couldn't help feeling tense. After flipping up four beads from below on the abacus, he stared fixedly at [symbol]'s expression. [symbol], arms still crossed, grinned suggestively. Normally, price negotiations would be settled in a flash, but for some reason, [symbol] wasn't responding. Even toward the price Kingoro had indicated with the abacus beads, [symbol] didn't appear particularly interested.

Kingoro grew slightly impatient. “How about this price?” Yet still, since he remained silent,

“I can’t go a single sen lower than this. Hurry up and strike a deal—hand over the money.”

He raised his voice slightly and pressed more insistently. He glared. To tell the truth, Kingoro felt slightly flustered inside. This has taken a bad turn, he thought. If negotiations go like this, I'll lose. He'd carefully prepared strategies knowing [symbol]'s usual tactics all too well, yet everything felt completely different. If we opened with 4, [symbol] would counter with 1. If they haggled there and settled on 3, he'd considered that a major success.

However, [symbol], who would normally snap three beads back with lightning speed the moment four were set, remained completely silent without showing any reaction. Not only that, but he wore a smile laden with strange meaning. Kingoro felt slightly unnerved. As this happened, his irritation intensified further, and as if driven by some force, his voice rose to a shout: "Mr. [symbol], let's settle this like men!"

“Now now,” [symbol] finally said through parted lips. “No need for haste now Mr Kin.” “Not that I’m flustered myself mind you—but this dithering does you no credit.”

“Mr. Kin.” [symbol], maintaining his composure, said, “In any case, do you truly require that much money?” “I need it.” “But that price is downright unreasonable now.” “It’s always you being unreasonable, Mr. [symbol], isn’t it? Do you know you’ve been given the nickname ‘Mountain Killer’?”

"That may be neither here nor there... but Mr. Kin—would Tamai truly face ruin without that sum?" "We'll be ruined. We'll go bankrupt."

“Then let’s settle it this way. We’re in business too—can’t just sit and watch ourselves take a massive loss. If we take your asking price, we’ll have to call off the deal. That way Tamai gets saved and we don’t take a loss—making that kind of deal would be best, Mr. Kin. How about it?” “Can such a smooth deal really work?” “It might be possible... depending entirely on your decision...”

With that, [symbol]'s eyes gleamed vividly for the first time as he inched slightly forward on his knees. "My decision alone?......"

He didn't understand. "Hey now, Mr. Kin—let's cut through the niceties," [symbol] said, leaning forward. "You're dead set against becoming the Kuroishis' adopted son, but change your mind and go through with it. That'd wrap everything up neat and proper-like." The wholesaler's eyes gleamed as he pressed on: "Since Kuroishi's kin to me now, I'll pay a gratitude fee if you arrange the adoption. Consider it payment for these rotten mandarins." His Kansai dialect thickened with finality: "Three-way blessing all around, see?"

Kingoro stood speechless. He froze in shock. This was an ambush beyond all anticipation.

(He'd been had.) He bit his lip and held his breath.

“A deal this good doesn’t come around often, see?” As if declaring victory, [symbol] smirked and pressed for an answer.

The proposal from the Kuroishi family to adopt Kingoro had been a longstanding matter. Kuroishi Yukisaku, the family head, ranked among the top one or two wealthy men in Shiomimura Village, yet he possessed only one child. That child was a daughter—a hulking woman built like a sumo wrestler who happened to be notoriously ugly to boot. They absolutely needed to take in an adopted son-in-law, yet no candidates came forward. There were indeed men willing to overlook the woman and come pursuing the property, but Kuroishi found such types disagreeable. He wanted a man who was physically robust, a capable worker, of ordinary caliber in masculinity—one who would respect his parents and dote on their daughter. This white arrow of selection had been planted in Kingoro, the third son of the Tamai family.

“Even if you look throughout the entire village, there’s not a single man besides Mr. Kin here who fits the bill.” Kuroishi Yukisaku said this. Despite suffering a stroke that left his body somewhat impaired, he personally made multiple trips to bring himself to the Tamai household. Father Ushihachi and Elder Brother Umatarou were not entirely unmoved by the other party’s immense wealth, so

“How about it, Kinbo? Go to Kuroishi, make Yasubo your wife, and become the richest man in the village?” He tried to persuade him, “I’d rather die than go.”

Kingoro’s answer was that single-minded insistence. From the mayor, influential figures, business associates, officials, police, and friends—they persistently tried to persuade him from all quarters—but Kingoro’s resolve did not waver. Suki—his sister-in-law who usually treated Kingoro as a nuisance—and others like her,

“You’re a fool. Where in all the world does such a perfect windfall exist? If I were you, I’d bite down on a celebratory token and rush over there,” she scolded her brother-in-law’s lack of ambition. Kuroishi Yasu, the only daughter of Kuroishi, was also said to be throwing a tantrum, declaring, “If it’s not Mr. Kin, I won’t accept it.” Kingoro was cornered. “Hey, Mr. Kin.” [symbol] urged one final push,

“You said earlier you’d act manly and settle things proper-like, didn’tcha? That’s what this here business is about, see? C’mon now—let’s shake on this deal bold-like, ain’t we?”

“Understood.” “If I go as Kuroishi’s adopted son, you’ll take all the mandarins at four, is that what you’re saying?” “That’s right.” “You’ll pay at four per unit without any discounts, in cash—that’s what you’re saying?” “That’s right.” “Very well. “We have a deal.” “Right?” [symbol] jumped up, “I know I’m being repetitive, but you agree to the Kuroishi adoption?”

“Agreed.” “Much obliged. “As expected, Mr. Kin’s so reasonable. “This way, all three parties get what they want—neatly wrapped up.” After that, Kingoro was made to write a document stating, “I shall enter the Kuroishi family as an adopted son without discrepancy.” From [symbol] who stood smugly smirking with satisfaction, he received payment for the mandarins and left the store dejectedly. Riding in the emptied carriage, Kingoro and Seiji went to Dogo Onsen. The hot spring town was connected to Matsuyama.

Seiji the blacksmith had been watching the deal’s progression with concern, but when his friend—who had so vehemently resisted becoming the Kuroishi family’s adopted son—agreed to it, he was stunned. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in the carriage’s front section, he asked with a suspicious look, “Kinbo, you sure ’bout this?”

“Yeah, yeah.” “No matter what you say, there’s no other way.” “To get through the family emergency, there’s no other way left but this move.”

“Even if ya say that, adoption’s for life, y’know.” “Quit naggin’. Got myself a little scheme here.” “That right?” “Listen up, Sei—no need makin’ that chest key no more.” “Pointless now.” “Tonight we’ll blow every last coin in Spa Town.” “Goddamn it all.” “You’re stickin’ with me.” “A’ight, I’ll tag along… But Kinbo—what’re ya fixin’ to do? No tellin’…”

“I’ll give you some tobacco money too. …Here.” “That so.” Since [symbol] had calculated that offering four would settle at two as planned—with three meaning great success—Kingoro’s money pouch swelled with cash. From inside, he counted out a portion on his fingers, grabbed it, and pressed it into Seiji’s palm.

At the entrance of Yumachi—now developed into a park—stood a small antique shop. It was a trinket shop of no particular distinction.

Stopping the carriage, Kingoro strode into the store.

“Well, Mr. Kin, come on in.” A red-nosed, bald-headed old man appeared. His mouth was as large as a wooden fish. “I’ve been saying I’d get that Sukehiro dagger once I had the money—can I have that one now?” “Did you make a killing, then?” “Just a pittance.”

“With mandarins this year—everyone’s taking losses left and right—but of course it’s you, Mr. Kin.” He retrieved from the back a small dagger wrapped in a purple cloth. Upon receiving it, he drew it from its sheath examined it thoroughly and paid. He left the antique shop. “Finally got that thing I’ve been wanting for so long.” Seiji knowing Kingoro’s fondness for swords offered words of congratulations. They left the carriage at an acquaintance’s fruit shop and went to the public bath. There were several bath chambers but they entered a large tub called “Kami no Yu”.

Submerging up to his neck in the blue-stagnant slick bathwater, Kingoro felt strangely exhausted, his body going limp. In the white steam, closing his eyes brought a dreamlike sensation. It was not a pleasant dream. His head weighed heavy; his mouth held a faint bitterness.

To his ear, right beside him,

“Bro.” An unfamiliar voice reached his ears. He opened his eyes. It was the sharp-eyed man with a buzz-cut head and bluish-black complexion—covered in full-body tattoos—who had been soaking alone right under the faucet since earlier. “Me?”

Kingoro asked in return, but immediately realized this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this man. Earlier, before coming down to the bath, he had sipped coarse tea and nibbled on salted rice crackers while chatting animatedly with Seiji in the second-floor changing room of the great hall. At that moment, a man lay sprawled just a few meters away, having removed his yukata’s undergarment. It must be that man. He recognized the Hannya and Orochi tattoos that densely covered his emaciated, exposed body. He was around forty years old.

The two chattered away, grabbing whatever topics came to hand—mandarins, [symbol], swords, jōruri ballads, Kuroishi Yasu—and running with them. In the end, “It’s fine to spend tonight, but seein’ as you’re carryin’ such a heap of important cash, best we wrap up early and head back, I tell ya.” To Seiji, who had said this loudly, Kingoro suddenly pinched his knee and signaled—because he had noticed the tattooed man beside him glinting his eyes and pricking up his ears.

However, even when Kingoro signaled him with a glance, Seiji—dense as ever—still didn’t catch on, “What’re you doin’, actin’ so reckless? I tell ya.” "That hurts, I tell ya." "I can’t have you twistin’ me up with that strength of yours, Kin, I tell ya." he looked at his friend with a resentful gaze.

Kingoro was unbearably frustrated, but “Sei-chan, you gonna perform ‘Sanshō Hanshichi’ at this year’s shrine festival?” he changed the subject. “Nah, I’m thinkin’ of doin’ ‘The Tenth Chapter of the Taikōki’ instead. But… damn, that hurts,” “It’s all bruised up.” “Why on earth would Kinbo do such a terrible thing...” As Seiji continued muttering such things under his breath, the strange man who had been lying down sprang upright. He removed his yukata, hung a towel over his shoulder, and hurried down the steps to the bath.

Kingoro admonished Seiji, “Enough about the money already.” After a while, both stripped naked and descended into the bath. Then there he was—the man from earlier. Perhaps he had known they’d purchased a ticket for Kami no Yu and been lying in wait.

In the wide stone bathtub, there were only three patrons.

“Bro, you’ve got a beautiful body there.”

The buzz-cut man, with a folded towel still placed on his head, smoothly approached Kingoro. “What’s there to say? Us dirt farmers are one with the mud.”

Kingoro had no choice but to answer with a wry smile.

“No, that’s not it.” “Truly, your skin is fair and fine-textured.” “Mine’s nothing like that.” “If your body were tattooed—damn, that’d make one hell of a masterpiece.”

“That’s absurd. A farmer’s son with tattoos…” “Bro, what’s your zodiac year?” “Year of the Dragon.” “Dragon?” “Hmm, a fine sign.” “Since I’m born in the Year of the Snake, I got a serpent. But for you, Bro—a dragon’d fit perfect.” “When it’s done, you’ll be struck dumb.” “Mine’s this grubby, but…”

The man grabbed Kingoro's arm.

With the manner of a doctor examining a patient, he kept stroking and kneading his arms and shoulders with bony fingertips. Moving around to his back, he looked him over while nodding with a thoughtful "Hmm." Kingoro let the man do as he pleased. Seiji, creeped out, repeatedly signaled with his eyes as if to say "Don’t engage with him," and pinched Kingoro’s buttocks under the water. Eventually, the suspicious man uttered something strange, as if a doctor who had finished a diagnosis was delivering a verdict.

“What a splendid physique you have. If I were a woman, I’d be head over heels for you. What a waste for a farmer. If you got a dragon tattooed on you, I guarantee you’d become a boss like Ōmaeda Eizaburō.”

That this man wasn’t from the area was evident both from his speech and his demeanor. It wasn’t unusual to encounter people from other regions at Dogo Onsen, as many travelers came there for the baths. However, even Kingoro—who frequented the bath town—had never before encountered a man like this: one who spoke pure Edo dialect and bore full-body tattoos.

Kingoro felt a surge of curiosity and found himself wanting to tease him. “Can even a dirt farmer’s child become a boss?”

“Well, sure you can.” “Truth is, I’ve always liked those yakuza types too. Been reading those kodan tales—thought maybe I could become a boss like Shimizu no Jirocho or Kunisada Chuji someday. Yeah... I’ve actually considered it.”

“No way, Bro. That’s a complete misunderstanding.” “Why is that?” “Guys like Jirocho and Chuji? They suck.” “They’re the dregs of the yakuza.” “Guys who peddle fights are no good.” “A truly good boss doesn’t pick fights.” “So Ōmaeda Eizaburō’s the real deal.”

“I don’t know this Ōmaeda Eizaburō.” “Exactly. Since he doesn’t go around slashing and brawling, he doesn’t end up in kodan tales or naniwa-bushi ballads.” “That’s why all those lousy yakuza are such flashy show-offs.” Kingoro was beginning to feel some interest and closeness toward this man who had initially struck him as unsettling.

“Oyabun-san, sir,”

he tentatively called out.

The man started laughing with a cluck-cluck-cluck, like a chicken, “I’m no boss.” “Then…” “Third-rank underling. “But... you got some business?” “What does it take to become a boss?” “Well, now…? “It’s not something I can explain in a word.” “…Bro—d’you play a little?” “What do you mean?” “This here.” The man made a gesture of throwing dice with his right hand. However, Kingoro didn’t understand what that meant.

“What’s that about?”

“Ahaha, Bro, you’re still a complete amateur. Dice gambling,” he said. “It’s dice gambling, Bro.” “I’ve never done it before.” “How ’bout it, Bro?” said the man, his eyes gleaming. “Why don’t you keep me company tonight at the dice gambling? There are four or five fellows coming. It’ll be fun!” Seiji thought that the villain was finally revealing his true nature. With more force than before, he pinched Kingoro’s buttocks. Kingoro brushed off that hand in the bathwater and then,

“Third-rank Underling-san, please let me join your group tonight.” he said.

“Sure thing, sure thing. Come with that bro over there.” He then explained in detail where and when the gambling den would be operating. Suddenly exclaiming “Ah! Stayed too long and got lightheaded,” he bolted from Kami no Yu like an otter leaping from water. In the billowing steam, the fearsome oni mask tattooed across his back vanished momentarily, leaving an eerie atmosphere hanging in the air.

“Kimbō, you should quit this.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. Gotta try everything I don’t know yet. ‘Cause it’s studyin’!”

“Is that right?”

Kingoro scrubbed his pale body with a hand towel, his gaze turning distant. —Port. —A realm of freedom. —The China continent. That Kingoro had begun contemplating crossing over to China was no recent development of two or three years. The suffocating absurdity of endlessly repeating petty squabbles in this cramped village. Though renowned as a production area for Iyo mandarins, its actual acreage barely exceeded a cat’s forehead. Before Kingoro’s eyes floated a vast orchard—stretching beyond the horizon—lushly bearing fruits from every season.

--I'll go out to some port; establish a foundation there; then cross over to the continent. The irrepressible blood of youth had already transformed thoughts of wandering and drifting in search of freedom into seething passion. Within Kingoro's fantasy,

--Dragon. Suddenly, a strange legendary animal made a ferocious entrance. (I will become a dragon and ascend to heaven.)

In one corner of the bathtub there was a faucet from which hot water gushed forth ceaselessly. The water outlet was a bronze-carved dragon. Until now Kingoro had never noticed it before—but now he felt as though this dragon were posing some riddle directly at him. (That damn gambler was spouting such nonsense earlier... When I teased him he took it dead serious... Who'd want to be some gang boss anyway? Tattoos? Don't insult me... No—I'll become a dragon instead... Ride clouds and wind... Soar across open skies...)

From Kingoro's large eyes emanated a light resembling madness, glaring fiercely.

After exiting the bath, he ate udon and went to Shikokuya Ryokan that the tattooed man had told him about. He postponed squandering money for later. This inn stood at the center of the red-light district, combining both a high-class restaurant and rental banquet rooms. The aforementioned man came out to the entrance to greet them. He guided them to the inner parlor where the gambling den had been set up.

The moment the fusuma slid open, Kingoro let out an involuntary gasp of surprise. This marked his first encounter with such a spectacle. Having heard about four or five companions gathering in the bathtub area, he had envisioned some clandestine gambling happening in a cramped little room. Yet what now met his eyes resembled nothing less than a banquet hall.

In the center of a hall spanning about thirty tatami mats, approximately forty guests stood facing each other in two neat rows. Between the rows lay spread a long straw mat. The game seemed to have started long before, and one could feel something like murderous intent saturating the seating area. A stifling human heat hung thick in the air.

What had surprised Kingoro wasn't limited to that alone. Among the gamblers were five or six women, and among the male customers, the number of familiar faces was not limited to just two or three.

The tattooed man gazed approvingly at Kingoro, who was looking around restlessly, while “Bro, quite the lavish place, eh?” “There’s all sorts of games, but this here’s just your basic dice gamble.” “You’ll see plenty of respectable gents from town here too.” “The sort of thing any greenhorn can pick up quick.” “Just pick even or odd and bet what you fancy.” “...So Bro, which’ll it be?” “Which d’you mean?”

“Even? Or odd?” Kingoro knew that even dice numbers were chō and odd ones were han. “Now, which should I choose…?” “Nine han, twelve chō—that’s what we call it. When you combine two dice numbers, chō combinations outnumber han by three.” “Kinbo,” Seiji tugged at his sleeve from beside him, “Pick chō. More’s always better.” “I’ll take han.”

“I’ll take odd,” said Kingoro. He wedged himself into the odd-numbered row and sat down.

"Well, well." Several people greeted him. The Iyo-kasuri kimono shop owner, fishmonger, retired pawnbroker, lumber dealer—merchants who usually donned happi coats and aprons to work diligently at their shops—now sat with eyes ablaze, engrossed in gambling. At this sight, Kingoro felt an uncanny bewilderment. In the even-numbered row, he even spotted the face of ※(reversed Γ)＜甚—a shop emblem. A corpulent fifty-year-old man appeared to be the boss. He sat perched on a folding stool at the center of the even side, leisurely exhaling smoke from a hand-rolled cigarette.

The one serving as both dice dealer and pot shaker was a young woman. Her ginkgo-leaf bun hairstyle lay slightly askew, stray hairs tumbling carelessly over her flushed oblong face, but what seized Kingoro's attention was the exquisite tattoo adorning her rolled-up right sleeve. The design showed large peonies surrounded by fluttering butterflies, their blossoms colored a vermilion so intense it made his eyes ache. When wagers from both even and odd factions had been placed, “Game on.”

The woman declared in a softly rounded voice and swiftly flipped the bamboo dice basket with her pale hand. The two dice clattered sharply before coming to rest. Kingoro found himself overwhelmed by the woman's mysterious sensuality. He had never encountered such a creature before. As he stared despite himself, the gaze of the woman—who had kept her hand on the dice basket while surveying the room—snapped directly to him. A hot flush suddenly spread across Kingoro's face. The woman's eyes remained fixed on him, motionless as trapped butterflies.

Kingoro was seated two places to the right of the woman. To her eyes as well, Kingoro's fidgeting, country-bumpkin-like demeanor must have appeared thoroughly amateurish. Gently, in a tone one might use to admonish a younger brother,

“Bro, did you place your bet yet?”

She said.

“No... Not yet...”

Taken aback by the unexpected address, Kingoro answered in surprise. “It’s not too late to start now. Place your bet—there’s sure to be someone on the even side to match you.”

“I’ll bet.”

Somehow feeling dazed, he grabbed a single bill from his wallet. He extended it onto the mat in front. “Well now... ten yen,” the woman exclaimed with feigned surprise. “We’ve got a wild boar from the young sir on odd. On the even side—is there anyone who’d care to match this bet?”

She surveyed the gathering. “Done.” It was ※(reversed Γ)＜甚—the shop emblem—who, without a moment’s delay, produced an identical ten-yen note. Kingoro and ※(reversed Γ)＜甚—the shop emblem—exchanged glances and shared an uncanny smile that held meaning incomprehensible to others.

“Game on.”

Once more, the woman said this and swiftly lifted the bamboo dice basket. “Odd.” The gathering buzzed with clamor for a moment. The woman collected all the losing even-side bets and distributed them accordingly among the odd-side wagers. He couldn’t grasp how the handling fee had been deducted, but Kingoro’s ten-yen wager received an eight-yen payout.

“Bro, looks like you’re on a roll.” The female dice dealer rolled two dice in her palm while smiling at Kingoro. Her teeth were beautiful. “Thanks to you, it was just a fluke.”

Suddenly unable to find any words to say, he blurted out such an awkward reply. And he turned red to the roots of his ears. A raucous chorus of laughter erupted.

After that, several more matches were played out. By the fourth or fifth round, Kingoro had completely mastered the timing—sometimes placing bets, sometimes holding back, alternately increasing and decreasing his wager amounts.

He lost track of time.

Tick, tick, tick, tick...

Suddenly noticing the clock's sound, he looked up at the grandfather clock. It was eleven o'clock.

He stood up in surprise.

“No, this won’t do—Father’ll be worrying. Best get back.”

“Running off with your winnings, huh?”

The tattooed man approached laughing and said, "My place is far, so I'll take my leave." "Is that so?" "Well then, come again." "We've been at it every night for about a week." "Big Bro's been raking it in—so watch yourself on the way back."

“Well, thank you for having me.” Kingoro's money pouch swelled up like a pregnant belly. On top of that, he slipped in Sukehiro’s dagger.

Together with Seiji, the two of them rode home once more in an empty carriage. He stopped his reckless spending.

The moon was bright. In the winter night sky, Matsuyama Castle stood outlined, while the scent of some flower permeated the entire highway.

The year came to an end.

During the New Year festivities, the Kuroishi household held an auspicious ceremony to adopt Kingoro with a madness-laced grandeur. The more lavish and costly the ceremony became, the thicker grew the chains binding the adopted son.

It was a day when snow was falling. “You’re one hell of a filial child.”

Not only had they exorcised the evil, but they’d also secured a means to withdraw money from the adoptive family in case of emergencies—Sugi the sister-in-law was utterly delighted. Suddenly she began treating Kingoro with newfound respect. To Seiji the blacksmith, his friend’s calculations simply didn’t add up. After all, he’d said “I’d rather die than go” to the Kuroishi family—once he had the money, it seemed like he should’ve just quit. The Tamai family, gambling their fate on whether to dissolve or not at this critical juncture, collided with the cunning merchant house marked by the Γ-reversed <甚 symbol. They were caught in a deceptive tactic that proposed adoption as a condition. They reluctantly agreed. Yet on his way back home, he coincidentally joined a dice game and achieved an overwhelming victory. More money than what they’d received from the Γ-reversed <甚 merchant house found its way into his pocket.

“Kinbo, how ’bout returnin’ the money to ※（「Γ」を左右反転したもの）＜甚」 and quittin’ the Kuroishi adoption?”

Even though he had given that warning, “It’s not about the money. A man doesn’t break a promise once made.”

Kingoro sullenly said only that. The one who was pleased was Yasu. Because her long-cherished wish had been fulfilled, she unabashedly let her homely face break into a grin and burst into raucous laughter at even the most trivial matters. Her intellectual capacity was equivalent to that of a third-grade elementary school student.

However, that too was fleeting. A strange conflict unfolded between Yasu and Kingoro. That began, at first, from within the bedchamber. Kingoro always slept alone and absolutely refused to engage with Yasu. No matter how much Yasu demanded, he would not comply. Yasu burst into tears. “Kin-san, why in heaven’s name won’t you show me any affection?” “I came as an adopted son, but I didn’t come to be your husband.”

“If you came as an adopted son, doesn’t that make me your bride by default?”

“I promised to go as an adopted son, but I never promised to become your husband.” “Hah!...” Yasu glared with eyes brimming anger and suspicion. “You came after the property too, didn’t you?” “That’s absurd. “I don’t want your property—not a single penny, I tell you.” “Then why did you come?” “That’s why I keep tellin’ you—I came ’cause I promised to be an adopted son, nothin’ more.” Their argument was a futile back-and-forth that went nowhere.

Yasu, unable to endure any longer, lunged at Kingoro. With the giant woman's monstrous strength, the off-guard Kingoro was seized in an embrace. He was pinned down. Yasu's body was like fire. Kingoro finally managed to push away the woman mad with passion and fled outside. Such things occurred every night.

Kingoro began staying away from home. When he went to Dogo Onsen, he wouldn’t return for three or four days.

There were several times when he got drunk and ended up in police custody. As a natural course of things, Kingoro’s dissolute behavior became the talk of the village.

The village headman who had served as mediator for the adoption summoned Kingoro.

“Kin-san, this has gone beyond what eyes can bear.” “What reason could you have for such recklessness?” “Either way, staying home means Yasu will kill me.” The mere thought of Yasu—that ugly, simple-minded hulk of a woman—charging at him with blazing eyes made Kingoro shudder uncontrollably, sinking him into decadent despair.

The Kuroishi household was Kuronawa Hell (Black Rope Hell). “Kin-san, you’ve got yourself some woman in Dogo, haven’t you?” “There’s nothing like that.”

“Won’t you confide in me? Even with the Kuroishis—it can’t be helped. If you’d just accept Yasu as your bride, we’ll take that woman out and settle her properly as your mistress, or so they say…” “Truly, there’s no such thing.”

Even after that, Kingoro’s misconduct only escalated further, until finally, in April, he was formally divorced.

Kingoro had been enduring staying in the Kuroishi household out of obligation to Father Uhatchi, Brother Utaro, and the mediating village headman, so for him, it was nothing short of a godsend.

When he returned to the Tamai household, his father and brother said nothing, but his sister-in-law Suki—

"You... you shit-for-brains idiot!"

and proceeded to exploit and abuse Kingoro many times more than before. A lawsuit was filed by the Kuroishi family. Defamation, marriage fraud, embezzlement, property damage, trespassing, damages, violent acts, assault, forgery of seals and private documents, violation of chastity—every conceivable charge was clamorously piled upon Kingoro. Kingoro wryly smiled.

“I won’t say anything more.” “But I haven’t laid a single finger on Yasubō’s body.” “As for being nearly violated in chastity through violent acts—that was me.”

He explained only that matter.

The Kuroishi family's revenge manifested in various forms. It gradually grew more malicious.

This surrounding rural area, influenced by Awa-Tokushima in eastern Shikoku, thrived with Jōruri puppet theater. Yoshifuji too had a troupe called Onsen-za with splendid costumes and puppets, and there were farmers who played the shamisen and manipulated deko with one hand while working. Though Kingoro was regarded as a young reciter, when festival days arrived, no one would play the shamisen for him, nor were there any who would operate the puppets. One day, on the way back from cherry blossom viewing, a gunshot resounded through the spring air. The bullet grazed Kingoro’s right ear and flew off. Firing blank guns to chase away birds flocking to peck at fruit was permitted.

Kingoro pressed the blood gushing from his ear, bit his lip, and made a desolate face.

One twilight evening, Kingoro appeared at the front of Seiji’s blacksmith shop.

“Sei-chan, that duplicate key I asked you to make before—turns out I need it after all. I’m counting on you.” “Got it covered.”

Seiji, who was forging horseshoes, approached Kingoro and brought his mouth close to his ear.

“Kinbō, I know exactly who shot you with that gun.” “Enough already. Just drop it.” “It’s the Kuroishis—they’re trying to make an Inugami possess you.” “Persistent bastards.” “For four days now, they’ve had that scrawny dog Kuro buried in their storehouse starving.” “Normally you’d exorcise an Inugami in a week, but this time they say it’ll take ten days to torment you proper fierce.”

“Let ’em do as they please.”

They would bury a dog completely in the earth and leave it without food for ages. When they saw it nearing starvation, they would lay out a feast before its eyes. The dog would grow desperate to eat it. Yet the master would dangle the food tauntingly and command, "If you want this, first go possess so-and-so." The Inugami—now transformed into a vengeful spirit—would burrow into the target's body and wander about as fleshy lumps beneath the skin. The agony proved unbearable—this being an eerie curse method passed down through generations in these parts.

Kingoro waited for Seiji to make the key. It was a full week after the request that Seiji, with absurd meticulousness, finally fashioned a key based on the ink imprint of the keyhole pressed onto hanshi paper.

“Finally got it done… So then, still no Inugami comin’?”

"I've been waiting, but it hasn't come at all." "Can't you go summon it?" The next time they met, Seiji doubled over laughing and said, "Looks like that damn Inugami finally starved to death!" Shortly after May began, his elder brother and sister-in-law departed on a pilgrimage to Ise. There was no opportunity but this moment.

Kingoro inserted the duplicate key Seiji had made into the chest's keyhole. It fit perfectly. When opened, bills mixed with copper and silver coins lay jumbled inside. There was about seven hundred yen. He abruptly took about two hundred yen and put it in his pocket. But Kingoro knew this money came from his father selling off mountains through great hardship. Kingoro took out the money he'd put in. He reduced it to thirty yen. Then he wrote a promissory note stating "Borrowed thirty yen" and left it there. If he didn't leave this, his sister-in-law would surely claim "Kinbō stole three hundred yen!"

Moreover, Kingoro fully intended to return this money someday without fail. Since bundling a change of clothes in a wrapping cloth would make him conspicuous, he wore six layers instead. He left home looking as though he were just stepping out for a moment. Sweat began pouring out, and he felt as though he were soaking in Dogo Onsen.

After that，his figure was never seen in this village again.

**Meiji 36 (1903), early summer.**

Tamai Kingoro, twenty-four years old.

Part One

Man and Woman

Moji Port.

The sound of a fierce wind sweeping over Fūshi Mountain's peak echoed like roaring waves. The 210th day was approaching; this might have been its precursor. In the distance, threading through the gusts of wind, a steam whistle sounded.

The office of Hamao-gumi, which overlooked the coal storage yard beneath the pier just ahead, had its lights burning brightly. In the inner tatami room, shadowy figures shifted about as more kept streaming in. Their numbers eventually grew to seventy or eighty. About twenty women were mixed among them. With his back against the black persimmon wood pillar, a giant man scrutinized each entrant while entering marks in red ink within a large ledger resembling a register. He was a dark-skinned forty-year-old with buck teeth, a narrow forehead, and chestnut-burr hairstyle that suggested a height over six feet. Over his flannel shirt hung a haori emblazoned with “Hamao-gumi Assistant Manager.” His eyes held piercing sharpness.

“Looks like everyone’s pretty much gathered here. Three ain’t comin’, but they’re all irregulars anyway—this’ll do. … Shinko, you—go tell the boss: ‘Everyone’s here now, so please come out.’ … And make sure to relay it proper.” “Right away.”

A sturdy-looking man of about twenty-three or four called Shinko, also wearing a hanten, nimbly pushed his way through the densely packed stevedores and went out.

Soon, Hamao Ichizo appeared. He came to the pillar and stood rigidly. He was of average build and height but had shoulders alarmingly broad as if wearing a formal kamishimo, his gourd-shaped elongated face unnervingly pale. Thick blue veins—nervous-looking ones—crawled like earthworms across his forehead and twitched.

When the gathering quieted, Hamao began speaking with a grave expression. “The reason I called you all here tonight is because a crisis has struck that will decide Hamao-gumi’s fate.” “Most of you aren’t scholars, so let me explain—‘Fuchin’ means float or sink when written in characters. Will Hamao-gumi rise or go under?” “Will my honor stand or be destroyed? I’ve fought tooth and nail to build this group, but if we botch tomorrow’s cargo job on the Indomaru, I’ll have to leave Moji.” “That means Hamao-gumi dissolves, and you lot end up homeless. You get what I’m saying?”

The gathering fell silent. "So? You get what the boss is saying now?" The assistant manager—a giant man with hawk-like eyes—surveyed them and barked: "We understand." About ten voices responded. "The opponent is our archenemy Omura-gumi." Hamao glared at empty space as if confronting Omura himself. "We absolutely cannot lose. So we're changing tomorrow's work roster—only thirty reliable men." "The selection was made through daily performance records with Bossin." "If we win, no problem—no—you must win—but if you lose..." His eyes narrowed. "...start a fight then and there. Crush them. Save my honor." He jerked his chin at the giant man. "Bossin—read the names."

“Understood.” The giant man opened the ledger. “Listen up. …Ōishi Ryōzō, Horibe Yasutarō, Koyamada Shōsaburō, Ōhara Gengo, Taniguchi Rinsuke, Mori Shinnosuke, Tamai Kingoro… For women: Niwa Fumie, Ishikawa Tatsu, Taniguchi Man, Inoue Tomoko…” When the roll call ended, the gathering became restless for a time. However, this selection had ignored personal will and opinions from the very beginning. It was an authoritative command, and none of those selected for dispatch were permitted to raise objections.

Among those not selected, “Boss, please let me join the team too.” With that, a man volunteered. “No! No!” bellowed the giant man. “A drunkard like you who’s only good at brawling has no qualifications. If Hisamatsu joins, it’ll throw off the whole work schedule.”

Then Matsutomi turned toward Hamao Ichizo, “Boss, looks like things’ve settled proper-like…” “Good.”

Hamao nodded with satisfaction, “Well then, everyone—I’m counting on you.” “In times like these, repaying everyday debts of gratitude is what defines a person.” “Since tomorrow starts early, you must not stay up late tonight.” “Quit drinking and gambling, and get to bed early.” “And don’t go visiting prostitutes either.” “That’s what takes the biggest toll on the next day’s work.”

“Is that not allowed even with one’s wife?”

At that remark, the gathering burst into laughter. “Even if it’s with your wife—if things go wrong and you end up fighting, you might split up—so a little’s all right.”

Again, subtle laughter rippled through the gathering.

“Then,” said the assistant manager, “we’ll rouse you at three tomorrow morning. Four o’clock assembly at the shore. Understood?” “Yessir!” several answered. “Tamai.”

“Yes.” Kingoro, who had been at the back of the gathering, answered and rose to his knees. “You’re a newcomer, but I’ve specially put you in tomorrow’s team. Consider yourself thankful. So there’s something I need to discuss. Stay behind.”

“What is this about?” “That’s for later.” “But I’ve made plans to go see a moving picture with friends now…”

“No, no. Didn’t I just tell you not to stay up late? Stay.” “Yes.” Resignedly scratching his head, Kingoro sank back into the group.

The dismissal was announced, and the stevedores noisily scattered off. Five or six executives and Kingoro remained.

The wind crossing Fūshi Mountain’s summit seemed to grow stronger still. A moon about ten days old hung above the mountain’s shoulder. Hazily veiled in mist, a pale seven-colored rainbow—like a halo—shone beautiful.

In twos and threes, becoming black shadows, the stevedores made their way home. Among them were Taniguchi Rinsuke and Man. Walking side by side, the brother and sister did not speak. Their footsteps were heavy. From behind came the sound of a horn: pfft, pfft. A rickshaw with a lantern attached briskly ran past from the side.

“Big brother, isn’t that the boss?” “That’s right. He’s headin’ over to Mr. Omekake’s place now.” The two walked in silence once more.

As they walked along the canal, the lights of tenement houses came into view in the distance. Someone was doing laundry by the well.

“Big brother,”

Man, who was walking with heavy footsteps while lost in thought, raised her face. “Huh?” “Women sure get a raw deal.” “What’s a raw deal?” “From the very start, they’ve been set in a different rank than men.” “No matter what, it’s always just the lower tasks…” “Well, there’s no help for it. “It’s been that way since olden times.”

“Why has it been that way?” “That’s what’s strange.” “No—it’s maddening.” “Even stevedores face it, don’t they?” “Men take full shares while women get sixty percent. Maybe women can’t match men’s work, but there’s men who can’t do half what women do.” “Yet the wages stay fixed as set.” “It’s unfair.”

“Even if you say so, it won’t change anything.” “That’s exactly what’s infuriating.” “Pushing through whatever they want—wrong or not—like it’s nothing... Is that what you call men’s right?” “Not exactly a right, but...” “So they do see it as their privilege.” “Even the boss does it.” “Boss Goryon keeps Omekake-san as his mistress properly—you saw him rush there by rickshaw earlier.” “They say keeping one or two mistresses proves a man’s worth, while those without get mocked.” “That being treated as normal—it’s wrong.”

“Even if you call it wrong… that’s just how the world works…” “Hmph, Big brother—if you had the money, you’d want a mistress too, wouldn’t you?” “Don’t talk nonsense.” Rinsuke grew flustered as his sister’s sharp criticism turned toward him. “How about this?… Big brother’s always bullying Sister-in-law—hitting her every day. It makes me so angry I can’t stand it.” “Sister-in-law’s no better—just keeps sniveling and apologizing like it’s perfectly normal.” “If it were me, I wouldn’t stand for it, but……”

“A man who takes a woman like you for his wife is risking his life, I tell ya.”

“That’s not true. I don’t just cry and take it when faced with unreasonable things.”

About ten months had passed since Man had come from the mountains of Hiroshima relying on her brother, and so even her speech had lost some of its hometown accent.

The lights of the tenement houses drew near. The moon within a seven-colored rainbow gradually blurred as the clouds thickened.

“Man,”

“Yes.” “What do you think of Tamai Kingoro?” “What do I think? I don’t think anything of him. When it comes to men, every single one’s the same. I hate them all.” “That man gets on my nerves.” “He just got here recently but takes three mon more than me.” “On top of that, he got kept behind again tonight…” Man glanced sidelong at her brother’s muttering profile. In her eyes lay contempt.

“Another fight tomorrow, damn it.”

Rinsuke let out a voice tinged with despair.

He returned to the tenement.

The first rooster crowed. The sound of flapping stirred the still-dark air of three o'clock in the morning.

A large man carrying a lantern hurried through the tenement's narrow alley, knocking on each door one by one to rouse the occupants.

“It’s time! It’s time!” The quiet tenement suddenly began to stir. The sound of doors opening, water being drawn, fires being lit; shouting voices and running footsteps. The giant assistant manager wearing a headband came to a doorway and abruptly paled. “What’re you saying—that true?” He shouted in near-hysterical panic. “It’s true.” The man with sleep-crusted eyes answered timidly, neck shrinking as if anticipating a blow.

“Damn bastards—they’ve cut and run!” The assistant manager let out a groan. “Last night... we all slept together.” “Six of us laid out futons proper-like... got under the mosquito net and all.” “But when Mr. Bossin came rousing us... only me left here...”

“You idiot!” Just as anticipated, a palm like an iron Fatsia leaf came flying through the air with a gust of wind. The sickly-looking middle-aged stevedore collapsed as easily as a shogi piece. “You didn’t notice five men slipping away? Are you made of lead?” “…I did think Tamai was acting strange last night.” The assistant manager ground his teeth audibly. There were six single men in this room. It contained a six-tatami space, a four-and-a-half-tatami area, and an attached kitchen where the men cooked for themselves. Of these six, three had been chosen the previous night. Tamai Kingoro had been one of them, but when the assistant manager came to wake them as arranged, five of the six were missing.

(That Tamai bastard must have incited them and run off.) The previous night after leaving Kingoro behind, he had ordered, "If a fight breaks out tomorrow, you take command," but Tamai Kingoro had said, "I'm no good at fighting," and absolutely refused to comply. Moreover he'd even declared: "I hate fighting - if a fight breaks out I'll run away." Still he'd firmly promised at least to go to the site.

The assistant manager reached the height of panic. In an instant, he altered the roster and separately roused three stevedores who hadn't been selected the previous night.

Man was renting a room in her brother Rinsuke’s house. It was a four-and-a-half-tatami room partitioned by sliding doors, but for one woman, it sufficed. Moreover, even if cramped, having a room entirely to herself was something she had never experienced in her life. Putting on work clothes, she hurried to the assembly area at the pier beach with Rinsuke. “Man! That Tamai bastard’s deserted!” “Hmph.” Man answered with a face that showed no concern, but on her face lingered a faint trace of unease.

At the assembly area, shadows of people and lanterns flickered about as they clamored noisily and incessantly.

“Oi! Hurry! Hurry! Omura-gumi’s barges are already rowing out! You’re falling behind!... Hurry up! Run!” It appeared they had been outmaneuvered by the enemy.

“Hurry up and board! Hurry up and board!”

The giant assistant manager had already become like a madman. As his strategy, he had calculated that if they assembled at four o'clock and rowed out, they could outmaneuver Omura-gumi. However, when they came to the beach, they could already see Omura-gumi's barges loaded with people and tools rowing across the dark sea toward the *Indo Maru*. “What are you dawdling for? You idiots!” “You imbeciles!”

Because this man too had come to feel that the fool was none other than himself, he hurled that frustration at his subordinates through roars and curses.

Creak, creak—the sound of the enemy barge's oars came mockingly across the sea. Waves churned by wind, several steamships floated in the pitch-black Kanmon Strait. The one marked by a green sidelight appeared to be the *Indo Maru*. Finally, when the stevedores had boarded the barges, the tool manager came running up with a panicked look. "Bossin, it's a big problem!"

“What’s wrong?” “The small barge loaded with tools can’t be found.” “What?!”

The assistant manager sprang like a spring-loaded device, leaped, and grabbed the tool manager by the shoulders. Though unclear in the darkness of night, it was noticed that the color drained from his face and he began to tremble. His legs turned to jelly. “Did you search thoroughly?” “No matter how much we search, we can’t find it.” “Ugh...”

He groaned. In the simple brain of the assistant manager—where every blunder piled up and all calculations had gone astray—the only solution that reflexively surfaced was violence. Rage gave him warped courage.

"Hey, everyone!" With an air of solemn dignity, he glared down at his subordinates.

“The time has come for a decisive battle with Omura-gumi! The ship’s departure was delayed, and our crucial tools have gone missing. They might’ve been stolen by the enemy. This isn’t work anymore. Now that it’s come to this, I won’t rest unless we storm Omura-gumi’s worksite and wreck their operations! Everyone, steel yourselves! Don’t falter! …Alright, row out!” With three oars raised, the barge pulled away from shore. An eerie stupor mixed with exhilaration gripped the offshore stevedores like a vise. Across the dark waves, the vessel drove relentlessly toward the Indo Maru.

“Man! It’s dangerous—get yourself to the back!” Man didn’t respond to her brother’s words. “Starboard side! Make for starboard!” The assistant manager shouted as the Indo Maru drew near. Starboard was Omura-gumi’s territory.

However, on the port side, something strange was occurring. On the ship's flank where the fuel-loading hatch lay, several shelves had been hung. Upon them stood four or five shadowy figures. In other words, unbeknownst to anyone, the work preparations had been fully completed - once the barge arrived, they could begin working immediately.

“Hurry up and get over here! Everything’s set!” shouted Tamai Kingoro from the deck of the *Indo Maru*, waving a lantern high as he called out.

Recognizing this, the assistant manager stood up at the bow of the barge. He wore a blank, stupefied expression, as if bewitched by a fox. “Hurry up and dock the boat! Get to work immediately!” Kingoro kept shouting.

“I see.”

The assistant manager nodded so forcefully it looked like his head might snap off. He finally grasped the truth of the situation.

“Alright, bring the boat around. “Change course to port side!” The barge that had been heading to starboard swung around sharply. The three oars suddenly surged with vigor, and the ship approached the Indo Maru at full speed.

“As expected, Kin-san’s different.” Taka, a female stevedore, murmured with dazed eyes. “Hmm,” said a stevedore, “Seems like even if she gets elbowed away dozens of times, she just can’t give up.” “I’ll make him mine someday, just you wait.” “Next March, is it?”

At those words, a bright burst of laughter arose inside the boat. The relief of not having to fight had dissolved the stevedores' gloom and tension. “Hey, Taka-san, shell out fifty sen to me. I’ll help you win over Kin-san.”

From the stern came another teasing voice, and again raucous laughter spilled forth. Only Man remained out of step with this mirth, her eyes fixed unblinking on Kingoro's figure standing atop the Indo Maru's deck.

In the immense darkness, Kingoro’s figure in his workman’s coat, illuminated by the lantern’s light, appeared to Man’s eyes as something even divine. In her eyes strained wide open, the sea wind stung painfully until at last Man blinked once. An eighty-ton barge loaded with coal was moored to the side of the 2,200-ton Indo Maru. When they rowed up to that lighter, the stevedores scattered and jumped aboard.

“Tamai, much obliged.”

The burly assistant manager, standing on the gunwale of the lighter, called out upward from below to the deck of the Indo Maru.

“Bossin, that stuff don’t matter none.” “Get to your positions right away.” “Omura-gumi are still hanging the shelves.” “Alright, they’re here… Everyone, get moving right away!” The stevedores nimbly took up their preassigned positions.

Kingoro descended from the deck via a rope. He stood on the third tier of the six-level shelves. With a smile contained, “Come on, come on!” he chanted rhythmically while moving both hands up and down. Along the steamship’s side, an odd tiered structure resembling a hina doll display had been arranged. Planks measuring one ken in length—their width expanding toward the bottom—hung suspended by ropes across six levels, each occupied by two burly offshore stevedores instead of elegant dolls.

The stevedores called "irekuwa" inside the lighter used gan claws to load coal into round baskets approximately one shaku three sun in diameter. They were swiftly pushed upward from below, one by one, by the shelf-standing stevedores. This was Tengu-tori Stevedoring. A lively operation commenced. “Tamai, I’m stunned!” The assistant manager standing on the upper tier above Kingoro spoke while sending baskets. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. “Top marks for your service!” “Even so, there was a moment when I thought all was lost.”

"I didn't have time to explain it to Bossin..." "Give me a break." "Until just now,I thought you were the one who screwed us over." "When I checked the shore,the small cargo boat loaded with tools wasn't there..."

“This morning when I woke up, I realized it too. When I heard the first rooster crow—this won’t do. If we didn’t go ahead and at least make the arrangements, we’d lose to Omura-gumi… So thinking that, I hurriedly woke up just four folks from our room and left the house around two.”

“I didn’t notice that either,” he said. “With this, it’s our victory now. I’ll talk to the boss and have him promote you.” “No need for that,” Kingoro replied. Along the bleak tiered shelves, round baskets filled with coal steadily rose like twin escalators. When they reached the deck, transfer crew hands threw the coal into fireboxes and hurled empty baskets back into the lighter below. Through this rapid cycle, the coal stores visibly dwindled.

Man was in the "irekuwa" group. Women couldn't manage shelf-standing with their strength. The baskets were called "Baisuke," a corruption of "basket." In the time it took her colleagues to fill one Baisuke, Man invariably filled three. She was like a precise machine. “Come on, come on!” While keeping rhythm, Kingoro looked down into the lighter from above. Those eyes were fixed on Man.

“Everyone, keep pushing! Tilt the ship!” “Tilt the ship!” The Assistant Manager was already ecstatic with certainty of victory. Getting carried away, he barked commands. Since they were loading fuel coal from both sides, the ship would tilt if the balance broke. The ship’s crew pleaded not to tilt it as that caused problems, but the stevedores burning with competitive pride paid no heed to the vessel’s inconvenience. Moreover, since this cargo operation against their archenemy Omura-gumi staked their survival, Hamao-gumi exerted more than double their usual horsepower.

“Hey hey, I’m begging you, don’t tilt the ship!”

The chief engineer emerged and shouted, but gradually, the India Maru began to tilt toward the port side.

“Tilt it more!”

The assistant manager was beaming with pride. When it tilts, the tilted side's shelves become shallower, making the work easier. Conversely, on the side that had been tilted, the gunwale rose higher, further delaying the cargo work. Omura-gumi on the starboard side were also frantically working, but the outcome had already been decided.

When the eastern sky began to faintly whiten, all of Omura-gumi’s stevedores came leaping up onto the deck. When Hamao-gumi’s giant assistant manager saw this, he shouted, “Cheeky bastards!” and made his men board the deck. “Don’t start a fight.” “Don’t start a fight.”

Kingoro desperately shouted, but it was too late. No one could tell who struck first—the deck instantly erupted into chaotic brawling. The marked happi coats of Hamao-gumi and Omura-gumi tangled together as massed bodies and voices twisted into an absurd symphony across India Maru's deck. The weapons included crow's claws, shovels, six-foot staves, Baisuke baskets, and bare hands. Roars, screams, and laughter made the dawn harbor's air quiver as they clashed.

“Stop fighting!” “Stop fighting!”

With a lantern swinging at his side, Kingoro kept shouting as he darted about. Several times he was chased by Omura-gumi members wielding six-foot staffs and crow's claws, but he swiftly hid behind the ship's bridge or smokestack. However, during one such instance, as he crouched at the base of the ventilation pipe, someone struck him hard on the crown of his head from behind. The thin iron plate clanged sharply like a flattened shovel blade, sending Kingoro reeling with dizziness before he collapsed where he stood.

He came to when someone splashed cold water on his face. Still lying on his back, he shook his head with a shiver and wiped his wet face with his hand. In one swift motion, he sprang upright. Man—who had taken water into her mouth and sprayed it onto Kingoro’s face—ducked behind the pipe before he could spot her. “Goddammit!”

A surge of anger made Kingoro leap up. His large, firm eyes blazed fiercely. Kingoro spat ptui ptui into both palms. Then tucking his thumb inside, he clenched his fist and plunged into the heart of the carnage.

The captain of the India Maru and his crew members emerged.

“Quiet down! Quiet down!” They desperately shouted and tried to intervene, but it had no effect. Kingoro went on a rampage. Driven by his innate brute strength, reckless courage, agility honed since childhood through Tarzan-like leaps between mountains and trees, some dabbling in judo, mastery of forty-eight sumo techniques that had once brought him to ōzeki rank in grassroots wrestling, and an indescribable fury resembling sorrow—Kingoro hurled every enemy who charged at him onto the deck one after another. He threw several men from the high gunwale into the sea.

The giant assistant manager was pinned down by an equally massive man from Omura-gumi who had him in a chokehold. His triangular eyes rolled back and forth wildly as he let out a wheezing, pitiful voice that seemed ready to give out at any moment.

Kingoro saw this but felt no urge to help. He leaned against the smokestack, bit his lip, and wiped his sweat. One enemy stealthily crept up on Kingoro. He brandished a crow's claw and attacked. Kingoro did not notice. If he had been struck by the six-bladed crow’s claw, it might have cost him his life. However, just before attacking, the man tripped over a wire and collapsed with a thud at Kingoro’s feet. It was Man who had pushed him.

Kingoro grabbed the man by the collar, dragged him to the gunwale, and threw him into the sea.

Kingoro glared at Man. "You’re a woman—quit meddling!" After shouting that, he spun around and dove back into the chaotic fray.

Upon the battlefield where both armies clashed in chaos, a thick whip of water suddenly came lashing down. The bosun began dousing them with pump water from atop the mast ladder. The powerful spray lashed sharply against the brawling men. The water police patrol boat approached, blaring its siren. “Cops’re here!”

Someone shouted. That voice was exactly like a magic broom. Soaked to the skin and grappling with each other, the stevedores from both groups were swept off the deck in an instant by that single shout. Every last one of them vanished. In the blink of an eye, the stevedores transferred to the barges. The shelf that had been hanging on the gunwale was severed from the uppermost part. After swiftly loading the tools and injured, the two barges left the side of the India Maru. They began rowing toward shore at full speed.

“Escaping quick ’n’ smooth-like, ain’t we?” “Cops’re the one thing I just can’t handle.”

“We should’ve just handled something like this quick and clean from the start.” The retreat was so swift and orderly that even they themselves found it absurd, and the stevedores burst into uproarious laughter. This too was the result of their expertise. This proved nothing except how in the port, such brawls had become as commonplace as daily meals. Only the injured wore sullen expressions. Considering how fierce the fight was, there were surprisingly few serious injuries. They tore hand towels and shirts to administer first aid. The giant assistant manager lay in the ship’s bottom with a pallid face, lifeless as a corpse.

In the eastern sky toward Dan-no-ura, the sun rose. It was crimson. Within the gloomy clouds that had lingered since last night, it showed a clear outline.

Tamai Kingoro sat at the bow with a sullen face, hugging his knees. The crown of his head throbbed where he'd been struck by a shovel, and every joint in his body ached. Kingoro was unbearably furious. He'd gone ahead to make arrangements thinking that if they just won the job, they could avoid a fight—but whether they won or lost, there'd still been a brawl. It was utterly absurd. In Tamai Kingoro's eyes appeared the figure of Taniguchi Man sitting right beside him.

Man took out tobacco shreds from her hemp pouch and smoked them with a short pipe. She lit the pipe’s bowl with a match. Clamping the mouthpiece between her lips and inhaling lightly, she watched as the flame flared up brightly. She puffed out her chest slightly and exhaled a stream of smoke with a soft whoosh. She looked thoroughly satisfied.

Kingoro sat with an unfamiliar sensation,

“Miss Man,” he called out.

“Yes.” “You’re a tobacco smoker, aren’t you?”

At those words, Man suddenly flushed.

“Give me a puff.” When Kingoro said that, Man silently handed over the pipe and tobacco pouch. With clumsy hands, he packed the tobacco shreds, lit them, took a puff, and coughed violently. In his eyes, the crimson sun spun rapidly. The cough racked the wound on the crown of his head. Tears welled up.

Married Couple

Despite it being broad daylight, the tenement stood hushed in stillness. Though it was a day off work, there was no one in any of the houses. Two or three chickens pecked at their feed.

At the wellside in the center of the tenement, while basking under the blazing autumn sun, Man and Chie—Anrinsuke’s wife—were talking together.

The victory in the India Maru cargo handling immensely satisfied Hamao Ichizo. As for the fight itself—though it remained unclear who had won—since the Omura-gumi had instigated it, there would be no repercussions for the Hamao-gumi. Hamao, having survived that critical juncture between rise and fall, was overjoyed. Today he brought along all his subordinates and went on an outing. By now the celebratory drinking party would be at its peak in the precincts of Waburi Shrine overlooking Dan-no-ura.

Chie sat before the tub with laborious motions yet completely absorbed in her laundry. On her back she had a two-year-old boy tied with an obi while her belly was full-term; she seemed short of breath with every movement. From time to time she heaved heavy sighs. The five-year-old older girl peered into the bucket with a worried expression where Man was washing a cat. The cat that had fallen into the muddy ditch remained docile as Man handled it freely. Yet the bluish-black mud ingrained in its fine fur refused to come off despite vigorous scrubbing with soap. It reeked terribly.

“Auntie, will the cat die?”

The girl was on the verge of tears.

“Don’t worry. It won’t die. But if we hadn’t noticed just in time, it might’ve passed away.” “That’s good.” “Really, that’s a relief.”

Chie said with a laugh,

“Miss Man, you’re such a true cat lover.” “If it’s an animal, I love any kind.” “How many cats are there now?” “There are eight. But Mii’s belly is big again—we’ll likely have about three more soon.” “Hmm-hmm…” Chie gave a strangely lonely, knowing smile. “Only the children keep increasing. Cats and humans both… If we count the kittens yet to be born and the human babies on the way, our household will be a grand family of seventeen.”

“Mii’s belly looks much bigger than last time—do you think she might have about five kittens?” “I might be having twins too…” “Oh my.” The two of them looked at each other, but this time neither laughed. A strange silence flowed.

“Sis.” Man's expression had grown serious.

“What?” “There’s somethin’ I just can’t stop wonderin’ about…”

“What kind of thing?” “I’m sorry for saying this... it’s about you and your husband, Sis.” “‘Something strange,’ you mean?” “Since coming from Hiroshima, I’ve been under your care all this time—I know this might make you angry... but you and your husband fight every day... such violent marital fights... so why haven’t you split up?”

Chie lowered her eyes and continued her laundry. On her thin, elongated face, lusterless strands of tangled hair hung down, swaying faintly in the breeze.

Man wrapped the washed cat in the apron and held it,

“You’ll surely have another fight tonight too, right? Every time your husband comes home after drinking out there, he’s completely wasted and torments you. He rages. He tears shoji screens and fusuma panels. He breaks rice bowls. He breaks the lamp chimney. And then when morning comes, you repair what was broken in the fight or buy new things. Then he breaks them again. You buy them again. There’s no end to it. It looks as if you’re working just to repair your marital fights. And yet, despite being on such terrible terms, they don’t separate… and children keep being born one after another…”

Chie raised her face and, laughing,

“Miss Man, you’re still young. “Husband and wife are such a strange thing. “In time, you’ll understand.”

“Do you think so?... Even if I were to marry, I’d never tolerate tyranny like your husband’s.” “Miss Man, what would you do?” “If it were me, I’d have left long ago... You’re so enduring, Sis.” “Even when your husband got tangled up with that strange woman last spring, you didn’t try to leave.” “I won’t accept any man who keeps women besides his wife.” “I pray you’ll find the finest husband in all three realms, Miss Man.”

Chie spoke in a somber, almost pitying tone toward young Man’s naivety about the world. This was partly fueled by envious feelings while simultaneously being a sorrowful recollection of her own maiden days when she too had been that single-minded.

But Chie thought. Miss Man was different from them in some way. Unlike how they had easily yielded to the pressures of life and customs, Miss Man might not bend. This person had something strong within her.

The cat seemed to fall asleep inside Man's apron. A low rumble came from its throat. Man's eyes took on a distant gaze. "I've had my plans go quite awry. "Even though Brother Rinsuke sent me letters time and again—so I gathered my courage and fled the countryside—with things as they are now there's no telling when I'll ever get to Brazil. "I thought I'd save up travel funds and find passage on an America-bound ship... But stevedores' wages are pitifully low! Just when you endure it all and finally manage some savings—Brother comes borrowing again..."

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault, Sis. Because your husband’s got no backbone…”

Sitting down on the granite well curb, Man took out her tobacco pouch from her breast pocket. With a vacant expression, she packed the cut tobacco into her kiseru and lit it with a match. She took a puff, “Ah, that’s good.” Before she knew it, she muttered. “What a satisfying draw.” “Goodness gracious, Sis!”

Bashfully, Man was trying to pack the second bowl when the sound of geta echoed from deep within the alley.

Red-faced and wearing a casual kimono without hakama trousers，Tamai Kingoro approached carrying a boxed meal suspended from his hand． Man panicked but lacked time to conceal her tobacco． (Who cares?) she sulked defiantly． She placed into her mouth the kiseru pipe packed with its second serving of shredded tobacco and attempted to strike a match．

“Wait.” “Wait. Wait.”

Tamai Kingoro, who had come beside her, pressed down on Man’s right hand that held the kiseru’s shaft. He placed the boxed meal on the well curb,

“I’ll light it for you.” Grinning, he rummaged through his belly band and pulled out a peculiar object. It was a flat rectangular metal box measuring about one and a half sun by one sun. It shone silver, though this appeared to be plating. He pressed a bump with his thumb—the mechanism’s location unclear—and the lid snapped open. Simultaneously, a flame lit on the exposed wick inside. It reeked of kerosene. “Here.” When presented with the mechanical flame, Man—her pulse quickening—brought the kiseru’s mouthpiece closer without removing it from her lips. After drawing in the flame, her face blazed crimson. Her ears reddened to their very tips.

“Miss Man, this here’s what they call a pocket lamp.” “I got this from the chief purser on a steamship that sails to America, but I’ll give it to you.” “Since I don’t smoke tobacco, I’ve no use for it.” “No, I don’t need it.”

“Don’t hold back—just take it.”

“Well now,” interjected Chie.

“To be honest,” Kingoro said cheerfully, “I don’t like women who smoke tobacco. But after hearing from Rinsuke about how you came to smoke, I suddenly took a liking to you. That’s why I decided to give you this pocket lamp.” Man grew concerned about what version of the story her brother Rinsuke had told.

For her father Zenkichi, who loved tobacco, she had evaded the Monopoly Bureau’s watch to gather tobacco leaves and make kizami for him. Man would first draw in the flame herself before handing the kiseru to her father. When this became routine, it had been bitter and harsh at first, sending her into choking fits, but as she grew accustomed and more skilled, the tobacco gradually began to take on flavor. Then what she had done out of obligation eventually became something she enjoyed.

However, when discovered by the Monopoly Bureau and ordered to pay a fine, Father Zenkichi quit tobacco completely and abruptly. But by that time, Man had already become unable to forget its taste.

(I wonder if Brother explained it properly to Mr. Kingoro that way?) Man was unbearably anxious about her unreliable brother. But she no longer hesitated, “Then I’ll take it.” And accepted that unusual ignition device. “Mr. Tamai, what did you do with ours?”

Chie asked.

“They’re still making a ruckus over there.” “Mr. Rinsuke was hopping about in his fundoshi, having himself a grand time.” “Me? I just got sick of all that foolishness and slipped out.” “The Hamao-gumi boss kept yammering nonsense anyway… plus there was something I wanted to talk about with you too, Miss Man…”

“I’ll go back.” “Please, take your time and talk things through together.” “No, no—ma’am, this isn’t some secret talk.” Kingoro hurriedly tried to stop her, but Chie gathered the laundry, took the girl's hand, and retreated into the depths of the tenement.

Kingoro gave a wry smile, but

“After all, it’s better she isn’t here.”

Having said that, he turned to face Man.

Man stood at a distance, her posture rigid. (I won’t tolerate any strange moves.) That was what she thought.

"I will hear you out." "You're being awfully rigid." "Well, fine then." "Let's speak plain... Miss Man, you planning to stick with this Hamao-gumi forever?" The abruptness left her speechless. "Heard from Rinsuke you came to Hamao-gumi near last year's end." "Makes ten months now, you see." "You're the senior here." "I'm just summer-come greenhorn." "But truth told—I'm done with this Hamao-gumi." "Putting it blunt-like—it's settled." "My patience's run dry with Boss Hamao."

Man stared unblinkingly at Kingoro's face as he spoke in halting spurts, his tone heavy.

“I like work, you see, and I hate doing anything half-heartedly—so no matter how trivial the job was, I tackled it with all my might. So, shortly after I arrived, they started giving each of us five rin, and I was grateful for that—but then, when I really looked into things, Boss Hamao’s way of handling everything just didn’t sit right with me. This is no place to linger, I was thinking—when this India Maru incident happened. So I resolutely decided to cut my losses.”

Man felt a tightening in her chest.

“When they said ‘If we lose at cargo handling, pick a fight,’ I was disgusted.” “But since Hamao-gumi somehow saved face, now they want to make me assistant manager.” “When I said ‘No thanks’ and refused—they said they’d reward my achievements.” “Give me one of the three stipends.” “…that’s what they say.” “When I turned that down too—they said they’d do anything—no, wait.” “I’ll listen to any request.” “…so I told the boss—give me leave. When I said that—they won’t allow it.” “But I’ve already decided.” “I’ll quit this group tomorrow even.… Do you think you understand how I feel?”

“I understand completely.” “And so… Miss Man… you… someone capable like you… it’d be a waste to let you rot staying in this group… how about leaving…?”

Then, at that moment, the entrance to the tenement suddenly erupted into noise.

Amid the stevedores who came flooding back in a noisy commotion, there were several door planks carrying laid-out people. Grotesque expressions of terror filled every face. Each and every face was completely sobered of any drunkenness.

The tenement instantly descended into pandemonium.

Mori Shinnosuke ran off toward his home with a changed countenance. He was barefoot, clutching the geta with broken straps in both hands. Passing by the side of the well,

“Tamai, don’t eat that lunchbox. You’ll die.” Having shouted that, he ran off.

The assistant manager, who had been laid out on a door plank and gone limp, was carried in by five or six people. Sticky yellow mucus clung around his mouth, his triangular eyes had turned white, and his eyebrows were drawn taut. Even so, he still seemed to have some vision left, for when he noticed Kingoro, “Tamai... Avenge me.”

He muttered with stiffened lips, his words coming in broken fragments. “What happened? Bossin?” “They got me... Poisoned... That Omura bastard—after losing the fight—they must’ve bribed a caterer to put poison in the lunchboxes... Bastards...”

Man was startled.

“Shiro! Shiro!”

She screamed like a madwoman. While Kingoro and Man were talking, the cat that had slipped out from under Man’s apron dragged down the lunchbox that had been placed on the well curb and was eating it. Having fallen into a mud ditch and apparently starving, it had clawed open the lid and already devoured most of the squid sashimi, grilled sea bream, and fish cakes.

Man grabbed the cat and violently kicked the lunchbox.

Kingoro, too, was genuinely startled,

“That was a close call. “I meant it as a souvenir for Miss Man—hung it all the way here without laying a finger on it, but…” he let out a long sigh. What had been a celebratory feast had suddenly transformed into a banquet of death. Yet this wasn’t Omura-gumi’s revenge, as the assistant manager had claimed. In that simpleton’s mind, there’d apparently been no other way to comprehend it. He was carried into his home, yet still,

“Omura, you villainous scoundrel... When I die, I’ll become a ghost and come to kill you!” He kept raving such things, but before the doctor could arrive, he drew his last breath.

At this moment, the rampant spread of the "Shanghai Cholera" that had plunged all of Moji City into dark terror was already showing signs not only in Hamao-gumi but throughout various parts of the city.

A person who had woken up feeling refreshed in the morning and been conversing would, by early afternoon, vomit a yellow viscous fluid four or five times with violent gagging sounds—and then die within less than an hour. Even without much stomach pain, they would go to the toilet and have diarrhea, and then they could no longer move. The dead began appearing in rapid succession. There wasn’t even time to determine whether it was suspected cholera or true cholera. Its ferocity was beyond description.

In Hamao-gumi's tenement as well, because nearly thirty patients had appeared, around two hundred fifty people in the vicinity were quarantined. The surrounding people had fled. Within the ropes that had been strung around, both Kingoro and Man were left behind. Man stayed by her brother Linosuke’s side and nursed him after he contracted the disease. She forcibly pushed her sister-in-law Chie and the children into the quarantine room. Around Man, who was at her brother’s bedside, eight cats died one by one.

“Chie! Chie!” Linosuke, his face flushed crimson with fever, called his wife’s name as if delirious.

“Brother.” At that voice, Linosuke opened his eyes. Seeing his sister’s face, he looked suspiciously, “Where’s Chie?” “She’s fine. But she can’t be here.” “Why can’t she? Call her. Bring her.” “No, you mustn’t. Sister-in-law’s carrying precious life. If the sickness spreads, it’ll be calamity.” “Lies!”

Enraged, Linosuke glared at Man with eyes full of hatred. He tried to get up. “Brother... you can’t.”

“Are you a monster? I’m dying here, and you won’t even let me see my lovely wife?” “No, Brother, you won’t die. You can’t meet her now.” “That’s Chie for you. Letting her husband die and acting like she doesn’t care…” Linosuke gnashed his teeth fiercely, but from his eyes, thick tears overflowed and fell drop by drop. Then he slumped over and let his emaciated face drop onto the pillow with a thud. He was gasping for breath.

Man fell into a stupor. Doubt and panic suddenly filled Man with anxiety. (What should I do?) Though she believed she had endured various hardships, encountering such a ghastly human extremity was a first for her. Even though she had steeled her heart with resolve, now the incomprehensible groans of human souls were shaking Man's worldview and the order of her daily life. A voice transcending life itself stirred within young Man's chest.

Day and night, Linosuke and Chie did nothing but repeat their marital quarrels, and within the family, this brother—a domestic tyrant—lay on his deathbed calling out only his wife’s name. Out of single-minded determination not to let the disease spread, she had quarantined her sister-in-law, yet he called Man a demon. For a brother who was timid and had always been somewhat considerate of his sister, these may have been his heartfelt final words.

Man stood up.

“Brother.” She called, but there was no response. She pressed her ear against his chest to listen. A faint, weak heartbeat pulsed. Man took water from the kettle into her mouth and sprayed it with a puff onto her brother’s face. Linosuke faintly opened his eyes. Without moving his face, he looked piercingly at his sister with a sidelong glance. Man shuddered. “Brother, I’ll go call Sister-in-law. Until then, don’t die...”

She dashed outside.

In the mandarin orange box in the corner of the kitchen lay six cat corpses. The whereabouts of the remaining two were unknown. Catching a glimpse of this, Man bit her lip and dashed toward the isolation ward. The entire tenement was in an uproar. Two carts loaded with coffins had stopped by the well. There, Tamai Kingoro was arguing loudly with a municipal official wearing a blue armband.

“I refuse.” With that, Kingoro shook off the official’s grip on his arm. A fifty-year-old official with a cucumber-shaped face and a walrus mustache shouted arrogantly. “If you say such things, that’s not helpful.” “Hurry up and get the corpses into the coffins!” “Disgusting business.” “No matter how long you wait, this won’t get resolved.” “If you don’t hurry up, you’ll catch cholera and die too!” “Even if I get cholera, I won’t do what you say.” “Disinfecting and putting them into coffins—isn’t that the city office’s job?” “I’m not some municipal office servant!”

Kingoro stood naked except for his fundoshi. He had apparently removed his kimono while nursing cholera-stricken comrades, finding the garment cumbersome. His thick-chested, robustly muscled frame—with its fine-grained pale skin—glistened dazzlingly under the autumn sun. His chest hair grew dense. Just then,

“Tamai, what’s going on?”

With that, Hamao Ichizo arrived. He was wearing firefighting gear and had a black mask on.

The official interjected from beside him, "This is disastrous, Mr. Hamao. You see—I told this man to put the corpses in coffins, but he absolutely refuses to comply."

“I see… Tamai, since the office seems short-handed, I’m sorry to ask, but while you’re at it, could you put the corpses into coffins for them?” “Understood.” “I’ll put them in.” “If the Boss says so, I’ll put ’em in anytime.” “If told to lick corpses, I’ll lick ’em.” “If someone tells me to eat whatever’s served, I’ll do exactly as told.” “Who’d listen to officials’ orders?” “If it’s all about throwing your weight around, that’s dirty business.” “...Hey, Shinko.”

With that, he glanced back at Mori Shinnosuke beside him. "That's right, that's right." Shinnosuke nodded repeatedly and stuck out his tongue at the walrus-mustached official. Having watched up to that point, Man ran toward the isolation ward again. She explained the situation to the police officer standing guard and had him let Chie out. The officer absolutely refused to permit the girl and the infant. The two of them hurried toward the tenement. Chie, cradling her full-term belly, was breathing heavily through her shoulders and abdomen while,

“God, save Mr. Rinzo… Don’t kill Mr. Rinzo…”

Frantically，she continued to shout. Man，even as she ran， (If I were God，I wouldn’t kill my brother.)

Before she knew it, she too had come to feel like praying. When she came in front of a tenement house, Man’s feet stopped on their own. Inside the room was a completely naked Kingoro. He was straddling the futon, but beneath him lay the female stevedore Taka, "I can't... I can't breathe..."

With a voice that sounded like her throat was tearing apart， she kept screaming． Each time， yellow saliva flew from her mouth． “Taka， endure it．” “Stay still． Don’t struggle．” “You’ll be healed soon．” Kingoro said as if admonishing a child．

“Kingoro.”

Suddenly, Taka fell silent and looked up at Kingoro’s face from beneath him.

“Hmm?” “I’m happy.” “What’s wrong?”

“I... was going to be your wife... To die being cared for like this by you... I’m happy.” “Don’t talk like that.” “You won’t die.” “You won’t die.” “I... don’t mind dying now.”

“Don’t die. Don’t die.” “Hold me tight…” “Is this enough?”

Kingoro embraced Taka from atop the futon as if enveloping her body completely. Man had been hiding in the shadows but could no longer endure watching. She ran again. While Man stood frozen in place earlier, Chie had apparently long since returned to Rinzo's location and disappeared from view. Man had been threatened twice before by Taka. "Ms. Man," came Taka's voice sharp through memory's veil,"Kingoro belongs to me." "If you dare touch him," her spectral warning echoed,"don't expect to keep breathing."

Taka had been threatening not only Man but all the unmarried female stevedores in Hamao-gumi with those words. She must have been deeply in love with Kingoro. That Taka was now on the verge of death. Man recalled the various scenes from the quarantine room. Though many couples had been separated, for every spouse praying for their partner’s safety, there were husbands who blustered, "Catching cholera was a godsend—good riddance if that bastard croaks," and wives doing the same. Man found herself mentally overwhelmed.

When she arrived home, Man froze at the entrance. Her feet wouldn’t move. Brother had completely changed from before and was now full of energy. Though still lying down, he took Chie’s hand, and with his sunken eyes gleaming eerily, shouted in some sort of excited tone. The words, slurred by a tongue that wouldn’t move properly, couldn’t be heard clearly, yet to Man’s ears, they unmistakably— “Who do you think would die and leave you behind?” “Who would die leaving behind Shizuko, Matsukichi, and the child about to be born?”

The words sounded like that. He kept repeating them like a sutra—monotonous and unvarying. Man stood frozen at the entrance, feeling as though she’d been thrown with a brutal shoulder toss. She couldn’t escape the bleak awareness of her own powerlessness—a hollow, tasteless emptiness.

The "Shanghai Cholera" outbreak that had plunged people into the abyss of terror and dread continued for over half a month thereafter. Even in Hamao-gumi, beginning with the burly assistant manager, there were nearly twenty casualties. Taniguchi Rinsuke barely managed to survive, but Taka died.

A municipal office clerk wearing a blue armband came and summoned Tamai Kingoro and Mori Shinnosuke.

“You two are crawling with cholera germs,” declared the municipal clerk wearing a blue armband. “Under no circumstances are you permitted to leave.” Thus confined, the two men found themselves imprisoned in a one-ken-square shack hastily erected in a corner of the tenement—a crude structure barely sufficient to shelter them from rain and dew. Though equipped with a door, officials had fastened it with an external lock whose key remained in bureaucratic custody. Square windows measuring one shaku per side punctuated both walls, serving dual purposes of ventilation and feeble daylight penetration. A separate waste disposal hole completed the grim accommodations. Within this box-like prison, authorities commanded Kingoro and Shinnosuke to remain sequestered for seven full days.

“After one week, we’ll inspect you—if even one germ remains, we’ll extend your quarantine another week.” The blue-armbanded municipal health department clerk declared with smug satisfaction and left pompously. “Those leaf-badge bastards have exacted their coffin revenge on us!”

Shinnosuke fumed with anger. Kingoro laughed. “Shinno, now don’t get so worked up. They went and built us a brand-new house! Perfect for resting these bones! Now that we're here—sleeping's our only play! Let's stockpile a whole year's worth!”

“Now that you mention it, that’s true…”

Then Shinnosuke too, though reluctantly, improved his mood.

The bizarre existence within the box began.

Before even two days had passed, Shinnosuke—already bored out of his mind—proposed, “This hut’s nothing. Let’s smash through and escape,” but Kingoro calmed him by saying, “Do that and we’ll cause trouble for others.”

The three daily meals were provided by Man. The prisoners in the cage kept demanding luxurious side dishes and even sometimes ordered alcohol. Sipping slowly at their drinks, they spent the entire day inside playing shogi. “Man, sukiyaki tonight.” and so on, they said. Man laughed and supplied a charcoal brazier, pot, sugar, soy sauce, a fan, beef, green onions, tofu—everything needed for sukiyaki. “Just like proper lords, aren’t you?”

In their carefree sedentary life, the two men in the box grew plumper day by day. However, it still differed from a lord's opulence. On rainy days, water dripped from the ceiling; on windy days, the entire hut creaked and swayed as if about to blow away. Beneath the floorboards, crickets and grubs chirred. The nights had grown cold. When they extinguished the lamp to sleep, stray dogs prowled around the box, howling incessantly in the distance. The moonlight too held a chill. Late at night when they awoke, an eerie sensation lingered—as though ghosts of cholera victims wandered nearby.

“I’ll give you flowers.”

One day, using a one-shō sake bottle as a vase, Man inserted a large bunch of chrysanthemum flowers through the small window.

“Well, well.” When Kingoro received them, “They bloomed in my garden. When they wilt, I’ll bring fresh ones.” “I won’t stay long enough to see these flowers fade.” The chrysanthemums’ pungent fragrance saturated every corner of the one-tsubo cubic space, thick enough to choke. It spilled through the two small windows, permeating every crevice of the derelict tenement. In that narrow box where they slept wrapped in a shared futon, Kingoro and Shinnosuke’s bond solidified with swift certainty. They swore a brotherhood pact. Though equals in age, Kingoro became the senior brother.

“Shinno, once they let me outta this box, I’m plannin’ to quit Hamao-gumi straight away…”

“I’m thinkin’ the same.” “The boss is downright awful.” “Even during this cholera mess, he only showed his face once—didn’t even come near us, just clung to Mekake’s place the whole time.” “Seems like he’s using his wife’s cholera death as an excuse to move a new mistress into the house.” “Well, that’s his business, but while the gang members are suffering like this, he doesn’t even come to check on us, doesn’t send any doctors or nurses.” “Even with the dead, he looks bothered and just leaves them abandoned.” “If the boss had any decency, we wouldn’t be stuck cooped up in this box for a whole damn week.”

“Well, alright then,” Kingoro said. “I’ve got something in mind—let’s head to Hikoshima together.” “Yep,” Shinnosuke replied. “Wherever you go, Kin-san, I’ll follow.” They sealed their pact with a promise—one day, they’d cross over to the Chinese mainland together.

One day, again, Man, from outside the small window, while laughing,

“Here’s the newspaper.” When they looked, there in the local red newspaper were large bold headlines proclaiming “In the Sea of Cholera: Two Mysterious Immortal Men Who Never Caught the Infection,” alongside photos of Kingoro and Shinnosuke displayed side by side. “First time in our lives we’ve been featured in something called a newspaper.” The two humble dockworkers felt unbearably awkward in a strangely ticklish way.

The inside of the box—where they couldn’t take a single step outside—grew unbearably lonely after all, and the two men held drinking parties where they clapped their hands and sang songs.

On the eighth day, they were finally released. Kingoro went straight to visit Taniguchi Rinsuke's house. Upon being told Man was in the backyard, he went around to that side. When he opened the fence, chrysanthemum fragrance struck his nostrils.

Man squatted at the base of the persimmon tree and wept. On the fresh mound of earth stood two small grave markers fashioned from kamaboko boards, thin smoke from incense sticks drifting upward.

“It’s the cats’ graves.” “This one here—they were a married couple, so I kept them separate and offered flowers.” When she saw Kingoro, Man said this and began to wail openly, her sobs raw and unrestrained.

Bare and penniless

“Hey, that woman—we ain’t never seen her ’round here before. Where she from?” “A Western-dressed modern beauty like that—ain’t seen one even once in a whole year.” “An’ there’s two of ’em!” “Like some Western movin’ picture, ain’t it?”

“Should we call out to ’em?”

“Cut it out. You think fancy ladies’d give dock scum like us the time o’ day?” Across the sea, Ganryū Island appeared small and compact, like a bonsai island. The single pine tree atop the island’s central hill seemed to have been snapped by the fierce winds of the recent 220th Day storm that had ravaged Northern Kyushu, now lying fallen with its roots splayed out like octopus legs. At the roots of that pine tree, two women sat on a spread handkerchief. Both wore similar white dresses and black gloves, holding parasols of pink and green. Their gazes were fixed on the Enmeiji Lighthouse in Kokura across the Kanmon Strait, occasionally meeting each other’s as they laughed merrily, their voices ringing out boisterously.

Beside them stood a middle-aged man in thick workman's clothing, gesturing frequently in various directions while moving his mouth—he appeared to be explaining the surrounding scenery and historical sites. Because Enmeiji Temple houses Miyamoto Musashi’s grave, he might have been expounding on Musashi’s duel with Sasaki Kojirō at Ganryū Island. The small ferry that had carried the three was moored at the shore, and the boatman was fishing to pass the time while waiting.

“What d’you reckon that woman is?” Driven by curiosity, the stevedores kept debating fiercely, but not a soul could pin down who they really were.

“Maybe some big-shot guest has come to our boss’s place again.” “They’re surely with that person.”

That observation seemed somewhat accurate.

It was lunch break at Hikoshima Coal Storage Yard. Although Hikoshima was separated from Shimonoseki by just a single river, it had an atmosphere entirely different from that of the city area. Everywhere there were mountains of stored coal, and stevedores who were transferring it or loading it onto barges had gathered in various places. Although the etymology remains unclear, in this region both offshore stevedores and onshore stevedores are collectively referred to as "Gonzō."

Among the seventeen or eighteen stevedores eating their lunchboxes during the break, Taniguchi Man sat among them. Five or six women were present. Beside Man was Matsuno Kikue—a female stevedore about three years her senior—hurriedly scooping up barley rice soaked in bancha tea from a square cedar lunchbox. Kikue gazed toward Ganryū Island, paying no mind to the rice grains sticking to her cheek as she muttered: “Man-san, humans sure do have different classes, don’t they? Just when you think there’s folks like us—stevedores turned pitch-black from coal—there’s also women like that over there, pristine white in their shiny Western clothes.”

“What of it?” “Don’t talk such nonsense.” “We’re not going to stay gonzos forever!”

At those fierce words, Kikue started and looked at Man.

Mori Shinnosuke, at this moment while stuffing his mouth with a rice ball, suddenly lowered his voice portentously. “Hey everyone, watch out.” “What’s up?”

An old stevedore asked in a gruff tone. "I've just realized somethin'. Those women might be Russian spies." No one responded. Suddenly, their expressions grew tense, different from before, as they stared anew at the women on Ganryū Island. The Western-clad women laughed uproariously, shoulders shaking as if trading secrets, though what amused them so remained a mystery.

In Man's eyes as she watched this, a light akin to scorn and emotions of resentment intermingled.

“And there’s no mistake about it.” Shinnosuke declared with a face full of conviction, “Lately there’s talk Russia’s been actively hiring Japanese women as spies. Even though October eighth was supposed to be the promised withdrawal day, Russia ain’t just failing to pull troops from Manchuria—they’re pushing ’em further south every day. They’re already looking down on Japan and fixing to start a war. But after what happened in the Sino-Japanese War, they’re being cautious—probing Japan’s situation. And they’re using women for it. Just the other day in Nagasaki, a female Russian spy got caught—those women over there look plenty suspicious too.”

“Now that you mention it, those women don’t need to go all the way to Ganryū Island just to see the Kanmon Strait.”

The old stevedore also expressed agreement with Shinnosuke’s opinion.

The storm clouds of the Russo-Japanese conflict were finally beginning to gather ominously. Within the country, pro-war and anti-war arguments boiled. No sooner had the National Youth Comrades Association with its 37,000 members submitted a petition to Prime Minister Katsura demanding Russia's chastisement than an incident where three anti-war advocates—Sakai Toshihiko, Uchimura Kanzō, and Kōtoku Shūsui—left the Yorozu Chōhō newspaper stirred up even this Kanmon region.

The Japanese in Port Arthur had begun their evacuation, and there were also people who had returned to this region,

"Russia's building no great fortresses at Port Arthur." "War can't be avoided no matter what."

they emphasized definitively. The Yamashita-gumi stevedores too could not remain indifferent to the nation's grave crisis. They kept whispering among themselves about the mysterious women of Ganryū Island.

From inside the duty room, the assistant manager of Yamashita-gumi came out.

“Is Tamai not here?” “He isn’t here.”

Shinnosuke answered. “Where did he go?”

"Well, he ate his meal and went out somewhere... Could he be playing shogi in the meal stipend room again?" "He's one who sure loves shogi," "I had urgent business, but..." With that said, he pinched his long chin in apparent bewilderment, but upon noticing Man, added: "Man-san, I hear you're to wed Tamai." "Tamai was speaking of it, but..."

“It’s a lie. Who would even…?”

“Hmm… Is that so? ...A lie, you think?”

Shinnosuke adopted a scheming expression and tugged at the assistant manager’s sleeve.

“Bossin, where are those high-collar women from?” “If you keep talking like that, nothing good will come of it. It’s Mr. Yoshida Isokichi of Wakamatsu—he’s been making a name for himself lately—who brought them here as his guests.”

Shinnosuke turned pale. "Now that you mention it," said the assistant manager with a sudden look of realization, "Mori, there was something for you too." “What’s this about?” “Since last night, Mr. Yoshida Isokichi of Wakamatsu along with bosses from Shimonoseki, Kokura, Hakata, and Beppu had been visiting our boss’s place and staying overnight. That gathering wrapped up this morning, and now they’re having their farewell lunch. The bosses from Hakata and Beppu would be returning on the two o'clock train from Moji.”

“So, what’s this business you have with me?” “Boss Yoshida Isokichi says—he’s heard there are two young men in this group named Tamai Kingoro and Mori Shinnosuke, and he wants to meet them.” “Why… again?” “Think of it as an honor.” “Why would Mr. Yoshida specifically single out Tamai and my names…?” Shinnosuke felt uneasy, having just called the woman Yoshida Isokichi brought with him a spy.

The assistant manager, having no way of knowing such things, said, "You know, since that recent Shanghai Cholera commotion—you two were in the newspaper then, weren't you? Stripped naked in a sea of cholera germs yet didn't catch it—Boss Yoshida has taken notice of that feat and says he wants to meet you." Shinnosuke responded, "Hmm, so that's what it was. Boss Yoshida's got peculiar tastes, I tell you."

“Hey,” the assistant manager tapped Shinnosuke’s shoulder with a finger, wearing a servile smile as he said, “Envious, I am. Your fortunes are finally turning.” “After reading the papers, Mr. Yoshida took considerable interest—made inquiries with Hamao-gumi in Moji, he did.” “Then when he learned you’d left Hamao-gumi for Yamashita-gumi in Hikoshima, today he insists ‘I must meet them without fail.’” “I must beg your pardon, I tell you.”

“Don’t spout nonsense.” “You’ll incur divine retribution!” “For Boss Yoshida Isokichi—who’s rising fast these days—to specifically request an audience by name... No, more than that—to ask our boss himself to arrange a meeting... Isn’t this the pinnacle of honor?” “He surely wants to make you his men.” “I’ll consult Tamai about this too.” “What’s there to consult?”

“Whether Tamai will meet him or not?…” “You’re such a nonsense-talker,” said the assistant manager, his Kansai accent thickening. “When Boss Yoshida says he wants a meetin’, and our boss already promised an audience—there’s no ‘will he or won’t he.’ Just find Tamai and tell him.” He leaned closer, breath smelling of tobacco. “...Boss Yoshida’s treatin’ us to blowfish tonight. Get yourself to the boss’s back door by four—sharp.”

The dark-skinned, impatient assistant manager left those words behind and headed briskly back toward the duty station. Shinnosuke glanced at Man beside him with a perplexed expression. "I'm in a bind... Ms. Man, what should we do?"

“Stop it. It’s pointless.” “Mr. Kingoro would certainly never say he’ll go.”

A small boat carrying two high-collar beauties returned from the direction of Ganryū Island. The path from the pier to Yamashita Matsuji’s residence ran along the canal and did not pass through this coal storage yard. However, the Western-clothed women—who had alighted onto the pier from the small boat like two cranes—began making their way toward the coal storage yard.

“Hey, the Russian spy’s coming this way!” A stevedore laughed and poked Shinnosuke’s buttocks.

Shinnosuke panicked, “Don’t call them Russian spies.” “Mistakes do happen sometimes.” “I take back what I said earlier about them being Russian spies.” “Even so, that high-collar beauty might’ve already heard it by now.” “Don’t joke around.” “How could they hear us from over two hundred meters away?”

As they were having this conversation, the two women approached where the stevedores were gathered. Their steps suggested they had some business to attend to. Carried by the wind at their backs, the strong scents of perfume and face powder drifted over before the women themselves arrived.

“Well, everyone, working hard I see.” The thick-clad guide stopped and called out to the stevedores. He was a gentle yet servile man with a pale complexion and a cat-like soothing voice—referred to as “Sensei” and acting as something of a doorman for the Yamashita-gumi. “Well, Sensei, working hard I see...” Someone made a remark in the manner of a professional jester, prompting muffled laughter to ripple through the group. “Hey, you there.” The woman holding the pink parasol came right before Man and called out brashly.

Man was startled,

“Yes...?” “You there—seems you’ve got some curious thing. Care to show it to me?” “What might that be?”

“Oh, so it’s this little mechanical thing you hold in your hand that lights up with a flick, I tell you. You were using that device instead of matches to light your kiseru when smoking tobacco, weren’t ya?”

“It’s about the pocket lamp.”

Shinnosuke said to Man from beside her.

Man took out the pocket lamp from the hemp bag hanging at her waist.

“Is this it?” The woman took it and, fiddling with the silver box like a child, showed it to the other woman. Both were around twenty-two or twenty-three years old, with similar round faces. The woman with the pink parasol had drooping eye corners and thin lips, giving her a frivolous, brazen air, while the green parasol woman had a rounded face, cool eyes, tight lips, and an overall composed demeanor. The large mole at the lower right of her lip looked as if an insect had landed there. Strangely alluring.

The women had apparently been watching from aboard the small boat with curious eyes as Man used a strange ignition device to smoke tobacco. "You there," said the woman with the pink parasol after trying to light it several times, "hand this over to me."

“No, that’s…” “It’s not free. I’ll pay plenty for it.”

“Even if I were to take the money...” “Two yen. How about it? Even if you people worked all day, you wouldn’t even make fifty sen. Two yen is a fortune. …Well then, three yen.” “I don’t want to.”

The woman with the pink parasol raised the corners of her eyes like a fox and assumed a look of contempt. “The nerve of a dockside tramp like you—you’ve never held three yen even once, have you? Shut up and hand it over—it’d be better for ya.” “I won’t hand it over. Please give it back.” “Well then, five yen—how 'bout it?” She still seemed reluctant. In later years, lighters became so commonplace they could be swept aside, but in those days, they were the rarest of rarities. Because a mere female dockworker possessed it, the Western-clad women must have thought it far more suitable for them to use. They may have thought they had the right.

“Excuse me,” Shinnosuke interjected from beside her, “but you wouldn’t part with that even for fifty yen. It’s a precious thing I got from someone special, I tell you.” “Shin-san, what are you—”

Man started and flushed red before pinching Shinnosuke's knee hard. "Hmph," sneered the woman with the pink parasol with growing malice. "A present from your pretty boy? Even a dockside tramp like you can fall in love proper-like, 'bout that?" She tossed her head contemptuously. "Oh right, right—here's your trash back. What's this—now that I think on it, that awful stench reeks of man." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Ugh, filthy!"

With a clink, she threw the pocket lamp into the coal pile,

“Ms. Kimika, let’s go.” “Ridiculous.” “There’s no point dealing with such a clueless fool.” The woman with the pink parasol left in a huff, kicking up black coal dust with her shoes as she briskly headed toward the pier. Man silently picked up the pocket lamp. While biting her lip, she wiped off the grime with a handkerchief.

The green parasol woman called Kimika came to Man’s side,

“Don’t you mind ’bout that.” “She’s awful short-tempered, but her heart’s truly good at the core, ’bout that?”

As if making excuses, she said that, urged the thick-clothed guide onward, and left.

Kikue muttered, “Ms. Man, you’re not one for greed, are you? They offered five yen—you should’ve sold it.” “Five yen—even if we worked a whole year, we’d never save up that much.”

“What a heartless thing to say.” “Just you wait—I’ll smack ten yen—no, a hundred yen—right into the faces of people like that!” Man’s eyes gleamed with an eerie, glinting light. However, those dark-pupiled eyes were faintly moist with tears.

From the direction of the Meshibeya Room, Tamai Kingoro returned, scratching his head.

“Lost, lost.” “Just wasn’t my day today.” “Got hit with a standing throw in the fourth round against Jinko—and that was with a two-piece handicap.”

“Kin-san,” Shinnosuke told how Yoshida Isokichi, having read about the cholera uproar in the newspaper, was inviting the two of them to dinner that evening.

“What should we do?” “I don’t want to, but…”

“Let’s go see. I’ve heard of Mr. Yoshida Isokichi’s name. I want to see what kind of boss he is. You can’t know anything without facing it head-on.”

Kingoro’s tone was lively.

That night, the banquet continued late into the night.

Yamashita Matsuji was a coal stevedoring contractor who loved gambling and maintained extensive connections with influential figures not only locally but throughout Kyushu in that sphere. At the Yamashita residence, sizable gambling events were staged approximately once each season. This time appeared to be that autumn's gathering.

The feast consisted of pufferfish sashimi and chiri. There were about twenty people, five or six of them women. At Boss Yoshida’s summons, Kingoro and Shinnosuke were specially added to the gathering.

Kingoro entered through the back door, and the moment he opened the sliding door to the tatami room, he started, his heart pounding. His eyes widened. (No... Not her.) With a feeling both hollow and relieved, he whispered in his heart.

Among the women seated at the gathering, Kingoro mistook the young woman with her hair in a ginkgo-leaf twist and black collar. The woman he had once met at Dogo Onsen's Shikokuya—the one with peony-and-butterfly tattoos who had called out to Kingoro with a bright smile while deftly managing dice games and cup-shaking—had such an identical profile that he thought it might be her, but when she turned frontward, her face looked entirely different. Thank goodness it wasn't her.

The position that woman from before occupied in Kingoro's heart remained unfathomable. It wasn't any distinct emotion worth naming—just a fleeting memory of a flower glimpsed in passing—yet even when forgotten, its complete form persisted like an image burned onto a photographic negative. But this flower radiated not only allure but something perilously toxic, making Kingoro certain he never wanted to encounter that woman again. Thus when he realized with a jolt that the wide-eyed figure before him was someone else, relief washed through him.

In the gathering, there were two women in white Western dresses.

Kingoro and Shinnosuke hunched their shoulders and sat in the lowest seats. Leaning against the main pillar with his back, arms crossed, Yoshida Isokichi surveyed the gathering with a hawk-like gaze. Beneath close-cropped hair lay a long face framed by a black Yuuki silk lined haori and a white crepe obi thick as a ship's rope—resolute features sharpened by an air of unyielding spirit. His eyebrows stood taut; his lips tapered to thin points. Flanking Yoshida sat men whose fierceness matched his own.

(The yakuza are acting so damn high and mighty.) As if rebelling against the looming pressure, Kingoro deliberately muttered those words in his heart. Yoshida Isokichi whispered something to Yamashita Matsuji. Yamashita bowed obsequiously. “Hey, Tamai! Mori!” “Yes?” “Boss Yoshida says to come over here.” “He says he’ll let you join his crew.” Kingoro and Shinnosuke came to face Yoshida and reseated themselves.

“So it’s you two.” Yoshida tightened his crossed arms and fixed his eyes, gazing wordlessly at the two men. “Tamai, or something they call you.” “How old are you?” “I’ve turned twenty-four.” “Twenty-four?… Ah, Year of the Dragon.” “Young, aren’t you.” “You’re just starting out.” “And that one…”

Since Yoshida seemed unable to recall the name, Yamashita interjected from the side, "Mori Shinnosuke," by way of explanation. “Ah, Mori-kun… And you?” “Twenty-four.”

“Same age as Tamai? Both Dragons, huh? Dragon’s the dragon—vigorous sign at that. I was born in Keiō 3—a rabbit. Thirty-seven now. A rabbit can’t hold his own against two dragons, I suppose.”

Yoshida said this and laughed loudly. But in reality—even if two greenhorns like you came at me together, you wouldn't be worth my time. ...To Kingoro's ears, Yoshida's booming laughter seemed to declare this outright. "Well, make sure you remember their faces."

Yoshida introduced the subordinates flanking him—who appeared to be his trusted retainers—and then, “How ’bout it? Tamai and Mori—if you ever feel inclined, come to Wakamatsu anytime and make yourselves at home in my house.”

he added. “Otsuta, serve the sake.” At Yoshida’s words, the woman with the ginkgo-leaf hairstyle—whom Kingoro had earlier mistaken for a woman from Dogo—approached with a sake decanter, shuffling forward on her knees. “Brother, here you go.” Kingoro accepted the sake cup, but— “I must say to you, Boss Yoshida.” “What is it?” “This sake cup—it’s not the one for formal boss-subordinate bonds, is it?” “You can take it that way if you like.”

“No—if that’s what this means, I won’t take it.” “Let me think on that a while longer.” “If it’s just plain sake with no strings attached, I’ll drink it gladly.”

“You’re awfully strict about honor codes. Do as you please and drink it then, I suppose.”

Yoshida laughed carefreely, but his expression betrayed hints of displeasure. It may have been at this moment that these two embarked on their fated path as lifelong adversaries. As the sake circulated and the gathering grew lively, Yoshida Isokichi began some story—whereupon the group suddenly fell silent and leaned in to listen. Kingoro had missed the beginning part, but it seemed to be Yoshida’s reminiscences. It seemed to be an event from three or four years earlier.

Though drunk, Yoshida remained perfectly composed, his flushed face wearing an intoxicated expression as he gesticulated animatedly and spun his tale. "That night, it was pouring rain—even thunder started rumbling—so it couldn’t have been more perfect for a night raid." “After all, our opponent was Ezaki Mankichi—even now he commands hundreds of underlings and throws his weight around, but back then he was at the peak of his uncontrollable tyranny. On Empire Day, he sent a challenge to my place saying, ‘Let’s settle this with a decisive battle.’” “So we decided to strike first and outwit him—that’s why these rowdies here like Tomoda Kizō, Ōtani Gōichi, Ichikawa Yahee, Matsube Gohachirō, and others launched a night raid with about eight men.” "They seemed flustered at being caught off guard, but their preparations for the fight were properly in place." "Bamboo spears, Japanese swords, hunting guns, pistols, rakes, deba knives, sickles—they’d really gathered quite the arsenal." "Since the agreed time was the Hour of the Ox [approx. 2 AM], only about half their men had gathered yet." "As our group advanced through the torrential downpour of a fierce storm, there came sounds—boom, boom." “We thought they’d started shooting, but they’d just broken open the mirror of a four-to barrel.” “Ezaki Mankichi was a flashy guy—he was a heavy drinker himself, but whenever starting a fight, no matter how few men he had, he’d buy a new four-to barrel to boost morale.”

“He’s apparently never paid those liquor bills.” Tomoda Kizō interjected from beside him. He was a man of average build with a dusky complexion and narrow eyes that gleamed from their depths like a kite’s. He spoke with a feminine voice. From beneath his rolled-up sleeves and exposed chest, one could see that his entire body was covered in tattoos. He had several scars on his face. He seemed to be Yoshida Isokichi’s top subordinate.

“Seems that way,” Yoshida burst into booming laughter. “When the liquor store comes to collect—‘You need money? Fine, I’ll pay you.’ ‘Do you want a long one or a short one?’… they say he’d threaten them like that.” “What happened to the story about the fight?”

And someone pressed for more. “Well, the fight goes without saying—a total victory! First off, our mindset was different. Ezaki’s side might’ve had numbers, but they were just a rabble. Each of us here was worth a thousand men! Take Tomoda—sure he’s got a voice soft as a woman’s, but he’s a hellraiser who could go toe-to-toe with Kunisada Chūji or Shimizu’s Ōsame and Kosame! That night? Lost count of how many he cut down.” “From our side,” Tomoda Kizō interjected, “Ms. Ogin’s work was truly masterful.”

“Right, right—I wish I could’ve shown everyone how splendidly Ms. Ogin fought that day.” “Is Ms. Ogin a woman?”

Mori Shinnosuke asked.

“You lot don’t know a damn thing.” “Right now in Wakamatsu, when they say ‘Dotera Baba,’ they’re talking about a full-fledged female yakuza legend.” “Calling her ‘granny’ doesn’t mean she’s old.” “She’s thirty-five or thirty-six—smack in a woman’s prime.” “And she’s not even wearing a dotera robe.” “Built like a sumo wrestler—sturdy and solid—so folks just started calling her ‘Dotera Baba’ on their own.” “But when we fought Ezaki’s crew, she wasn’t fat like now—quick as a fox, that one.” “Right in the thick of that chaotic brawl between both sides, she went around handing out bullets to our boys…”

Then came more of the heroic yet raucous fight description, dragging on interminably. Yoshida Isokichi's expression hovered near rapture. Kingoro cut in for the first time. "I'd like to ask you something, Mr. Yoshida Boss." "What?"

“I’ve been listening to your story all this time, Boss Yoshida, but you never once appeared. What were you doing at that time?” “Me? I don’t go to brawls. I stayed home.”

In Kingoro's eyes, disappointment and contempt surfaced simultaneously.

Yoshida Isokichi was entirely unconcerned with such reactions from a greenhorn. “From Meiji Town to the Honmachi 3-chome district—amidst thunder so fierce it felt like bamboo spears pounding down—it literally rained blood. The savagery of it all left Tomoda’s beloved white-sheathed blade notched like a saw’s teeth.” "To make matters worse, it had bent like a candy stick—so he ended up seizing enemy swords and fighting." “After all, we’re tactical in our movements—all expert fighters here. We don’t fear the enemy’s superior numbers.” “And then…”

And still, he cheerfully continued recounting the tale of the bloody feud that had launched him as a boss.

Eventually, as police intervention came, the subordinates temporarily concealed themselves in rural areas. Since Yoshida never once left his house, he remained unaffected. This occurred through reconciliation efforts by town elders and influential figures, letting such a massive brawl get swept under the rug. Only Yoshida Isokichi's reputation increased.

Following this commotion, in Wakamatsu, in addition to the police, a military police station was established. And then, Yoshida’s story:

“Tamai, Mori—you lot haven’t suffered enough yet.”

With those words, he launched into tales of his youthful hardships. There was no telling when they would end.

“I was a river boatman,” Yoshida Isokichi said. “From sixteen onward, I worked as a boatman through terrible hardships. Summers were manageable, but winters were a living hell. On the banks of the Onga River’s shallows, I’d set up a water pole and moor the boat with rope. The cold wind blew fierce. Snow fell. I’d spread a straw mat over the coal cargo and sleep wrapped in one red blanket.” He snorted. “These youngsters today bundle up warm yet still whine about the cold—absurd! Even back then, I never once said ‘I’m cold.’”

After working as a river boatman, he left for Osaka intending to become a sumo wrestler. He donned a loincloth and went on regional tours. During the time when the San'yō Line hadn't yet been fully completed, in midwinter wearing nothing but a yukata against bare skin, he pushed a daihachi cart loaded with tour luggage as he walked. After that, he came to Wakamatsu, but riding the turmoil of the First Sino-Japanese War, crossed over to Korea. "I've done my share of rough work too." "But in Korea those Chinese stevedores were acting so high and mighty it grated on me—so once at the shipyard, I threw two or three into the sea." "Then the Chinese consulate had the nerve to lodge a strong protest with the Japanese embassy."

Yoshida Isokichi shook with laughter and roared heartily.

“And then,”

And after recounting his history, “Humans start with nothing—especially men, it’s all about strength and courage… Tamai, Mori, do you understand?” Having said that, Yoshida squared his shoulders and slammed his right fist against his thick chest—thump. Kingoro, dazed by the verbal onslaught, wore a look of half-comprehension as he remained silent.

――_Starting with nothing._

Only those words—he grasped them in his own way.

The next day, at nearly the same hour, two incidents occurred.

**Expulsion**

Beside the pier where Ganryūjima was visible, Man smoked tobacco while watching people fish.

It was lunch break. The one fishing was the shopkeeper of Hikoshima's general goods store "Nandemo-ya"—a man still far from fifty yet completely bald, his scalp gleaming orange. Obsessed with fishing, he left the shop to his wife, and because of this, their marital quarrels never ceased. Even though they called them fights, they always ended in the wife's one-sided victory, so "Nandemo-ya" had become notorious as a henpecked household. Man teased the Nandemo-ya shopkeeper.

“My Brother Rinsuke and his wife are your exact opposites. In my brother’s case, the husband struts around wearing the pants, but you at Nandemo-ya are a henpecked husband through and through. Get a grip!” “You might say that, but there’s plenty of henpecked husbands in the world, you know. Well now, I may lose to my wife, but that’s just fine.”

“What do you think you’re doing with such sloppiness? You’d better watch yourself.” “Heh heh…” Nandemo-ya stared intently at Man’s face and gave a strange laugh. “Well now, if Man-san became a bride, her husband’d turn into one fierce henpecked fellow, wouldn’t he…?” “As long as my husband doesn’t do anything unreasonable, I intend to be a quiet, proper wife.” “Now that you mention it,” said Nandemo-ya as if struck by a thought, “they say Man-san’s going to marry Tamai-san, isn’t that so?”

“Who’s saying such things?” “Tamai-san’s the one who said it, see?” “You’re mocking me.” “Going around spreading those tales yourself, aren’t you?” “I heard it from Mr. Bossin too.” “Hmph. Even if you’ve gone and decided this on your own, it’s none of my concern.” “That how it is?” “Thought maybe you’d already worked something out between you.” “Figured if you two wedded, being both so headstrong, you’d have yourselves a proper battle of wills—neither wearing the pants!”

"I have no intention of becoming some stevedore's wife, you know. Besides, I've got other things to think about. And I've never even considered wanting to get married yet." "It's not like it's too soon or anything..." "It's not about being early or late."

On the quiet autumn sea, with his line cast while waiting for a fish to bite, Nandemo-ya glanced sideways at Man from time to time. The plain work clothes with arm and leg guards made Man look crisp and capable. And the vigor brimming within her youth gave her a vibrant glow. There was a curious allure in how Man held her pipe while smoking tobacco - in the swell of her cheeks as she savored its flavor and the hue of her eyes. Though she had never once considered makeup, she seemed adorned with something bewitching.

“Got one! Got one!”

Nandemo-ya hurriedly raised his rod—only to find another small pufferfish.

At that moment, from behind, “Are you Taniguchi Man?” came a rough voice. When she turned around, four or five men with roguish appearances and vicious faces stood there. They surrounded Man.

Man, startled, stood up. In a panic, she extinguished the ember of her cigarette with her work apron.

Just as he had caught a fish, suddenly ruffians appeared, so the timid "Nandemo-ya" fell on his backside. Trembling, he began scooting backward on his hands. The discarded Higan pufferfish, in a fit of rage, swelled up perfectly round and flopped about wildly in the coal dust.

“Hey—don’t you put that away.” As Man attempted to put her pipe and pocket lamp into the hemp bag, a noticeably taller man with a jutting jaw, eggplant-colored complexion, and cropped hair grabbed her right hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” Man shook off his hand. “Hand over that pocket lamp.” “I refuse.” Man hurriedly stuffed the hemp bag, pipe, and lighter all together into her bosom and pressed them down with both hands from above. The two firmly rounded breasts beneath her Kurumemochi work clothes faintly rose and fell with her breath.

“You’re one sassy little missy, ain’t ya? Don’t make no fuss—just hand it over quiet-like. For your own good.” He jerked his chin toward the others. “Take a look around. Four fine gentlemen like us done come all this way just to ask nice for that pocket lamp. You still gonna put up a fight?” Like a snake eyeing a frog, the eggplant-colored man licked his lips, eyes glinting cold.

As if this were their cue, the other three men each struck intimidating poses, rolling their eyes wildly in exaggerated motions. With four of them threatening her like this, they seemed to be calculating that even without laying a hand on her, the young girl would turn pale, start trembling, and inevitably hand over the pocket lamp. Man immediately realized why they had come. (That stylish beauty must have put them up to this.)

Even though she had once thrown away the pocket lamp, delivered a parting shot, and left, she must have truly wanted it desperately. She must have sent yakuza after all, but sending four men against one woman was overkill. At the scene, there were male stevedores around, and since Shinnosuke had said things like "That pocket lamp was given to me by someone important," they must have been taking precautions in case of emergency. However, Man had left the scene to watch the fishing, so for the plunderers, she was now alone—an unexpected stroke of luck.

“Hand it over. Hand it over.”

The eggplant-colored man thrust out his long jaw. Man was pale but not trembling. She bit her lip tightly, hesitated momentarily, then thrust her right hand into her bosom and pulled out the pocket lamp. "You're an impressive one." "Here—hand it over." As the long-jawed man sneered and spoke those words, Man's right hand shot upward, hurling the pocket lamp far out into the sea.

Against the blue sky, a small silver-glinting object traced an arc and vanished into the waves with a soft plop. "You damn brat!"

The four ruffians stood dumbfounded, but the eggplant-colored man snapped back to his senses and erupted in rage. Baring his plaque-caked yellow snaggleteeth like a monkey,

“Why’d you throw it into the sea?” “I didn’t want to make you all into thieves.”

“Thieves?...” “If you take what’s mine by force, that makes you robbers, doesn’t it? That’s why I threw it away. Once it’s thrown away, it’s no longer mine. Please dive into the sea and retrieve it.” “You bastard! Spouting such outrageous nonsense!”

An eggplant-colored fist came flying toward Man’s cheek. However, the palm danced through empty space, and the man staggered and collided with one of his comrades.

“Think she’s just some girl and go easy on her, she gets all high and mighty…”

The four men simultaneously lunged at Man.

Man became a cornered rat.

However, after struggling for only a short while, the eggplant-colored crew-cut man let out a strange groan and collapsed to the ground like a folded lantern, his body going limp. His complexion turned radish-leaf green; his eyes, mouth, and jaw contorted; soon drool dripped as he sprawled motionless on the ground.

“Hey! What’s wrong?”

The other three men, startled, picked up their limp leader.

By that time, Man was nowhere to be seen.

“Was he killed?” The three men frantically searched the unconscious man’s entire body but found no wounds anywhere. No blood flowed either. Yet the man lay gasping like a dying insect.

One of them went down to the pier and soaked a hand towel in seawater. He wrung it out and dabbed the unconscious man's face. After repeating this several times, the man finally regained consciousness. The three men carried the large man by his hands and feet and headed toward the Yamashita-gumi outpost.

Behind the outpost stood a meal allowance room - lodging for bachelor stevedores. Converted from a former cement warehouse with only tatami mats laid down, it spanned about thirty mats in area. Divided between male and female stevedores in a three-to-one ratio, three large five-shō kettles stood lined up in its kitchen. At the window overlooking the sea, wearing headbands while playing shogi were Tamai Kingoro and Yamaguchi Jinpachi. Having eagerly awaited their lunch break, they'd brought out the shogi board. Though nicknamed "Slow Jin," Yamaguchi remained Hikoshima's undisputed shogi master - even with a two-piece handicap, Kingoro could never best him. His stubborn competitiveness only made him charge harder with each loss, inevitably losing again. Now too, he fought desperately.

“Hey, Kin-san. Oh, what’s that?”

When Jinpachi pointed at strangers not usually seen on this island—three men carrying one person passing outside the window—Kingoro merely glanced their way and said, “It’s probably just some pointless fight.” With that, he turned a pitiful gaze toward his own king piece, now cornered hopelessly. Sitting among the coal, Mori Shinnosuke was loudly explaining the events of the previous night to his comrades. During lunch breaks, things always turned into these discussion groups. While some, exhausted, lay sprawled atop the coal, most would spend their hour-long lunch break in lively foolish banter. After all, being stevedores, their conversations—aimless and confined to the moment—would typically follow convention by starting with “alcohol, gambling, and women” before moving to recent topics. But today’s discussions of “alcohol, gambling, and women” differed slightly from their usual routine of tedious talk.

From the wharf of the coal storage yard, a gangplank had been laid to the moored barge. Today, while loading the barge, even its skipper—nicknamed 'Crow'—unusually joined their discussion. 'Crow' would always declare, "Your stories are trash—no roots, no leaves, no truth to them. Listening's just a waste of time," while drinking shochu alone. But today, uninvited, he had waddled his portly frame across the gangplank and come ashore.

“Huh? What’s this?” “Did you kick Boss Yoshida Isokichi?” Suddenly reeking of shochu, he shouted those words and thudded down onto the coal.

Shinnosuke was startled,

“No one’s saying I kicked Mr. Yoshida.” “Don’t go mishearing things!”

“Even so, from up on the boat just now, I heard ’em talkin’ ’bout how you refused Boss Yoshida’s sake cup last night, didn’t I?” “I never said it like that. You’re such a damn scatterbrain—always jumpin’ to conclusions.” “’Cause I heard you brats kicked Boss Yoshida Isokichi—the big man himself—that’s why I came rushin’ over. So you didn’t kick him?” “Old man, you’ve got a nasty way with words. This ‘kicked’ and ‘refused’ nonsense—that ain’t how it went. Tamai just said... ‘If it’s regular sake, I’ll drink it. But if it’s that boss-subordinate cup, give me time to think.’ That’s all.”

“There, see? That’s what refusing the sake cup means—it’s as good as kicking him!” Crow barked, his shochu-laden breath hot against their faces. “What damn fools you are. If it were me, I’d be thanking my stars to become his subordinate. You lot let fortune slip right through your fingers.” “Now hold on there, Crow,” an elderly stevedore cut in, wedging himself between them. “Quit butting in when the lad’s just getting to the juicy bits.” Shinnosuke’s shoulders relaxed as the intervention came. He cleared his throat roughly,

“And then Ezaki Mankichi thrust a written challenge at Mr. Yoshida, which led to this huge brawl…”

he continued his story. When the sword of Yoshida Isokichi's top subordinate, Tomoda Kizō, had developed teeth like a saw's blade, footsteps sounded and five or six unfamiliar gamblers appeared. One of them—short in stature but sharp-eyed—

“Hey, buddy over there yappin’ away—mind stepping over here for a sec?” A lanky, lame one of them grabbed Shinnosuke’s arm. Shinnosuke was taken behind the tool warehouse. Bamboo baskets, shovels, claw tools, and the like were piled up, and a single anchor covered in red rust lay thrown down like an octopus with its legs cut off. A sparrow that had been perched on top of them, startled by the clamorous crowd of approaching people, flew off toward the sea.

When they came to a stop, Shinnosuke,

“Do you have some business with me?”

he asked. Shinnosuke looked slightly older than his years. He had a sturdy build but a long, fair-skinned face with well-proportioned features; though by nature quick-tempered and stubborn, there was a certain softness about him that made him dislike confrontations. Therefore, when the gamblers had abducted him, from the very start he intended to rely on his usual agility, wait for an opening, and escape.

“Hah! You think we’d call you for no reason?” With that, the men were already squaring up for a fight.

“What business do you have with me?…” “You’re the one who called the boss’s companion a Russian spy, eh?” Shinnosuke flinched. “No, that’s…”

“That’s a load of crap!”

By then, one of the men behind had already kicked Shinnosuke in the side. Caught off guard, he staggered—and the five men all swarmed Shinnosuke at once. They hit. They jabbed. They kicked. They strangled. When Shinnosuke fell, they chaotically stomped on him with geta and zori—face or head, chest or stomach, arms or legs—making no distinction. Shinnosuke was bleeding from his nose, covered in wounds, and collapsed. “Serves you right!”

The thugs kept spitting on and kicking mud at Shinnosuke—who lay unconscious in a limp sprawl—as they marched triumphantly back toward the guardhouse. Inside the meal-fee room, Kingoro still groaned with effort. The king piece that had barely escaped being checkmated in the corner now carelessly fell into a royal fork. "The more you struggle, the worse it gets," Noro Jin smirked while twisting his hatō tobacco pipe. With money riding on this shogi match, both men played with deadly seriousness.

Kingoro had been beaten down, but being stubborn, he didn't call a halt. He glared between his captured pieces and the board with equal intensity, devising a strategy to stage a comeback.

“If you were a true Edokko, you’d have thrown in the towel by now.”

Jin Shichi, who had been making such harassing remarks, abruptly gazed out the window,

“Kin-san, looks like another fight’s breakin’ out.”

He pointed his pipe toward the barracks. Kingoro glanced briefly in that direction but immediately lowered his eyes back to the board. “Leave it be. Don’t bother with those brawlers.” “Kin-san! Kin-san! Take a look at this!” “Hey, ain’t that Shin-san of the Mori?!”

Hearing Shinnosuke’s name, Kingoro raised his face once more. Through the glass, he focused his eyes.

When Shinnosuke realized the bloodied man being carried by his comrades was his close friend，he shouted “Oh!” and leapt to his feet．He rushed outside．The shogi board flipped over，scattering pieces． Then，about ten minutes later，Kingoro was hurrying toward Boss Yamashita’s estate，his face flushed red with anger． (No matter if it’s Yoshida oyabun himself—such cruelty is unforgivable．) From the moment he saw his sworn brother Shinnosuke’s pitiful state being carried into the hospital，that fury had been making his entire body tremble．

Shinnosuke had become semi-conscious and couldn’t speak—but there was no need to ask for reasons, he thought. Last night’s refusal of the boss-subordinate sake cup must have bred resentment—the boss had surely sent his underlings out of spite. They’d likely come looking for him at the coal yard and targeted Shinnosuke alone when they found him absent.—Kingoro believed it to be so. (How unmanly.) He always skulked in shadows while making others dance on his strings—no way that counted as being a proper boss.—Kingoro seethed with anger and scorn and hatred alike，teeth grinding.

Passing through the coal yards that rose like black mountains around him, he reached the town's edge. There came into view the second-story roof of the Yamashita estate and its garden's ginkgo tree.

As he hurried,

“Mr. Tamai! Mr. Tamai!”

he was called out to.

When he looked back, the owner of the "Jack-of-all-trades" shop was rushing out of his store in a fluster. While his orange-tinted bald head glistened in the sun, he caught up to Kingoro, panting heavily,

“Mr. Tamai—there’s something I need to discuss.” “I’ll hear it later. Got urgent business...” “Where you headed?” “Goin’ to meet Boss Yoshida Isokichi.” “Then lend me your ear. This ain’t completely unrelated, y’know...” “Your tales drag on too long, old man.”

“No—just a minute. …Thirty seconds would do.” Kingoro, realizing this was no ordinary matter, stepped under the eaves of a general store cluttered with goods. The “Jack-of-all-trades” shop owner, cautious of his wife putting their baby to sleep in the back room, recounted in a nervous whisper—tersely summarizing the incident that had occurred by the pier during lunch break. The tale of Man’s peril doubled Kingoro’s fury. “Alright. I understand.”

With that, he practically burst outside, his face twisted in fury.

He passed through the gate of the Yamashita estate along the charred cedar plank fence. Unlike the previous night when he had used the rear entrance, he went around to the front door. “Excuse me.”

After requesting guidance three times, the smirking doorman they called “Sensei” appeared. He stood rigidly in his thick Ainu-cloth garment. “Well if it isn’t Kin-san,” he said. “Got business? Use the back entrance.”

“I request that you inform Boss Yoshida that Tamai Kingoro of the Cholera has come and wishes to have a brief audience with him.”

"What business you got with Boss Yoshida?" "That I'll tell him myself when I see his face." Sensei stared at Kingoro with muddled eyes before grudgingly backing away.

Before long, “Sensei” came out. “Boss says he’ll see you. Follow me.”

Being guided by "Sensei," he turned through several corridors.

Boss Yamashita was nowhere to be seen, but guests from the previous night’s banquet had gathered in small clusters throughout various rooms. There were groups playing hanafuda and others drinking with women.

Arriving at the detached room at the end of the corridor, Sensei stood outside the sliding door and— “Boss Yoshida, I’ve brought Tamai.”

“I see. Come in.”

When “Sensei” slid open the door, Kingoro felt his heart leap. Immediately he felt foolish and blushed. He had mistaken the woman in the room for the Dogo woman once again. The woman with her hair styled in a ginkgo-leaf bun and wearing a black collar—who was massaging Yoshida Isokichi’s waist as he lay prone—had turned sideways from Kingoro’s vantage point, once more causing him to mistake her for someone else. A woman whose profile so closely resembled another’s was a rare sight. Or perhaps it was Kingoro himself—able to so vividly recall a woman he’d met but once—who deserved to be called rare.

Yoshida, remaining prone on his stomach, smiled amiably, “Well, Mr. Tamai—you made it. No need to stand on ceremony—come right in.” “Excuse me.”

Kingoro entered the six-mat room and seated himself formally. “No need to be so stiff. Make yourself comfortable.” “I was rude last night.” “Good of you to visit.” “This isn’t a social call.” “You’re wearing quite the grim face there. What’s wrong?” “I’ve come to speak with Boss Yoshida.” “Would you please sit up?” “Whatever it is—I’m spent like this, so make do.” “Depending on your words, I might not need to rise at all...”

“Then please listen as you are.”

Kingoro suppressed the anger rising in his chest and swallowed hard.

“Mori Shinnosuke was carried to the hospital half-dead.” “Well now…” “...What exactly happened?” “He got mobbed.” “By who?” Kingoro stared at Yoshida’s feigned-ignorant face with a gaze sharp as spear restraints, “You’re asking me that, Boss?” “Can’t know what I don’t ask about.” Yoshida said this casually, then seemed to notice something. “Otsuta—wait,” he stopped the masseuse’s hands and abruptly sat up. He wore a brown-collared meisen silk lounging robe.

“Mr. Tamai.”

In a formal tone, Yoshida said.

“Huh…?”

“Understood.” “You’re misunderstanding something here.” “You think I ordered Mr. Mori’s injury, don’t you?” “I know nothing.” “That will become clear in time.” “But if it seemed I had a hand in it, that’s my failing.” “I don’t know what exactly happened, but if my subordinate did it, I’ll apologize.” “I’m sorry.” “I’ll make a formal apology later, but for now, let it go.” Yoshida said that and lightly bowed his head.

Kingoro felt deflated. Instantly, he went blank. Gradually, he began to feel flushed, and remaining seated grew unbearable.

“I must take my leave. Once I’ve said that much, my business here is concluded.” Yoshida raised both hands. “Now, Mr. Tamai, wait a moment. There’s still more to—” He tried to stop him, but Kingoro fled into the hallway. With flustered steps—utterly unlike the composed stride he’d maintained when entering—he pushed through the guests’ puzzled stares and reached the main entrance. (What a fool I am.) He regretted his rashness. He had acted obsessively without properly investigating the circumstances, forced to confront the unreliability of youthful impulsiveness.

(This won’t do.)

While he reflected on this, regret over having done something irreversible and a sense of impatience fiercely tormented Kingoro. I acted rashly and jumped to conclusions. I'm sorry. And why couldn’t he say it frankly? Yoshida—though he himself was unaware of the matter—had said that if it was his subordinate’s doing, he would apologize, he was sorry, and bowed his head before a mere stevedore. Kingoro felt intimidated by a Yoshida Isokichi separate from the self-serving one he had constructed since last night.

He had meant to bring up Taniguchi Man, but it never came to that. Good thing he hadn't said it. There was no way Yoshida Isokichi would have used his underlings to seize something like a pocket lamp.

Kingoro's legs grew heavy. Gradually, as dusk settled and darkness seemed to press in around him, wrapped in a peculiar unease, he walked while biting his lips. (Becoming a dragon and ascending to heaven—that's none of my concern. I must dig into the earth instead.)

With tears welling up in his eyes, he berated himself harshly.

He returned to Meshibeya.

No one was there. The room was completely empty. When he had heard about Shinnosuke’s accident earlier and rushed out, the shogi pieces he had kicked aside remained scattered. Kingoro sat there and quietly gathered the shogi pieces. He took the rook in hand, turned it over, gazed at the dragon character, then placed it at the center of the shogi board as if to steady his mind, snapping it down with a clack.

Kingoro pulled the wicker trunk in the corner of the room closer. This was all his worldly possessions. He took off the lid, lifted the jumbled clothes packed inside, and inserted his hand toward the bottom. (Hm?) He took on a suspicious look.

Suddenly panicking, he began frantically rummaging through its contents.

“It’s gone.” His face turned pale as he muttered. The Sukehiro dagger he had purchased in Dōgo Onsen Town—even when fleeing his hometown, no matter where he wandered, he had always kept it on his person.

(Could it have been stolen?) When times turned bad, bad things piled up. He'd thought gazing at the Sukehiro dagger's beautiful finish might calm his troubled mind, but it proved useless—and with that, Kingoro grew even more demoralized. "Mr. Kin," said Norojin, who had entered unnoticed at some point, "lookin' for your dagger?" "Oh, Ms. Man said she was borrowin' it and took it with her, I tell ya."

“What?” “Ms. Man took my dagger?”

Kingoro was astonished. “When I was lyin’ here all alone, Ms. Man came in—and no matter how much I looked for Mr. Kingoro, I couldn’t find him. I’d thought to ask ya proper-like to borrow it, but since ya weren’t here, couldn’t be helped. She suddenly had a need for it, so she borrowed it. You can vouch for me... So she said that—took it out from that trunk and left with it.”

Kingoro stood up. He went to check the coal storage yard. Everyone was already engaged in their afternoon work. There was no need to search; Man’s figure was visible. With a gooseneck pickaxe in hand, she worked the spade with brisk efficiency—her usual work style unchanged in the slightest. Kingoro felt as if he’d been tricked by a fox. Man noticed Kingoro, set down the gooseneck pickaxe, and came running over. Lowering her voice, “Mr. Kingoro, I borrowed your dagger while you were away.” “I thought Yoshida’s underlings might come after us, so…”

“Where’s the dagger?”

“I’ve hidden it in the coal.”

He looked where she pointed, but there was only black coal and he couldn't see anything. Since she had removed her work apron, she must have wrapped it in that and buried it.

(This woman intends to draw her sword and fight if those ruffians come seeking revenge.) Kingoro looked again at Man's youthful face—still bearing traces of innocence—with eyes wide in surprise. (He wanted a woman like this for his wife.) (She might be a female dragon.) A phantom of male and female dragons getting along well—two of them side by side parting black clouds as they vigorously ascended heavenward—appeared vividly before Kingoro's eyes. Since earlier, Kingoro had been dejectedly thinking only of gloomy dragons burrowing into the ground, his spirits sinking, but now heartened by Man's valor, he found some vigor returning. However, in words,

“Ms. Man, as a woman, you shouldn’t stir up too much trouble.”

he admonished.

“Even so, when sparks come flying at you, you’ve got to brush them off.”

“Well, if ruffians come, you should run away.” “...I’ll go check on Mori for a bit.”

Kingoro left the coal yard.

The stevedores referred to it as a "hospital," but in reality, it was a small pediatric clinic. Dr. Matsuno specialized in children, but with no other doctors nearby, his clinic had effectively become something like a surgical hospital where stevedores carried in their injured. He passed through the corridor reeking of carbolic acid and went to Shinnosuke’s room. He encountered a young substitute doctor and inquired about the condition. He had about twenty-three wounds, but though they looked severe, all were shallow, so there was no danger to his life—hearing this, he was relieved.

He opened the door to the hospital room.

Kingoro stood frozen for a moment, still gripping the doorknob. The first thing that caught his eye was a pure white garment, so he thought it was a nurse, but it turned out to be one of the Western-dressed, fashionable beauties he had seen the day before. “Mr. Tamai, welcome.” The woman was the one who called out. “Hello.” He answered reluctantly, but Kingoro had no idea what this was all about. His tone was curt and seemed angry.

It was as if someone suddenly threw an ill-suited bouquet of lilies into a grimy room. The woman had a round, slightly chubby face with calm eyes, yet there was something dejected about her that made her seem timid. The large mole at the lower right of her lips lent a mysterious allure to her face. Kingoro recalled that this woman's name was indeed Kimika. At the bedside lay a bonnet, a green parasol, and black silk gloves.

“Shinkō, how you holdin’ up?” Mori Shinnosuke lay wrapped head-to-toe in bandages like some mended ragdoll, turning his plaster-crusted face toward his friend with visible effort. “Thought I was done for.” “Humans’re scarier’n cholera, I tell ya.” “Honest-to-goodness sorry,” Kimika murmured, her lovely face crumpling in apology like she wanted to disappear into the floorboards. “Ain’t got no words proper... Didn’t know a lick ’bout any of this mess, swear on my life. When Mori-san here called me some Russki spy, your boys came sniffin’ round—but I ain’t sore ’bout it none. Then Yoshida’s goons had to go rough up Mori-san real bad—all that loyalty crap makin’ trouble where none’s needed... But after Boss Yoshida heard your side from Mr. Tamai here, he sent over this condolence cash for me.” She held up a thick envelope stamped with brushwork characters. “Says it’s for salve money—paltry sum, but here ’tis.”

“I don’t need that kind of money. Don’t mock me.”

Shinnosuke’s face contorted in pain as he spat out the words. “Ms. Kimika, I understand now. “I’ll gratefully accept Boss Yoshida’s gesture.”

“Hey, Kin-san! Don’t take that dirty money!” “Just leave it to me.”

Kingoro said this and received from Kimika a thick envelope boldly inscribed in black ink on the front with "Get-Well Gift." “Well then, I’ll be going now,” she said. “Take care.” Kimika took her umbrella, hat, and gloves, then offered a polite greeting to Shinnosuke before leaving the room. For a while, an indescribable fragrance lingered in the room—its fading seemed almost regrettable. “Can’t tell where the enemy’s lurking anymore,” Kingoro muttered.

As he sat down in the chair, Kingoro muttered in a quietly reminiscent tone.

Someone among the Yamashita-gumi comrades had reported the words "Russian spy" that Shinnosuke had carelessly let slip.

(The world is complicated.) Contemplating the complexity of human relationships—their connections and bonds; the "enemies" existing both outside and within; youth's beauty and peril; and the path ahead—Kingoro pressed his lips firmly together as various thoughts welled up in his deep chest.

Several days passed.

It seemed another upheaval might occur, but unexpectedly, it was calm, like a typhoon that had passed through. Was it because Yoshida Isokichi had withdrawn from Hikoshima, taking every last one of his subordinates with him?

However, the events that transpired in Hikoshima could indeed be called historic. Both the roots of calamity and their effects became far deeper and more far-reaching than anyone had imagined.

Autumn rain fell. It made the coal glisten black and dyed green the pines that had been illicitly felled on Ganryū-jima, as if reviving them. When the skies cleared, day by day, both the sky and the sea grew deeper in blue.

One evening, on his way back from visiting Shinnosuke at Matsuno Hospital, Kingoro was stopped by Man by the tool warehouse.

“Well now, Ms. Man—you need something?”

“Just over here.” Kingoro went to the anchor’s side where Man stood in her everyday clothes. Dusk had already fallen, and a cold wind blew from the hazy sea. Ships and the opposite shore of Moji glittered with lights while steam whistles occasionally rumbled through the strait’s air. “Kingoro.”

“Yeah.” “That’s a problem.” “What is?” “You’ve been going around telling people we’re getting married, haven’t you? Well even if you decided that on your own, I want nothing to do with it.” “That so? Does it bother you?” “Isn’t that obvious? It’s a huge nuisance!”

“Is that so…? I haven’t gone around spreading anything. People have been saying—‘Mr. Tamai, why don’t you settle down by taking a wife already?’...things like ‘Why don’t you settle down?’ or ‘Should I find you a good bride?’—they’ve been saying stuff like that, see? And each time—no—I’ve just been telling them, ‘Thanks, but if I were to take a wife, I’d want a woman like Ms. Taniguchi Man.’ That’s all I said. Once things pass through other people’s mouths, they end up getting twisted. Going around saying I’m gonna marry you—there’s no way I’d do something like that. But is saying what I’m thinking really such a nuisance to you?”

“It certainly is a nuisance!” “Does it trouble you?” “That’s a problem.” “I see. “I’m sorry about that.” “I like you… thought maybe you might have some affection for me too… so I carelessly said what I did.” “Please forgive me.” “I won’t say another word.” “……So when you said you had something to talk about… was it this?” “That’s correct.” “Then it’s as I told you now. …Goodbye.”

Kingoro turned sharply around and strode briskly off toward the mess hall.

In Man's eyes as she watched his retreating figure, a strange light of bewilderment lingered.

Since it was dinnertime, both the mess hall and the married quarters were about to begin their meals. In Man’s dark, striking eyes there seeped out an unusual soft light—one that yearned for domesticity—rather than the fierce light that gazed toward Brazil’s vast horizons.

Several more days passed. Kingoro, finding himself utterly unable to defeat Norojin, grew desperate and challenged him day after day. Yet he always ended up the sucker. Today too during lunch break, as they played shogi, Norojin wore a slightly different tense expression than usual, “Kingoro.”

“Huh?”

He looked up. “Our boss is apparently in a real foul mood with you.” “Why?”

“Sometime back, you stormed into Boss Yoshida’s place to negotiate.” “About that incident—Tamai, you bastard, going over my head to meet Boss Yoshida directly? What an insolent prick.” “You made me lose face.” “…and he’s absolutely livid about it.”

“Hmm…”

After that, they played two or three more moves,

“Kingoro.”

“Huh?”

“You’re going to marry Ms. Taniguchi Man, I hear.”

“Who said that?” “Ms. Man said it herself.”

This wasn't the first time Kingoro had heard about that. For the past few days, wherever he went, people told him that. The reason being Man appeared to be telling everyone she met, "I'm going to become Mr. Kingoro's wife." Yet despite this, whenever Man encountered Kingoro, she would sharply turn her face away and walk right past him without uttering a word.

Kingoro gave a wry smile. (What a strange woman.)

That evening, when he went to visit Shinnosuke, Kimika was there. She seemed to have been coming every day. She had stopped wearing flashy Western clothes and adopted a simple, modest style resembling workman's clothing. Nowhere were there things like bonnets, silk gloves, or parasols to be seen.

(Something felt off)

Kingoro intuitively sensed. The relationship between Shinnosuke and Kimika was not ordinary. That’s right—he realized it.

Shinnosuke, whose bandages were now mostly removed, had progressed to being able to sit up on the bed. When he saw his friend, he smiled warmly,

"Congratulations," he said. Kingoro blinked his eyes,

“What about?” “So it’s finally been settled—you and Ms. Man will hold the ceremony, hasn’t it?”

“Who’s saying that?” “Ms. Man came to visit me earlier—she told me herself.”

Kimika smiled from the side. "You're the one who threw that pocket lamp into the sea, handled those layabouts, and came out on top, aren't ya?" "What a character you are." "There ain't no couple better matched than you two."

“Kingoro, hold off on the wedding until I’m discharged, will you?”

Once things reached this point, matters moved swiftly. A "handyman-for-hire" stepped forward as mediator, and Tamai Kingoro and Taniguchi Man married. In Hikijima's Deshimachi district, they rented a small house and established their first household.

It had a 4.5-tatami mat room, a 3-tatami mat room, along with a kitchen and toilet. A dilapidated house with its roof and walls collapsed; tatami mats torn, ceiling riddled with holes. When night fell, mice, spiders, and fleas busily scurried about. The newlywed home reached the utmost limits of ruin.

The only thing fresh was Kingoro and Man’s hearts. “We’ve finally ended up together.”

“Heh heh…” Facing each other, the two exchanged peculiar knowing smiles; deep in their hearts, they seemed to firmly acknowledge the fate of this union.

As Mori Shinnosuke had said,

“You two were destined to become husband and wife from before you were even born.”

Kingoro and Man both felt that way. The man had departed from the countryside of Shikoku. The woman had departed from the mountains of Hiroshima. Both had struck out by their own will, yet conversely, it resembled having been exiled. Such an encounter between them didn't feel like mere coincidence. A sense of fate—as though two thick ropes stretched from a single point were forcefully pulling them toward the same place—had taken hold of both Kingoro's heart and Man's soul.

Needless to say, both of them had not the slightest intention of ending their lives as stevedores on this small island. Their pillow talk was grand in scale. “I intend to eventually cross over to China and make my mark there.” Kingoro, having said that,

"I want to go to Brazil and manage a large farm." Man said this with shining eyes. Though the blueprints of their youthful dreams differed—their directions split between west and east—their shared yearning to drift like clouds left them both content they'd found good companions for life's arduous path. Where their dreams thrived, so did their bodies. Together they went to Shimonoseki's streets to furnish their home. To prolong the joy, they bought items one by one starting with necessities. Yet poverty denied them even a dresser—they acquired only survival's bare minimum: pots, kettles, buckets, water jars, rice-washing tubs, a dining table, chopsticks, teapots. Even the futon where the newlyweds curled up came borrowed from the "jack-of-all-trades."

Even so, when he hung the nameplate he had inscribed himself—"Tamai Kingoro"—on the front of their ramshackle house, he felt like the master of a household. Kingoro had not even properly finished elementary school, but he wrote characters in a unique, solid style with thick strokes. "That's impressive!"

The "jack-of-all-trades" admired the characters on the nameplate and even came to request a signboard for his own shop.

However, their new household lasted only two weeks.

Claiming to have received orders from Yamashita Matsuji, the assistant manager came.

“You must leave Yamashita-gumi immediately.” “The boss had been patient until now, but because of you, he’s ended up losing face with Boss Yoshida.” “Leave Hikijima as soon as possible.” “Understood.”

Kingoro replied. He had never had any intention of protesting.

When the assistant manager left, Man said.

“Kingoro, let’s leave right away.”

“You don’t need to rush so much,” Kingoro replied. “I need to discuss things with Shinkō too.” “Now that it’s come to this,” Man said urgently, “I can’t bear staying in this place another minute.” She shook her head firmly before continuing: “Besides—Mr.Shin isn’t here anymore.” Her voice dropped slightly as she added: “When I stopped by the meal fee room this morning... they said he left for Beppu Hot Springs yesterday and won’t return for half a month.” Kingoro shook his head gravely at this news—a slow movement heavy with disapproval—and muttered: “With Kimika then.” His jaw tightened before he continued: “Recuperating from injuries is one thing... but getting tangled up with that woman? Unacceptable.” A bitter chuckle escaped him as he concluded: “Shinkō’s not thinking straight.” He paused briefly before elaborating: “Kimika—she’s not directly tied to Yoshida Isokichi... but likely connected through some meddlesome relative of his.” His hand clenched unconsciously on the table edge as he finished: “Either way—she’s trouble through and through.” A heavy sigh followed before he admitted quietly: “I’d meant to warn him... once.”

“When men fall for a beauty’s temptations, they turn brittle, don’t they? Isn’t that how you are too, Kingoro?” “Don’t spout nonsense.” “How should I know…? If you take up with another woman besides me, I won’t have it.” “You’re the one who better not take up with some other man.”

The young couple engaged in their first mock lovers' quarrel and roared with laughter together.

Following Man's suggestion, they decided to set out immediately. "The jack-of-all-trades" and "Noro Jin" were surprised, but seeing that Kingoro and Man showed no particular signs of sadness, they felt somewhat relieved. The two being driven from the island even appeared brimming with courage. The sinister Yamashita Matsuji never showed his face from start to finish. However, it appeared some directive had been issued within the group, for when Kingoro and Man left the island, not a single comrade showed their face.

Only the jack-of-all-trades and Noro Jin came as far as the pier. They loaded the household goods onto the sampan. Noro Jin rowed the sculling oar.

The "jack-of-all-trades" gave them two rice-cracker futons they had been sleeping on as a farewell gift.

Over the Kanmon Strait, gloomy clouds hung reflected as oppressive waves churned. “Goodbye now – stay strong.” In the bleary eyes of the jack-of-all-trades, tears had pooled to overflowing. They passed by Ganryujima and moored their sampan at Moji Wharf. To Noro Jin – rowing back toward Hikijima with steady strokes – Kingoro called out,

“Next time we meet, I’ll have gotten better at shogi than you and will thrash you proper.”

he said heartily.

Intending to go to Tobata, they went to Moji Station. They were in trouble. Even though the train fare was seventeen sen per person, they only had thirty sen. They were four sen short. At that time, one shō of rice cost twelve sen.

“Let’s walk,” Man said. “Yeah, there’s no help for it.” They divided among themselves the futon, wicker trunk, cloth bundle, pot, kettle, rice-washing bucket, teapot, and other items, attached them to their bodies, and walked along the coastal road in a beggar-like state. It was a journey of about four ri.

The future was bleak.

Meiji 36, November.

Tamai Kingoro, 24 years old.

Taniguchi Man, 20 years old.

Ill-Fated Blossom

About two years passed.

The Russo-Japanese War ended in Japan's victory.

In Kitakyushu near Tsushima, the cannon fire of the Battle of the Japan Sea could be heard like distant thunder. An incident occurred where survivors of the annihilated Baltic Fleet drifted ashore in boats near the coast, resulting in a bizarre commotion as farmers and fishermen brandished hoes, sickles, oars, and such. Day after day, the vigorous bells of extra editions raced through towns and villages. “Seems like it was a victorious battle after all.” “For a small country like Japan to take on a big nation like Russia and come this far—it’s astonishing.”

“Just being big doesn’t amount to anything. Even if small, a pepper is piercingly hot. What’s justice got to do with winning?” “Even so, back when Port Arthur wouldn’t fall no matter how many times they attacked it, we were on edge.”

"If Japan wins, the port'll prosper too! When that time comes, us gonzos'll be living large... Right, Bossin?" When called out to, Kingoro stopped writing in the ledger. "Did you say somethin'?"

“If Russia loses, the port’ll boom and us gonzos’ll finally get our break—that’s what I said.” “What do you think, Bossin?” “Well, things’ll start lookin’ up.” Kingoro reluctantly gave that answer, but the sprout in his stout chest wasn’t some puny bud limited to this port—it had been planted across the Chinese mainland, stretching skyward with vigor, an immense growth bound to spread without end. (The time to finally reach that long-cherished continent was drawing near!)

Kingoro’s eyes gazed at the distant sky. On both sides of the collar of Kingoro’s workman’s coat were dyed the characters “Nagata-gumi,” while at the upper part was inscribed “assistant manager” in red. The title “Bossin” for assistant manager seemed to derive from a corruption of the steamship term “bosun,” signifying a caretaker role within a labor group. Even as Bossin remained fundamentally a stevedore, Kingoro had through two years of struggle managed to attain a position where he oversaw the management of an entire group.

Two years ago, when he and his wife were driven out of Hikijima and set out on a wandering journey, “Wherever we go, there’s no boss we can truly respect.”

they reminisced. With nothing but the clothes on their backs—the only strength they could rely on was their own bodies. If they had money, they would have crossed over to the Chinese mainland or Brazil long ago. Otherwise, they might have started some kind of business. If they had education, there would have been a different path they could have taken. Being uneducated and penniless, their only capital was a single young and vigorous body, and labor became the means of livelihood—there was no other choice. Kingoro and his wife worked their bodies to dust.

"The handyman said, 'Well, go ahead,' and wrote a letter of introduction." In Tobata's Nagata-gumi, they had somehow managed to settle down for two years.

The early autumn wind blew through the bridge of the 2,000-ton Kōyasan Maru. Many of the stevedores who had finished eating their lunchtime bento boxes lay down on the deck or lighters and napped.

Having finished keeping the ledger, Kingoro called out from the bridge deck toward the boat moored far below. “Hey, Man.” Man raised her face and smiled up from below. “Catchin’ anything…?” “Look—this many!” The small basket Man held up contained around ten crabs. When they placed sardine heads in a round net framed with wire and sank it using an empty soda bottle as weight, crabs would get caught.

“Thanks to you, I don’t have to buy side dishes every day.” “If we could catch rice along with ’em too, that’d be even better.”

As those above and below exchanged such talk and laughter, Kakusuke—a stevedore lying supine along the lighter's gunwale—glared at them with hate-filled sidelong eyes. It wasn't likely they'd named him after his face's shape, yet Kakusuke's features formed an almost perfect square. His complexion held a bluish-black cast, cheekbones protruding sharply while lips swelled grotesquely thick. His patchy beard growth gave the impression of a soiled cleaning rag. He might have been several years past forty. Stupidity, malice, and cruelty lay bare upon that criminal-esque visage.

(Cheeky upstart) Those clouded eyes were clearly saying as much. In the Nagata group, Hirao Kakusuke had already been there for over five years. By seniority, he should have become assistant manager, but Tamai Kingoro—a newcomer—had overtaken him in the blink of an eye. Kakusuke hated Kingoro and resented his boss, Nagata Mokuji. Kingoro leaned against the deck and surveyed the harbor. The scenery of Dōkai Bay differed in character from that of Kanmon Strait.

The gourd-shaped colossal inlet was surrounded by three towns—Tobata, Yahata, and Wakamatsu—and dotted with two islands: Nakajima and Katsushima. The mountains—Adachiyama in Kokura, Hobashira-yama in Yahata, Kōtō-san in Wakamatsu—surrounded this bay while chimneys from factories large and small, beginning with Yawata Steel Works, stood in dense clusters, their smoke veiling the sky. From the depths of all these things—the many ships in the harbor, the trains running along the shore—a dynamic clamor welled up forcefully.

(This harbor is alive.) Kingoro felt a strange fascination with this scenery, as though Dōkai Bay's vibrant pulse were directly touching his own heart. However, when his gaze shifted toward Wakamatsu, Kingoro's face contorted into a scowl.

(Wakamatsu's such a troublesome place.) From Boss Yoshida Isokichi on down, there were yakuza crews like Ezaki Mankichi, Tomoda Kizō, and Dotera Baba all over. Wakamatsu wasn't somewhere you went or lived.)

Kingoro had a strong desire to avoid Wakamatsu.

“Kin-san.”

When he noticed being called, Kakusuke—who should have been lying on the lighter’s gunwale—was standing beside him.

“What is it, Mr. Kaku?” Kingoro knew full well that Kakusuke had long harbored ill feelings toward him, but saw no particular need for caution. Kakusuke wore a cunning smile on his repulsive face. “Got a favor to ask you.”

“What is it?” “Don’t make me an outcast.” “Nobody’s making you an outcast, Mr. Kaku. That’s just resentment.” “You pushed me aside and became assistant manager—I don’t have the strength to argue about that anymore. But in the Nagata group, I’m an old-timer, so I don’t want to be left out of the social events.”

“I don’t quite grasp your meaning.” “Say it plainly.” “This time—the joint group’s autumn excursion to Musashi Hot Springs—ain’t that happening?” “So it appears.”

“And let me join.” “Even if you say that, I’m just a low-ranking member. There’s nothing I can do from my position.” “Our boss is a drunken lecher and complete good-for-nothing—it’s so frustrating I can’t stand it.” “He neglects all the group’s important work, does nothing but drink himself stupid, and holes up at Mekake’s place.” “He doesn’t properly look after us and hasn’t even thought about it.” “And now with this excursion—leaving me out? That shitty boss!”

When Kakusuke got angry, his face became like a monster's. Kingoro suppressed his discomfort and said, "You shouldn't speak that way. Boss Nagata is a decent man."

“There, see? You’ve been favored and promoted to assistant manager at a young age—can’t say that’s bad, can you? Ah, whatever—it’s all fine. If you take me on this excursion, I can save face. As Kaku of the Nagata group—a man with a long-standing reputation—if I’m excluded, I won’t be able to walk through this harbor with my head held high.” “What a pain.” “There’s no need to fret. If you hold back, I can go. Showing that much respect ain’t too much to ask?”

Kakusuke was pushy.

From the stern of the lower lighter, Man looked up at the bridge with a worried expression. Though she couldn't discern the details, she could see her husband was being harassed by some ruffian and appeared troubled. Man felt vexed. She had come to realize that Kingoro, though outwardly strong, harbored a timid streak within him.

"Why did he have to get involved with every single thing Kakusuke said?" she wondered, her frustration swelling into irritation.

That night, when Man heard from Kingoro about Kakusuke’s proposal, she burst out laughing.

“What is it? Did you do that? What obligation do you have to show Kakusuke any respect? No matter what happens, you go,” she strongly urged him to go on the Musashi Hot Springs trip.

What extraordinary events might occur during that trip was, of course, something Man could not have possibly known.

On the day of the excursion, unfortunately, it rained. However, falling gently like a windless spring rain, it could even be said to add to the journey’s atmosphere.

Tobata Station was quiet and deserted. The Kyushu Railway main line had opened, and Tobata Town had acquired its station about three years prior; its population had barely reached three thousand. However, as a town in one corner of Dōkai Bay receiving the Chikuhō Coalfield, along its coast stood modern coal-loading machinery installed by the Railway Ministry—towering like giant iron insects drenched in autumn rain. The hoist crane mooring wall at Makiyama was also under construction and nearing completion.

Gazing at these smoky sights in the rain, Ōba Haruyoshi glanced back at Kingoro beside him, “When it comes to coal, the port’s just getting busier and busier.” “Mark my words—it’ll be number one in Japan before long.” he said with a plump, cheerful face.

“That does seem to be the case.” Kingoro gave that reply but remained distracted. Since earlier, he had been anxiously scanning the stationfront with restless eyes. Ōba Haruyoshi noticed this and asked, “Are you waiting for Nagata?” “Yes.”

“Forget him.”

His tone was bitter and resigned. The earlier plump, cheerful face transformed into a fierce, scowling mask.

“But he was definitely supposed to come…”

“He doesn’t need to come.” “No—today, we absolutely must have him come…” For Kingoro, his boss Nagata Mokuji’s absence posed a far more critical issue at present than the port becoming Japan’s finest. Lately, Nagata’s misconduct had grown intolerable even among their peers. Should he miss today’s excursion where the joint group bosses gathered, they might deem him ignorant of social ties—a development that could jeopardize his standing. Kingoro was beside himself with worry.

Eventually, a station attendant clad in a raincoat emerged into the square before the station, a large handbell hanging from him. "Clang, clang, clang," he swung it vigorously, ringing it loudly as he, “The train is departing... The train is departing.” he shouted. Five minutes remained.

While Kingoro was still fretting, Man's figure holding a bamboo umbrella appeared hurrying around the street corner ahead. When she finally reached the station, she stood panting heavily.

“What’s the matter?” “You,” Man said, pulling her husband into the shadows, “be careful. Mr. Kakusuke said he’s going to push you off the train somewhere—apparently he boarded this one from Kokura.” “Hmm,” Kingoro’s eyes glinted briefly, “but more importantly—the boss hasn’t come. You know anything about that?” “He’s at it again over at Mekake’s place, drinking himself silly, isn’t he? There’s no helping it… What’s so great about a woman like that anyway…?”

Man made a frustrated face as if grinding her teeth. Just before departure, a rickshaw came dashing toward the station with desperate shouts of "Arayo! Arayo!" From beneath the domed straw hat of its puller, rain and sweat mingled in streaming rivulets down his face while white steam rose. When they lifted the hood, Nagata Mokuji and Saku from Mekake sat inside together. Nagata lay utterly drunk like a boneless sea cucumber facedown on Saku’s lap, barely conscious.

“Boss, pull yourself together.” Kingoro hoisted Nagata onto his back. On Kingoro’s sturdy, broad shoulders, Nagata’s small frame settled as lightly as a sack of cement. “Oh, we made it just in time.”

Saku, also drenched in sweat, muttered as if relieved and paid the rickshaw driver.

The train entered the platform. “Boss Ōba, please have them hold the train for a moment. I’ll go buy the tickets.”

Kingoro went to the ticket counter. He stated the destination and took out the money. When he noticed, Saku was standing right behind him, sticking close. She seemed to be planning to buy tickets. "Saku, you don't need to come." "I'm looking after the boss."

“No—if I’m not by his side, the boss would be just like a baby…” From the side, Man interjected impatiently, “What business does the Mekake woman have going where the bosses are gathered? If you push in like that, you’ll just end up making Boss Nagata look bad.” Vaguely aware of the commotion, Nagata Mokuji on Kingoro’s shoulder mumbled something incessantly under his breath. Drool trailed down the silk crepe summer kimono Kingoro wore and fell. Though unclear what he was saying, Saku’s name seemed to be called several times.

They exited through the ticket gate and boarded the train. The passengers were watching the commotion, wondering what was going on.

The stationmaster blew his whistle with three piercing blasts and raised his hand. They had waited less than a minute for Nagata and Kingoro to board through Ōba Haruyoshi's influence as the local fixer.

After the train started moving, Saku hurriedly jumped aboard. The passenger car was sparse.

After laying Nagata across two seats, Saku came over. With resignation, he left it to her.

“Boss Ōba, I’m sorry.” Saku said this with her neck drawn in and an air of deference, but Ōba Haruyoshi wore an expression like he had sipped bitter tea and did not reply. Yet Saku, with an attitude that disregarded others’ opinions, moved to Nagata’s side and tended to him. Though she had once been a woman who adjusted the left hem of her kimono, there remained no trace of such flamboyance or allure—instead, she appeared plain and almost nurse-like.

The Kyushu Main Line and the Chikuhō Line intersected at Orio Station. Those traveling from Wakamatsu bound for Hakata and Kumamoto transferred there. The passengers noisily crowded into the train that had stopped at Orio.

Kingoro gazed at the new passengers with a dumbfounded expression, blinking his eyes. “Well, Boss Ōba.” “My, everyone’s gathered here…” The joint group’s bosses exchanged such greetings with Ōba Haruyoshi in turn. “Mokuji-don’s still the same useless drunk, eh?” Then spotting Kingoro: “So Nagata’s Daikoku Bōshin came too.” “I’ve been meaning to settle things properly with you.”

There were those who made remarks like these. Kingoro also exchanged appropriate greetings with each of them, but he couldn’t help being taken aback by the flamboyant, lively, unrestrained, alluring, and disorderly nature of this excursion group. The train departed Orio Station and continued running through the still pouring rain. The area along the railway line was a vast expanse of rice fields spread out like green tatami mats. The comical faces of scarecrows flew past outside the window one after another. Nagata Mokuji opened his eyes and swayed to his feet. Accompanied by Saku,

"Well, gentlemen"

With a tongue too thick for clear speech, he shouted and pushed his way into the new group of companions. There, it had already become a raucous drinking party. It was nothing short of a scene from hell itself. They paid no mind to inconveniencing other passengers, acting as though holding a banquet in some grand teahouse hall. Nearly all twenty companions were thoroughly drunk, and Nagata Mokuji’s drunken state didn’t particularly stand out. They roared with laughter ceaselessly. What made Kingoro narrow his eyes was how over half the bosses had women clinging to them—one each. All seemed like regulars—mistresses, geisha, prostitutes, or café girls—without a single proper wife among them.

“What’s this? Is Nagata’s Daikoku Bōshin flying solo? You don’t look like some country bumpkin. Here—make do with this one for now.” There was even a boss who said such things and thrust a woman who appeared to be a cafe waitress onto Kingoro. The train crossed the long iron bridge with a roaring sound. Kingoro gazed at the expansive river surface veiled in rain and muttered. (The Onga River... its riverside...) It was due to coal being shipped out along this Onga River via riverboats that, over time, a certain riverside temperament emerged. That temperament became a chivalrous ethos led by Yoshida Isokichi and others, enveloping the lands of northern Kyushu. Those called bosses were a given, but even the coal stevedores differed from ordinary laborers, being imbued with the dispositions of gamblers, yakuza, and chivalrous outlaws.

Kingoro held a sake cup in hand, his eyes gleaming with renewed resolve. (No matter what world he encounters - he must not refuse it. He must confront it head-on and overcome this.) There was nothing left but to move forward, he thought. Since fleeing his hometown, he had drifted from place to place. He came to Moji and joined the Hamao-gumi, crossed over to Shimonoseki with the Yamashita-gumi, and now was with the Tobata Nagata-gumi—as new worlds unfolded, new acquaintances were formed. All of these were mountains, passes, and peaks to be traversed on the path of becoming a dragon and ascending to heaven.

(Don't turn back. Just keep moving forward.)

Kingoro raised his eyebrows. The train passed Hakata and arrived at Futsukaichi Station. The group that had disembarked headed to Musashi Hot Spring by horse-drawn railway carriage through the still pouring rain.

They secured lodgings at Tsukushi-kan. Having changed into yukata and bathed first, dusk fell as they did so, yet the rain refused to cease. In the town, willow rows trembled under the wind's caress, while far beyond, Mount Hōman's shadowed crown behind Dazaifu dissolved into the low-hanging clouds.

“Let’s all go about freely.”

Tanaka Mitsunori, the boss serving as de facto leader of the excursion group, made the announcement. Needless to say, the unruly members who had been acting arbitrarily from the start naturally divided into three groups by nightfall: those who would "drink," those who would "gamble," and those who would "whore." Yet not all were entirely dissolute; some bosses had gathered in the garden-facing hall to hold earnest discussions.

Ōba Haruyoshi spoke slowly and deliberately in a grave tone. "The Joint Group needs to get its act together, or we'll have our work snatched away by the Cooperative Group. After all, we're dealing with Tomoda Kizō—Yoshida Isokichi's top lieutenant here." "Honestly, when push comes to shove, they resort to brute force—it's a real pain." "If they're muscling into even the port work with blades, it's just unbearable." "Hey, Tamai."

With that, Ōba Haruyoshi turned his face toward Kingoro, who was on the veranda playing shogi with his assistant manager colleagues, a sake cup in hand.

“Huh…?”

When he turned around,

“Nagata Mokuji has such a frivolous air about him—he’s completely unreliable. Tamai, in time, we’ll need solid young men like you to protect the Joint Group.”

“Oh, no, someone like me…” Kingoro was surprised and recoiled.

At that moment, in the corridor, there was the sound of sandals, and the sliding door opened. A young woman showed her face,

“The gambling session will begin shortly. Honored bosses—this way please.” It appeared she was guiding members of the “gambling” faction.

Kingoro fixed his gaze. The place was somewhat dimly lit, and though he couldn't clearly make out the woman's face, Kingoro's chest had already begun to thump and surge. Her hair styled in a ginkgo-leaf bun, black collar, oval face—facing directly forward, there was no mistaking her. Two years ago in Dōgo they had met just once, yet whenever needed her full form would be recreated—this woman who remained an enigma to Kingoro. In Hikojima his heart had leapt twice at women whose profiles resembled hers, but this time it was truly her.

The woman did not yet seem to notice Kingoro. She knelt formally in seiza position and placed three fingers on the tatami,

“It is on the second floor, in the Chrysanthemum Room.”

she said in a rounded voice. “Tamai, want to go check it out?” At Ōba Haruyoshi’s voice saying this, Kingoro also unsteadily rose to his feet.

They went along the corridor. In the night garden, the bamboo grove resounded as it was beaten by the rain. Frogs croaked with a sound like biting into ground cherries. The sound of spring water.

When they reached the restroom at the corner, Ōba Haruyoshi—apparently needing to relieve himself—said “Just a moment,” slid the door open, and went in. As they settled into waiting, the gazes of the woman leading the way and Kingoro met. “It’s been some time.” At Kingoro’s words, the woman with her hair in a ginkgo-leaf bun looked at the young man’s face with bewilderment. A dim electric lamp glowed. “Have you forgotten? We met once before—at the Shikokuya inn in Dōgo Hot Springs...”

“Ah, from that time…”

The woman seemed to have finally recognized him, and with renewed focus in her eyes, she looked at Kingoro again intently.

Kingoro’s face burned so fiercely that even his ears turned red, but his mood had settled somewhat. “It’s been about three years since then.” “I haven’t forgotten… I see. You’ve grown so splendidly…” It might have been flattery, but it was certain that Kingoro—who at that time had been a country rustic from Shikoku, looking every bit the provincial—had, over these past three years, shed some of his mud and grime somewhere. The light in his eyes was different.

Come to think of it, the woman had changed as well. Compared to the youth and firmness of that time, she now exuded nothing but a mysteriously overripe quality. In her sturdy plumpness—in her slightly underbitten, full lips; in her bluish, narrow eyes; in her plump, double-chinned jaw—a heart-pounding sensuality brimmed. The Hakata obi tightly cinched around her Genroku-patterned summer kimono served as a sprayer dispersing an otherworldly aura that overflowed from her entire body. Her bare feet—gracefully arched toes casually thrust into red-thonged sandals—were beautiful.

The woman suddenly came alive, her almond-shaped eyes sparkling as she approached Kingoro,

“What a coincidence—after three years, meeting you in a place like this.” “But truly, I did think of you from time to time.” “I simply couldn’t forget the impression you made at Shikokuya.” “You were an amateur… it seemed your first time… yet I’d never seen anyone in all my yakuza years show such a dazzling winning streak.” “The professionals kept going ‘Look there! Look there!’—their stunned expressions were priceless.” “Fixed bets on half the board, never faltering once—sweeping in, claiming victory, escaping clean with your winnings… Hohohoho… Later, the Kantō bosses wondered—‘What was that?’” “‘Putting on an amateur face while slaying demons,’ they said.” “…things like that.” “…But it was only once.” “To think we’d meet again here…”

Ōba Haruyoshi, having exited the restroom, was washing his hands at the purification basin,

“What’s this, Tamai? Getting cozy with that missy?” “Can’t leave you in the shadows!”

he laughed.

They went to the second-floor Chrysanthemum Room. Because not all guests had gathered, the dice game had yet to begin on the mat. When their numbers reached about twenty, the game commenced. By now Kingoro no longer felt startled by this atmosphere. Since the woman with the ginkgo-leaf bun appeared positioned at half-area's center to shake the dice pot, Kingoro moved to the even side. He stared wide-eyed at her supple hands handling the pot. "Game." It had been three years since Kingoro last heard that rounded voice. When she rolled up her right sleeve, a beautiful tattoo of peonies and butterflies emerged.

Putting two dice into the dice pot, the woman snapped it facedown with her pale hand. The dice clattered noisily before falling still. Gamblers with eyes like foxes, raccoon dogs, monkeys, wolves, and tigers—all fixed their varied gazes upon the woman’s hands, betting on the fleeting outcomes. The pot was then lifted with a vigorous flourish.

“Even.” At the woman’s declaration, a murmur blending elation and dismay swept through the gathering. The guests consisted entirely of travelers from all quarters who had converged at the hot spring, with only five or six faces from the Joint Group’s bosses visible among them.

It seemed there were more people in the "drinking" and "buying" groups than in the "gambling" group. However, many of the other guests were coal mine owners, civil engineering contractors, and labor brokers, and the betting stakes were considerable. Even the usually mild-mannered Ōba Haruyoshi was laying down bold wagers.

Though Kingoro was merely an assistant manager and not suited for such high-stakes gambling, since Boss Ōba had lent him the capital, he could bet boldly.

When the game had progressed seven or eight rounds, Kingoro noticed something strange.

It was only natural that the woman with the ginkgo-leaf bun, having devoted herself entirely to the gambling life, had honed her skills even further in the three years since their last encounter. Yet as Kingoro watched her deft hands shake the dice pot, he suddenly sensed something amiss. He sensed a disturbance. Then, “Game.” Having said that, in both her resonant voice and eyes as she surveyed the gathering, an artificial, deceptive quality could somehow be detected.

Kingoro started, glaring at the woman's hands with eyes sharp as spearpoints. His intuition hadn't been wrong. Startled into action, Kingoro rose unsteadily. Hesitation wasn't an option. "Hey there, dice-shaker sis."

He called out to the woman. “Are you referring to me?” “Yes, excuse me—could you come to the hallway for a moment…”

Amidst the suspicious gazes of the entire room, the two stepped out into the hallway.

The rain intensified, and deep within the bamboo grove, the sound of water cascading like a waterfall resonated. "Did you... need something from me?..."

“Miss, replace the dice pot.” “No cheating.” “It’s good I noticed - if other customers find out, there’ll be hell to pay.” “We’ve got some real sticklers for rules here.”

She didn't press for details.

“I understand.” Pale-faced, she spoke only those words before spinning around and returning to the gambling mat. At first, sensing something amiss, he thought they might be using trick dice with hidden mechanisms. But when he examined the metal washbasin closely, he discovered part of the dice pot had been cleverly altered to let them read the numbers from outside. Through this method, the woman and her conspirators had been raking in enormous winnings. When Kingoro returned to his seat, Ōba Haruyoshi—who had been sitting beside him—smirked and whispered in a reedy voice.

“I was thinkin’ of exposin’ it right there in front of everyone… Tamai, you’ve got some decent qualities.” They had kept up with the gambling mat for about an hour, but growing weary of the games, Ōba Haruyoshi and Kingoro switched over to drinking. The gambling was moderate, neither painful nor bothersome in the least. In the large hall downstairs called “Pine Room,” the “drinking” group had gathered. About twelve or thirteen members of the Joint Group, the women they had brought along, and local geisha had joined in, creating a raucous uproar.

“Hey, Nagata’s Pillar! Where’d you disappear to?” “Tonight, we ain’t lettin’ you go till you’re dead drunk!” Numerous bosses hurled similar words at Kingoro one after another. Like hail, cups came flying. Nagata Mokuji lay stretched out like a dead man, using Saku as a lap pillow. Tamai Kingoro was called “Nagata’s Pillar” because he served as the central pillar of the Nagata group. The Nagata group would collapse without Tamai Kingoro—that had become the common consensus.

“Let me pour you a drink.” Beside him came a woman’s coquettish voice. When he turned, there stood the woman from the gambling den with her ginkgo-leaf hairstyle—having arrived unnoticed—smiling as she offered a sake decanter. “I grew tired and slipped away from the dice tables,” she said. “Might I stay here awhile and entertain you?” “Aye, that’d be fine.”

Kingoro took a sake cup and received the woman’s pour. He gulped it down, then offered it to the woman. The woman’s hands were equally practiced when it came to the sake. “It really has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Kingoro was quite drunk. He felt somehow as if in a dream. “You are Tamai Kingoro, aren’t you? I heard. I was saved thanks to you. As thanks, let me pour you a drink. Let’s take our time drinking tonight. I have all sorts of things I want to talk about. ……I’m Kyōko. Please call me O-Kyō.” The woman leaned against Kingoro, draping herself against him. A tempting aroma—like osmanthus flowers, piercingly sensual—pleasantly tickled Kingoro’s nose.

“O-Kyō?” “……That’s a fine name.” And with that, Kingoro offered an uncharacteristically flattering remark.

“What sort of people are those you’re with?” “They’re bosses from Northern Kyushu.” “There are all kinds of bosses.” “Coal bosses.” “Do they own mines?” “Nah—they’re bosses who load the coal from those mines at the port. Mitsui, Mitsubishi, Yasukawa, Kaijima, Aso, Furukawa… All those wealthy outfits have mines in the Chikuhō coalfield. The coal gets hauled by train and barge to Dōkai Bay. Loaded onto ships at Wakamatsu Port and sent up to Kamigata. The bosses here handle that loading work. See over there—Boss Ōba Haruyoshi, Boss Tanaka Mitsunori—those bigshots run contracting crews called the Joint Group.”

“Mr. Kingoro, are you one of their underlings?”

“Nah, an underling’s underling.” “In the Joint Group there’s several called foremen.” “They’re like subcontractors.” “They themselves hire stevedores, keep barges and all the tools, handle the worksite jobs……That guy sleeping on a woman’s lap over there’s Foreman Nagata Mokuji—my boss……And way over there dancing in his loincloth—that’s Foreman Andō……”

“Mr. Kingoro, you’ll become a proper boss yourself someday, won’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Kingoro’s enunciation gradually grew slurred. The gathering had devolved into a chaotic tangle of men and women, making Kingoro and O-Kyō’s figures—leaning close as they poured drinks for each other—hardly conspicuous. Nobody paid them any heed. If anything, the demented air of decadence thickened as night deepened.

Through O-Kyō’s clever pouring of drinks—accompanied by sweet words—Kingoro grew bleary-eyed with intoxication. In his hazy, mist-covered eyes, the lightly made-up O-Kyō appeared enchantingly, like a woman from a dream.

“Kingoro, I’ve wanted to meet you. Ever since our first meeting at Dōgo, I’d never forgotten you. I always thought we’d meet again someday. I’m so happy we met today.” “Same here.” Such random words slipped out as naturally as genuine ones. “Now let me pour you a drink.”

“O-Kyō.”

“Yes.”

“You said earlier you had something to tell me, didn’t you?” “It can wait until we’ve drunk more.” The sake cups shuttled between them like a weaver’s shuttle. Kingoro held his liquor well, but O-Kyō’s tolerance was staggering. Though matching him drink for drink, the man sank into drunken oblivion while the woman grew paler and keener. Perhaps her sobriety stemmed from hidden designs.

“I can’t lose to some damn woman…… Don’t look down on me.”

Kingoro, who had been tediously repeating such sore-loser excuses, finally collapsed in a drunken stupor.……

How much time had passed?

Suddenly, Kingoro opened his eyes and darted them restlessly around. It was profoundly silent and still. The earlier rowdy commotion, his Joint Group comrades, the great hall—all had vanished without a trace, leaving him laid out alone in a six-mat room. The electric light at the center of the latticed ceiling glared dazzlingly. His eyeballs ached, his dull head throbbed, and he still seemed drunk.

A wind chime hung in the transom rang. Outside, the sound of rain mingled with frog croaks could be heard. Since he couldn't grasp his situation at all, he began wondering if he was dreaming,

“You’re awake?” Startled by the voice, he turned around. O-Kyō was sitting. She was by Kingoro’s left shoulder as he lay on his back. Wondering what she had been doing, Kingoro turned around and placed the brush he was holding on the small desk beside him. When viewed from below, the curve of her chin appeared even more pronounced, and on her white Fuji-like forehead, a thin sheen of sweat had formed.

O-Kyō wore a mysterious smile. “Mr. Kingoro,” she said, “wake up and look in the mirror.”

“Mirror?”

Thinking she was saying something strange, Kingoro, thoroughly drunk and with a leaden upper body, finally managed to sit up—and let out an involuntary cry of “Ah!” He raised his eyebrows, bulging his acorn-like eyes as he glared into the large dressing mirror before him. When had he been stripped naked? On both his exposed arms, resplendent tattoos had been applied. Upon closer inspection, his left arm bore an ascending dragon parting black clouds with its face raised toward heaven; his right arm a descending dragon with its snout pointed toward earth. Both creatures had fiercely glowing enormous eyes, supple long whiskers, erect horns, taut scales, flame-like tails, and crimson-dyed serpentine underbellies—all rendered with terrifying vitality. Each clutched a sacred jewel in its forelimbs.

They rose vividly and beautifully against Kingoro’s fine-grained, glistening white skin. “Mr. Kingoro, how do you like it?” Too stunned to respond, Kingoro rubbed his arms alternately with both hands. He compared his flesh-and-blood arms with their reflections in the mirror again and again. He immediately realized that the tattoos on his arms were not carved but drawn with a brush. Finally, as if coming to his senses, Kingoro turned toward the woman.

“O-Kyō, did you draw these?” “That’s right. To your liking?……” Kingoro groaned. Once again, he looked at O-Kyō’s face. “This one too, I did myself.”

Having said that, O-Kyō suddenly twisted around and rolled up the right sleeve of her kimono to the shoulder joint. She revealed her arm bearing a peony-and-butterfly tattoo, then pressed it firmly against Kingoro's left arm. “So you’re saying you did this yourself?” “I’m the one who tattooed them.” “You can actually tattoo?” “I can tattoo.” Kingoro recalled his time at Dogo Hot Springs. When he and Seiji the blacksmith had gone to Kami no Yu together, they encountered a young man covered in full-body Hannya tattoos. Meeting that third-rate gambler had been what led him to know O-Kyō.

O-Kyō’s background was still unknown. It was clear she was a young woman navigating the fiery underworld, but what history she carried or which boss’s backing she enjoyed remained utterly unclear. She seemed like a traveling swindler preying on provincial gentlemen through hot spring towns, yet her considerable tattooing skills suggested this might be her true profession. Now that he thought of it, Kingoro vaguely recalled hearing tales of a vengeful female tattoo artist. Yet whether those stories referred to this O-Kyō remained uncertain. To Kingoro, she was fundamentally an enigma. And though he had once sensed a dangerous poison in her presence, he now found himself steeped in its venom yet drifting through a strangely pleasant, dreamlike haze.

When he asked about the man covered entirely in tattoos,

“Ah, Hannya Gorō… Well, what seems to be the matter?” “He’s a drifter—blown by the wind, who knows where he’s wandering.” O-Kyō seemed unconcerned about the matter. Two arms lined with patterns were reflected in the mirror. Kingoro’s ascending dragon appeared to be trying to devour O-Kyō’s peony flower. From O-Kyō’s soft arm, the warmth of her body heat radiated over, and Kingoro began to feel strange.

In the distance, the sound of a shamisen being plucked could be heard.

Love and Hate

When the rain that had lasted four or five days finally let up, the lingering heat returned as if summer had come back, leaving people listless. The evening cicadas seemed disoriented, and in the forest, brown cicadas were singing.

Man spread out a straw mat on the dirt floor and wove straw sandals. The iron kettle on the kitchen brazier hissed and whistled. On the meal table lay neatly arranged dinner preparations: a pot of sardines stewed to Kingoro's liking, grilled eggplant, tofu soup, and beside them stood a one-gō sake flask. Bowls, plates, and chopsticks—each set for two—were positioned so that whenever her husband returned home, they could immediately sit down to eat dinner together. One cat perched on Man's lap while five or six others lay scattered about.

By the time she started weaving the third pair of straw sandals, outside was gradually growing dark.

"I wonder if he’s not coming home again today…?" Man looked out at the twilight and muttered like a sigh.

The sound of geta clogs could be heard. (He’s back.)

Her heart leaping up, she rose to find Yone—Boss Nagata’s wife—appearing at the entrance. She held the hand of an eight-year-old boy named Shigemune Hira. Though Yone was several years past thirty, her meekness and obedience—her utter plainness in every aspect—never failed to frustrate Man. She always fidgeted nervously as if frightened by something unseen. “Please, Miss—do come in…” Man—who had hoped it was her husband—hid her disappointment behind a blank expression as she ushered Yone inside.

Yone was looking around the house but— “Kin-san still hasn’t come home?” “No, he hasn’t.”

“How strange…” “What about the Boss?” “Even though ours hasn’t come back either, with ours it’s just the usual thing—nothing strange about it. If they take a woman out, it’s not unusual for ’em to be gone like bullets for a week or ten days. But for Kin-san to go off on some outing and not come back for five whole days—that’s strange.” “Miss, there’s nothing to be done. I’ve resigned myself to it. In a man’s line of work, socializing’s crucial—a wife’s loneliness is something to endure. If he panders to his wife and neglects socializing, he can’t stride through society with his head held high.”

“Well I know that already—Boss Ōba and Boss Tanaka’s union outing groups all came back two or three days past.” “The ones still missing are just my man and Kin-san.” “I understand.” “Tamai’s watching over Boss Nagata.” “Being thoughtful of his superior…” “But O-Saku should be minding him.” “You can’t leave men’s work to women and expect it held right.” “He’ll come back directly, escorting the Boss.” “…Some bancha tea, Miss?”

"Yes, thank you kindly." Yone drank her tea, talked for about ten minutes, and left. It was all complaints about her husband’s debauchery and grumbling about the mistress.

That night too, Man slept alone.

After becoming assistant manager, he was provided with a slightly larger house. That said, it was merely a corner of a tenement where room stewards lived—a dilapidated two-room house consisting of a six-tatami room and a four-and-a-half-tatami room. Even so, it was far superior to the house in Hikoshima.

Late at night, Man was awakened by a strange sound. The sound of the back door being forced open—then stealthy footsteps approached as someone drew near to the six-tatami room where Man lay sleeping. Man strained her ears. Perhaps the moon was out, for the house was dimly lit by light coming through the front. In that faint glow, the bedside clock became visible. Wondering what time it was, she leaned closer—and as if telling her this was unnecessary, it chimed once, striking one o’clock. Outside, the wind blew.

The footsteps reached the base of the sliding door and came to a halt. They seemed to be holding their breath and peering inside. Man lay face down in the futon,

“Is that you?” she called out. She thought her husband might have returned. Kingoro, who had a playful streak, would often sneak in late at night to startle Man when returning home after hours. This was his way of masking embarrassment, but tonight—perhaps feeling guilty after leaving her alone for five days—he might have quietly slipped inside. “It’s you, right?” she repeated.

With a clattering, flustered motion, the sliding door opened. A man with a cloth covering his face, dressed in a workman’s jacket, burst in noisily like a spring-driven doll gone haywire.

Man, startled, sat bolt upright on the futon. Remaining seated, she hurriedly threw a kimono over her nightclothes.

“Who are you?” “I’m the honorable thief here, so don’t make a fuss.” In his right hand he held a deba cleaver. He thrust it right under Man’s nose. Under the moon’s glow, the thick blade of the stout weapon shone dully white. From the cleaver, Man caught the smell of iron and fish. But upon closer inspection, the cleaver was vibrating incessantly like an electric massage machine. That is to say—as the burglar trembled violently throughout his entire body, the cleaver moved along with him. The burglar remained restless throughout, unable to settle down, his eyes darting around nervously. In tabi socks but barefoot, he kept stomping his feet incessantly, never staying still for even a moment. It was the burglar who was making all the commotion.

Man had been startled momentarily, but observing the burglar’s demeanor, she soon composed herself. Kingoro had once returned home tipsy and startled Man in this exact fashion. Yet this burglar before her bore no resemblance to her husband—frail in build, his voice devoid of menace. It was a hoarse, quivering voice. He appeared to be over fifty. “Do you need money?” “O-of course… I-I… Needed money, s-so I resorted to thievery!”

"There’s no money here now. My husband took the wallet when he left on his trip... and work’s been hard to come by these past few days." "Don’t lie! H-hurry up and hand over the cash!" "Do you absolutely need it?" "I-I need it." "What a nuisance." Man tilted her head slightly. "Then wait here about ten minutes. I’ll go borrow some for you."

“Don’t try anything funny.” “Why don’t you have a smoke while you wait?”

Man stood up, left those words behind, and went out through the back door.

She hurried through the hushed late-night streets, clutching her collar tight. Because the nearly full moon shone brightly, she didn't feel particularly lonely. The mountain depths of her hometown had been even lonelier. Yet the silence of this soundless, peopleless moonlit night somehow reminded her of her hometown valley, and Man was abruptly struck by nostalgia. A dog's bark from somewhere echoed in her ears like the cry of a fox.

(I wonder how everyone's doing?) Her father's face, her mother's face, her younger brother's face - then Okawa Tokijiro's visage surfaced. Was Tokiyan still riding his horse delivering mail? A stinging ache prickled deep within Man's chest. Nagata Mokuji's house stood about a block and a half away.

Man went around to the back door and knocked.

Yone, rubbing her sleepy eyes, came to the kitchen’s glass door. “Ms. Man?”

“Yes.” “What brings you here at this hour?” Yone opened the door. “Is the Boss here?” “He still hasn’t come back.” “Sis, I’m sorry to trouble you, but could you please lend me ten yen right away?” “At this hour, out of nowhere… what on earth…?”

"I'll explain tomorrow." "I'm in a hurry." "Please." "Is that so?" Yone looked doubtful but nodded and withdrew. Soon she reappeared with ten one-yen bills neatly stacked. "Since it's you asking, Ms. Man, there must be no mistake." "I'll ask for details tomorrow." "Thank you." Upon receiving them, she raced home as if fleeing.

The autumn night air was cold, seeping into the nape of her neck. The moon was like a block of ice.

When she returned home, a chaotic scene was unfolding inside the house. The thief was brandishing a cleaver and battling the cats. Of the seven cats, several brave and loyal ones had raised their hackles, bared their teeth, and growled as they confronted the suspicious intruder. The thief crouched defensively, waving the cleaver while doing nothing but chase them around and hiss “Shoo! Shoo!” At the sight of Man, the cats fell silent. They cried out and approached Man.

“I borrowed it for you. ……Here.” Man held out ten one-yen bills. The thief counted them with trembling, clumsy hands before falling silent as if deep in thought. He sniffled. Finally, he looked up. “I-I don’t need this much.” “Six yen will do.” “I’ll return four yen.”

“It’s fine. Take it with you.” “Nah, six yen’s enough. If you borrowed it, you’d have to pay it back again anyway.” “When that time comes, it’d be tough for you, so I’ll return the extra.” “I see.” “Thanks. “Well then, with this…” “Wait.” “If you wander around outside at this hour, they’ll get suspicious.” “The police officer was just making rounds too.” “I’ll take you there.”

Man, accompanied by the thief, stepped out into the moonlit street once more.

“Which direction are you going back?” “Either’s fine… Maybe head toward the station.”

At the bend leading to the station, they encountered a policeman. He was holding a lantern. He stomped over. “Hey, you there!”

Man looked at the other person's face. “Mr. Anki, it’s me.” “Oh, Mrs. Tamai. Where are you off to at this hour?” “A relative came to visit... Since I was hungry, I thought maybe we’d get some udon…” Noticing the lantern of a late-night udon stall at the street corner, Man blurted out such a spur-of-the-moment lie. “Well, autumn nights do make you hungry. Go on then.” Because the policeman was walking in the same direction, she had no choice but to stop by the late-night udon stall. The policeman went off, swinging his lantern and making a showy clatter with his saber and boots.

“Mr. Atariya, two bowls of kitsune udon, please.”

The udon vendor was also someone she knew. “Mrs. Tamai, is it? You’re late. I was just thinkin’ of closin’ up for the night.”

“Isn’t one o’clock too early to close? You usually stay open past two...” “Business’s been shit.”

“Why?”

“That bastard Kakusuke went and took all my earnings.” “After gorging himself on food and drink, that good-for-nothing...” “This makes the fourth time now.”

“You should’ve told the police.”

“If I did that, I’d lose my life. This place really is bad news, I tell ya. You can’t run an honest business here. The yakuza strut around like they own the place, and lately there’s been more thieves too. I can’t keep my stall open after tomorrow. Since they cleaned me out, I might just have to turn thief myself.”

After handing two bowls of kitsune udon to Man and another man, the late-night udon vendor kept grumbling.

“Mr. Atariya.” “Right here.” “Why don’t you use this to help with your capital?”

Man took out two one-yen bills she had gotten back from the thief from the folds of her obi. “Oh no, I’ve already caused you enough trouble…” “It’s fine. We help each other in times of trouble.” “Is that so… Well then…” Atariya received it as if humbly accepting an offering. He was a small-framed, fair-skinned old man over sixty who seemed gentle. “By the way,” said the udon vendor, suddenly lowering his voice as if wary of being overheard, “Kakusuke was drunk earlier and said—‘Even if Tamai Kingoro wants to die on his tatami, it won’t be that simple.’ “...was sayin’ somethin’ like that. Has anythin’ happened?”

“They’re just jealous, aren’t they?” “He stabbed the Nagata Group in the back. That senile old man’s got no future left. He’s gonna become a lackey for Wakamatsu’s ‘Dotera Hag.’ He was sayin’ stuff like that too.”

The thief was eating udon facing away to avoid having his face illuminated by the stall’s lantern.

The dog barked again in a fox-like voice.

The next morning, as Man was gathering the cats and feeding them, Yone Nagata arrived carrying her son on her back.

The veranda was lively. The cats' feast consisted of leftovers from the meal she had prepared for Kingoro the day before. Man's devotion to her husband had, these past five days or so, become daily service to the cats. Seven plates for seven cats.

“Good morning, Ms. Man.”

“Good morning.” “My, look at this—it’s like a whole garden of cats has bloomed here! Ms. Man, you really do love cats. I suppose it’s true that people without children do dote on animals. Even so, you’re both healthy—how come you haven’t had a child yet? Still no sign at all, I wonder?” “There isn’t any.”

“That’s strange. It’s been about two years since you got together, hasn’t it?” “It’s a blessing no child has been born. We couldn’t raise one in a poor household like this, I tell you.” “Oh come now—they say if you can’t feed one mouth, you can feed two! Raising your own child would be easier than keeping seven cats anyway.” Yone set Shigemune Hira down on the veranda where the cats were gathered and sat down herself. The refreshing morning light streamed in full onto the veranda. From the direction of the harbor, the sound of a steam whistle could be heard.

“By the way, what in the world happened last night?” “There was a thief.” “A thief?”

Yone widened her round, acorn-like eyes. Still acting as if the thief might be lurking nearby, she scanned her surroundings with an uneasy look. Man laughed,

“I went to borrow money from your place to give to the thief.” “What did you say?” Yone was astonished. “Such a ridiculous thing…!”

“It’s true. The thief from last night seemed like an honest person.” “What kind of nonsense are you talking? Would an honest person ever become a thief? He’s wicked through and through.” “No, I didn’t think that thief was wicked. He must’ve been stealing for the first time. He must’ve been driven to desperation. If he couldn’t get six yen somehow, he’d have to flee in the night—it was life or death… Pushed that far, he must’ve panicked into thieving. That’s why I decided to get him the money somehow and went to borrow it from you.”

“What nonsense!” “The person who goes to borrow money for a thief is one thing—but a thief who just sits around waiting for them to come back is still a thief.” “Wouldn’t you even suspect he might bring the cops?” “I’ve heard some foolish stories lately.” “Ms. Yone. I’m returning these two yen since there was some left over.” “If you gave six yen to the thief out of ten, how come two yen are left over?” “Since Mr. Atariya of the Night Cries was robbed, I gave him two yen.”

“What a generous woman you are!”

Yone wore an expression of utter exasperation. And then, two more days passed, but still, Kingoro had not returned. During his absence, on days when there was cargo work to be done, Man took it upon herself to fulfill the responsibilities of assistant manager Kingoro, efficiently managing the group’s tasks. During the early morning cargo work, from the lonely predawn hours, she alone went around waking the stevedores in the group, taking charge of both organizing the tasks and tidying up afterward. However, there were inevitably things beyond a woman’s strength. This left her feeling both pitiful and infuriated, growing increasingly agitated,

(What's he even doing out there? The boss being such a layabout means we're getting dragged into this mess too. If only he'd quit covering for that good-for-nothing and just haul him back home already...)

And so, she shifted all blame onto the boss and resented Nagata Mokuji.

Under Kingoro, Matsukawa Genshū—who served as assistant manager—had a face patterned like an ammonite and was called "Rokuzoro no Gen" by his comrades. Rokuzoro referred to the dice configuration where two sixes were lined up. Genshū was also a small-time gambler. However, he was hardworking and got along well with Kingoro. Thirty years old.

He said to Man, “Man, you don’t need to worry. “I’ll handle things until Kingoro gets back.” “I won’t do anything to disgrace Kingoro.”

he said, as was his habit.

“I’m sorry.” “Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for. With Kakusuke gone, there ain’t a soul left in this group schemin’ to oust Kingoro. No—more’n that. Most Nagata boys already think of Kingoro as their real boss in their hearts, what with how things stand with the actual boss.” “Much obliged.” “Been some queer rumors floatin’ round lately.” “Word is, over at the Joint Group, they’re sayin’ Boss Nagata’s ways are so rotten they’ll demote him.” “With Kingoro here, our worksite outshines any other group’s—but since the boss is like that, there’s talk of disbandin’ the Nagata Group altogether.” “Even though we’re all Joint Group kin, there’s ambitious contractors lurkin’ about—can’t drop our guard.” “If the group went under, it’d spell real trouble.”

“If only he’d come back soon—what a considerate boss he is.”

Man could not help resenting Nagata Mokuji intensely.

The next night, as Man spread out a straw mat on the earthen floor as usual and was weaving straw sandals,

“Is anyone home?”

In a woman’s voice using Osaka dialect, there was someone at the entrance requesting admission.

As Man stood up and went, “Man, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, Ms. Kimika!”

Man, too, was surprised. It had been two years since they had parted on Hikoshima. The day before Kingoro and his wife were driven out of Hikoshima, it was said that Shinnosuke and Kimika had gone to Beppu Hot Springs. After that, they vanished without a trace—no matter who you asked, nobody knew their whereabouts. The couple must have talked countless times in their pillow talk, wondering, “What ever happened to Shinkō?” “What about Mr. Shin from the Mori?” After ushering Kimika inside, those were the first words out of Man’s mouth.

“Mr. Shinnosuke is in Fukuoka Prison.” “Prison?”

“Hmm. Actually, that’s what I came to discuss, but… What about Mr. Tamai?” “My husband’s been away on a trip recently, but… why on earth is Mr. Shin in prison again?…”

What she wanted to ask, more than anything, was that very matter. The Kimika who had once made Man and the others avert their eyes as a Western-dressed, fashionable beauty on Hikoshima was nowhere to be found. Everything about her now was purely Japanese in style, like the proprietress of a traditional inn. Her wig-adorned hairstyle was tastefully arranged, and the nape of her neck visible beneath the black collar looked fresh and dewy. Though her round, slightly jowled face had always carried a composed expression, two years had added a new gravity to her features. This could even be mistaken for boldness. Only the beauty mark at the lower right corner of her lips remained unchanged from before.

While sipping the bancha tea that Man had drawn and served, Kimika looked around the house.

“Haven’t you had a baby yet?”

“Not yet.” “I’ve had one.”

“Oh?” Man looked at Kimika with renewed scrutiny, her expression betraying surprise. “You don’t look like a mother.” “She’s two now.”

“Mr. Shin’s child?”

“That’s right. Since she’s my daughter, I named her Yurika.” “If she takes after you and Mr. Shin, she must be adorable.” “She truly is.”

“So why is Mr. Shin in prison?” “What crime did he commit?…” “He’s charged with murder.”

“Oh my, he’s charged with murder?”

“Well, that’s just how it is. If I don’t speak of the shameful parts, you won’t understand, so I’ll lay everything bare…” As she said this, Kimika began recounting what had happened since Hikoshima. But as Man listened, she recalled the words Kingoro had muttered with a grave expression on the day they were driven out of Hikoshima. “Shinkō really doesn’t think things through. Kimika’s someone…probably the second-in-command of some annoying guy in Yoshida Isokichi’s inner circle. In any case, it’s nothing good.”

That prediction had come true. Kimika had indeed been the second-in-command of an "annoying guy," though that man wasn’t part of Yoshida Isokichi’s inner circle—he was a prominent figure in Shimonoseki, a construction contractor commonly known as "Mamushi Ichi." When Mamushi Ichi discovered that Shinnosuke and Kimika had gone to Beppu, he immediately rushed there himself intending to kill Shinnosuke, only to end up being killed instead. From the start, Shinnosuke had harbored no murderous intent; it was an act of violence born of desperation when cornered, and since there were elements of self-defense involved, his sentence remained light. It all began with something trivial—Kimika being called a “spy”—which left Shinnosuke half-dead. Initially feeling pity for him, she visited and offered sympathy, but those feelings gradually transformed into love, ultimately culminating in a murder incident.

“Mr. Shin said—‘Don’t you dare tell Tamai about this.’ …But since he insisted so strongly, I’ve kept it hidden till now. Only, several matters’ve come up this time where I absolutely must consult you—that’s why I’ve come troubling you.” “What d’you mean by consulting me?…”

“Mr. Shinnosuke will be released from prison in four or five days.” “Though his sentence isn’t completed yet, they’re letting him out on parole for good behavior.” “So I thought to ask Mr. Tamai to be his guarantor.” “Mr. Shinnosuke refused—I’ve kept it hidden till now—but once he’s back in the world, he wants to become Mr. Tamai Kingoro’s sworn brother and handle everything properly.” “‘If you could bring brother to visit me in prison once, that’d be great.’…”

“I’d be delighted—Tamai will go welcome him too.” “So, Mr. Shin—after he gets out, does he have any job prospects lined up?”

“Oh, that’s already been taken care of. For that matter as well, we need Mr. Tamai’s help—there’s this old patron of mine who, taking pity on us, has kindly agreed to hand over a small restaurant. Mr. Shinnosuke’s all for it too—he’s like, ‘That’s the way to go,’ and as for me, I’m thinking of managing five or six geisha there and running an okiya as well.”

“Where is that?” “It’s Wakamatsu.” “Wakamatsu?” Man’s face clouded slightly. As a city teeming with Yoshida Isokichi, Tomoda Kizō, Ezaki Mankichi, Dotera Baba, and other troublesome bosses, influential figures, and gangs, her husband Kingoro had always avoided Wakamatsu—and Man similarly regarded Wakamatsu as though it were a jungle inhabited by wild beasts.

Since Kimika had no way of understanding such things, her face remained bright with hopeful energy as she continued: “Mr. Shinnosuke says he wants to manage entertainment ventures too. Truth be told, I don’t know the details myself, but he made a friend in prison—someone from Wakamatsu way, I think—and they got along so splendidly that once he’s out, he wants Mr. Tamai to meet him and become sworn brothers. That’s what he told me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Kumamaru Koichi, or something like that,” she said. “What a fearsome name.” The two women exchanged glances and laughed—soft, rippling laughter that carried neither malice nor unease.

“But Man-san, he’s not scary at all—he’s actually quite gentle… To hear Mr. Shinnosuke tell it—he’s like a white mouse: pale-skinned, small and delicate, a quiet man.” “That’s exactly how he is.” “You’d think prison would be full of nothing but bad people—but everyone there’s actually decent.” “It’s those swaggering around in the outside world who are far worse.” “…He said things like that too.”

Kimika’s stories were all cheerful. Man still felt genuine joy for Shinnosuke and Kimika’s new life together. Yet despite this, an unfathomable unease welled up in Man’s heart, accompanied by a faint yet strange palpitation. In a jungle teeming with sharp-toothed beasts where Mori Shinnosuke planned to open a restaurant and put on shows—and the connection of this endeavor to her husband Kingoro... Man’s premonitions and foresight did not seem mere illusions conjured from empty shadows.

Kimika wrote down her Wakamatsu address while asking that Man contact her immediately upon Kingoro’s return, left a gift of sea urchin behind, and departed with brisk steps.

The next morning, while she was doing laundry, a messenger from Ōba Haruyoshi arrived. It was an old man named Yakichi, the gardener. In a hurried tone,

“Man, please come to the boss’s house right away. There’s something important he needs to discuss with you immediately.”

Man immediately changed into a kimono and left the house with Old Man Yakichi.

The Ōba house stood on Makiyama's elevated plateau. Encircled by a deep grove of moso bamboo with dense woods looming behind, there sat a modest white-walled residence. Sparrows chattered incessantly.

When they arrived at the Ōba house, Matsukawa Genjū, the assistant manager, had already come. He too had likely been summoned via messenger.

Haruyoshi was waiting for the two in the storehouse’s tatami room. After silently serving tea, sweets, and tobacco, he suddenly began in an angry tone: “A major incident has occurred.”

he began. “What happened?” Rokuzoro no Gen, startled, pinched his long ammonite-like jaw.

“Tokyo.” “Police boxes and streetcars—they’re burning them all down.” “They held anti-treaty rallies in Hibiya and mobbed ministers’ homes—the capital’s gone mad.” “Martial law’s finally been declared.” “Of course it has.” “After fighting this war only to get humiliated by their diplomacy—you think people would stay quiet?” “Hell—I’d join the torch mobs myself!”

“Is today’s business about that matter?” “No matter how furious I am, I can’t just march off to Tokyo to join the arson mobs. To tell the truth, Tokyo’s important, but we’ve got something big brewing here too. That’s why I asked you to come. Tomorrow, the Panama Maru mail ship will enter port. It’s a massive job—we’ve got to load a thousand tons of cargo coal. This is the Joint Group’s territory where the Nagata Group was handling duty, but it seems Tomoda Kizō’s faction is plotting to hijack it. There’s a rumor Dotera Hag’s underlings might come barging into the site. Recklessness shouldn’t prevail, but with a bunch of lawless folks, who knows what kind of strong-arm tactics they’ll pull. If Tamai were here, there’d be nothing to worry about—but I don’t know what’s happened… he still hasn’t come back.”

“Boss, I’m sorry.” Man felt her shoulders hunch involuntarily. “But Boss Nagata has gone too far.” “Since he hasn’t come back, those who care about him are getting dragged into this…”

“Nagata returned the night before last,” Ōba Haruyoshi said. “I asked about Tamai, but he claims not to know.” Man felt her heart flip over. A violent thudding pulse began hammering. (Could Kakusuke have killed him?)

The night-sobbing udon vendor Atariya had spoken of it—how even if Kingoro wished to die on the tatami mats, the wholesalers wouldn’t allow it—and now Kakusuke’s words came back to her with terrifying clarity. Ōba Haruyoshi knew that Kingoro had been associating with a suspicious woman bearing peony and butterfly tattoos, but he did not voice it. “So,” he said, and after earnestly entrusting them with the Panama Maru cargo work, he sent the two home.

Bearing a disturbed, heavy heart, Man returned home. Then, there was someone inside the house.

Thinking it was her husband, she rushed inside.

“Man-chan”

It was Okawa Tokijiro from the mountain depths of her hometown. "Why—it’s Toki-jan!"

Even Man was taken aback. “I’ve finally found you!” Tokijiro’s face brimmed with joy as he said, “You’ve no idea how hard I searched. After leaving the countryside determined to meet you, Man-chan, I wandered all over northern Kyushu until my legs were dead tired. Thank goodness, thank goodness.”

“Oh, don’t just stand there—come in.” Man led Tokijiro into the six-tatami mat room. The seven cats were eyeing the unfamiliar man with suspicious stares. Tokijiro was wearing his postal bureau uniform. Always in this attire, he would mount a horse and deliver mail across valleys, hills, and mountain passes. Even as they met after four years, when she looked at Tokijiro, she felt the illusion that his beloved four-year-old horse might be tied up outside. His skin was sunburned, but he retained the same robust build as ever; his thick, rugged eyebrows and knuckly fingers carried the scent of his hometown valley.

“Where should I even begin…?” With eyes brimming with four years of emotion, Tokijiro looked at Man—now changed from before. The Man reflected in his eyes was no longer the country girl who had rolled tobacco leaves, fed cows, and burned charcoal four years earlier in a sun-starved valley. Though the wildness hadn’t vanished from her face, something unknown to him had undeniably added a new hue and polish to her. This pressed down on him like a strange weight—something he’d never felt toward her back in Hiroshima’s mountain depths. All the more reason he found himself losing composure now, his mood sharpening as if chased by an unseen force he couldn’t control.

“Are Father and Mother well?” Even Man’s perfectly natural question grated on him, “They’re just fine,” he answered angrily, “Man-chan, you’re one terrible woman,” he said, forgetting all restraint as his tone turned resentful.

It was the explosive moment when four years of pent-up emotions and frustration came pouring out. “Since you left the countryside, how lonely I’ve been—a cold-hearted woman like you wouldn’t get it.” “I meant to marry you—was sure you’d become my wife.” “Even when Kei-jan, the village head’s second son, courted you hard and you kept refusing, I thought it was for my sake.” “Then you just up and left without a word to me...”

Tokijiro was so agitated that his words came in fragments.

Man was perplexed by the sudden confession. She stiffened, looked down, and heard her former lover’s voice like thunder in her ears. Tokijiro’s face was desperate. He leaned forward. “Anything’s fine. It’s not too late even now. Marry me. That’s the only reason I left the village. No matter how the villagers think of me, no matter how badly they speak of me—as long as I can become your husband, I’ll have no regrets.”

“Toki-jan, you… bringing up such an impossible thing now, after all this time…”

Tokijiro’s knee crept closer until it pressed tightly against Man’s kneecap. Yet Man made no move to pull away. The agitated Tokijiro seized the woman’s hand. Man let him continue unchecked.

“Impossible?… Now, of all times?…”

“That’s not it.” “There ain’t nothin’ impossible ’bout it.” “Ain’t too late even now.” “Let’s get married right this minute.” “I figured even if ya left the village once, you’d sure come back—that’s why I kept waitin’.” “’Course we never made no formal promise or nothin’.” “But we both knew what was in each other’s hearts all along.” “Right, Man-chan? Ain’t that so?” “You liar, Toki-jan.” “Cheatin’ scoundrel.” “What’d you do with Kinu-san?”

Trying to speak sarcastically, she unintentionally reverted to her hometown dialect. “Kinu-chan?”

“Yeah.” “You were gettin’ along so well with Kinu-san—yet when it came to me—you couldn’t give a damn…”

In Man’s eyes rose the vivid scenery of the twilight watermill. On an embankment where pampas plumes shimmered over flowing water, Tokijiro and Kinu sat shoulder to shoulder, conversing intimately. They laughed uproariously in evident delight. The pair looked like a fox and tanuki. At that moment—(So that’s how it was)—she felt discarded, her first taste of jealousy cementing the resolve that made her abandon her village.

Tokijiro’s face took on a look of astonishment. “That ain’t true! “What could there possibly be between Kinu-chan and me? “Well, we’re friends, see—so we’ve talked. “We met at the watermill once—the Monopoly Bureau’s ‘Demon’ told us ’bout gettin’ tricked by a fox, and we laughed. “But if we’re friends, ain’t that sorta thing just natural? “Man-chan—you’re just pickin’ at me with complaints ’cause you hate my guts, ain’t ya? “I’m dead serious, I swear. “Kinu-bou got married over two years back—taken as a bride by the third son of Master Buujuu up in Takakado. “I ain’t never thought ’bout no women ’cept you, Man-chan. “I ditched the post office—left the whole damn village behind. “Marry me.”

“Toki-jan, you… don’t you realize I’ve already become someone else’s wife?”

“I went to Brother Hayashisuke in Moji and heard where you’d gone.” “They told me you’d been lured by some strange man called Tamai Kingoro and crossed over to Hikoshima in Shimonoseki.” “But I hadn’t heard you’d become Tamai’s wife.”

“I’ve become that strange man’s wife.” “He’s just some tattooed stevedore who’s a gamblin’ thug, ain’t he?” “He ain’t got no such fool tattoos on him.”

“It don’t matter. Break up with that man. You ain’t even properly registered with him, are ya?” “We ain’t registered though…”

“What about children?”

“Can’t have ’em.” “Then it don’t matter.” “Man-chan, I’m beggin’ ya.” “Wait.”

Man brushed off Tokijiro’s hand and picked up the pipe beside her. With calm hands, she packed the tobacco shreds and quietly took a puff. Tokijiro’s eyes glinted ominously, and large beads of greasy sweat had begun to seep out on his forehead. Man hollowed her cheeks, deeply inhaled the smoke, then puffed out her chest and exhaled it with a *Fuuh*. She struck the pipe’s neck against the edge of the brazier and extinguished the fire.

“Toki-jan.” “Huh?”

“Wait until Tamai Kingoro returns.” “When’s he comin’ back?” “Dunno.” “Where’s he gone off to?”

“About a week ago, he went to a place called Musashi Onsen in Futsukaichi.” “Well, that’s how it is. If he’s gone to the hot springs and ain’t come back in a whole week, he’s gotta be there carryin’ on with some whore of a bathhouse woman. You gotta cut that man loose quick.” “I might cut him loose, but anyway, wait till he comes back. Ask Tamai. If Tamai says it’s fine for me to become your wife, then I will.”

“Instead of all this tedious stuff, let’s get out of this house together right now.”

"Toki-jan, you blockhead!" The tone was fierce. Two or three cats jumped up in alarm. Tokijiro looked utterly bewildered, as if suddenly slapped across the cheek. Though he'd already felt strangely intimidated before, this rebuke completely crushed him. He abruptly fell silent, bowing his head low to stare at the floor.

Man wordlessly smoked another cigarette. Tokijiro raised his head with a dejected look.

“Man-chan, I’ll wait for that Tamai Kingoro fellow to come back.” He said in a weak voice. Then, finally regaining the composure of hometown folk meeting after long separation, they launched into lively talk about village affairs since their parting.

Even after the day ended and night fell, Kingoro did not return.

Tokijiro ended up staying the night. Man decided to sleep in the six-mat room and the guest in the four-and-a-half-mat room, but there was no futon. When they were driven out of Hikoshima, the rice-cracker futon that Nandemoya had given them as a farewell gift had its cotton replaced countless times over the years and its outer fabric re-covered. They had only these top and bottom layers; their household finances still weren't sufficient to make a proper guest futon.

“Toki-jan, wrap yourself in this and sleep.” Man passed the thick futon mattress to Tokijiro.

“Nah, I ain’t needin’ no futon. “Ain’t cold at all.” “I’ll just sleep rough here.”

“The night’ll get cold, and you’ll catch a chill.” “Here, put this on.” “But I already said yes…” As the two of them argued back and forth over the futon between them, suddenly—with a clatter and a bang violent enough to shake the house—the shoji slid open.

When Man and Tokijiro turned around in surprise, there stood Kingoro at the room’s entrance. Kingoro glared with bulging eyes, bit his lower lip with his upper teeth, and stripped off his upper garments. In his right hand was gripped a short sword; along his left arm, from shoulder to biceps, an ascending dragon tattoo blazed vividly. “Found your lover.” “Both of you—I’ll cut you down.” “Sit there!”

At Kingoro's ferocious glare, Tokijiro reflexively dropped to his knees on the tatami mats. He sat down.

Man stared blankly, her eyes darting back and forth. Her eyes were riveted on Kingoro’s left arm. More than any desire to dispel her husband’s misunderstanding or anger, what held paramount importance for her was the mysterious pattern that had appeared on his arm—something she had never seen before.

In the chimney of the ceiling-hung lamp, a large moth had been fluttering about incessantly since some time earlier. Each time it flapped its wings, scattering fine golden dust from its wings, the moth flew toward Kingoro this time and alighted on his left arm. At that moment, the moth suddenly vanished. Man was startled and widened her eyes. On her husband’s arm, the dragon ascending toward the clouds with its enormous eyes glaring fiercely appeared to have snapped up the moth in one gulp. That transformed into a ghostly illusion and plunged Man into bewilderment. For the past two years as husband and wife, she had grown close to this man, yet now she fell into a strange illusion that he had become a completely different person, letting out an odd sigh.

“That tattoo—how did you get it? When, where, and who did it for you?” Though this natural question begged to be asked, seeing Kingoro standing there with his terrifying expression of rage made the words stick in her throat. Nor did she feel any urge rising within her to defend herself against his suspicions about her relationship with Tokijiro. The joy of seeing her long-awaited husband tangled with irritation and sorrow—

(Hmph! I don't know where you've been wandering till this hour, but how dare you come barging in and start accusing me of keeping a lover? The nerve of you!) In her heart, she clung to this stubborn contrariness. When Man noticed the sword gripped in Kingoro's right hand, she furrowed her brows in suspicion. It was Sukehira - the sword her husband treasured as his most prized possession. An item someone had taken without permission from Kingoro's willow trunk about two years prior in Hikoshima, when preparing for ruffians' attacks. Even after their marriage, he would occasionally take it out for maintenance, so Man had grown familiar with the sword's texture, shape, and color.

(That dagger was supposed to be in the paulownia chest at home...?) If that was been the case, her husband hadn't come barging in the moment he returned home. Had he been watching them for a while, quietly taken the sword from the chest before sliding open the shoji? Tokijiro sat formally, pressing clenched fists against his thighs as he stared wordlessly at Kingoro. He seemed not driven by fear, but rather intent on discerning the true nature of this strange man.

(Is this my rival in love?) Man had said he didn’t have any tattoos, but here he was—a gaudy, shady thug after all—Tokijiro’s eyes gleamed with scorn and hatred as he assumed a fighting stance. Though unarmed, he trusted in the strength and technique that had made him yokozuna of the village’s sumo wrestling. Tokijiro’s thick brows twisted and squirmed. Kingoro stood blocking their path, observing them both, then slowly began to speak.

“The husband is always the last to know”—or so people of old used to say. “I trusted only Man—but look what happens when I’m away for just a moment.” “Women’s hearts are truly terrifying.” “Women are fiends.” (What nonsense are you spouting? Men are far greater fiends than women!)

Man thought this but didn't speak it aloud. Kingoro crossed his arms. The dagger in his right hand shifted to his left arm, making it look like the dragon was clenching it in its jaws. "Man... lover," he said, glaring alternately at them both, "you're lucky. By rights, I oughta lay you both out here right now and cut you down—that's the proper way to deal with adulterers—but just for tonight, I'll hold off." "Tomorrow night." "Got work that can't wait till after.... Man—when I came back from my trip, I stopped by Boss Ōba's to apologize and heard about the Panama Maru job." "The boss was real pleased I made it in time for this work—grabbed my hand and said 'I'm countin' on you.'" "I was glad too—thought I'd come back at just the right moment." "This ain't just Nagata Group business—no—the whole Joint Union's sink or swim rides on this cargo job. Gotta see it through no matter what." "Come back from my trip to find you beddin' some man—makes my guts boil—but if we botch tomorrow's Panama Maru job, I lose all face as a man." "We'll settle everything after Panama Maru." "...Man—we clear?"

Man stared sharply at her husband’s face and, without a word, gave a single large nod. At that moment, she blinked for the first time.

Kingoro looked up at the hanging lantern and muttered to himself, “Tomorrow’s job won’t end quietly. “Since Dotera Hag’s gang might interfere, we can’t handle this ordinary-style. “Behind Dotera Hag stands Tomoda Kizō. “Tomoda’s scheming to grab every job at this port through brute force from the get-go. “What’s worse—while I was away, Kakusuke turned traitor and joined Dotera Hag’s crew, makin’ this whole mess twice as troublesome. “Kakusuke knows my methods—might try to pull one over on me. “So this time, we gotta outsmart their outsmarting… Man”

Surely, Kingoro's intense gaze pierced Man once more.

Man remained silent, her attention fixed on her husband’s mouth.

“You—go wake everyone in the rooms right now. Assemble at Shinkawa Quay by 2:00 AM. Row the large cargo boat out to offshore of the lighthouse and have it ready. Wait for the Panama Maru to enter port. Everything’s been fully coordinated with Sub-Bossin and Genkō. Once you’ve informed Kogata of everything, go to Boss Nagata’s house, cook sixty portions of breakfast immediately, and deliver them to the Panama Maru. By that time, the ship should already have entered the port... Hey, you. Right now, I’d take help from even a cat’s paw. But even with seven cats in our house, not a single one’s any use. You too, help out.”

The Realm of Human Bonds

In the Nagata household’s kitchen stood two three-to kettles. As with any foreman’s residence, preparing fifty—sometimes even a hundred—boxed meals for night shifts, dawn work, or distant cargo jobs was routine; their cooking setup had been meticulously maintained for such demands.

Under Man's direction, the cooked hot rice was rapidly formed into rice balls. Three large rice balls and five thickly sliced pieces of takuan pickled radish—this constituted one portion—were wrapped in bamboo sheaths and then in old newspaper. They were swiftly packed into baskets as soon as they were ready. With Nagata Yone joining them, the four female stevedores were wholly focused on making boxed meals.

“Ms. Toki.” Man called to one of the women.

“Yes.” “Sorry ’bout this—could you dash over ta th’ liquor store? Need ya ta deliver two five-shō barrels ta Nagata pronto.” “One tō total then? On my way.” “Be back ’fore ya know it.”

As Toki exited the gate, a boyish man wearing a Nagata Group emblem coat entered as if passing her by. He was Tani Shunji, affectionately nicknamed “Junior High Student.” “Are the boxed meals ready yet?” “They’ll be ready soon.” “Will you take them for us, Shun-chan?”

Man had been fond of "Junior High Student" because he closely resembled her younger brother Ushizō back home.

“Yes, I’ll take them.” Shunji sat on the threshold and gulped water noisily from the kettle there, his throat rattling audibly. Then, as if suddenly remembering, he turned toward Man slicing takuan.

“Sis Tamai.” “Huh?” “I just came from Shinkawa Quay, and Boss Ōba was out on the shore.”

“Boss Ōba?……” “There was someone holding a Joint Group lantern at the pier—when I went to see who it was, it turned out to be Boss Ōba.” “Oh no!” Man suddenly stood up as if startled. “When the liquor arrives, please have Shun-chan take it along with the boxed meals.” After leaving these instructions with Yone Nagata, she rushed outside in a flustered panic, clutching a bow-shaped lantern emblazoned with the Nagata Group’s name in her right hand.

The chill of autumn night air plunged into her chest like a hand thrusting through cloth. The moon hung dim behind haze. Man adjusted her collar with her left hand, pressed that arm against the swell of her breasts, and hurried onward.

She passed by Atariya’s late-night udon stall.

“Mrs. Tamai, thank you for the other day. How about a hot bowl?”

Ignoring Atariya’s words, she quickened her pace even further. In the depths of a narrow alley behind the train station was Nagata Mokuji’s mistress’s house. She banged loudly on the lattice door. “Telegram! Telegram!” O-Saku appeared in a red underrobe. Her hair was disheveled. “Please tell Boss Nagata to come back with me right away.” “Boss Ōba himself has come all the way here, concerned about the Panama Maru job.” “With Tamai at the head, the small group has already rowed out as far as the lighthouse offshore.” “How can we manage when the crucial Boss Nagata isn’t even here?”

Having withdrawn once, Saku soon reappeared. She threw a jacket over her underrobe. She swept back the disheveled strands of her hair. “The master absolutely refuses to wake up.” “Is he dead?”

“No, he can’t be dead, but…” “How can someone who ain’t dead not wake up? Did you even try wakin’ him?” “I called out plenty times, but… he’s just too far gone drunk, see…”

“Excuse me.” Man placed the lantern on the entrance threshold, took off her sandals, and stomped inside.

The house was narrow, so Nagata Mokuji’s futon, where he lay sleeping, came into view immediately. The room was pale. The mantle of the ceiling gas lamp made the white fabric net glow brightly yet dully, as if breathing. A rancid stench assailed the nostrils. A lacquered box pillow with peeling red paint lay rolled beside Nagata Mokuji’s Billiken-shaped bald head, while the half-naked middle-aged man, lying face down, twisted his arms and legs into a strange posture as he emitted snores resembling the sharpening of saw teeth.

To Man, the boss's figure appeared like a corpse exhumed from its coffin in a graveyard illuminated by will-o'-the-wisps. Yet it wasn't eeriness or fear she felt, but an indescribable forlornness, sorrow, loneliness—a frustration with nowhere to go. And that resentment was directed not so much toward the boss as it was even more intensely toward Saku.

(This poisonous flower of a woman has killed this good boss.) Man felt intense hatred toward the seemingly meek Saku. "Boss... Boss Nagata."

She knelt down and shook his shoulders.

Nagata stopped snoring and let out a faint moan, but showed no sign of waking up. “Since he’s so exhausted, let’s just leave him be…” Without answering Saku’s words, Man took the water pitcher by the pillow. After laying Nagata on his back, she took water into her mouth and sprayed it onto the boss’s face with a “pfft.” When she poured cold water on him twice, Nagata finally opened his eyes. “Boss.” “Is that you, Saku?”

His voice was slurred. “It’s me.” “I’m Tamai’s Man.” “Do you understand?” “I get it… but why’d you come here, Man?” “I came to fetch you, Boss.” “Come back with me right now.” “The Nagata Group’s about to collapse.” “Boss Ōba himself showed up at the night shift—says if Nagata doesn’t appear for tonight’s cargo work, he’s got plans.” “…That’s what he said.” “Boss—you really okay with letting the Nagata Group crumble?” “Which matters more—the Nagata Group or O-Saku?” “You gonna weigh all your men against one mistress and pick her?” “Which one’s sweeter to you?”

Whether Man's words had pierced through even the numbed core of his nerves, Nagata Mokuji- "It matters. "That's what matters." Mumbling like a man in delirium, he pushed himself upright on the futon.

“Will you be returning?” Saku saw that her swaying master still appeared unsteady.

“Obviously.” In place of the boss, Man answered sharply.

Man took clothes from the disordered box and dressed the boss. She made Nagata Mokuji—boneless as he was—stand up, then fastened his undergarment, kimono, haori, and even tied his obi as if he were a helpless child. When Saku tried to assist, Man batted her hand away and refused to let her touch him. She dragged him to the entrance and hauled him outside.

“Master, shall I call a rickshaw?” At Saku’s honeyed voice, Man looked exasperated, “A rickshaw? We don’t need that.” “We haven’t got time for such dawdling.”

The bow-shaped lantern placed at the entrance had gone out.

Saku brought matches and tried to light it. Man yanked the lantern away. "I don't want your fire. It's a moonlit night - we can see our feet well enough."

In a fit of anger, she left behind what seemed like reckless parting words and stormed out of the mistress’s house. And pulling Nagata Mokuji’s hand, she hurried through the late-night street hazy with misty moonlight—but when Man saw the lights of the Nagata house in the distance and the shadows of people there busily preparing boxed meals, her chest suddenly ached, and tears streamed down in torrents. Because Nagata was limp and kept stumbling and falling, Man carried the boss on her back. He was as light as a papier-mâché doll.

Again, fresh tears streamed down,

(He was such a good boss...) And all that had happened since two years ago—when they’d come to rely on Nagata Mokuji with a letter of introduction from “Nandemoya”—swirled through Man’s mind like a rapidly spinning lantern, dizzyingly coming and going. “Wherever I went, there was never a boss I could truly respect.” Back when he was in Moji and Shimonoseki, Kingoro would often say those words. He had concluded that neither Hamao Ichizō nor Yamashita Matsuji were figures worthy of being respected as bosses. That Kingoro settled down with the Nagata Group for two whole years was ultimately because he was drawn to Nagata Mokuji’s character.

When the two—dressed like beggars after being expelled from Hikoshima—had fallen into darkened spirits and arrived in Tobata without holding much hope，Nagata Mokuji welcomed them warmly，looking after them with care beyond what even family would provide．That kindness sank bone-deep into Kingoro and his wife．And so，working themselves to the bone，two years passed—but from about six months prior，Nagata Mokuji had completely changed．

(What was so great about that woman anyway? Why would a man let himself rot away for someone like her?)

Man was utterly perplexed. And with that incomprehensible frustration, that exasperation, that irritation, she simply grew intensely angry. With her face still wet from tears, Man returned to the Nagata house. Nagata Mokuji had, at some point, fallen asleep on Man’s back, looking quite comfortable.

The lighthouse at the breakwater's tip slowly rotated its beam, casting streaks of light that glittered across the night's curtain. The hazy moon faintly illuminated the sea, leaving no hindrance to the barges' movements. Over Yahata, the sky burned crimson like a great fire as it reflected the steelworks' blast furnace flames towering high. This celestial fire flickered as if breathing. The wind bit cold. "What time d'you reckon it is now?" Someone had asked, but none among them owned a watch.

“Five o’clock.”

A voice declared definitively. “How do you know?” “The bell at Anyōji Temple is ringing.”

At these words, they listened closely, and in the depths of the predawn air, the long-echoing sound of a bell faintly resonated.

Anyōji Temple in Wakamatsu was an ancient Jōdo sect temple with a long history. At five in the morning, the time bell was always struck. Because the bell tower stood at the tip of a hill overlooking the entire town, its sound traveled far and wide. Even so, it was hard to hear as far as the lighthouse offshore outside the port—the west wind was likely the reason.

“Five o’clock?” Tamai Kingoro, sitting at the bow, said suspiciously. “The Panama Maru’s late. Wasn’t she supposed to dock after four?” “Better we’re a bit late, Bossin,” someone said. “Less danger once it’s light.” “True enough,” Kingoro replied, “but darkness hides our strategy from the other side.” “That Kakusuke’s no better than an animal,” another voice spat. “With the mooring at Buoy No.3,” Kingoro continued, “he’s surely got a barge waiting there right now. Means to catch us off guard. They’ll never guess we’ve come out as far as the lighthouse. Thinks he’ll impress the Dotera Hag with today’s haul—but mark me, he’ll choke when the real work starts.”

“That Dotera Hag seems like a fierce one.” “When she sets her sights on killing someone, she stands behind ’em and raises her right hand as a signal.” “Then her underlings cut that man down.” “I’ve heard such stories.” “It’s a real problem—these bastards think killing folks’s no different from choppin’ daikon or eggplant.” “Bossin, you’d better watch yourself too—that’d be wisest.”

“I hate fights, so I won’t get cut down. If it looks like I’m about to get cut down, I’ll take the thirty-sixth stratagem and run.”

At those words of Kingoro’s, laughter broke out.

Wakamatsu Port was calm, but here, the waves were indeed high. White spray was rising against the breakwater. In the dark sea directly beneath the lighthouse, two large barges floated, their sides casting a pale blue glow from noctiluca as they waited for the Panama Maru to enter port. In one boat was Kingoro; in the other, "Rokuzoro no Gen" was aboard as the leader. Apart from the glow of lit tobacco, they kept no lights burning.

At the stern of the boat Tamai Kingoro was riding, Okawa Tokijiro squatted with his knees hugged to his chest. He had taken off his post office uniform and wore borrowed stevedore work clothes. Alongside the regular Nagata Group dockworkers were several unaffiliated itinerant stevedores referred to as "bazoku," making Tokijiro appear as one of their number—no one paid him particular attention.

Tokijiro’s attention was focused solely on Tamai Kingoro’s words and actions.

“Here it comes! Here it comes!”

A voice rang out from Matsukawa Genshū’s boat. Everyone turned their gaze seaward in unison.

Against the backdrop of Rokuren Island, a steamship approached, its portside glowing red, starboard green, and a white navigation light shining from the mast. On the hazy dark sea, the black hull studded with lights appeared like a phantom. The Panama Maru resounded with a deep, resonant boom, released white steam, and sounded its arrival whistle as it entered port. “Row!” Kingoro, who stood up at the bow, shouted in a lively voice. Both barges raised two oars each and began rowing—not toward the Panama Maru, but with their prows turned toward the port.

Inside the barges that had been exhausted from waiting, vitality suddenly surged forth.

As it approached the port entrance, the steamship reduced its speed. Even so, it quickly caught up to the human-rowed barges. Up close, the Panama Maru's massive hull, like a building, drew near. Kingoro lit the bow-shaped lantern. Matsukawa Genshū also followed suit. About ten lanterns bearing the three characters "Nagata Group" suddenly cast their light upon the sea like blooming flowers.

The oarlocks creaked rhythmically. The two barges were being rowed toward the harbor with all their strength, maintaining an interval of about ten ken between them. Between them, the Panama Maru—having now caught up—thrust its bow into the narrowing gap.

“Close in on the main ship!” At Kingoro’s command, the barges ran parallel to the Panama Maru while steadily closing in on the steamship’s hull. The surge churned up by the giant ship suddenly transformed into turbulent crosswaves that violently rocked the barges. Had an unskilled rower been at work, the oars would have lifted from the water—but these oarsmen wielded well-trained arms. As if being sucked inward, the barges drew closer to the steamship’s exposed red hull. “Look out, I tell ya!”

Already aboard the Panama Maru, they had noticed the two small boats with lit lanterns in its path, and from the deck, the crew members were shouting, waving red lanterns. "We're gonna collide, I tell ya!"

“You’ll sink us, I tell ya!” “Move away!” they were all shouting things like that. Kingoro, who had planted himself at the bow, had been swinging the lantern in wide, circular arcs, but once the steamship’s prow had passed between the two barges, he handed it to a stevedore beside him. He took up the single rope that had been prepared. At its tip was attached an anchor-like hook. “Heave!” With a low shout that seemed to rise from the pit of his stomach, he hurled the rope toward the steamship’s deck. It was a thoroughly mastered technique. The rope flew onto the deck, and the hook at its end clanged loudly as it caught on the ship’s railing.

“Nice!” Kingoro nodded firmly with a look of deep satisfaction. The lower end of the rope was connected to the barge’s bow. When the rope stretched taut at an angle, the barge began moving at the same speed as the steamship.

Kingoro grasped the rope. After testing it two or three times, he released his feet from the barge. He climbed up the rope smoothly and swiftly. He was like a monkey. Tokijiro opened his eyes wide and stared intently at Kingoro's actions. It’d be amusing if that man fell into the sea. A malicious feeling welled up in Tokijiro’s heart. If he fell and died, that’d be even better… If one were to probe the deepest recesses of his heart, it might have been such a demonic heart.

――Rival in love. He hated him. Precisely because his affection for Man had somewhat exceeded normal bounds, toward the man who monopolized Man, feelings of jealousy and hatred welled up within him―enough to make him grind his teeth. This resentment toward Man lured Okawa Tokijiro―once a model youth―into a hell of wrathful ambition. If that man were gone, Man would be mine. Blind romantic egoism had instilled such malicious expectations in Tokijiro.

Despite Tokijiro’s fervent wish, Kingoro did not fall into the sea. Nimbly climbing the rope, he reached the railing, then lightly vaulted over the gunwale and disappeared onto the deck. In less than three minutes, he reappeared on the ship’s deck. Leaning out over the railing, he faced the barge below.

“Immediately begin platform rigging!” he bellowed. Making arrangements for manual cargo handling along the ship’s side during navigation fell under extraordinary measures. First, it was dangerous, and there had never been any precedent. However, Kingoro—who had boarded the vessel—appeared to have obtained their consent within a short time. This too seemed the outcome of negotiations, as the ship’s speed decreased further still. From departure onward, thorough preparations had been made, so at Kingoro’s command, the stevedores commenced moving with brisk efficiency.

Kingoro hung a rope ladder on the ship's side. Three men climbed up along it to the deck. Ropes and planks were swiftly handled, and in no time, a six-tiered platform had been constructed along the third hatch's side. This was true not only for the starboard side but also for the port side. The one commanding the port side was "Rokuzoro no Gen."

“Seems that went well after all.” Kingoro and Gen finally exchanged relieved smiles.

By the time the preparations were complete and the Panama Maru passed by Nakano Island, which lay at the entrance to Dōkai Bay, the eastern sky grew pale, and the harbor too was beginning to emerge hazily in the faint light of dawn.

“Mr. Tamai, you’re as energetic as ever.” The one who had spoken those words on the bridge was the ship captain. They had been acquainted since Moji and had met many times during cargo-handling operations. “I’ve no other talents, you see. The only thing I’ve got going for me is the health I inherited from my parents.” “Oh, there’s no need for modesty. I was genuinely surprised this time. It’s unconventional. Such recklessness—only you could pull this off. This isn’t just the result of good health.”

“It wasn’t me who did it—the harbor scoundrels made me do it.” “You’re dead right about that. “There’s these damn pests stirring up the port—plagues on us all. “We’re the ones left holding the inconvenience. “Treating ships like brawling grounds, they are. “……You don’t reckon there’ll be more fighting today?” “I’ve no intention of starting any fights myself…”

The third buoy drew near through the dim light. Though seen from a distance, it was clear that two large barges were moored around the buoy. Dozens of lanterns bearing the two characters "Tomoda" were densely clustered in two locations on the sea, like spiky hedgehogs of light—impossible to mistake.

“Just as I’d figured.” Kingoro looked at the threatening, gaudy cluster of lights and laughed in amusement. “They’re trying to scare us with Tomoda Kizō’s name.” Gen forced a bitter smile, his eyes growing wary. “We’ll light our lanterns too.”

“That’s the way.” At the signal from both men, all bow-shaped lanterns of the Nagata Group were lit. On the tiered platforms along both sides stood four men each. With six tiers holding twenty-four lanterns, they resembled a festival float. The Panama Maru looked as magnificent as a castle fortress guarded by soldiers at its main and rear gates. From what resembled a castle keep atop the ship came a deep, conch-like whistle blare as it was guided by the pilot steamer toward the Third Buoy.

This imposing spectacle of dawn’s lights could be seen from anywhere around the harbor. From various places, thousands of curious gazes were concentrated on the Third Buoy. When the Panama Maru could be seen passing alongside Nakano Island, several coal-laden barges, towed by a tugboat, began advancing toward the main ship from beneath the railway pier on the Wakamatsu side. The Panama Maru was moored to the buoy.

The Tomoda faction’s barge rowed up to the Nagata Group’s barge. At the bow stood Hirao Kakusuke, holding a lantern high.

“Isn’t Nagata Mokuji here?” When the gunwales of the two vessels came into contact, Kakusuke bellowed. On an ugly, square-shaped face like a filthy rag, sinister, cunning eyes gleamed.

Kingoro descended from the deck along the shelves and confronted Kakusuke. “Do you have some business with me, Mr. Kaku?”

“I have no business with you.” “Bring out Boss Nagata!”

“I’m the field supervisor here—if it’s work talk, I’ll hear it out.” “Underling, step back.” “Nagata Group business gets discussed with Boss Nagata.”

“Mr. Kaku, that doesn’t hold water.” “The hell you mean?” “You’re not Tomoda-san or Dotera Baba either, are you? Or are the people on that barge your Hirao Group’s young underlings?” Hirao Kakusuke was at a loss for a response, his eyes darting back and forth. Because he wasn’t very bright, whenever confronted with logical arguments, he would immediately become lost for words. “If I’m an underling, then you’re what you might call an underling too. Then we underlings should be able to talk things out between ourselves.”

Kingoro said in a quiet tone.

“All right then, let’s talk. Tamai, take all of Nagata’s men and clear out of here now. We’ve got a proper agreement to handle the Panama Maru’s cargo ourselves. Trying to muscle in on our job is downright shameless. Get lost.”

“An agreement?… With who?…”

“With your boss, Nagata Mokuji.” Kingoro chuckled derisively, “You’re saying something strange.” “If some outsider were making wild promises, I could see that happening—but why would Boss Nagata himself ever hand over his own crucial work to others?” “Unless he’s lost his mind…” “Ha ha ha ha! So you’re saying Boss Nagata’s gone mad, and a mere subordinate like you hasn’t noticed?” “Tamai, that Nagata who’s been favoring you—he’s betraying you all!”

“Even if you fabricate such an outrageous claim, no one will truly act on it. Please don’t interfere with legitimate work—withdraw for now.” “Ha ha ha ha!” Kakusuke erupted in another uproarious laugh. He looked thoroughly satisfied indeed. The gazes of allies and enemies alike sharpened, converging on the two men. “Tamai, it’s your lot who need to back off. No matter how much you argue, you won’t trust me—so I’ll show you proof.”

Kakusuke searched the pocket of his belly apron and took out a piece of paper. He spread it out, smoothed the wrinkles, slapped it with his calloused palm, then thrust it under Kingoro’s nose. “Look at this!” Kingoro took the blue-ruled paper and read it. It was a transfer deed. ――“Regarding the cargo handling of one thousand tons of coal to be loaded onto the Panama Maru scheduled for next arrival, we hereby transfer said operations to you as compensation for funds received this day, there being no discrepancy in this matter, and do hereby affix this pledge for future reference.” And Nagata Mokuji’s signature and seal.

The main text was another matter, but the handwriting of the signature, though messy, was undoubtedly Nagata’s. The seal impression was also an officially registered one. (Had he been tricked again?) Damn it— Kingoro thought, biting his lip. Similar things had happened several times before. At the time, those incidents had been too minor to warrant attention, but Nagata Mokuji should have been sufficiently vigilant. Recently, he had been showing signs of alcohol-induced rage, and his memories during blackout drunkenness had become almost entirely lost. Seizing this opportunity, a plot was hatched. In this scheme, Saku was exploited. The naive Saku, simply needing money, easily fell into their trap and made Nagata Mokuji sign and seal various documents. The soft-hearted Nagata would do anything Saku said.

(This transfer deed must also have been executed by exploiting the boss’s drunkenness through Saku.)

Kingoro felt as if a hot lump of lead had been thrust down his throat, but outwardly maintained his composure. "This looks different from the Boss's handwriting." He declared dismissively. "Then produce Nagata himself!" "What right does someone who never shows their face at work have to call himself boss?" "Mr. Kakusuke, the Boss is right here." At the woman's voice, he turned to find Man and Nagata Mokuji standing in a small boat that had arrived unnoticed. Tani Shunji, "the middle school student," was also aboard, with lunch baskets and two five-shō barrels loaded on board.

“I see,” Kakusuke said spitefully. “Well, this is convenient.” “...Mr. Nagata—take a look at this deed.” “You can’t possibly mistake something you wrote yourself.” Nagata Mokuji, who had sobered up somewhat, wore a workman’s coat bearing “Nagata Group” characters with “kogashira” stitched above them—an unusual uniform he hadn’t worn in ages. He seemed unable to grasp why Kakusuke wore Tomoda’s name on his haori aboard the enemy ship. Rubbing his bleary eyes repeatedly,

“Kakuyoi, when the hell did you become one of Tomoda’s young underlings?”

“There’s no way I’d stick around forever. With a lazy boss like you offering no future prospects, I had to split from you myself.” “…That kinda thing don’t matter.” “Take a good look at that document and get the hell out of here, Nagata Group.” “What’s this document?” “Here it is.”

Kingoro handed the transfer deed to Nagata. Kingoro thought the Boss had come at the worst possible time, but there was nothing to be done. If Nagata acknowledged it, disaster would follow. He’d never imagined Kakusuke could possess the Boss’s transfer deed. Nor had he ever dreamed that the Boss—who hadn’t shown his face at the worksite in days—would appear mid-negotiations. One shock followed another—yet under the collective gaze of their audience, he couldn’t feed the Boss sly prompts.

Nagata Mokuji spread out the thin blue-ruled paper with both hands and read it with a suspicious look. Holding it up to the brightening dawn light as if examining it through transparency, he raised it high toward the sky and tilted his head slightly. "What in the...? This is some strange business..."

He muttered. Hearing this, Kingoro felt relieved. Kakusuke's face grew even more rigidly square, his clouded triangular eyes glaring, "What do you mean 'strange business'? There's no such thing! You properly approved it yourself, signed it, and stamped your seal on it, didn't you?" "Why the hell would I put my seal on something like this?" "It's too late to play dumb now. That handwriting and seal are unmistakably yours!"

"I have no recollection of writing my name or stamping my seal on such idiotic documents." "The handwriting and seal—well now, those are some fine imitations." Nagata Mokuji had absolutely no memory of it. In truth, he had signed and stamped the document with Saku's assistance while in an insensible drunken stupor. He had even spent the deposit money he received. But with not a fragment of memory remaining, his gentle eyes gradually clouded with suspicion as he began growing angry.

“Kakuyoi, are you even human? To forge a fake document and then kick mud at your own benefactor boss with your hind legs—how could you…?”

“I thought it might come to this.” Kingoro swiftly snatched the document from Nagata’s hand and tore it to shreds. He shredded it as finely as possible, paying particular attention to obliterate any trace of the signatures and seals until nothing but fragments remained.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Startled, Kakusuke shouted as if howling and lunged forward—but a left hand restrained him, “You’re the reckless one here. If you’re a workman, don’t pull such underhanded tricks—act more like a man.” With that, he scattered the paper fragments into the sea like hail. The thin, fragile washi paper dissolved like snow falling into water. “Damn it... Grr...” Kakusuke groaned. He began to tremble as if convulsing. His grotesque face turned monstrous, and his exposed jagged teeth clattered violently.

He had been glaring at Kingoro with eyes full of hatred, but suddenly whirled around, shoved through the lanterns, and retreated to the stern of his own boat. Knowing Kingoro's physical strength all too well, Kakusuke himself was fully aware there was no winning in a head-on confrontation.

Kakusuke stood abruptly at the stern, then suddenly puffed out his chest in a show of bravado, throwing it back defiantly, “Crush those Nagata Group bastards!”

“Crush those Nagata Group bastards!” he screamed. The stevedores holding “Tomoda” lanterns stirred and showed signs of rushing toward the Nagata Group’s boat. “Don’t lay a hand on them.”

Standing at the bow, Kingoro turned around and addressed the members of his group in a composed tone. If this had been some deserted field or the like, it might have turned into a major brawl. However, there were far too many spectators. It was a pageant—massive and splendid, so to speak—at the heart of an open-air stage known as Dōkai Bay. Moreover, this was no sudden accident—the uneasy atmosphere had been sensed for some time now.

Moreover, the stage sets, large props, and small props arranged around the No.3 Buoy that day were far too ostentatious. Both sides had their lanterns blazing brightly, so even as Kingoro and Kakusuke were deep in negotiations, the water police launch had already reached the buoy. The launch was crammed with policemen wearing hats secured by chin straps, clustered tightly together. Furthermore, the boat belonging to Asō—the consignor of the coal—had also arrived, with the company's ship officers and site supervisors keeping close watch on how events would develop here.

At Kakusuke's command, just as the Tomoda faction began to move, numerous officers from the police launch leaped onto the boats and formed a barrier between the two groups.

“Don’t get in the way! Move! Move!” Frenzied, Kakusuke no longer distinguished friend from foe. Like a madman, he howled. However, by then, the Tomoda faction had been blocked by the police officers and lost their freedom of action. In the end, the Tomoda faction had no choice but to withdraw, their two boats towed back to the Wakamatsu side by the water police launch. Kakusuke, robbed of words by despair and fury, could only mutter deliriously— “You’ll remember this. “...You’ll get yours.”

He could only repeat it over and over. “Kindly commence the cargo handling immediately.” The Asō company representative said to Kingoro in a relieved manner. “I will do so.” Kingoro looked terribly sullen. “No—thanks to you, it was resolved without incident.” “Thank you.” “For a moment there, I thought things were going to take a terrible turn.” “Creating fake transfer documents to steal the job... What bastards they are.” “…But… it’s over.” “It’s over… It’s over.”

For Kingoro, there was no thrill of victory whatsoever—only a sense of guilt that plunged him into utter dejection. “Tamai, hurry up and get to work.” Nagata Mokuji, his face brimming with joy and triumph, urged him on.

Man, too, “If you start right away…” gazed curiously at her melancholy husband and peered into his face. There was something glistening in his eyes. Realizing they were tears, Man was startled. In that instant, she couldn’t comprehend what those tears meant.

“You…?” What’s wrong?—she kept the words to herself as she drew closer to Kingoro.

“Right, let’s get to work.” As if avoiding Man, Kingoro spun around sharply, raised his right hand high, and shouted. Without showing his face to her, he climbed along the gunwale’s rope ledge with monkey-like agility and leaped onto the Panama Maru’s high deck in an instant.

The cargo handling began vigorously. Okawa Tokijiro, unaccustomed to this type of work, shoveled coal inside the barge. It was the role of shoveling coal into baskets with a scoop. It was women’s work. However, being originally a farmer with strength, once he grasped the method in no time, his efficiency became three times that of the women.

However, Tokijiro’s interest was, of course, not in learning such work. His heart was filled to the brim with every word and action he had witnessed from his romantic rival.

Tokijiro felt suffocated. It was not something arising from physical overexertion but clearly something coming from mental haze. (The man called Tamai Kingoro seems slightly different from the drunkard, gambler, thug I had imagined.) For Tokijiro, it would have been far better if the man monopolizing Man had been an ugly, lazy, incompetent yakuza with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The previous night, when he and Man had been arguing over the futon and Kingoro suddenly appeared, baring his tattooed skin and declaring, "I’ll cut you down," he hadn’t felt the slightest fear of Kingoro. However, having now witnessed everything that thug had done from start to finish, Tokijiro was gradually developing a sense of fear toward Kingoro.

(That hated rival) To steel himself, Tokijiro forced the words through his mind. The jealousy remained. Yet the contempt and hatred had already begun fading into shadow. Still, he wouldn't relinquish Man, (No matter what it takes, Man will be mine.) Tokijiro's body tensed. He stole a glance toward Man. There she worked in the same barge, pickaxe in hand, shoveling coal with single-minded diligence. Her whole being focused on supporting Tamai Kingoro's vital work - no room left for thoughts of Tokijiro in that earnest labor.

Man would occasionally wipe her sweat, pause her work, and look up at Kingoro on the deck. Tokijiro did not so much as glance her way. Having stripped off his crested workman’s coat, Kingoro bared his arms against the navy apron’s bowl-shaped front. The ascending dragon coiled about his left arm stood vivid blue in the morning light, eyes glinting as if it itself commanded the cargo operations. “Bring it on! Bring it on!”

Kingoro's voice rang out. (That man said he'd settle things with me and Man after the Panama Maru job—but would he really cut me down?) This sudden possibility began to gnaw at Tokijiro. "This is some peculiar cargo handling."

The captain and the company’s ship officer were watching in admiration.

Normally during cargo coal operations, shelves were not hung along the gunwale. Constructing tiered platforms for tengu-style handling had been limited to fuel coal alone. That they had specifically hung these shelves today was a strategy to outmaneuver the enemy. Indeed, having rowed out as far as the lighthouse offshore and hung the shelves despite the danger, the enemy found themselves unable to interfere. Cargo coal was typically loaded by laying a long gangplank from barge to ship, climbing up and down it while using partitioned carrying baskets to transport the cargo. Following Kingoro’s desperate measure, two cargo-handling methods were carried out simultaneously that day. This required many workers but nearly doubled the operation’s efficiency.

The 1,000-ton job couldn’t be finished in a day and was finally completed three days after they began. Every precaution had been taken against sabotage during this period, yet there were no unsettling moves from Tomoda Kizō, Dotera Baba, or Hirao Kakusuke. The stillness felt eerily ominous. The scale of the operation might have grown too conspicuous—perhaps that was why the police had stepped in. Ohara Haruyoshi, delighted by the Panama Maru cargo handling’s smooth conclusion, invited Nagata Mokuji, Kingoro, Matsukawa Genshū, Man, and seven or eight other key members to his residence.

“If Tamai hadn’t been here, who knows what would’ve happened. Tamai isn’t just the Nagata Group’s pillar—he’s the backbone of the whole union.” Ohara, having said that, effusively praised Kingoro. However, for some reason, Kingoro maintained a stern face and remained gloomy throughout. From this banquet, Nagata Mokuji had vanished without anyone noticing.

Kingoro had also invited around ten comrades, including "Rokuzoro no Gen," to his home. He hosted a modest celebratory banquet with sukiyaki. “Because everyone worked so hard, we somehow managed to get through it safely. Thank you truly.” Kingoro said that and turned toward Okawa Tokijiro, who was seated, “Good work. You too—have a drink.” he offered a cup.

“Mr. Kingoro.” Genshū—his Chrysanthemum Stone face flushed crimson—lowered his voice slightly. “What’s this about?” “There’s talk of people seeing Kakusuke with a bandage on his right pinky,” said Genshū. “They say it was a fresh bandage reeking of carbolic acid—he must’ve cut off the finger to apologize for botching the job, either to Dotera Hag or Tomoda.” “Hmm.”

"That guy," said Tani Shunji, the middle schooler, "just keeps choppin' off his fingers, huh. The tips of his left pinky and ring finger are already gone. Before long, every one of his fingers'll lose everything past the first joint, and he'll end up with hands like ginger roots."

At those words, the group burst into laughter, but Tokijiro couldn't grasp what it meant. With a blank look on his face,

“What kinda reason would they go cuttin’ off fingers like that?”

Genshū said, "As an apology for screwing up, you cut off a finger to get them to forgive you." "What counts as a screw-up?" "For example, things like failing to secure our job this time, getting caught cheating in gambling dens, doing something that shames the boss's honor, working an election campaign only to have your candidate lose... or getting caught sleeping with someone else's woman." "Sleeping with someone’s woman, too?"

“That’s right.”

Tokijiro made a surprised face and looked at Kingoro. He looked at Man. He alternated his gaze between their faces, comparing them.

“Bwahahaha!”

Kingoro burst out laughing. Tokijiro felt a chill. “The guest from Hiroshima looks downright worried—like he’s been sneaking around with someone else’s woman.” “Or did you mess around with someone back there and run off here?” “No way!” “I ain’t done nothin’ like that!” “Then quit your shakin’.” “You ain’t got th’ face for cheatin’.” “Seem decent enough… work hard too… So—what’s th’ guest plannin’ next?”

Tokijiro’s eyes darted wildly. He had no idea what was going on.

Man had long since understood everything. (His usual buffoonery.) In the midst of their back-and-forth over the futon with Tokijiro, Kingoro had entered. The exaggerated clatter of the shoji door being thrown open, Sukehiro's shortsword that should have been left at home, the theatrically delivered line—"Caught you cheating!"—the eyes rolled back with forced intensity—this was all an act to prevent questions about his tattoos, though he trusted Man completely and harbored not the slightest suspicion of adultery. Yes, Man had seen through it all since that night.

Suppressing a giggle, she waited to hear how Tokijiro would respond.

Tokijiro had been thinking for a brief moment, but when he raised his face, he declared in a resolute tone. “Please let me stay in this group.” “Please make me your retainer, Mr. Tamai.” “I’ll work as hard as I can.” Songs broke out, dances were had—lively and pleasant—and they made merry late into the night before the comrades finally withdrew and departed. It was decided that Okawa Tokijiro would be lodged in the bachelors’ meal-fee room, and Rokuzoro no Gen took him back.

Amidst the mess of empty cups and dishes left after drinking, when only they two remained, both Kingoro and Man found themselves facing each other with blank expressions as if half a year had passed since their last meeting. Ever since that night when Kingoro had returned home, driven by *Panama Maru* cargo work, the couple hadn't shared a single moment to talk properly. Amidst the scattered remnants of this untimely feast, seven cats busied themselves in their respective spots. "Man, you must be worn out?" At Kingoro's caring words, Man felt her chest tighten sharply—

“No, you’re the one.” With that, she took the tobacco pipe. She packed the shredded leaves, lit them, took a puff, and passed it to her husband. Wordlessly, Kingoro smoked it with apparent enjoyment, gazing up at the lamp’s glass chimney where moths danced—when suddenly, marble-sized tears began streaming steadily from both eyes. Man started, “You…?”

The memory of her husband's mysterious tears she had witnessed at the Panama Maru worksite resurfaced in Man's eyes. Following his wife's lead, Kingoro silently packed shredded tobacco into the pipe's bowl, lit it, took a drag, and handed the pipe back to Man. "I'm worthless."

He bit his lip and muttered. “What’s wrong?” “It’s no good.” “You… looked like you were crying at work too…” “I wasn’t crying.” His voice thickened with self-loathing. “Frustrated… ashamed… feeling like a damn fool… I got so angry I tried to laugh it off. Then water just started pouring from my eyes.” He stared at the moths battering themselves against the lamp. “Called Kakusuke a fraud when I’m ten times worse. With this?” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Far from becoming a dragon soaring to heaven—I’ll tumble into some valley and crawl through the dirt. That’s my limit.” His shoulders slumped. “Once that happens… I won’t even be here anymore.”

Kingoro sat hugging his knees, looking utterly dejected.

—Dragon. At those words, Man remembered her husband's tattoos that she had forgotten amid the commotion. "You..." "Hmm?" "What happened to your tattoos?"

“This?” Kingoro took off one side of his garment. As if caressing it, he stroked over the dragon two or three times with the palm of his right hand. Under the lamplight, the blue color was beautiful. “Who did you have do them?” “When I went to Musashi Hot Springs with the bosses, I came across a damn good tattoo artist.” “When he saw my skin, he kept insisting on doing the work.” “I figured I’d get one too, so we went together to Hakata.” “This alone took a week.”

Kingoro feared that Man would discover his secret with Okyo. The depths of his chest ached.

It had been a week of possession and dreams. Kingoro wanted no secrets between himself and Man, but fate's unrelenting yoke refused to release him once seized. That night, dead drunk, he let Okyo draw dragon designs on both arms - then startled at their completion. When he pressed her peony-and-butterfly adorned right arm against his rising-dragon tattooed left arm, their combined reflection in the mirror left him spellbound - hypnotized by Okyo's venomous allure.

“Oh, Mr. Kingoro, isn’t it beautiful?”

Okyo stroked the man’s arm and whispered in a sweet, syrupy voice. “Yeah, it’s beautiful…”

Kingoro had indeed thought the same.

“How about it? What if we make it real ink instead of just a drawing?” “That’s true…” “A body like yours exists to be adorned with tattoos. I’ve tattooed plenty of people over the years, but I’ve never seen skin as beautiful as yours, Mr. Kingoro. I could drool just looking—I’m utterly smitten. Leaving it plain white like this is such a waste.” “Mr. Han'nya Goro said somethin’ like that too, didn’t he…”

“Come on, get it tattooed. Isn’t this a splendid emblem for a proper man?”

“Okyo.” “Yes?” “Will you be the one to do the tattooing?”

“Of course I will.” “Who else would I let tattoo you?” “Alright—do it.”

Later, this tattoo would become a lifelong source of calamity—one that, when the time came, no amount of regret could undo—and it was at this moment, with a certain intoxication, that Kingoro resolved to etch it into his flesh.

“Magnificent!”

Okyo exaggeratedly raised a voice of praise and let slip a knowing smirk of satisfaction.

The next morning, while it was still dark, the figures of the two disappeared from Musashi Hot Springs.

By Haruyoshihashi Bridge along the Naka River that flows through Hakata City, in a tasteful teahouse room facing the waterway, the two began their strange life together. They started with his left arm—a rising dragon would be tattooed first. Wherever she journeyed, Okyo apparently carried her complete set of tools. She didn’t sketch any outlines first. She worked directly on the unmarked arm. Bundling several komachi needles in her right hand and gripping an ink-laden brush in her left, she inserted pigment each time the needles pierced skin. She demonstrated masterful skill born of long practice.

On Kingoro's blank white arm, the dragon's eyeball, nose, horns, and beard emerged one after another. Kingoro endured it, though the prickling hurt.

Okyo laughed, “Does that hurt?”

“Nah—it’s just ticklin’, feels good.” “The arm’s the least painful spot, you know. When it’s your butt or lower back, the weak-willed ones shed tears.” When the needle reached the dragon’s forelimb, Kingoro

“Hold on,” Kingoro said and stopped Okyo’s hand. “What’s wrong?” “What’s that limb holding?” “The sacred jewel,” she replied. “Isn’t that obvious?” “I’d like you to draw chrysanthemum flowers instead.” “Chrysanthemums?” Okyo tilted her head. “Odd.” Though skeptical, she complied—making the dragon’s forelimb clutch a thick bundle of chrysanthemums. Come nightfall, the knowing maid laid out one futon with two pillows before leaving—a gesture of assumed intimacy.

Startled, Kingoro chased after the maid into the hallway. “Hey—Miss.” “What is it?” “I need two futons laid out or this won’t work.” “What nonsense! Don’t be so crude. If you do that, Okyo-san’ll skin me alive.”

“No way, no way! “Absolutely two!”

“No way—no way!”

“Hey—wait, wait!” While they were engaged in this back-and-forth, Okyo, having heard the commotion, came out. She clutched her stomach and burst into laughter. “This isn’t a laughing matter!”

Without responding to Kingoro’s sullen words, Okyo kept laughing as she ordered the maid to prepare two futons. The tattooing continued through the night.

Having been instructed about the timing, Kingoro entered the bath. The water had been kept boiling all day long specifically for the tattoos. When he soaked in the hot water, he felt a pain greater than being pricked by needles. His arms went numb and throbbed as if they might tear off. However, unless he bathed, the true colors wouldn't show. When it came time to sleep, Kingoro faced an ordeal. He made arrangements while Okyo was away at the bath. He pushed the two futons laid out by the maid to opposite ends of the six-tatami room, putting as much distance between them as possible. Still uneasy, he erected a two-panel gold-leafed screen that was in the room between them.

Okyo, having come up from the bath, burst into laughter,

“Mr. Kingoro, what kind of spell is that?” “It’s a charm against evil.” “Is there a demon here?” “There is one.” “What kind of demon?” “It’s a repulsive demon.” “You’re such a strange person.” Okyo’s narrow eyes, which had been laughing, transformed into an amorous glance filled with complex emotions. There was no doubt Okyo’s interest in Kingoro had grown beyond mere tattoos. Kingoro had vaguely sensed this as well, which was why he drew that boundary line.

However, in a cramped six-tatami room where a young man and woman were staying, whether there was one futon or two made no difference. The fortress-like screen proved utterly useless. As Kingoro slept, Okyo came crashing against him, jolting him awake. She wore a scarlet crepe underkimono with a white collar. From the hair beneath her wig rose the thick aroma of binzuke oil, while the sensual blend of white powder and perfume teased at Kingoro’s nostrils.

Kingoro felt his heart pound,

“Okyo-san, what’s wrong?” “A mouse! Mice… I hate them!” Saying this, she clung to Kingoro. Startled, Kingoro stood up as if to push Okyo away. He paced around the entire room,

“Where’s the mouse? I’m not scared of mice… Shoo! Shoo!” he cried frantically, though no rodent could be seen anywhere. Just when they seemed to have finally settled into separate futons, Okyo would exclaim “A gecko!” and come crawling over to Kingoro again. At last dawn broke. Though nothing had actually happened through the night, Kingoro felt peculiarly drained.

At breakfast, Okyo was listless. “Okyo-san, what’s wrong?” “Just now, when I thought about it, I felt utterly pathetic. “For me... there’s not a single man who’ll truly stand by my side. “After all, women have to rely on men, don’t they?”

It seemed tears might even be welling up in Okyo’s eyes as she spoke earnestly, but Kingoro rebelled against this internally—(What nonsense are you spouting?! What man would ever leave someone like you alone?! Men are swarming around you—you’ve got mountains of suitors! Black strings, red strings, blue strings—you’re probably tangled up in them all!)

He had been thinking such things.

However, he did not voice it, “Okyo,” “Yes?” “I’m a live-in servant with a master to attend to, and I’ve got work responsibilities too—can’t stay away from home long. “Let’s finish this up quick as we can...”

“Giggling, aren’t you just dying to get back to your wife?” “My wife… doesn’t matter…” “Who knows…?” Okyo seemed to have given up, for no matter how she tried, Kingoro would not take the bait.

“By established protocol,” Okyo explained, “carnal desires are strictly forbidden until the tattoos are complete.” “If the skin sags or grows oily from passion, the final work will look disgraceful…” She offered these explanations to lower Kingoro’s guard. It seemed she had committed to a patient campaign of calculated seduction. The tattooing continued around the clock. Two days passed, then three, then five. Day by day, a magnificent ascending dragon took form on Kingoro’s left arm.

Okyo seemed to be pouring every ounce of her soul into the work. Her voluptuous face showed signs of weariness. Yet the peril had been mounting. However much they endured, when a young man and woman lived alone together in a single room, matters never proceeded by rote. Even Kingoro—who for three years since Dogo had seared that enigmatic image of longing onto the photographic plate of his heart—harbored elements that might crumble without warning. At times, abruptly tempted by demonic impulses, there came moments of exquisite torment.

The life of pressing faces together day and night and keeping naked bodies in close contact had grown suffocating and terrifying for Kingoro. Then finally, on the night when only one arm had been completed, he seized an opening in Okyo's guard and escaped from the rendezvous house. Kingoro—

(I won't tell Man about Okyo.) Yes, he resolved within himself. While dispelling the oppressive phantom of Okyo that loomed over him, Kingoro showed Man the chrysanthemum bouquet clutched in the dragon's forelimb. "This chrysanthemum—I had it specially added because it made me think of you from our Moji days. During that Shanghai cholera scare when Mori Shinnosuke and I were quarantined, I'll never forget how you put chrysanthemums in the box for me."

Even after hearing this, Man—who didn’t like tattoos—wore a suspicious, sullen expression.

The Russo-Japanese War came to an end, and on October 16th, the Imperial Rescript on the Restoration of Peace was promulgated.

It was decided that a grand naval review would be held in Tokyo Bay, and the Combined Fleet under the command of Commander-in-Chief Togo passed through the Kanmon Strait. The Kitakyushu region was utterly blanketed with Hinomaru flags for this occasion, and the roaring voices welcoming the victorious troops literally roared to the heavens and shook the earth. Kingoro and his wife also went out to see the sights, carrying flags all the way to Moji. At that moment, amidst the crowd, he unexpectedly encountered an old comrade from his Hamao Group days.

“Oh! Well now, Kingoro—what a rare sight.” “Haven’t seen you in ages—but you didn’t go off to the war, did you?”

“I’m a Class A draft dodger, you see.” Through the man’s account, he learned that his former leader Hamao Ichizo, having schemed to make a fortune, had gone to Manchuria as a military labor chief and was struck by a stray bullet during the Battle of Mukden, meeting his end in battle. In defeated Russia, revolutionary upheaval erupted. In Moscow, it was reported in the newspapers that revolutionaries had clashed with government forces, resulting in tens of thousands of casualties.

This winter, Northern Kyushu lay buried under deep snow. As the new year dawned amidst those heavy drifts, turmoil gripped Dōkai Bay - even the coal-loaders' union found itself swept up in revolution.

On a day when peony snow fell ceaselessly upon the already accumulated snow, Kingoro was summoned to Oba Haruyoshi's residence.

“Tamai, there’s a rather delicate request I must make of you...” Oba Haruyoshi’s words had carried a meaningful air from the very start. Kingoro’s expression tensed as he looked up at the senior boss’s face. “I shall comply.” “There is now a matter that absolutely requires your resolve. I wish to entrust this to you, recognizing you as a man of capability.” “What kind of matter would that be?” “I want you to succeed to the Nagata Group.”

Kingoro was so surprised that he could not produce an immediate reply. He lowered his head deeply. He bit his lip, swallowed hard, and then, as if muttering,

“I cannot do that.”

he answered.

“I knew you’d say that.” “For someone as loyal to the boss as you, it’s only natural.” “But Tamai, what’s crucial is right here.” “Chew it over thoroughly and reconsider.” Oba Haruyoshi, who had crossed his arms, leaned forward with one knee. He intensified his tone.

“Right now, there’s no one but you who can save us from this crisis.” “Thanks to our victory, the port can expect more work—we’re about to get busy—but now there’s another worry on top of that.” “Backed by Yoshida Isokichi’s power, the Tomoda Kizō faction is now making plans to run wild.” “They failed with the Panama Maru last time, but there’s no telling what means they might try next.” “This isn’t Russia, but the port’s about to see a blood rain.” “When that happens, the Allied Group won’t be able to hold its ground with its current lineup.” “Therefore, as a result of the board meeting, it was decided to implement major reforms.” “At that meeting, the first to be targeted was the Nagata Group.” “No—Nagata Mokuji.”

Kingoro remained bowed, lightly biting his lower lip, utterly perplexed.

Oba Haruyoshi’s voice grew even more fervent. “This need to discipline Nagata Mokuji didn’t just start today.” “Our patience has finally run its course.” “For the Allied Group’s collective control, there’s simply no alternative.” “Tamai—it’s already settled. The Nagata Group’s ranking will be downgraded.”

Mrs. Oba entered carrying a tray of tea utensils. She sat at the long brazier and poured hot tea from the copper kettle. Oba Haruyoshi's current standing was rumored to owe half its success to his wife's domestic support - a woman as spirited as she was capable. Though nearing fifty, her complexion remained as youthful as a girl's.

“Kin-san, some bancha.” “I’ll have some.” Through the glass of the waist-high shoji, the soundless snow fell thick and ceaseless, its pattern resembling woven kasuri cloth.

“So, Tamai.”

“Yes.” “The crux of my request lies here.” “If the Nagata Group gets demoted, they’ll have to disband as a matter of course.” “Even if Nagata himself manages, his men will be left destitute.” “But if you take over the succession here, not only will the men be secure—the Allied Group itself will gain proper backbone.” “I can’t possibly sit in the master’s seat after pushing him out.” “I understand your feelings perfectly.” “But this would ultimately mean saving Nagata too.” “Reviving the Nagata name is absolutely impossible now.” “The board members—if Tamai Kingoro becomes responsible and stakes the Tamai Group’s name—they’ll recognize Nagata’s former cargo-handling rights… That’s their position… Come now, Tamai—decide.” “I’m bowing my head to ask this of you.”

Oba Haruyoshi, having said that, uncrossed his arms, placed both hands on his knees, and bowed his head slightly.

Tamai Kingoro was stunned,

“Great Master, what are you doing?” “Tamai, I’ve long wanted you to become the central pillar of the Allied Group itself, not just the Nagata Group.” “So I may have overstepped a bit, but I’ve already made all the arrangements to put up the Tamai Group’s marker right after lowering Nagata’s.” “Then I want you to throw yourself into managing the work properly—I’ve even rented a house for you.” “It’s a modest two-story place—big enough for about ten young men.” “I want you to move there.”

“And where exactly is that house?”

Mrs. Oba inquired.

“It’s in Shin-Nakamachi, Wakamatsu.” “You see, for coal handling in Dōkai Bay—Wakamatsu Port being the main hub—workers must live in Wakamatsu to do things properly.” “This Tobata place is inconvenient in every way.” “The Allied Group’s office is on the Wakamatsu side too... Come on, Tamai—do this.” “I’m at a loss.” “Wakamatsu’s crawling with meddlesome types—does that scare you?”

“I’m not scared of anything like that, but…”

“Then go to Wakamatsu—hang up the Tamai Group’s signboard and become a proper man.” “Kin-san, I add my plea as well.” “I’ll go home to discuss this with my wife before giving you my formal answer.” Kingoro trudged home through the peony snowflakes weighing heavy on his shoulders. The couple pressed their foreheads together and heaved identical sighs.

“What’re we gonna do...?” “We’re in real trouble...”

In the port, securing work rights and hanging one's group nameplate was considered an honor equivalent to striking the golden target in archery. For this reason, bloody struggles raged day and night among ambitious men to such an extent. Yet in Kingoro's case - though he harbored no ambition or desire, let alone made any political maneuvers - the unexpected right to form a group had descended upon him like manna from heaven. An ordinary man would have leapt up to desperately clutch at this enormous rice cake fallen from the shelf. But for Kingoro, this feast laid before him became an excruciating burden.

From the couple’s pillow talk, their grand youthful dreams had not yet faded. “I’ll eventually cross over to the Chinese continent and make my mark.” “Fortunately, with the victory in the Russo-Japanese War, I’ve also become able to fully make my mark…”

“I’m still set on Brazil.” “Managing a large farm would be splendid!”

The fact that the two had worked together as stevedores, combining their strength, could be said to be precisely because they shared those lofty ambitions. However, the complex and delicate realities of human life relentlessly pulled the two in directions they could never have anticipated. The powerful yoke of fate twisted them toward the very direction they strove to avoid. Moreover, their very dispositions seemed destined to plunge them irrevocably into the valley of human emotions, sinking so deep that climbing back out would prove impossible.

―Wakamatsu.

Both Kingoro and Man had regarded Wakamatsu as a jungle teeming with wild beasts—a place to avoid, neither somewhere to visit nor reside—yet now, swept up in fate’s tempest, they found themselves inexorably driven to put down roots in that very Wakamatsu. “This is tough…” “What should we do…?”

In a state of utter bewilderment, Tamai Kingoro and his wife were visited by an indignant Nagata Mokuji. They were utterly dejected.

“Tamai, I’m counting on you to take over after me.” “Demoting me after all I’ve done for the Allied Group—it’s enough to tear my guts out.” “Normally I’d bite my tongue and die right in front of the office out of spite—but if you’re taking over, I’ll endure it.” “If some outsider did it instead, I wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Boss, I don’t want to.” “Do it. If you don’t take charge, others will just come steal our work.” Rokuzoro no Minamoto and the rest of the Nagata Group’s members also pressed Kingoro with earnest appeals. Matsukawa Genshū spoke up. “Kin-san, we’d all be proud to become your subordinates. Every one of us would gladly lay down our lives for you. Please hang up the Tamai Group’s plaque and become our boss!”

Kingoro finally made up his mind. Man also agreed. Kingoro and his wife relocated to Wakamatsu.

From the wall of the Allied Group's office, the weathered "Nagata Group" signboard was removed, and a brand-new "Tamai Group" signboard was hung.

That day was February 19, 1906 (Meiji 39).

Kingoro was twenty-seven years old.

On the morning of that memorable day, Man said to her husband, "You know... I might be pregnant." With that, her face suddenly flushed.

Seven Enemies

“It’s a fight!” “A fight!”

Shouting such things, someone ran outside the curtain. “Where’s the fight happening, I wonder?”

Kakusuke murmured, “Leave it be. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” “Fights are part of cherry blossom viewing—they’re one of the seasonal attractions.” “A blossom party without a brawl ain’t worth calling a blossom party.” “Enough jabber—I’ll sing! Geishas—pluck those shamisens!”

Shimamura Gin, having said that, filled a teacup to the brim with sake and downed it in one forceful gulp.

Known as the "Dotera Hag"—whose real name had long been forgotten—Gin sat cross-legged on a red felt rug atop a folding chair, already looking thoroughly intoxicated. She wore a sleeveless workman’s coat that resembled a padded jacket, the origin of her nickname, along with white tabi socks. Her physique was imposing like that of a female sumo wrestler. Her complexion was dark, her face brimming with stubborn vitality, and her thread-like narrow eyes held an unusual gleam. Several cherry blossom petals adorned her large round chignon.

The precincts of Konpira Shrine—commanding a sweeping view of northern Kyushu centered around Dokai Bay below—were a riot of cherry blossoms in full bloom, with flower-viewing banquets spread across the grounds beneath a clear spring sky. Dotera Hag too, accompanied by fourteen or fifteen subordinates, had been making a show of force since morning. About five geishas were also in attendance, serving the guests. At Gin’s command, two geishas picked up their shamisens. One of them, “What song will you sing?”

“Iso-bushi... That’s the one.” The female boss narrowed her already slit-like eyes and began to sing. To those unacquainted with Wakamatsu’s landmarks, Let me share Wakamatsu’s specialties. From Konpirayama to Cape Mountain, Gaze upon the pier, The Oka Steam whistles—Pii... As if orchestrated, the train racing along the railway pier below let out a sharp “Pii!” from its whistle, triggering an explosion of applause and laughter. “Now then, Kakusuke-don—your turn. Do something.” “Do something.”

Her speech had a masculine quality, but her voice was a shrill, piercing shriek. “I’ll do it.”

Kakusuke, also drunk, sat up straight after saying this. His square-shaped, hideous face was bengara red. On the hands resting on his knees, the left little finger, ring finger, and right little finger all lacked everything beyond the second joint. They were like logs.

“I don’t need the shamisen.” “It’s a Russo-Japanese War word-chain song.” “Take a good look at how the last character of each word becomes the start of the next one!”

“That’s enough explanation.” “Then,”

Kakusuke raised his face to the sky and chanted, “Japan’s General Nogi returns victorious—sparrow to white-eye, white-eye to Russia, Russia to barbarian lands, lands to Kropotkin, Kropotkin to golden ball, ball to Makarov, Makarov to loincloth—and captured!”

“Wait!” The female boss interrupted with a laugh. “Kakusuke-don can’t even tighten his loincloth properly—isn’t that right? You’re always blundering about and getting publicly shamed by Tamai...”

“I’ll kill Tamai Kingoro for sure. Mark my words.” “Just you wait and see.” Among the geishas, Okyo’s eyes glinted ominously at his declaration. “The Tamai Group hasn’t shown up today either, has it?” “They’re here.” “Only their executives—five or six from that Rokuzoro Genkou lot—sneaking around behind the shrine.” “What about Kingoro?” “Might’ve come later, but when I saw ’em? Just underlings.”

“What a shameless bastard Tamai Kingoro is. They’ve got some nerve, slinking into our territory in Wakamatsu and daring to raise their heads…”

"Dotera Hag" spoke in a hateful tone. She rolled up her sleeves and gulped down sake.

Kakusuke was second to none in his hatred of Kingoro, so—

“Hmph! Even if that bastard comes to Wakamatsu and tries to make a name for himself, the wholesalers won’t let that fly. If someone’s ready to die on tatami mats, their plans’ll go up in smoke!”

“The Tamai Group’s got the same mark as this Kompira Shrine here on their coats. How insolent.” “Insolent bastards.” “Since his name’s Kingoro, they put the ‘gold’ character inside a circle, right?” "They’re courting divine punishment." “They’re getting full of themselves… If you’ve got a conscience, you oughta show some respect to the gods, I tell ya.” “Do they even have one competent underling?” “Not a single decent one, I tell ya." “A fool like Rokuzoro no Gen is their assistant manager—you can guess what the rest are like.” "There's this Okawa Tokijiro—used to be some backwater postman. This bastard’s been in shady business with Kingoro’s wife Man since their hick days, mark my words—they’ll be having a lovers’ spat any day now." “I’ve even heard rumors Kingoro caught ’em in the act with her lover.”

“So Tamai’s just keeping quiet about it, huh?” “That guy’s head over heels for Man—just a timid weakling through and through, I tell ya. If it were me, even if I loved her, I wouldn’t take her cheating lying down.” “With a face like an ogre fish snagged on a nail—what business does someone like that have falling in love?”

At those words, the entire gathering burst into laughter. Kakusuke sulked. “What else?” “That Taniguchi Rinsuke fella—claims he’s Man’s brother or some such—came crawlin’ here from Moji with his wife an’ kids in tow. All bluster an’ no backbone, a right coward through an’ through.” “When Tamai Kingoro put up that Tamai Group signboard in Wakamatsu, seems every two-bit loser from here to Hades started slitherin’ outta the woodwork—not just Nagata Group castoffs neither.” “From Kingoro’s backwater hometown in Shikoku comes this blacksmith numbskull Seiji playin’ toolmaster, then from Hikoshima in Shimonoseki slinks in ‘Slowpoke Jin’—shogi champ but couldn’t work his way outta wet paper bag—an’ then…”

Through Kakusuke’s words, the Tamai Group came across as utterly incompetent and useless, their reputation firmly cemented as such.

Okyo listened, suppressing her laughter while maintaining an innocent expression. “I’ve heard Mitsui Bussan intends to grant Tamai a stake in their fuel distribution this time…?” “I’ve heard about it too,” Okyo replied. “It appears to be true.” “If outsiders get to cherry-pick the choicest morsels right in our own territory, doesn’t that make laughingstocks of the rest of us?” “Now now, just leave everything to me.” Kakusuke nodded with affected confidence, clenching his stubby-fingered fists before thumping his puffed-out chest.

Shimamura Gin swayed unsteadily to her feet.

“Enough of this gloomy talk.” “Let’s have a rowdy party!” “...Geishas! Why don’t you dance?”

She shouted as if barking commands. Then, singing "To Those Unfamiliar with Wakamatsu's Famous Sites," they began dancing to the shamisen's rhythm. Her limbs moved with a flexibility that belied her corpulent frame. This seemed to hint at the history of "Dotera Baba's" former self.

The underlings all stood up. The three geishas joined in, forming a circle. With lively energy, they danced in circles inside the red-and-white striped curtains. Okyo, too, was among the line of dancers. (She’s even more of a legendary boss than I’d heard.) In secret, deep within her heart, she marveled at Gin’s bold and terrifying demeanor as a female boss. Even Okyo, a woman who had navigated the world of violence, had never encountered a female boss like Gin anywhere she went. There were others called female yakuza, but this was the first time she had encountered a woman like “Dotera Baba”—so androgynous you couldn’t tell if she was man or woman, who treated killing like a trifling matter, relentlessly cruel.

(Mr. Kingoro might be killed.)

That anxiety welled up within her. Okyo was working as a geisha under the professional name "Okyo" from the Wakamatsu Kenban. Having resolved on a long-term strategy against Kingoro, who had fled from the Hakata geisha house, she came to Wakamatsu. Upon hearing that Mori Shinnosuke—who had returned from prison—and Kimika were seeking a middle-aged geisha skilled in shamisen and dance for their geisha house called "Asuka," she got herself hired there. She wasn't in financial straits and could have managed independently, but to conceal her identity, she deliberately took out a loan. Shinnosuke and Kimika both said, "A fine geisha has come to us," and were greatly pleased. Neither of them yet knew anything about Kingoro.

Today, knowing that their cherry-blossom viewing guest was “Dotera Baba,” she had volunteered to come. As for Gin—who had simply ordered five geishas to bring out hanami incense—she hadn’t paid any particular attention to Okyo. “Ah… Need t’piss.” “Geishas—shoulders! Now.”

Gin, who had been dancing, pulled Okyo and the young geisha called Someki closer to her. Pulling them tight against her sides, she wrapped her thick arms around their shoulders and necks. Leaning heavily on them with unsteady steps, she staggered outside the curtain. “Careful now.” Okyo braced Gin’s swaying body as it threatened to collapse, “Y’think this Dotera Hag’d topple from a swig o’ booze?” With that declaration, the female yakuza shook her entire frame violently and bellowed laughter.

Behind Konpira Shrine, a temporary communal toilet had been constructed. There, it formed a sheer cliff. The stone steps numbered three hundred, so if someone were to fall from there, they would undoubtedly lose their life. Suddenly, a wicked intent surged in Okyo’s heart. (Should I push her off the cliff with an innocent face?) Even if she died, no one would suspect a thing—it would just be written off as a drunken accident. Then, Gin suddenly raised her face and muttered.

“Hmm, what’s that Tamai fellow up to? Is he scrapping with Ezaki Mankichi’s underlings?” From the grand torii gate to the stone komainu statues stretched a navy curtain emblazoned with “Wakamatsu Metal Merchants Association.” There, Kingoro was arguing with four or five men who looked like idlers about something. Kingoro spoke gently, but the others were spoiling for a fight. Over his kimono, he wore the Tamai Group’s insignia haori, a one-shō flask dangling from his hand. His cheeks were flushed, though not from drink.

The ones watching this development with concern seemed to be members of the Wakamatsu Metal Merchants Association. The trouble began when Ezaki Mankichi’s underlings showed up where the metal shop workers were holding their cherry blossom viewing. “This is our spot. You lot—get lost!”

That order to vacate seemed to be what sparked the conflict. Kingoro, who happened to be passing by, could no longer stand idly by and stepped in to mediate. "This ain't any of your business. Get lost!" "Get lost!" The large, bespectacled man shouted resentfully.

"If we reach an agreement, I'll withdraw anytime." "You know how this works already, don't ya? We're havin' our hanami here—if those metal shop guys scram somewhere else, problem solved." "Is this spot yours by deed?"

“What land rights? There ain’t any!” “Did you have a prior arrangement?” “We ain’t done nothin’ like that.” “Then you’re the ones being unreasonable. The metal shop workers have had a contract and have been renting this place for over a week now. Today as well, they came early in the morning to prepare, and now everyone’s gathered and just opened their lunch boxes. So what reason could you possibly have for trying to drive them out and take over this place?”

“There ain’t no reason—this reason, that reason, none of it! The cherry blossoms here are the prettiest, and the view’s prime—that’s why we staked this spot. Quit your yappin’ and meddlin’ where you ain’t wanted—backin’ off now’d be smarter for your own hide, y’hear?” “Even if it were for my sake, the metalworkers’d still be put out. How ’bout this? If there’s no decent spots left, we’ll hand over our place—so how ’bout cuttin’ the metal shop folks some slack?”

“If we’ve decided on this spot, then we’re doin’ it here.” “…You cheeky, meddlesome bastard—don’t you know who Ezaki Mankichi is?” With that shout, the bespectacled man raised his fist and lunged to strike. Because Kingoro dodged, the man staggered, tripped over a stone, and fell with a crash. “You set that up!”

Just as another one shouted, the rest lunged at Kingoro at the same time. Needless to say, they intended to gang up and beat him.

But Kingoro darted around nimbly, making himself hard to catch. Having no intention to confront them head-on, he kept evading. Yet whenever he grappled with an opponent, without fail, it was always Ezaki’s underlings who ended up flipped over, groaning, or collapsing flat.

Kingoro restrained the assailant and poured sake from the one-shō flask into his mouth. Seeing bare hands were useless, the five villains all drew their daggers.

Seeing this, Kingoro put the flask’s cord in his mouth and swiftly scaled the trunk of a large cherry tree nearby. In the blink of an eye, he settled onto a high branch like a monkey. “Hey, coward! Get down here!” From below, they shouted, “Who’d come down just to get cut? How ’bout you quit yellin’ and have a drink?” “Hey now, quit your yellin’ and have a drink.”

Kingoro, laughing, inverted the sake flask and poured its contents down over the heads of the assailants below. A golden cascade streamed through the riotously blooming cherry blossoms. The villains were soaked in sake and scattered.

They began picking up stones and throwing them upward. Everyone’s aim was off. When a stone was about to hit, Kingoro would catch it with his sake flask. With a clang, the falling stones struck the assailants on the head.

“A fight! A fight!” “A fight! A fight!” By then, a sizable crowd of onlookers had already gathered. And gazing at the bizarre fight, they guffawed.

At the back of the shrine, where they had set up a cherry-blossom viewing party while waiting for Kingoro’s arrival, the Tamai Group members finally noticed the commotion. They rushed over. Though they had no intention of spectating or joining the fight, spotting Kingoro perched at the very top of the cherry tree left them stunned. When Rokuzoro no Minamoto, Okawa Tokijiro, Norojin, Seiji the tool keeper, Shintani Katsutaro, Jo Sanji, and other young Tamai Group members appeared in their workman coats with ferocious expressions, the assailants faltered. Hearing the emergency, several police officers arrived. Already poised to flee, Ezaki’s underlings furtively pushed through the crowd and disappeared.

Kingoro descended from the cherry tree. He was grinning.

As the scene concluded, the onlookers dispersed.

“Thank you very much.” “Thanks to you, I was saved.”

A middle-aged man who appeared to be an executive of the metal shop union expressed his gratitude to Kingoro. Kingoro, adjusting his disheveled clothes, wore an oddly bashful and flustered demeanor as he said... “Not at all—if anything, I’m the one who caused you concern… It’s all settled now. The officers came. ...I’ll take my leave now.”

Urging his subordinates onward, he left quickly, almost fleeing. There was a young man who continued gazing fixedly at his retreating figure, round eyes unblinking. He seemed not yet twenty—more a boy than a man—with plump cheeks. His fiery eyes remained nailed to Kingoro, nodding repeatedly as if affirming something deep within his heart.

“An-san, what’re you spacing out for? We’re restartin’ the cherry-blossom party. C’mon over here.”

Called from within the navy-blue curtain, he finally turned around as if snapping back to his senses. He passed through the curtain and entered. “Yasugoro, today you can drink as much as you like. I’ll allow it.”

"Inoue Hardware Store had established its shopfront along the bustling Honmachi Street and prospered." "In the youthful chest of Inoue Yasugoro—who would later become Tamai Kingoro's lifelong ally and rival to Yoshida Isokichi's faction—something fierce appeared to kindle at this moment."

The Metal Shop Union group consisted of approximately fifty people. They were accompanied by their families and children, creating a lively atmosphere. There were four or five geisha, a small lame jester named Kochōya Mamehachi, and two or three police officers mingling among them. At one point they had wondered what would become of the situation, but since it had been safely resolved, the drinking party started anew. "What's this 'Tamai Group' all about?"

Kingoro, who had only recently crossed over to Wakamatsu, was not yet well known among the townspeople. “Contractors, I wonder?” “Even so, he was young...” “They might be stevedores from somewhere.”

“But they do seem like an interesting bunch of young men.” As they drank and exchanged such rumors, some among them who knew the details well stepped forward to explain. It was a ship chandler named Iba. “That’s Tamai Kingoro—he’s recently become a foreman in the Union Group.” “They always buy tools from my shop, so I know them well.” “In charge of tools is a fellow named Seiji who used to be a blacksmith—since that’s his trade, he won’t accept anything, whether shovels, crowbars, or chain blocks, without inspecting each one thoroughly.” “That’s precisely why there’s no danger in their on-site cargo handling.” “He may be young, but everyone who knows Mr. Tamai Kingoro says he’s the one who’ll take charge of the Union Group in the future.”

"Even so," sighed the middle-aged executive, "this won't do for Wakamatsu. With these gangs spreading like weeds and decent folk getting pushed around, honest business can't survive. Mr. Yoshida Isokichi might be respectable enough himself, but his men..." "You'll see gamblers and street thugs crawling into town council seats next!"

“For now, things are still manageable, but if we get universal suffrage, who knows what kind of riffraff will crawl out of the woodwork.” “If gangs seize political power, it will lead to a major crisis.” Young Inoue Yasugoro sipped his cup in small sips and listened in silence to the adults’ grumbling. In eyes brimming with both intellectual light and passionate light—firmly focused orbs nicknamed “Goldfish”—a tense hue hovered as if dreaming of some distant horizon.

―Politics. ―Politician.

It may have been at this moment that the course of Yasugoro's life—into which he had poured his entire youth—was decided. He had long held an interest in politics and economics, but it was his sensitive young man's sense of justice that completed that foundation. (I will become a politician. And I will purge the evil of politics being monopolized by scoundrels.) Yasugoro's chest began burning with hope. Within Yasugoro's eyes, the visage of Tamai Kingoro he had seen earlier now stood distinctly imprinted.

Dotera Hag staggered past outside the navy-blue curtain. While alternately glancing back at Okyo and Someki supporting her arms,

“Geishas—see him?” “If you’re gonna fall for someone, make it a man like Tamai Kingoro.” “Were I younger, I’d throw myself at him.” “But the fool picked a fight.” “Dangerous opponent.” “Don’t wait for Kakusuke, Mr. Kingoro—Ezaki Mankichi’ll have you dead within days.” “I’ll stake my name on it.”

It happened exactly as Shimamura Gin had predicted.

That evening, a rickshaw puller claiming to be a messenger from Ezaki Mankichi arrived at the Tamai Group in Shin-Nakamachi. The large public hospital building, painted green, towered in the twilight light. At the center of the spire—which blended some novel touches into the Meiji architectural style—there was a white ceramic ornament resembling a spittoon.

Beside the hospital stood a temple. In the cemetery, weathered tombstones were lined up, and under a ginkgo tree stood a bell tower. The other day, when they had rowed out to the lighthouse offshore in a small boat to handle cargo for the Panama Maru, the bell that Kingoro and the others heard at five in the morning had been rung from this Anyōji Temple's bell tower.

Shin-Nakamachi was a narrow street adjoining this hospital and temple. The Tamai Group was situated where the smell of carbolic acid and patients' moans from the hospital ward could reach. It was a desolate two-story building. On the entrance's right side hung a "Tamai Group Office" signboard; on the left, a nameplate reading "Tamai Kingoro"—both written in his characteristic bold calligraphy. "Excuse me!"

The middle-aged rickshaw puller who entered the entrance looked at the rows of arched lanterns bearing the Tamai Group’s name that hung on the walls. And finding the excessively quiet stillness suspicious, he tilted his head slightly. He raised his voice even louder.

“Excuse me.” “Is there no one here?” At his voice, Man came out from the back shed where she’d been weaving straw sandals. “What business do you have?” “Is Mr. Tamai Kingoro here?” “He isn’t here.” “He went cherry blossom viewing with the young men after noon and hasn’t returned yet.” “Are you Mrs. Kingoro?”

“Yes.” “In that case, you’ll do. I’ve been entrusted by Boss Ezaki to deliver this.”

The rickshaw puller took out a sealed letter from the large pocket of his work apron. He handed it to Man.

Taking it,

“Do you need a reply?” “Yes, I was told to bring back your reply.” “Then I’ll read it now…” Man broke the seal. On formal scroll paper, in rough bold brushstrokes—"Formalities omitted: We intend to raid your residence at midnight on April 8th. You will acknowledge this notice accordingly. From Ezaki Mankichi" The color drained from Man’s face. A faint palpitation stirred in her chest. She clenched her lips tightly.

However, she maintained a composed exterior,

“Understood—please tell Boss Ezaki that,” she said.

“In that case,”

Having said that, he started to leave,

“Ah, rickshaw man!”

Man called out to stop him. "Is there... something else you need?" "Wait a moment." Man entered the back room, searched through the paulownia chest, and took out a cloth pouch. She twisted a ten-sen silver coin into a piece of tissue paper. When she went out to the entrance, she said, "For tobacco money or something—"

Saying that, she handed it to the rickshaw puller.

Restaurants got a late start in the mornings; geisha houses followed suit.

At Asuka, they jumbled breakfast and lunch together, and everyone would gather around the meal table around noon, after which cleaning would begin. The after-parties of cherry blossom viewers typically lasted until one or two in the morning, with some groups making merry until near dawn, so by the time Asuka went to bed, the eastern sky was already beginning to lighten.

Okyo, however, woke up early. She didn’t get out of the futon; instead, she lay prone and smoked a cigarette. Bright morning light streamed through the shoji.

In the six-tatami room, three futons were laid out in a row. The fellow geishas were all still lost in dreams of the deep night. Their white makeup was flaking off, their hair was disheveled, and their pillows were tossed aside—they were not a pretty sight. At night, made up and dressed in their finery for engagements, they were quite beautiful, but seen like this, it was a disappointment. (Daytime silences the words of night—or so some book had written.)

Okyo considered such things, and a bitter smile welled up. At that thought, (Mr. Kingoro remains elusive day and night.) That was both vexing and oddly amusing. (But I'll make sure to have my way someday.) Okyo's resolve remained unshaken.

Mori Shinnosuke, the master, repeatedly told the six resident geishas as if it were his catchphrase.

“After all, the pleasure quarters are a world of passion and romance—I will not say a word about who you fall for or what men you take as patrons.” “Just do not lay hands on Tamai Kingoro.” “Even if you try to seduce him and Tamai goes along with it, when it comes to men and women, you never know when things might take an odd turn.” “If any of my geishas get involved with Tamai in any strange way, I could never face Man.” “I would lose all standing.” “I beg you—keep Tamai outside this entirely.”

Kimika the proprietress also never missed an opportunity to say that.

Okyo, with her careful scheming, committed no blunders that might be easily detected. Though her heart seethed with impatience, she endured and waited only for the opportune moment to ripen. Until then, she took care not to show herself needlessly before Kingoro, so he remained unaware that the formidable Okyo dwelled in his close friend's house.

When mealtime came, talk naturally turned first to the previous day’s fight at Konpira Shrine. Okyo remained silent, but Someki—famous for her chatter—reported the incident with dramatic embellishments, complete with gestures and pantomime. “So he’s gotten mixed up with some bad guys...” Shinnosuke wore a worried expression. “Really,” Kimika knit her brows too. “Mr. Kingoro has such a self-defeating nature. If it was such a troublesome place, he should’ve just kept quiet and avoided it. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’—isn’t that right? But Mr. Kingoro isn’t someone who can do that. Even knowing full well a curse would come, he can’t stay silent.”

As they were talking, the apprentice girl said, "Mr. Tamai has arrived."

She came to report. “I’ll just go see my teacher for a bit.”

Okyo hurriedly stood up. Kimika looked startled, “What happened at your teacher’s place?” “Since I thought I’d have my teacher look over the Spring Review Meeting’s practice sessions a bit more…” “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no need to make such a fuss about that first thing in the morning. Right now, a senior member of our master’s group is coming. Ms. Okyo, you haven’t met him yet, have you? You ought to meet Mr. Tamai Kingoro at least once.”

“No, for me, my art matters more than men or such,” she said, masking her anxiety with laughter as she hurriedly left through the kitchen entrance—Kingoro’s distinctive footsteps were drawing near. “What a peculiar geisha,” Kimika remarked. “Best she doesn’t meet Mr. Kingoro,” Mori Shinnosuke said. “Okyo and him—who knows why—they seem like they’d click.” He rubbed his neck. “Getting along’s fine, but if they grow too close, I’ll never face Ms. Man again.”

“But Ms. Okyo needs to curry favor with the Union bosses and company bigwigs—shouldn’t she meet them at least once?” “That’s true enough…” While the couple were mid-conversation, Kingoro pushed through the hallway curtain and entered. “Hey now—breakfast time already?” Grinning, he dragged a folding stool to the far side of the long brazier. He looked completely at home. His workman’s coat hung over short trousers.

“Mr. Kingoro, are you heading to work now? The site preparations are underway, but…” “Yeah, about fifty tons of fuel. Was supposed to be night work, but we got it moved up to daytime. Evening’s got other business, see.” “By the way, Kin-san—heard you tangled with Ezaki’s underlings yesterday.” “Wouldn’t call it a fight. More like field games.”

“You might not take it seriously, but they’re rabid dogs.” “Ezaki’s never been happy ’bout how the Tamai Group’s been risin’ up in Wakamatsu—ain’t this gonna stir up trouble?”

“We ain’t in the fightin’ business. We’re workin’ men—we don’t take on their sort.”

“We once had Boss Yoshida tell us about that big fight with Ezaki Mankichi back in Hikoshima, didn’t we. It was a violent clash on the night of a great storm. Even Ezaki doesn’t seem to have the same strength he used to, but you’d best be careful, or you’ll end up a fool.”

“Ah, thanks.” “But there’s nothing to worry about.” “...Well, now that I think of it, I came here because I had something in mind.” “I’m heading to the Union Office now, but why don’t you take out those two swords you bought the other day?” “I hear there’s a highly skilled appraiser—a direct disciple of Hon’ami—here now.” “I’m also thinking of having my Sukehiro appraised.” “You were boasting about it, but I can’t really believe yours is a Bizen piece.” “You’ve been had.” “I’ll have them appraised together for you—hand them over to me.”

“Alright then, I’ll leave it to you.” Since something similar had happened before, Shinnosuke—without any particular suspicion—casually handed over the two Japanese swords he had brought out from the back room to Kingoro. The Union Group Office was located on Coast Street. There was a Benzaiten Shrine there, and the area was commonly referred to as "Benzaiten-hama." The road was barely six feet wide, and when the wind and waves grew fierce, seawater from the bay would spray into the shops as foam. Today, the waves were calm, and the masts of the densely packed sailing ships stood still.

Kingoro went around to the back entrance of the office and entrusted the Japanese swords to the janitor. "I'll pick 'em up after work—stash 'em somewhere till then." "Mr. Tamai, you're quite the sword appraiser indeed." "Are these famous blades too?" "Yeah, they're legendary blades of the realm." Laughing, he said that and went out to Benzaiten-hama again. He surveyed the area near the rocky cliff.

“Hey, Boss! Over here…”

Near the sampan hut, Okawa Tokijiro was raising his hand and shouting.

Since putting up the "Tamai Group" signboard, what had become troublesome was how to address Kingoro. In Ogata, there were former colleagues and seniors, as well as hometown friends. Calling him "Boss" felt awkward, and "Oyabun" didn’t suit a workman. Terms like "Tamai-san," "Kingoro-san," and "Kin-san" still didn’t feel quite right. As a result of their discussions, incorporating Man’s proposal, they had settled on calling him "Oyaji." At first, it felt a bit odd, but once they grew accustomed to using it, there was an oddly comforting familiarity.

Kingoro leaped onto the large ferryboat that everyone was on. They had loaded shelf boards and vices onto the boat early on and had been waiting for Kingoro to arrive.

The ferryboat left the quay. With gentle handling of the oar, they headed toward the Daiseimaru moored at buoy number two.

“Oyaji,” said Rokuzorogen at the bow, laughing, “Ezaki Mankichi’s underlings seem to be plannin’ another round of cherry blossom viewin’ today.” “Who’d ya hear that from?” “Didn’t catch it myself, but no mistakin’ it." “Just now, when Sei-yan ’n’ I went to Iba’s ship chandler for rope ’n’ came up Benten Street, yesterday’s lot was loadin’ four-to barrels onto a handcart ’n’ draggin’ ’em off.” “…Ain’t that right, Sei-yan?” “Yeah,” Seiji nodded hard, “Don’t know how many lackeys he’s got, but their plans sure got guts.” “A whole four-to barrel? Now that’s flashy!”

“But Ezaki’s famous for not payin’ up.” “When you go to press ’em, they draw their swords—‘Which’ll it be? The long one?’” “Or the short one?’” “…then glare at you like this, they say.” “That’s the way to do it.” “Let’s try that approach ourselves.” “A weakling like you spoutin’ threats won’t scare nobody.” “You’d need to carve two-three gashes in their mug with a cleaver or somethin’.” The Ogata men roared with laughter as they traded these remarks.

Kingoro listened in silence.

No one yet knew that Ezaki Mankichi would launch a raid tonight at midnight. Only Man and Kingoro—the husband and wife—knew.

Kingoro recalled what he had heard in Hikoshima. It appeared true that Ezaki Mankichi invariably prized off the lid of a fresh four-to barrel when mounting raids. As Matsukawa Genjū had noted, this wasn't hanamizake—no festive drinking beneath cherry blossoms. When Kingoro returned after handling cargo on the Daiseimaru, he waited for night.

When five o'clock came, the temple bell of An'yō-ji began to ring. The sound was close.

Kingoro took down the wall clock hanging at the front entrance. It was brand new. “Seven minutes slow,” he muttered. “This clock’s kept good time before—must be the mainspring slackening.” Seeing Man preparing dinner in the kitchen, he sat down with a creak of floorboards and tightened the screws while voicing these thoughts. After setting the time, he cradled the clock in both hands instead of rehanging it immediately, turning it this way and that as if caressing it. Within its octagonal frame lay a round dial marked with Arabic numerals. The gold-plated pendulum bore an openwork morning glory blooming at its shoulder. Four engraved characters gleamed inside: “Seikosha-made.”

Taking care not to let the pendulum stop, Kingoro slowly rotated the clock. He read his own handwriting inscribed on the back in bold, thick strokes. *Shin-Nakamachi Tamai Group* *April 2, Meiji 39 (1906) Requested* *This product was acquired as a commemoration of the start of our contracting business.* *Purchased from Aichi Clock Shop* *Total sum: 4 yen and 70 sen*

Business commenced February 19

Kingoro smiled. This was the clock he and Man had gone out to buy together—the same clock that had sparked an argument between husband and wife right there in front of the shop. “You know an expensive clock like this is too much for us,” she’d said. “The cheaper one here’ll do just fine.” “Don’t be daft,” he’d shot back. “This is for commemorating the Tamai Group. We’re going all out on this.” He’d patted her belly then. “If that kid you’re carrying turns out a boy, he’ll need to take over someday. Some flimsy thing’d be falling apart by then.” Rotating the clock in his hands, he’d added with finality: “This here’s a proper heirloom. No penny-pinching when it comes to legacy.”

“I ain’t sayin’ we gotta be stingy, but… where’s four yen and seventy sen even gonna come from?” “We’ll work and scrape it together. That’ll give us even more drive, won’t it?”

“Goryon-san,” laughed the Aichi Clock Shop owner, “no need to fret. Monthly installments’ll do. Pay whenever you can manage. I’ll sell it trusting Mr. Tamai. Take it home now.”

It was through that kind arrangement that they had been able to acquire it.

Kingoro hung the clock on the pillar.

“Man, is dinner ready yet?” “It’s done. “It’s fine now.”

“I see.”

Kingoro went to the base of the staircase leading to the second floor and shouted up from below.

“Hey, everyone, dinner’s ready!”

“Yes, sir!” The subordinates who had been upstairs came clattering down. They ate a meal no different from usual. Night fell, and the hours passed—eight, nine, ten o’clock. The houses in the town also extinguished their lights one by one. The quiet night air was faintly broken only by the gloomy moans of critically ill patients drifting from the hospital. When eleven o’clock struck, Kingoro ordered Man, “Place the large basin at the entrance and fill it to the brim with water.”

he ordered.

Man did as she was told. Though she didn’t know what he meant to do, she wordlessly placed the laundry basin they always used where Kingoro had instructed. She filled the basin about eighty percent full with five or six bucketfuls of water.

“Man.” “Yes.” “Don’t go sticking your nose in where it don’t belong.” “And stay out of the fighting—this ain’t no place for a woman to be playing tough.” “Yes.”

“Hey, you lads!”

With that, Kingoro called out toward the second floor.

At the landing, "Noro Jin" showed his face. He looked sleepy.

“You need somethin’?” “Sorry to bother you, but could everyone come downstairs?” “All of us?” “Yeah, everyone who’s here.” “Everyone’s here.” Man had been strictly ordered by Kingoro to keep quiet, so she hadn’t told anyone. Still, she couldn’t help but worry, so she had asked Matsukawa Genju, “There’s an important discussion tonight, so don’t go anywhere—everyone needs to stay home.” The married workers and those with families had set up homes in the tenements, but only the single stevedores—eight men in total—were lodging on the second floor of Kingoro’s house. —Genju, Tokijiro, Seiji, Jinji, the “middle schooler” Shunji, Matsumoto Shigeo, Shintani Katsutaro, Jō Sanji.

Many of those who had already been asleep came down, rubbing their bleary eyes over and over.

“What’s this about in the middle of the night?” Tokijiro asked. “Sorry to trouble you all, but could you put candles in every lantern we’ve got?” After giving those instructions, he lit the lamp. And then, as if remembering, “Man, go to Nagata’s and get about ten bottles of ramune.” “Yes.” Man’s face was pale, but she did not resist a single one of her husband’s words. She left in a hurry, carrying a lit bow-shaped lantern.

The over fifty bow-shaped lanterns—bearing the family crest "Maru ni Tachibana" and inscribed with the characters "Tamai Group"—were now fully lit, resembling a flowerbed of light. He had them arranged in a row, centered around the entrance. It was dazzlingly bright. Several cats peered around curiously, as if wondering what was happening. Man returned with ramune bottles in a basket.

“Oh, how beautiful!” At the full display of lanterns, she murmured involuntarily. Everyone drank a bottle of ramune each,

“Boss, is someone coming?” Finally sensing something amiss, Genju asked with a suspicious look. “We’ve got guests.” “At this hour? Who?” “Everyone,” Tamai Kingoro suddenly adopted a solemn expression. “Tonight after midnight, Ezaki Mankichi will come raiding. I’ll handle them alone. The Tamai Group isn’t in the fighting business—I won’t have you all dragged into this mess. Get upstairs and don’t come down no matter what. Even if I get cut down, don’t lift a finger. Now move—quick!”

“That’s insane!”

Startled, Matsukawa Genju puffed out his ammonite-like face and leaned forward. The eyes of the others were also glinting fiercely. “Reckless?” “Ain’t that right? You and us—we’ve been bound as one since hoisting up the Tamai Group’s signboard. We all swore we’d lay down our lives for you without a second thought. And not telling us anything, then taking on Ezaki all by yourself? Don’t give us that cold shoulder. How the hell can we just sit back and watch the Boss get cut down by thugs? …Right, everyone?”

“That’s right!” “That’s right!” they said in unison.

“I appreciate you saying that. “That’s all I need to hear.” “I fully understand how you feel.” “But I’m bowing my head to ask you—don’t make me repeat myself. Just get back upstairs.” “It’s almost time.” “...Come on, hurry up!” Kingoro stood and herded his men toward the stairs. The unyielding severity of his expression—stern enough to stifle any protest—left the sullen-faced subordinates no choice but to trudge upward in disarray, their discontent palpable with every heavy step. They climbed reluctantly.

Once all eight subordinates with their heavy footsteps had completely reached the landing, Kingoro removed the ladder steps. They were detachable. Kingoro, with his considerable strength, effortlessly carried them to the wooden floor of the hallway.

“Man.” “Yes.”

“Stay inside.” “Don’t you dare come out.”

Man nodded and entered the kitchen. When she took hold of the ladle, she removed the large kettle's lid and stirred its contents. Thick, milky-white steam billowed up. When they had moved into this house, they left other areas untouched but remodeled only the kitchen. For hosting large gatherings, cooking night-shift meals, or preparing travel lunches, they absolutely required at least three large kettles. Now two of them - the 3-shō kettle and 5-shō kettle - were roiling at a violent boil. It was paste.

Around ten o'clock, Kingoro saw Man preparing something in the kettle,

"Are you cooking rice now?" he asked. "No, I need to do some washing and starching, so I thought I'd prepare paste..." "Hmm."

Man, who had been told by her husband not to get involved in the fight, was thinking that if the thugs came charging in, she would douse them from head to toe with the boiling paste she had prepared. Kingoro sat cross-legged before a water-filled basin, facing directly opposite the entrance. He tied a hand towel around his head as a headband and stripped off both sleeves of his kimono. In the glow of the fully arrayed lanterns, Kingoro's powerful white skin and the vivid blue dragon tattoo were illuminated.

Kingoro unsheathed the two Japanese swords he had borrowed from Shinnosuke and immersed them in the basin's water. Splash, splash—he washed them. At intervals, he glared into the outer darkness, his eyes bulging as if trying to pierce through it. The midnight stillness hung heavy, faintly stirred only by sword-washing water sounds. Kingoro rolled both blades alternately in the basin, periodically lifting them from the water. He turned the keen edge—still trailing droplets—over and over, studying it intently. Lantern light played across the blade's surface, the shimmering reflections within the steel like whirling flames.

*How beautiful...*, he thought.

He had always loved swords, but he’d never had the means to buy the ones he desired. Finally, when he sold mandarins under the terms of an adoption exchange in Dōgo’s Yunomachi, he was able to obtain the Sukehiro dagger he had long had his eye on. When he fled his hometown, he carefully carried it with him and had treasured it to this day. However, Kingoro loved swords because gazing at their beautiful grain would calm his troubled mind—he had never once considered them tools for killing.

On the night they returned from Musashi Hot Springs, he drew that Sukehiro dagger and stood blocking the path before Man and Tokijiro. “I found the adulterer. Will you cut him down?” he said. However, in his heart, he was stifling laughter—he had not the slightest intention of using Sukehiro to punish an adulterer. He had merely staged a bit of theater out of his habitual tendency to jest, having completely eavesdropped on Man and Tokijiro’s conversation and come to believe in Man’s innocence.

However, when he came to Wakamatsu, those Japanese swords were actively used for fights and murder. And now, he found himself caught in that very maelstrom. However, because Kingoro did not want to use Sukehiro for fighting, he went to borrow Mori Shinnosuke’s sword. What kind of absurd thing am I doing here?

When Kingoro took his eyes off the sword, his spirit soured with infuriating self-mockery. He wanted to laugh. But once during the Panama Maru cargo operation, when he tried to laugh at how pathetic, ridiculous, and embarrassing it all was, water had streamed from his eyes. Tonight, he felt the same way. (What an utterly absurd farce this is) He had come to see himself as sitting at the center of a gaudy makeshift set, like a ham-fisted comedy actor.

The cat, as if unable to make sense of this strange scene, watched with suspicious eyes every time Kingoro moved his sword. There were others curled up asleep by the basin. One bored-looking cat walked away and knocked over a single bottle from the forest of empty soda bottles. At the clink and clatter of that sound, Kingoro jolted unnaturally. Until now he had felt no trace of fear, but suddenly anxiety seized him and his heart began pounding.

(Maybe I’ll be killed.)

When he thought this, images of his hometown Matsuyama flashed through his mind like scenes from a rapidly spinning revolving lantern. Amid that flow, only the face of his sister-in-law Sugi surged forward suddenly, looming large. Those eyes filled with contempt and hatred glared at Kingoro. (That’s right… When I left the village, I should have done whatever it took to repay those thirty yen I borrowed without permission…) That regret made his chest go numb. Ding… ding… ding… ding…

The clock began to strike twelve. The subordinates who had been driven upstairs weren't sitting idle either. They couldn't stay still. They worked frantically without making a sound. When four or five men descended along the roof to the rear, Seiji the toolkeeper unlocked the shed and pulled out crowbars, shovels, measuring poles, and such. They carried these up to the second floor again from the back. These were weapons. They set up a ladder and hoisted about ten small baskets filled with coal using tengu-style cargo handling techniques. This work was second nature to them. The powdered coal they'd received for fuel had been stored in a box out back.

“When they come in, use this to blind ’em.” Rokuzoro no Minamoto instructed in a hushed voice, taking care that Tamai Kingoro wouldn’t notice.

Combat preparations were complete. They extinguished the lights on the second floor and held their breath as they waited.

Okawa Tokijiro’s heart pounded in his chest. His mind reeled in a terrifying contradiction. (What if Tamai Kingoro were killed...?)

That fantasy had become hell for Tokijiro. Day by day, his growing trust in Kingoro and his lingering, unshakeable longing for Man became entangled, binding him in their grip. This had started when he saw Kingoro climbing the ship's side like a monkey along a rope during the Panama Maru operation. If he fell, that would be amusing. If he fell and died, that'd be even better...

The transformation within his heart now was worlds apart from when he had entertained that thought. Now that he had come to wholeheartedly admire Kingoro, he had never once thought things like "It’d be better if I died" or "It’d be better if I were killed." On the contrary, he had even been fired up with the desire to hone himself as a man alongside this manly figure. And yet now, when the villains arrived at the critical moment to kill Tamai Kingoro,

(What if Tamai Kingoro were gone...?) Such devilish whispers reared their heads in Tokijiro's heart, as if they had waited all along for this moment. Peering toward the kitchen through billowing white smoke, Man stood holding a ladle, eyes sharp as she watched for movement outside.

(Man's ready to throw away her life fighting for Kingoro.)

Tokijiro's heart cowered under the overwhelming pressure. Tokijiro was terrified by his own ugly demonic heart and egoism. He was ashamed. Yet no matter how he tried to drive it away, no matter how he pursued it,

If Kingoro were gone, I could marry Man. That beautiful evil thought lurked somewhere in a corner of his heart like a cunning rat. Kingoro kept making his two Japanese swords clang in the large water basin while occasionally glancing toward the entrance. He shielded his eyes with a hand, crouching low as he peered into the darkness. The lantern light swelling to bursting point filled every corner of the house and even illuminated the road outside, but past midnight, the exterior remained deathly still with no trace of human presence.

One o'clock struck.

Two o'clock struck.

Three o'clock struck.

The next morning, as was customary when the Asuka was having its late breakfast, Kochōya Mamehachi the jester came rushing in breathlessly. “Boss Mori! Boss Mori!” “What’s this? Mamehachi, making such a racket first thing in the morning.” “It’s not morning anymore. And with all this commotion, who could stay quiet?” “Something happened?” “Happened or not happened—a big incident’s broken out!” The small-statured, limping jester Mamehachi panted heavily, gasping for air. He must have run all the way here.

“What’s happened? Hurry up and tell me!” “Ezaki Mankichi’s gang has raided Boss’s sworn brother Tamai Kingoro’s place.” “What?!”

At that, Shinnosuke leaped up.

Okyo, Kimika, and Someki, who had been at the meal, all turned pale. They set down their chopsticks. "I'm going." The fact that Kingoro had come to borrow a Japanese sword suddenly flashed through his mind, and Shinnosuke cursed himself inwardly—Damn it! His own carelessness filled him with fury. As Shinnosuke made to dash outside, Mamehachi seized his sleeve. The fabric tore with a riiip as the seams split.

“Wait, wait! Boss!” “Let go!” “Even if you go now, it’s already too late.” “Were they killed?” Startled, his heart somersaulted within his ribcage. “It’s already over.” “What do you mean, ‘it’s over’?” “Ezaki’s side lost.” “Tell me everything in detail.” According to Mamehachi’s account, it went like this: At Ezaki Mankichi’s house in Gotanda-cho, they had gathered their underlings to attack the Tamai residence. Since daytime, they had made preparations—even purchasing a ceremonial four-to cask of sake for their departure—though whether they actually paid for it remained unclear. By evening, about thirty people were at Ezaki’s house. They ate dinner—something like beef sukiyaki—and drank sake. Bamboo spears, Japanese swords, sickles, and the like were lined up imposingly in the tokonoma alcove. As they grew drunk, some sang, others clapped their hands, and still others began to dance.

“Hey, don’t get too sloppy now.” Ezaki Mankichi restlessly admonished his subordinates again and again. Everyone decided to take a short nap until the appointed hour of twelve o’clock. At eleven o’clock, Ezaki roused them. Then following protocol, they tied rear-facing headbands, fastened rope sashes, tucked up their hakama hems, strapped on straw sandals, and solemnly shouldered their weapons before setting out like the Ako ronin on their legendary raid. Yet the Ezaki family in its decline was truly a rabble through and through—full of timid weaklings. Some were already drunk. His trusted lieutenants numbered only a few; the rest were hired blades. There were even those who’d joined half-heartedly just for the spectacle—men seeking daily wages and free-flowing sake.

Even so, emboldened by their numbers and putting on a brave front, they took the side road between the deserted hospital and temple to Shin-Nakamachi. They formed their battle formation and surrounded the Tamai residence.

Scouts went out on reconnaissance. They stealthily crept up to the front of the Tamai Group's headquarters, then returned and reported to their leader, Ezaki Mankichi: "Something's off here." Even after sending his most trusted men only to receive the same report, Ezaki went to investigate himself. He couldn't suppress the thought: *This isn't right*. What began as strange had turned downright eerie. Though he'd fought through countless duels, showdowns, raids and skirmishes before, this situation was unprecedented. When opponents waited armed in formation for their assault, his men could charge in all at once with matching ferocity. But the Tamai Group hadn't arranged themselves as expected.

Over fifty lanterns had been lit throughout the entranceway, and there in their midst sat Kingoro, utterly alone. On his brawny arms—bared to the shoulders—an ascending dragon tattoo glared with blazing eyes, its indigo form standing out vividly. Moreover, Kingoro kept washing a long, unsheathed Japanese sword in a large washbasin. Beside him lay rows of empty Ramune bottles, while several cats slept nearby. Kingoro would occasionally stare toward the front entrance with bulging eyes.

Ezaki Mankichi felt his legs freeze at the sheer intimidation before him. He knew Kingoro commanded dozens of hardened underlings. The uncertainty of where they might be lying in wait began to unnerve him. Fear crept into his bones. With their leader in this state, his men grew skittish. “Charge!” Ezaki roared the order through gritted teeth, but not one soul dared advance. They turned tail and ran instead.

“So, you see, since my house was right nearby, I witnessed the whole thing from start to finish.”

Shinnosuke felt relieved but deflated, plopping down onto the threshold with a thud.

“Mamehachi, you’re terrible. Why didn’t you warn me before the raid?” “That was impossible, I tell ya. When the Ezaki family were all gathered drinkin’, I never figured it had to do with Mr. Tamai—I was just thinkin’, ‘Someone’s bound to get hurt tonight.’ If I’d gone to the cops, I would’ve been killed later…… Then this mornin’, a gambler—one who went out as a mercenary but’s still friendly with me—told me everythin’.”

Kimika let out a sigh,

“Really, Kin-san has it rough,” “My late Papa used to say—‘Once a man steps over his threshold, he should expect seven enemies waiting.’” “‘Don’t think you’ll come back……’ he’d warn.” “It’s fine for Kin-san to make his name as a man, but here in Wakamatsu? Seven enemies? Try a hundred swarming around you.” “Have even one life to spare? ‘Uppity bastard—kill ’em.’……Reckless through and through.” “This ain’t about others.” “When’s our turn coming……?”

The signs were already there.

Okyo’s firm eyes glowed strangely.

Father and Mother

As evening approached, rain began to fall. In the raw warmth of the hazy spring air, the cherry blossoms of Mount Konpira blurred, and on the summit of Mount Kotōzan to its right, dense pine forests resembled a warship run aground on the mountaintop. The ship whistles sounding from the harbor were drowsy and terribly listless. "I’ve really started wanting to go on a trip." Kingoro, lying on his back with both hands tucked beneath his head, muttered as if to himself.

Today was a day off from work. Until just now, he had been maintaining the sword he borrowed from Shinnosuke, but once that was done, he lazily rolled himself onto the corridor facing the backyard. Man was making swaddling clothes for the baby at his side but wearily rested her hands. There were five or six diapers made from repurposed yukata robes and undergarments, all piled up. Taking up the pipe beside her, she took a satisfying puff, then let out a sigh through her shoulders.

“Go somewhere and rest your bones,” she said. “It’s no fun alone. I want to go with you. We still haven’t gone on a honeymoon since getting together.” “Hehe, honeymoons are such fancy things—they’re not for poor laborers like us to do. That’s something rich people do. And besides, three years have passed and we’ve even got a child now—we’re hardly newlyweds anymore.”

“That’s not true. I’ve been working nonstop all this time and couldn’t take any breaks, but if I ask Genkō from Bōshin to cover for me now, we could get away for five days or a week. ……What do you say? Let’s go to Dōgo Hot Springs like it’s our honeymoon.”

“Well, I do want to go, but…” Kingoro sat up abruptly. Taking Man’s pipe, he smoked it himself and adopted a somber tone.

“Ever since I ran away from the countryside, I’d been thinking, ‘To hell with my hometown.’ But lately, for some reason, I’ve been ridiculously reminded of the countryside. I dream of Father and Mother. I’d been thinking that if some chance came along, I’d like to go back once.”

That was how Man felt too. However, she did not voice it.

――Hometown.

No matter how many unpleasant things had occurred, it remained an irreplaceable sanctuary of the heart—something unforgettable as human destiny itself. "So then, if you're willing this time, I want us to go back together." "You won't be able to travel once that belly gets too big—we should go now." "First there's the baby's family registry." "I never thought I'd settle in Wakamatsu—got by without even filing residency papers." "We'll be in trouble if we don't get them to approve a branch family now." "And with the thirty yen from my brother plus the advance from Master Ōba, I finally scraped it together." "...There's this pain-in-the-neck Kuroishi back home where I was adopted out, but... we'll manage somehow. ...Hey Man—Dōgo and Matsuyama are connected. Let's take our time soaking in the hot springs together."

Kingoro had a happy-looking expression. “We’re going to have a child. “I’ll be a father, and you’ll be a mother… It feels kinda weird…”

“There’s nothing strange about that.” “It’s weird—Mori no Shinkō being the father of a three-year-old girl… I just can’t get over how strange that feels… Ours—will it be a boy? Or a girl?” “Which would be better?” “A boy, I suppose.” “I want a girl. They say ‘first a daughter, then a son’—a girl’s better at first. It’s easier on the mother…” “How do you know things will go so smoothly? I am, after all, a man. And then, I’ll raise him into a fine man and have him succeed the Tamai Group. By then, the Tamai Group will surely have grown even larger, and times will have changed—even a place as barbaric as Wakamatsu will probably no longer exist. If Wakamatsu remains infested with gangs like it is now, even we’ll end up getting influenced by them. But there’s no helping it. Having steeled my resolve and moved to Wakamatsu, I’ll carry through here to the very end. Ah, no matter how much the gangs push their unreasonable demands, the righteous will surely win in the end.”

“I think so too.”

In both husband and wife’s eyes, a fierce resolve swelled.

As they were talking, Shunji—the "Middle Schooler"—with his mouth stuffed full of roasted sweet potato and munching noisily, called out loudly from the entrance, “Boss, the chief from Asuka has arrived.”

“I see. Show him in here.” “...Then go to Nagata’s place and get four or five bottles of ramune.” “Yes, sir!” As Shunji left, Shinnosuke came in.

“Well, look who’s here. I was just thinkin’ of headin’ over to return the sword now.” “Shin-san, the other day, from our side, there were various…” Man also greeted. “No, it’s you who had it rough…” Shinnosuke sat down, “I was shocked—since I didn’t know a thing, I went and carelessly lent you the sword… You’re really somethin’, Kin-san.” “I didn’t tell you ’cause I didn’t wanna make you worry.”

“Since it turned out alright, that’s good—but if somethin’ had happened, I’d have resented you.”

“I get it.” “I get it.” “I’ll apologize.” Because it was troublesome, Kingoro resorted to a non-resistance strategy.

Man stood up to make tea. “Kin-san.”

Suddenly, Shinnosuke sat up straight and assumed a serious expression. His face grew tense. “Hmm?” “The fight between you and Ezaki’s taken a strange turn.” “A strange turn?” “How’m I s’posed to put this…? ...Just now, a messenger from Tomoda Kizō came—says he wants to mediate this fight himself, so he’s askin’ to be let in on it. Wants to borrow ‘Asuka’ for the reconciliation meetin’. Boss Yoshida Isokichi might show up too. ...That’s what they’re sayin’.”

“Why not just refuse?” “We did refuse once. Then they said—‘You plannin’ to wreck Tomoda Kizō’s Face?’ If that’s how it stands, they’ve got their own ideas. When someone smears mud on your Face, you can’t just shut up and slink away. …That’s what they told us. We never did anything to break Tomoda’s Face or dirty his name… But this Face business—in our world, it’s like the damn constitution or somethin’…”

――Face.

The golden pyramid erected in the world of chivalry and yakuza. Face was preserved. Face was not preserved. Face was spared. Face was destroyed. Face was not destroyed. Arrogance and pride combined to create an obstinate vanity that warped into distorted heroism—mistaken for masculinity. In a realm beyond right and wrong, justice and injustice, there existed a human failing—always forcibly thrust forward under violence’s shadow—and the people of this region suffered under this “Face” more profoundly than one could imagine.

When Shinnosuke had gone to Beppu Hot Springs with Kimika, Mamushi Ichi—who’d chased after them—confronted him: “You bastard! You ruined my Face!”

He was suddenly confronted with those words and slashed. It could be said that Shinnosuke had committed murder for the sake of this “Face” as well. Kingoro, too, had often been tormented by “Face” in the past. Because of that, Kingoro now understood perfectly how perplexed Shinnosuke was. “Kin-san—you don’t want to reconcile with Ezaki Mankichi?”

“I want to be on good terms with anyone.” “I’ll make peace anytime.” “You got a problem with the mediator’s face?”

“That’s not it.” “Then how ’bout bendin’ just this once? Settle things with Ezaki through Tomoda’s mediation.” “Boss Yoshida Isokichi’s got eyes on this fight too—best not make waves.” “You know I ain’t twistin’ your arm here.” “Live in this town, run a business—can’t buck its ways too hard.” “...Back in my day I’d say ‘screw ’em,’ but bein’ a girl’s pa now…”

Kingoro listened to his close friend’s feeble tone with a lonely heart.

(Shinnosuke had changed.) Though he fully understood Shinnosuke’s position and hardships, Kingoro couldn’t help but feel lonely at his sworn brother’s softening resolve. He also felt disheartened. In all of Wakamatsu, Shinnosuke had been nearly his only friend—a man he’d relied on—and now that very Shinnosuke was trying to pull away from him. He hadn’t thought it betrayal, but Tamai Kingoro suddenly found himself engulfed in loneliness, his spirits sinking. Reactively, in a cheerful tone,

“Got it. Got it. Fine, agreed. Tell me the day and time. I’ll go anytime.” “Good. Appreciate it. And—take both these swords. Just don’t mention at the settlement that you borrowed the blades from me.” “Got it. Got it. Now get out.”

Mori Shinnosuke left through the rain that had grown heavier, saying he would inform them once the date was decided.

Man, who had brought the bancha, wore a puzzled expression, “Shin-san, is something wrong? He left so early…” “I sent him away.”

“Why?” “Because I’m done.” He tossed out the words and rolled heavily onto the veranda again. With a resigned expression, he shut his eyes—then suddenly, as if struck by a thought, whirled upright in one motion. Gripping the two swords at his side like an eagle seizing prey, he stood. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to Boss Nagata’s place for a bit.” As he was slipping on his tall geta at the back door, Shunji returned, tucking four or five ramune bottles into his kimono. “The guests have already left—you all drink up,” Kingoro called over his shoulder as he stepped out, holding his oil-paper umbrella.

He passed through the town shrouded in rainy dusk and went to Nagata’s house, which was no more than two blocks away.

Nagata Mokuji, who had been demoted from the union group, used his severance pay to start a ramune manufacturing business. Though it had originally been a punitive demotion, the compassionate Haruyoshi Ōba discussed matters with Kingoro and arranged funds for Nagata to start a ramune shop on the condition that he sever ties with Mekake no Saku. Nagata used that opportunity to move to Wakamatsu. And that he opened his business in the same Shin-Nakamachi district, right under the nose of the Tamai Group, was based on Kingoro’s hope to stay as close as possible and look after his former boss.

Out front hung a signboard reading "Nagata Soft Drink Manufacturing Plant," but above the entrance’s lintel hung an old lantern bearing the name "Nagata Group." At the factory where the day’s work had ended, four or five employees were packing ramune bottles into boxes or sweeping up shards of broken glass with bamboo brooms.

“Pardon the intrusion.”

“Oh, Tamai.” “Come on in.”

In the tearoom, with the long hibachi between them, the Nagata couple wound thread. Mokuji had looped bundles of white thread around both wrists while Yone deftly wound them into spools. Each time the thread unraveled, he flexibly moved his wrists - Mokuji worked with practiced efficiency. Beside them, their son Shigemune Hira watched with interest. He sat down beside the long hibachi,

“Boss, I’ll give you these swords.” With that, he placed the two swords wrapped in purple cloth before Nagata Mokuji.

“Ah, I see. Much obliged.” Nagata removed the thread and drew the Japanese sword. He examined the blade again and again, delighted. Compared to before, he looked far healthier.

Yone brought heated sake. "Tamai, I hear this time you're plannin' to form a foremen's union - your idea, ain't it?" "That's what I aim to do." "Good plan that is."

“But there’s a problem.” “The Rengō-gumi, Mitsui Bussan, Ōtaka-gumi—they’ve all agreed to join. But Tomoda Kizō’s Kyōdō-gumi won’t come aboard no matter what.” “So he’s got ambitions after all?” “Even in the Kyōdō-gumi, some foremen want in on the union. But with Boss Tomoda breathing down their necks—‘Go join Tamai’s union if you want! We’ve got our own plans.’ Once they hear that talk, nobody dares move.” “We’ve got plans.” “You tell ’em that, and they all back off.”

“Tomoda’s been that way from the start—he’s aiming to take all the port jobs for himself.” “The cargo owners would always prefer cheaper rates, you know.” “If they quietly go around behind the scenes and offer to undercut the agreed contract wages by even two or three sen per ton, even the Rengō-gumi’s regular clients might end up shifting their work to Tomoda’s side.” “That’s exactly it.” “The signs are already showing.” “In fact, just four or five days ago, eight hundred tons of coal cargo from Mitsubishi’s Gen’yō Maru that was supposed to come to the Rengō-gumi got taken by the Kyōdō-gumi.” “Fundamentally, it’s wrong for those in a position to work to compete by snatching jobs from each other.” “Even the already low wages—they’re lowering them further. In the end, all it does is make the capitalists happy.” “I’ve worked as a dockworker all this time, and I could never understand—why is it that even though everyone’s working their fingers to the bone, their lives never get any easier?” “That’s because we’re all engaging in this foolish competition with each other.” “For that reason, I came to think that we absolutely must create a union.” “However, Tomoda Kizō’s faction alone absolutely refuses to join.”

“This is quite a predicament.” “What’s more, I heard Tomoda’s been saying this about me: ‘That Tamai Kingoro—some greenhorn who just washed up in Wakamatsu, yet he struts around like some big-shot renegade with grand ideas." “‘Runs around organizing this ‘Wakamatsu Port Steamship Loading Foremen’s Union,’ all while scheming to make himself chairman and twist port work to his whims.’" “‘A union like that—I’ll smash it to pieces.’" “‘I’ll see to it Tamai can’t even stay in Wakamatsu.’" “……That’s what he keeps spouting like some mantra.” “Contractors ought to stand for the workers—but that man’s labor’s sworn enemy.” “To speak plain—they’re practically the capitalists’ own pet gangsters.”

Kingoro’s eyes burned with irrepressible fury.

Nagata Mokuji, who disliked troublesome matters and did not understand such complex things, remained vague, “This is truly a predicament,” and could only mutter to himself.

As for the events of the previous night, there was no indication that the Nagata household knew anything about them. (Still as carefree as ever, this boss,) he thought. From the start, it had been impossible for Nagata Mokuji to be the kind of contractor who combined streetwise roughness, horse-eye-plucking sharpness, and blood-washing battles too brutal to refuse. Having switched to an ordinary trade as a ramune seller, he now looked thoroughly at peace with himself and settled into his role.

“Tamai, care for a game of Go?” he said with a grin. “I don’t know Go. If it’s shogi, I can play a little.” “I don’t know shogi. Go’s more fun! If you don’t know, I’ll teach you.” “Please teach me.”

“Hey, Yone, bring the Go board.” “No, tonight I have some business outside, so perhaps next time…”

“I see.” “Well then, let’s do that... Tamai, you’ve become a full-fledged labor boss yourself. If the Tamai Group keeps growing from here on out, you’d best learn Go. A man without hobbies’s no better than an animal. Knowing nothing but gambling makes for a dull life.” “You’re an odd one for your age—might even make town councilman someday.” “No, you’ll make town councilman for sure.” “When that time comes, you’ll need to rub elbows with bigwigs—know Go; it’ll serve you well.” “I’ll teach you... Still...”

Then Nagata Mokuji’s eyes abruptly took on a distant, reminiscent gaze as though overwhelmed by emotion. "When you and Man came crawling to me lookin’ like a couple o’ beggars hauling their rags—how many years’ve passed since then now…?"

“It’s been about three years since then.”

“Has it really been that long?” “The ‘Nandemoya’ in Shimonoseki—he’s from the same hometown as me, Naokata. Ain’t too sharp in his ways, but he’s a right honest fellow.” “It’s ’cause you brought that Nandemoya’s letter of introduction that I trusted you two as a couple, but… that beggar drifter takin’ over my spot and turnin’ out so damn respectable—never thought it’d come to that, I tell ya.”

“It’s all thanks to you, Boss.”

“What’re ya sayin’? Ain’t no way this’s thanks t’me.” “A useless lump like me’s never done squat fer others.” “Hell, Tamai—only reason I’m livin’ this easy now’s ’cause o’ you. Me an’ the missus’re always grateful.” “What’re ya talkin’ about?” “This ain’t half enough t’repay what I owe ya, Boss.” After shootin’ the breeze fer ’nother ten minutes, he left the Nagatas’ place.

Hurrying to his home while listening to the rain beating harshly against the bamboo umbrella, (The Boss’s house has finally started to feel like a proper home, I tell you.)

With a smile rising within him, he thought such thoughts. And that train of thought flowed straight into a strangely joyful emotion as he imagined the day when they too would have children.

The next morning, a preparation girl from Asuka brought a letter from Mori Shinnosuke. It was a notice setting the date for reconciliation. Starting with Kingoro, the Kogata members had gone out to work and were away. Man received it.

On the signboard reading "Women's Hairdresser," a yellow butterfly and a white butterfly were frolicking incessantly, the two of them entwined in their dance since some time before. Entwined, they soared up, spun round and round, then descended once more. Between the upper part of the signboard and a bucket in the eaves area, a large spider had spun its web and waited for prey to be caught. The two butterflies, utterly absorbed in their carefree play and devoid of any wariness, occasionally brushed against the threads of the web. Each time this happened, the spider crouching at the center would start to dart forward, but when the butterflies failed to become ensnared, it would retreat with a vexed look as if resigning itself to disappointment.

“Those butterflies are in danger.” Okyo muttered as if to herself, unable to stop worrying about them. Four or five geishas from Asuka had come together to have their hair done. Okyo waited her turn while flipping through a photo magazine. She planned to have her thrown Shimada updo restyled into a ginkgo-leaf bun. “Someki-san! How modern!” Her friends gaped at Someki’s 203 Heights chignon. The hairstyle took its name from the mountain where Japanese forces had seized a Russian stronghold after brutal fighting in the Russo-Japanese War. Its defining feature was a turban-shell-shaped knot at the center of the forehead. Someki had chosen this particular style today with calculated intent.

“Is there something going on tonight with everyone gathered here?”

Onatsu the hairdresser asked while styling Someki’s hair. A Hakata-born woman in her forties—spirited, dark-complexioned, with sharply arched eyebrows. The three apprentices also faced their mirrors one by one, each styling hair. Inside the shop hung the strong smell of hair oil, intermittently pierced by the squeak-squeak of tightening hair cords and the swish-swish of combs through hair. Someki said in an eager voice,

“It’s a banquet.” “Banquets aren’t anything special. For all of you to primp yourselves up like this—must be something particular, I tell you.” “That’s right, Onatsu-san. It’s serious business. The reconciliation meeting’s happening at our place.”

“Between whom?” “Boss Tamai Kingoro and Boss Ezaki Mankichi.” “The mediator is Boss Tomoda Kizō.” “Since my father and Boss Tamai are sworn brothers, the request came to our place.” “That’s all well and good, but tonight seems like nearly every boss in Wakamatsu will gather.” “Boss Yoshida Isokichi himself is coming too—Boss Yamashita Gōichi, Boss Nagai Hisayoshi, Boss Hanada Junzō, Dotera Baba… Then on Tamai-san’s side there’s Boss Ōba Haruyoshi, Boss Tanaka Mitsunori, Boss Misaki Kunizō…”

“Wow, a regular boss convention we’ve got here.” “Well, tonight’s Asuka banquet is crucial.” “But with such enemy and ally bosses gathering, will everything really go smoothly?” “It’ll go smoothly. It’s a reconciliation after all.” “It’s meant to be a reconciliation.” “Someki-san, I don’t know why, but you look positively giddy?” “There’s someone you’re dying to see, isn’t there?” “Dead right,” she grinned shamelessly. “Lately, I’ve been head over heels for Boss Tamai Kingoro.” “With a man like him, any hardship would be worth it.”

Okyo recalled what had happened at Konpira Mountain when she heard this. Dotera Baba said while leaning on both Okyo and Someki's arms, "If you're going to fall for someone, make it a man like Tamai Kingoro. If I were younger, I'd throw myself at him completely." But Okyo knew Someki hadn't suddenly fallen for him because of those words. Kingoro had been coming and going from Asuka like it was his own home, so it seemed Someki had held feelings for him from much earlier.

Someki had styled her hair in the 203 Heights chignon as part of her strategy to catch Kingoro's attention with this modern look tonight. It suited her perfectly. "Someki-san, wait for me," Okyo said. "Let's go home together." "Okay."

And then, the two of them left Onatsu’s shop together. It was fine weather that brought a light sweat to the skin. The clatter of their geta echoed with crystalline clarity, seeming to rise into the depths of the blue sky as summer’s approach lingered faintly in the air. A kite wheeled leisurely overhead, occasionally crying out with a flute-like call.

“Someki-san, I have something I want to talk to you about. Keep me company.” “Okay.” Young Someki, as a junior geisha, held a certain respect for Okyo. She was obedient. They passed alongside the town hall enclosed by a wooden fence and went to Ebisu Shrine. This ancient shrine, with waves from Dōkai Bay reaching up to the base of its stone torii, had its stone steps washed by the tide. Within the shrine grounds, enoki, cedar, pine, camphor, and other large trees grew so thick and lush that even at noon, there was a sense of darkness. As a sea deity, it was deeply revered by fishermen. There was not a soul in sight.

“Sis, what is it?”

Unnerved by the overwhelming stillness of the surroundings yet maintaining an innocent expression, Someki asked.

“It’s not about anything else, but you need to stop falling for Mr. Tamai.” Someki looked at Okyo in surprise. Okyo’s face was uncharacteristically sharp, making Someki feel intimidated. Yet she too cast aside her usual obedience. “So this is your opinion.” “I respect your advice, Sis, but this is one thing I can’t obey.” “I’ve fully understood everything Father always tells me—this decision comes from that understanding.” “If staying at Asuka means I can’t fulfill this love that defines me as a woman, I’ve even considered leaving Asuka... I’d hoped you’d support me in this, Okyo-san.” “And now you tell me to stop...”

“But if you end up involved with Mr. Tamai, what about Mr. Tomoda?” “I’ll just cut ties.” “You make it sound so simple…” “It’s fine.” “Mr. Tomoda has other women anyway… I’ve been thinking it’d be better to split up someday.” “That won’t work.” “It’s not that simple.” “Even without this, Mr. Tamai and Mr. Tomoda are already clashing over everything—do you really want to add a woman to their feud?” “Don’t you see? For your sake, Mr. Tomoda’s grudge against Mr. Tamai would flare up anew.”

“Ah, I see—so you’re the one who’s in love with Mr. Tamai, Sis.” “That's right.”

..., she had said it. “Then that’s fine with me—I’ll compete with you proper-like.”

Even as color rose to her temples, Someki declared her resolve. A temperament seemingly prone to irritability made the protruding blue veins at her temples twitch, her narrow single-lidded eyes narrowing upward like a fox’s.

Okyo, realizing that the junior geisha’s resolve was no trifling matter, steeled herself that there was no choice but to resort to extreme measures.

“Someki-san.” In a firm tone, she called her name again and glared at her with menacing eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” And now, the other woman too became confrontational.

“Do you really mean to take me on?” “Yes.” “Even if it costs you your life?...” “Of course I am.”

“Ah-hahahaha!” Suddenly, Okyo burst into laughter with a deep, masculine voice. As if the uproarious laughter couldn’t be contained, she writhed her body in apparent agony.

Someki scowled, “What’s so funny? Even if you’re my sister, if you mock me too much, I won’t stand for it.” “Wahahaha! Hahaha…”

“Sis, I’m leaving.”

“Wait.”

Okyo, who had stopped laughing, hurriedly grabbed Someki’s sleeve.

“Someki-san, you were putting on such airs that I couldn’t help laughing.” “Going on about risking your life and not standing for things—what nonsense are you spouting like some child?” “Do you even grasp the weight of those words you’re throwing around?” “But since things have come to this, there’s no choice.” “I’d hate to see you waste effort needlessly, so I’ll lay it all bare.” “...Someki-san, Mr. Tamai and I already share... an intimate connection.”

“Liar! Liar!” “Nonsense,” Okyo retorted. “I kept it hidden because it was too much trouble—but since you’re the meddling type, I’ll spell it out properly.”

“I don’t believe you.” “Okyo-san, you haven’t even met Mr. Tamai once, yet you’re acting like…”

“Then watch tonight.” “You’ll understand everything.” “...Someki-san, just who do you think I am?” “I’ve been acting like a harmless cat until now, but should I tell you my true nature?” “...Here, look at this.” Okyo glanced around briefly before rolling up her right sleeve. A beautiful tattoo of peonies and butterflies appeared. Since coming to Asuka, she had never shown it to anyone.

Someki was indeed astonished. Her face paled as she staggered back two or three steps. “In Kanto, when they speak of ‘Okyo of the Peonies and Butterflies,’ she’s known as something of a boss.” “The reason I came to this backwater like Wakamatsu is all for Mr. Kingoro’s sake.” “Someki-san—if you don’t value your life, go ahead and meddle with Mr. Kingoro.” “And if you breathe even a word about today—about my past or my ties to Mr. Kingoro—consider your life forfeit.”

Someki covered her face with her sleeve and burst into violent sobs.

That night, a lavish banquet was held at Asuka.

In the fifty-tatami hall, centered around tonight's guests of honor Tamai Kingoro and Ezaki Mankichi, the town's prominent figures gathered. Combining both parties' associates, there were approximately thirty people, fifteen or sixteen geisha, a meal of the highest quality with three courses, and sake and beer brought endlessly to the seats. "First off, tonight's a celebration," Mori Shinnosuke seated to his right said brightly. "Yeah," Tamai Kingoro replied curtly, his expression unenthused.

Kingoro nodded curtly in agreement, his expression far from enthusiastic.

To his left was "Rokuzoro no Gen". “The other side has quite the numbers.”

he said. "They’re trying to intimidate us."

“Boss Yoshida doesn’t seem to be here, does he?”

“He said he’d come later or something.”

As Tamai Kingoro's sworn brother, Shinnosuke sat beside him that day not as Asuka's proprietor but as a principal guest. Mori Shinnosuke commanded wary respect in this town. He had a murder conviction. Killing someone, serving time, and returning with enhanced prestige operated as an unwritten yakuza code. Shinnosuke had slain Mamushi Ichi - the most vicious boss in the Kanmon-Kitakyushu region - granting him an almost mythic notoriety. Though ordinarily placid, his innate volatility meant none could predict his actions when enraged. This combustible nature gradually became common knowledge,

“If you piss him off, he’ll make your life hell.” Even those who were never ones to stay quiet regarded him with such looks. This fact might be considered the reason they had managed to safely operate Asuka within enemy territory—the sphere of Yoshida Isokichi’s faction—until now. However, that very “face” now sought to destroy this balance and peace. On Kingoro’s side there were only seven men: Shinnosuke, Matsukawa Genshū, Ōkawa Tokijirō, Ōba Harukichi, Misaki Kunizō, Tanaka Mitsunori; but Tomoda Kizō’s side comprised the majority of the remainder. Yamashita Goichi, Nagai Hisakichi, Ichikawa Yahee, Okabe Teizō, Hanada Junzō, Fujino Seiji, Nagatomi Monta, Shimamura Gin of “Dotera Baba,” and others—the Yoshida faction’s Four Devas, confidants, trusted blades, and fierce generals—had gathered in full force. This spectacle could indeed be called oppressive as a demonstration.

What was strange was Ezaki Mankichi’s faction. Though this gathering had been announced as a reconciliation between Ezaki and Tamai, Ezaki himself was being utterly disregarded. He had once fought major battles on equal terms with Yoshida Isokichi, but having fallen into decline and now—after mobilizing combat forces only to retreat from Tamai’s gate upon finding Kingoro calmly washing a sword in a basin—this humiliation had become common knowledge, earning him complete contempt.

Applause broke out. The dance performance appeared to be beginning. The stage curtain opened. Six local shamisen and tsuzumi players, along with singers, were lined up at the back of the stage with a five-needle pine backdrop. In the center, a woman with a ginkgo-bun hairstyle, bowing her head in obeisance—the dancer—raised her face.

Tamai Kingoro was startled. Following the shamisen and jinta accompaniment, Okyo began to dance. Her freshly styled ginkgo-bun hairstyle, the trailing hem of her checkered kimono, the silver fan fluttering in her hand—all moved with supple and soundless grace across the stage. In every gesture—hands reaching out, drawing back—an indescribable mysterious allure drifted like mist. The narrow almond-shaped eyes, as though harboring some sorrow, were tinged with blueness. Plums too receive spring’s

tinting them with hue Drawing the first water— Draw well... While dancing，Okyo occasionally glanced toward Kingoro and flashed quick smiles．She found his dumbfounded stare—mouth agape—unbearably amusing．Flourishing her beauty，she sent lingering signals akin to Morse code through her dance． “It’s been too long． “I’ve longed to see you since Hakata． “You fled before we settled our unfinished business．” But I won’t yield． Meet me tonight． “You will come．”

The coded message in Okyo’s eyes was clearly conveying that matter to Kingoro.

However, while dancing, something strange flickered through Okyo’s mind. During the day, two butterflies had been flitting playfully above the signboard of the Women’s Hairdressing Parlor; now, as they seemed about to become ensnared in a spider’s web, she felt her heart race with anxiety. At that time, she had been concerned solely with the butterflies’ peril, but now, in the midst of her dance, within her breast, a vision arose—the yellow butterfly as Kingoro, the white as herself.

(Then...the spider?...)

Spiders were swarming thick throughout this gathering—the moment Okyo began thinking such thoughts, a sudden unease welled up within her, and she felt her limbs falter. Her very pulse throbbed.

“Hey, Tamai.”

Ōba Harukichi pulled Tamai Kingoro’s sleeve. “Yes.” “That woman dancing—isn’t she the one from Musashi Hot Spring in Futsukaichi?” “She does look quite similar.” “I thought the same at first.” “But she seems different.”

“Is that so? I still think she’s that woman though…” “Can’t shake the feeling she’s her…” For Ōba Harukichi—who harbored feelings for Kingoro—this required vigilance if she truly were the woman from Musashi Hot Spring. What might pass during travels became treacherous when such entanglements arose in one’s own territory. Tomoda Kizō gazed at Okyo’s alluring beauty with rapt attention before setting down his cup and discreetly summoning a maid.

“What can I do for you?” “What’s the name of that geisha?” “Her name is Okyo.” “I like her. I’ll leave her to you tonight.” “Well…? What should I say to Okyo-san?…” “There’s this way and that way of handling it. She’s a geisha, isn’t she?”

Someki listened to this with gleaming eyes.

As Okyo’s “Plums Also Meet Spring” concluded amidst applause, the banquet immediately commenced. The introductions of attendees and the reconciliation ceremony had already concluded, so what remained was an unrestrained drinking party. The cups flew around.

“Let’s have a talent show round now. … Tamai-kun, do something.” “I’d like to see that.”

Tomoda Kizō said that.

“I’ll do it.”

Kingoro stood up casually and,

“I’ll go get ready,” he said, and left the room.

Five or six minutes later, with the sound of wooden clappers, the stage curtain opened. At center stage were a man and a woman: to the left, wearing a ceremonial kamishimo jacket with both hands on the lectern and head bowed was Kingoro; to the right, placing a thick-framed shamisen before her and likewise bowing was Okyo, her hair arranged in a gingko-leaf chignon. The one striking the wooden clappers was the jester Kochōya Mamehachi, who delivered his lines in a shrill, piercing voice. “East and west, east and west! We now present to your honored ears the jōruri piece ‘Atsugeshi Onna Mai Koromo,’ narrated by Tayū Tamai Haruaki with shamisen accompaniment by Okyo. Behold—the segment ‘Mikatsu Hanshichi Sakeya’ commences! Thus concludes this prologue—east and west, east and west!”

Applause.

Kingoro raised his face; Okyo took up the shamisen. The gazes of the entire gathering, tinged with curiosity, were focused on the two; yet within those gazes, the eyes of Tomoda Kizō, Someki, and Ōba Harukichi each brimmed with a different complexity. Kingoro had loved jōruri since his days in Shikoku and had participated in amateur competitions at festivals many times. He had been a member of the Onsenza. Among the young members, he was regarded as a narrator and had even received the stage name "Haruaki" from his teacher. When he was in Tobata, and even after moving to Wakamatsu, whenever he had free time, he never neglected his practice. His master was Toyosawa Dansuke; there was also a curtain his followers had given him. Mori Shinnosuke, too, had become enamored with it and had started practicing himself, which was why items such as lecterns, kamishimo jackets, and thick-necked shamisens happened to be at Asuka.

When Tomoda nominated him to kick off the talent show round, he immediately resolved to perform jōruri and even devised the plan to have Okyo play the shamisen. With both eyes shut and a faint smile suffusing his entire face, Kingoro soon began narrating in a weighty tone, carried by the shamisen's melody. "...Afterwards, Son drifted in transient thoughts—though entwined with crow-feather jewels—the world's bleakness bound to a solitary form, an unmeltable single thread's recurring soliloquy..."

Someki was recalling what Okyo had said to her in the precincts of Ebisu Shrine. Okyo and Kingoro were already intimately involved—she couldn't believe such a thing, yet now, witnessing firsthand their synchronized breathing onstage, their familiar manner of speaking and casual attitudes—after all, it hadn't been a lie.

She couldn't help but think— Despair and jealousy burned with blue phosphorescence in Someki's eyes.

“……By now… Hanshichi-an… where could you be… how could you be…” This was Tamai Kingoro’s greatest forte. As if intoxicated, he narrated rapturously. From the moment the curtain opened, Tomoda Kizō’s kite-sharp eyes had glinted unnaturally; now he set down the cup he’d been nursing with evident distaste.

“Hey! I’ve had enough! Cut out this lousy jōruri!” he barked. Absorbed in his narration, Kingoro couldn’t hear those words clearly and continued shaking his head, “Though it’s too late to turn back now… if there were no one like me…” and kept narrating. “I said stop! You’re letting miso rot with shit!”

When Tomoda Kizō shouted again in that manner, “Well now, that’s quite impressive!”

From within the ranks came a voice of support. Matsukawa Genshū and Ōkawa Tokujirō had been listening to Tomoda berate their boss with teeth clenched in frustration. When this supporter emerged, they turned toward the voice. Yet this came not from their allies in the Union Group but from Hanada Junzō—whom they had regarded as part of the opposing side. They had long heard rumors that Hanada served as Yoshida Isokichi’s trusted blade. But as fellow subordinates under Yoshida’s command, he and Tomoda ought to have shared a brotherly bond. That Hanada now spoke against Tomoda left Genshū and Tokujirō genuinely taken aback.

“That’s odd...”

Tokujirō tilted his head and looked at Genshū. However, compared to Tokujirō—who had only just come from the countryside of Hiroshima—there was something Genshū, battle-hardened through countless experiences, couldn’t help but acknowledge. “Even within the same Yoshida faction, there’s all sorts of factions,” he whispered, bringing his mouth close to Tokujirō’s ear. “Tomoda Kizō and Hanada Junzō—they’ve gotta have some messy history between ’em.”

He brought his mouth close to Tokujirō’s ear and whispered such things. Fortunately, neither Tomoda’s shouts nor Hanada’s cheers reached Kingoro’s ears clearly. In good spirits, narrowing his eyes, he continued to narrate. Okyo, who was playing the shamisen, was the only one whose eyes gleamed at the two voices, but without saying anything, she kept in rhythm with the jōruri. Hanada Junzō had a plump, fair-skinned build, and his eyes held a softness in their gleam. It was hard to believe he had once been a river boatman. He had a fine masculine charm and resembled a leading man type of actor. However, precisely because Yoshida Isokichi had earnestly persuaded Hanada—who had been under Egami Yasaku, a boss in Tobata—to become his subordinate, Hanada now held significant weight as the Yoshida family’s strategic advisor.

When Hanada’s cheers arose, Tomoda no longer told them to stop; instead, with an increasingly bitter and displeased manner, he made Someki beside him pour drink after drink and gulped them down. “...When I think, when I think—if this Son had died in last autumn’s illness, such hardships would never have come to pass.”

Thereupon, Tamai Kingoro wept for a time and brought his performance to an end, whereupon applause and laughter erupted. Kochōya Mamehachi struck the wooden clappers, and the curtain closed. Someki, offering Tomoda a cup with a bewitching smile, said, “Master, do you know about Tamai-san and Okyo-san?”

“What do you mean?” “About them being... involved.”

“There’s no such thing.” “He seemed quite infatuated with Okyo-san though... Well... Don’t you think...?” Tomoda Kizō’s sallow, livid face—marked by several raised scars—glinted with kite-sharp eyes. But when he saw Kingoro returning to the banquet room after removing his formal jacket, he raised his right hand as if he’d been waiting and called out: “Hey—Mr. Tamai! Over here.” “Need to talk.”

When Kingoro came before him, Tomoda forced a smile and offered a cup. Kingoro obediently accepted it and, “Truly, I’ve caused you trouble this time,” he greeted. “Well, I’m glad the reconciliation went smoothly. This is all thanks to our doing. A loudmouth like Ezaki Mankichi would never accept mediation from outsiders.” “That’s exactly right. Thank you very much.”

He downed the returned cup in one gulp. “Now then, Mr. Tamai.” “Yes?” “I’ve heard you’re pushing this movement to form a foremen’s union—is that true?” “I’m absolutely determined to create it...” “‘By all means’? … No need to be so insistent.” “I’ve been meaning to tell you whenever we met… Your thinking’s gone off track.” “This Wakamatsu—a port thanks to coal, a town thanks to coal—need I explain? That coal only reaches Wakamatsu Port through mines run by shippers like Mitsubishi, Mitsui, Kaijima, and Aso.” “Put plainly—we eat thanks to those shippers.” “It’s their doing that we can drink like this. … You agree, Mr. Tamai?”

“That’s exactly as you say.” “If that’s the case, then isn’t it only natural we must value those shippers—our benefactors?” “Am I wrong?” “I do not disagree.” “In that case, Mr. Tamai, wouldn’t this movement of yours to form a union amount to turning your bow against the shippers?” “No, it is absolutely not a matter of turning your bow against them.” “I am fully aware that it is because of the shippers that we exist.” “However, the lives of the laborers doing menial work on-site are so wretched and impoverished—there must be some unreasonable flaw in the system somewhere, that…”

“Where is this flaw?” “It’s hard to put into words all at once, but ultimately, I believe the wages are simply too low.” “Shippers and workers are mutually dependent—of course, we workers exist because there are shippers, but conversely, shippers exist because there are us workers. Yet if only the shippers grow fat while the workers are always scraping by and wasting away, I cannot see that as right.” “So, by forming a union…”

“Are you saying you’ll pick a fight with the shippers?” “When you put it that way, I find it rather troubling...”

“No matter how you phrase it, it’s all the same.” “You’re being unreasonable.” “That’s what we call dangerous ideology.” “Are you any different from a socialist?” “Absolutely not.” “I am merely considering practical issues from the standpoint of a laborer.” “I can’t exactly stop you from forming your union, but my cooperative group will absolutely never join such an ungrateful union—so keep that in mind.”

The variety of performances continued. Dotera Baba sang and danced to her signature tune *For Those Who Don’t Know Wakamatsu’s Famous Sites*; Ezaki Mankichi chanted *naniwabushi* ballads; Ōba Harukichi performed the *Kappore* dance; the famously taciturn Okabe Teizō sang folk songs in his gravelly voice; Hanada Junzō executed sword dances—all accompanied by shamisen and drums, the troupe’s boisterousness ensuring that Tomoda Kizō and Tamai Kingoro’s conversation reached only a handful of nearby listeners.

Only Mori Shinnosuke, from a separate row slightly apart, paid attention to their conversation, all ears and with an air of apprehension. (If only Kingo-san would stop resisting so much and just compromise…) Well aware of his close friend’s temperament—one who would not avoid even if fire rained down or bullets flew when he believed something to be right—Shinnosuke found that very inflexibility exasperating. There was no need to go out of one’s way to stir up trouble where there was none, he thought. Long ago, during a massive brawl with Ezaki Mankichi, Tomoda Kizō’s cherished white-sheathed Japanese sword had become serrated like a saw’s teeth and bent like a candy stick, so he seized an enemy’s blade and fought ferociously—a feat so emblematic of his valor that it had passed into legend. Now, as a renowned contractor, he no longer acted with the recklessness of his youth—but in its place commanded many lawless men among his subordinates. Because he knew this well, to Shinnosuke, Kingoro’s peculiar stubbornness would sometimes even seem childish.

As Kingoro remained unable to respond to Tomoda’s words, Tomoda—with evident satisfaction—

“Now then, Mr. Tamai—when you first came to this town, did you pay your respects to Boss Yoshida?”

“No, I haven’t paid my respects.” “You’re sorely mistaken, you know. You must know Boss Yoshida Isokichi resides in Wakamatsu—even the mayor or police chief makes it their first duty to pay respects to Boss Yoshida when they’re newly appointed. How much more so for you, working in this port—never once paying your respects violates all codes of honor. The Boss holds you in high regard, mind you. He’d offered to attend tonight himself, but his chronic stomach trouble flared up this evening—sends his apologies and says to give Tamai his regards. Mr. Tamai—tomorrow or the day after, make sure to go pay your respects and express gratitude to the Boss.”

Mori Shinnosuke was anxiously awaiting how Kingoro would respond, but he straightforwardly—

“Very well.”

He felt relieved when he heard this.

“Then, Mr. Tamai—when you performed the jōruri narration earlier—that woman playing the shamisen...the one called Okyo...is it true you’re involved with that geisha?” “Absolutely not!” “I only had her play the shamisen.” “Is that so? Then we’re fine.” “Since I plan to take her to bed tonight, I thought I’d check first.” “Wouldn’t want us crossing swords over her.” Tomoda Kizō laughed shrilly when he said this, his high-pitched, almost feminine voice cawing like a crow’s.

However, before the banquet had even ended, Tamai Kingoro and Okyo had vanished from Asuka—where they had gone, no one knew.

After nightfall, Man went out to shop in town. She took the hand of Mitsuko, the eight-year-old daughter of her older brother Hayashisuke, and since the load seemed likely to become somewhat large, she brought along Shunji, the "middle school student," as a companion. She bought pencils and stationery for Mitsuko, who had just started elementary school. When passing by the toy store and seeing Mitsuko's longing look in her eyes, Man also bought her a rubber ball.

“Shun, looks like you want me to buy you somethin’ too, huh?”

When Man said with a laugh, Shunji fidgeted, "Sis, I don't want anything for myself, but... could you take me to see the play?"

“Right now?” “It’s already late.” “No-no—it’s actually perfect timing!” “Just one act at Tora no Ma would be perfect!” “What’s playing there?” “Watanabe no Tsuna: The Demon Subjugation at Rashōmon” “Ah—so that play Shin-san Mori was supposed to put on’s happening now.”

“That part where… Watanabe no Tsuna gets his helmet’s neck guard crunched in the demon’s grip and gets dragged up into the sky—and then he slices off that demon’s arm with his sword—I could watch it a hundred times and never get bored!” “You’ve seen it before?”

“I’ve seen it twice.” “Well then, there’s no need to see it three times, is there?” “Three times, five times—I’d want to see it every night.” “That’d be great!” “...Sis—right, Sis, you should definitely go see it too.” “The actor playing Watanabe no Tsuna—what’s-his-name—looks just like Tamai’s father.” “And what’s more, that demon looks just like Tomoda Kizō.” “You shouldn’t say such things.” “Tonight—under Mr. Tomoda’s arrangement—we’re holding a reconciliation ceremony with Ezaki Mankichi…”

Though she had said that, Man found herself wanting to see the play at least once, and so she made her way toward Asakusa Theater in Sannai-chō. When she asked Mitsuko for her opinion too, Mitsuko agreed with great delight to go see it.

Invitation tickets had come from Mori Shinnosuke. A congratulatory gift had also been sent from Kingoro. During his time serving in Fukuoka Prison, Mori Shinnosuke had become acquainted with Kumamaru Koichi, and together they were managing this Kansai Young Kabuki Troupe’s performance. However, Mori Shinnosuke’s name had not yet surfaced publicly. The reason for this lay in the friction with the Yoshida faction. Man paid the admission fee. Five sen per person.

“Tora no Ma” was the lowest-class standing-room area. It was viewed from outside a wooden fence that encircled it like a cage. This performance had apparently been drawing packed houses every day since opening. The second floor and box seats were packed to capacity, and even Tora no Ma was so tightly crammed that there wasn’t an inch of space to spare. “Mitsuko, come here.” “I’ll give you a piggyback.”

Shunji said this and hoisted Mitsuko onto his shoulders. However, the crowd was too dense, and they simply couldn’t get a proper view. The dialogue and music came to them in fragments; all they could catch were intermittent flickers of the stage’s vibrant colors and movements—they couldn’t make sense of what was happening.

“It’s no use, Shun.” “What a crowd.” “Since tomorrow’s a day off work, let’s all come back together proper.”

“What a pain.”

No matter how much they tried, they couldn't get a proper view, so they finally gave up and went outside.

“Oh!” Shunji muttered. “Hey, isn’t that the old man?” Kingoro and a geisha in a checkered-pattern kimono appeared from around the dark street corner.

“Seems that way.”

With that, Man came to a brief halt, but once the two figures vanished around the corner, she stepped out onto Honmachi Street with an expression as if nothing at all had happened. Many houses had their lights extinguished, and the town lay dark. Mitsuko, who had been given a piggyback ride, fell asleep, so Shunji carried her on his back. They stopped by Inoue Hardware Store. Yasugoro was trying to close the large door. Upon catching sight of Man’s figure, the proprietor emerged from within.

“My, Mrs. Tamai, this is quite a late shopping errand...”

“Because we went into the theater and ended up dawdling around.” “……Also, I thought I wanted one three-shō kettle……” “Has it already worn out?”

“No, we’ve been using castings to repair the worn parts as they break, but we still need one more no matter what…”

“Your business is thriving splendidly.” “Congratulations are also in order—I hear you’ve begun working with Mitsui Bussan.” “This is all thanks to everyone here.” “After all, since Mr. Tamai is such an upright man, good fortune naturally follows him around.” “Of these, at the Konpirasan cherry blossom viewing, we were truly indebted to Mr. Tamai.” “At that time, we received a most generous gift from the hardware merchants’ association through your thoughtful consideration…” “It’s nothing but a small token of our goodwill.” “We townspeople always talk about it whenever we gather.” “If someone like Tamai Kingoro were to run for town council member, we say this Wakamatsu would improve somewhat, wouldn’t it?”

“Not at all. My husband’s always saying how he hates politics—it’s practically his catchphrase.”

“People who don’t want to run themselves are exactly who we need to step forward.” “Who knows—those getting shunned are one thing, but it’s a real nuisance when folks with just a little money start meddling and throwing their hats in for town council.” “I’m telling you—we need someone like your husband to make the leap into politics.”

“He’ll surely refuse.”

The young man Inoue Yasugoro, who stood listening to this conversation with his hand on the large door, had large clear eyes like a goldfish's that sparkled with something resembling determination and emitted a strong light.

―Politics.

—Politics. And thus the anger toward social evils that oppressed common lives and poisoned politics—their eradication—had already become the sole direction of this young man’s youth. (I want to meet Tamai Kingoro once—have a proper talk with him.) That thought too was growing stronger.

Since they had bought a three-shō kettle, Shunji carried it, and Man carried Mitsuko on her back.

They walked toward the station grounds. Only around “Stensho” had electric lights been strung up since earlier times. Several trains still seemed due before the final one—in that pitch-dark night alone did this quarter blaze fiercely while scattering its light. Whistles shrilled; metallic clangs from coupling and uncoupling coal cars rang incessantly out of railway property. “Oy! Ain’t that you there—Man?”

She was called from behind. Hayashisuke approached, slightly drunk. Grinning slyly,

“Hey Man, I saw Mr. Kingo earlier at the corner of Furumatsuchō—he was walkin’ with some geisha from Betsujō, just the two of ’em.” Man replied with an unruffled expression, “I saw him too.” “Oh? …And then?” “So, what are you getting at?” “I don’t get it.” “The one who doesn’t get it is you. Brother, what are you trying to say?” “Aren’t you jealous?”

“Why?”

“The fact that your husband’s getting along with some young beauty of a geisha—doesn’t that bother you at all?” “Not one bit.” “You used to say—‘A husband who takes up with another woman besides his wife would never be tolerated.’” “...you kept spouting that like some catchphrase, didn’t you?” “What’re you on about?” “That’s exactly why you’ll never amount to anything, Brother—with that petty way of thinking.” “My stance on that hasn’t changed one iota.” “Not one iota.” “But it’s not like my husband’s actually taken up with another woman behind my back.” “So what if he walked around with a geisha? What’s that supposed to prove?” “A man’s work requires social connections.” “That means going to restaurants—maybe even drifting into the pleasure quarters sometimes.” “If I threw a fit over every little thing like that—getting all worked up just ’cause he was near some woman—I couldn’t call myself a working man’s wife.” “I trust my husband—no matter what den of women he finds himself in.” “There’s absolutely no way he’d take up with another woman besides me.”

“Even if Mr. Kingo doesn’t fall for her, what if the woman falls for him? There’s talk he’s got quite a lot of admirers, though…” “Oh, how delightful! To have a husband so adored by women—what bliss. What becomes of a man who isn’t even worth women’s snot? ……Hmmph… Oh Brother, since you’ve never been loved by a woman yourself, you’re the one burning with jealousy here. I’m sure that’s exactly it.”

“Hmm… You’re quite something to look up to, ain’t ya.” “If you mixed my Chie and you together, that’d make just the right woman.” “That wife of mine—already given me five kids, but still stuck on petty jealousies. Drives me mad.” “You always act like I’m tormenting Chie, but she’s the one starting fights over thin air—every damn time.” “I envy Kin-san something fierce.”

Three years ago during their Hamao-gumi days in Moji, Taniguchi Hayashisuke had been far senior to Tamai Kingoro. There had been times when he watched with bitter envy as this newcomer Kingoro rapidly surpassed him, even badmouthing Kingoro to his sister Man—yet now he stood as sworn brothers with that same man and served beneath him. But though he resigned himself to serving his brother-in-law out of acknowledged weakness, he still found it hard to suppress the resistance that welled up within him from time to time.

They turned into Shin-Nakamachi and walked in silence for a while. After the light of the Tamai house came into view,

“Man—they say Father in Hiroshima’s had a bad accident.”

She was shocked,

“What kind?”

“The letter’s brief, so it’s not entirely clear, but seems like he was chopping wood and a splinter flew into his face.” “It got into his eye, and it said he might go blind.” “Startled by that, Mother’s gone and taken to bed, it seems.” “I wonder if I should go back to Hiroshima once.”

Suddenly, an overwhelming nostalgia—as unbearable as a hail of arrows—seared through Man’s entire body.

Life and Death

From the second floor of the Midoriya restaurant, the night sea was visible. That area marked the entrance to Dokai Bay. At Nakano-shima in the harbor, dense forests and the towering smokestacks of a coke factory stood illuminated by moonlight. The opposite shore of Tobata lay shrouded in haze. This Nakano-shima had an alternate name—Kawato-shima. Long ago, Wakamatsu Castle had stood here, guarded by Miyake Wakasa-no-kami Ieyoshi of Kuroda's Twenty-Five Horsemen from the Chikuzen Domain. Now only stone ruins remained where a coke factory had been built. The factory once employed a French engineer called Ee Mei Koi—known locally as "the Foreigner of Kawato"—who drew a monthly salary of 250 yen in Japanese currency, though he no longer remained.

The sound of the island's black great tree rustling in the wind could be heard across the sea.

And, tilting her ear as she listened, Okyo spoke in a sighing tone,

“You have no idea how I’ve longed for this day.”

and leaned against Kingoro. “Okyo-san, you’ve got a real mean streak. I had no idea you’d been coming to Shinkō’s place for so long.”

“Did you think fleeing Hakata meant you’d cleanly cut all ties with me?” “Ohoho, Mr. Kingoro—you truly don’t grasp a woman’s singular resolve, do you?”

“Back then, I did feel bad about it—but there was no other way but to do what I did… Still, it’s always weighed on my mind.” “I never paid you for the tattoo I had done, and I went and left the lodging fees in Hakata unpaid as well…”

“Let’s not speak of such vulgar matters.” “Do you imagine I did any of this for money?” “But this goes too far…”

“That’s enough about the past.” “The only reason I came to Wakamatsu was to meet you, Mr. Kingoro—and if I can fulfill my wish like this, then whatever happened before means nothing at all... Come now, Mr. Kingoro—grant me my wish.” In the four-and-a-half-mat room where they sat, there was only a small meal tray; the maid had brought simple drinks and snacks before tactfully withdrawing without lingering. The window stood open, but with the night sea and island ahead, there was no fear of being observed from anywhere.

For this single night, Okyo's intense eyes—eyes that had devised deep foresight through long-term strategy, endured through restraint and forbearance—grew even more intense, swelled and burned with an achingly fierce resolve that would not rest until absolutely achieving its purpose. It was something akin to murderous intent; the eerie aggressive spirit emanating from Okyo’s voluptuous form now seemed tinged with madness. Even the checkered pattern of her kimono seemed to carry the ghostly aura of Kiyohime, who once pursued Anchin.

Kingoro stiffened completely,

“Okyo-san.” “Oh?” “I’m sorry.” “What are you apologizing for?” “Please let me go home.” “Once we’re done here, you can leave anytime.” “Mr. Kingoro, please grant my lifelong wish.” “Promise me.” “I’ve said it over and over—it’s not about money.” “This is my absolute resolve.” Kingoro shrank back with growing bewilderment,

“Okyo-san, I’m glad for your feelings, but… well…” “Somehow—what do you mean by ‘somehow’?” “The idea of getting into some strange relationship with you is a bit… well…”

“Ahahahaha!”

And Okyo laughed like a man. That laughter was truly unclear—whether it was amusing, infuriating, reckless abandon, or self-mockery. Okyo herself, though barely able to suppress the ache in her heart, loathed—with her innate fighting spirit—the very idea of needlessly prostrating herself at a man’s feet. By laughing raucously to conceal something and feigning a fresh resolve, it was all she could do.

As she suddenly burst into booming laughter, she gazed at Kingoro—left dumbstruck—with eyes brimming with pity. “How surprising. “Mr. Kingoro, you’re more conceited than I ever imagined.” “To think we’d form some strange bond—Ahahahaha! …So you think I’m in love with you.” “You think I fell for you, chased you all the way to Wakamatsu, and am pleading like this because I want you to dote on me?” “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

“Then what the hell is Okyo-san’s lifelong wish—this woman’s single-minded resolve?” “It’s the tattoo.”

“Tattoo?” He parroted back and looked at Okyo’s face anew.

“You do understand, don’t you?” “You made me a proper promise when we met at Musashi Hot Springs, didn’t you?” “…A rising dragon on the left arm, a descending dragon on the right—if I were to do it, you begged me to tattoo a pair on both arms… Didn’t you?” “If you’re a man, Mr. Kingoro, you wouldn’t forget a promise once made, would you?” “I’m a tattoo artist of some renown myself.” “I’m ‘Butterfly Peony Okyo’—a name that’s carried weight among those loudmouthed Kanto drifters not just through skill but through sheer force of will.” “Even if mountains of money were piled up, if I thought I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t tattoo a single peach on any gambling den boss.” “It was because I fell in love with your beautiful skin, Mr. Kingoro—…don’t get me wrong.” “It’s not you I fell for—it’s your body.” “Without money or gain—I’ve never once thrown myself into something like this before.” “…Kingoro-san, do you understand?”

“Hmm… I kinda get it, but I don’t really get it either…” “Mr. Kingoro, please,” Okyo shifted from bold bravado to a pleading tone, “Hey—let me tattoo a descending dragon on your right arm.” “I won’t act all high and mighty about doing it anymore.” “Ever since you fled Hakata with only your left arm done, I’ve been ill.” “I might go mad.” “I even dream about it and wake up screaming.” “No matter what happens, I want to tattoo that descending dragon on your right arm—a wish like being possessed, staking my life on it.” “A woman’s single-minded resolve.” “…Kingoro-san—please understand this feeling.”

“It’s not that I don’t understand…”

“You don’t think half of one arm counts as a real man’s emblem either, do you? I trust that Mr. Kingoro is an honorable man who keeps his promises. I don’t doubt you’ll fulfill what was pledged at Musashi Hot Springs.”

“Man, this is rough…”

“Kingoro-san, show me your tattoo one more time.” Resignedly rolling up his left sleeve, “Ah, how beautiful!” Okyo gripped Kingoro’s arm with both hands as if unable to restrain herself, pressing her cheek against the dragon’s head. She pressed her lips to it and sucked at the tattooed area like someone licking blue pigment. The stray strands of her ginkgo-bun hairstyle brushed against Kingoro’s face.

Kingoro felt ticklish discomfort and a growing sense of unease, but not wanting to anger Okyo, he resignedly let her continue as she pleased.

“Show me that arm.”

While stroking her pure white left arm, she let out a volcanic sigh, "How could you leave this arm like this?" "Ah, Mr. Kingoro—if you refuse me—I’ll kill you if I must, but I will tattoo a descending dragon on this arm."

“Okyo-san.” “Ah.” “Go ahead and do that.” “What will you do?”

“After you kill me, will you do the tattoo? While I’m alive… it’s just not…”

“Why?”

“My wife… she doesn’t much care for tattoos and all.” At those words, even Okyo seemed to flinch for a moment, but immediately adopted a resigned bravado, “Huh—so you can’t stand up to your wife? Were you her henpecked man? Oh, I see. So that’s why. So you fled Hakata because you were scared of your wife. About your wife… that ‘Man’ or whatever she’s called… I’ve always heard about her from our boss and the elder sister. They say she’s quite the strong-willed woman, don’t they? A strong-willed woman is truly a troublesome thing. Hating tattoos like that—isn’t that just like murdering a husband who’s worked so hard to become a man? If you’re busy watching your wife’s every mood, you’ll never make it as a proper man. Kingoro-san, stand your ground!”

While spewing such spiteful words, Okyo found herself tormented by strange visions flickering through her mind—the two butterflies she had seen at the Women’s Hairdresser, which she had earlier imagined as herself and Kingoro while dancing on Asuka’s stage, now transformed into a married couple: Man as the yellow one, with herself becoming the spider stalking them. This vile illusion had taken root within her.

Kingoro gazed anew at the tattoo on his left arm. (That this dragon clutching a chrysanthemum bouquet in its forelimbs represented Man—this was something Okyo didn't know.) Thinking this, he basked in the secret's vague pleasure.

“Kingoro-san.”

“Huh?” “So you’re absolutely refusing?” “I’ll consult my wife.” “Fool!”

Kingoro stood up. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah.” “You think I’d let you go? If you won’t keep your tattoo promise, Mr. Kingoro, I’ll spread it all over town—‘Tamai Kingoro’s been making a name for himself lately, but really, he’s a lying, cowardly, worthless lowlife who’s no man at all.’ That’s what I’ll say.” “It can’t be helped.”

“Kingoro-san, wait.” “If you say such things, I’ll kill you—kill you and tattoo you!”

Okyo leaped at Kingoro.

Man lit a lantern in the kitchen. At the wellside, she washed and polished the new iron three-shō pot she had bought from Inoue Hardware Store. She boiled water and set it aside, then vigorously scrubbed with a straw brush and rice bran until the grime and rust came off cleanly.

The cat was watching Man’s hand movements with listless eyes.

The pillar clock began to chime—chin, chin, chin. When she paused her work to count, it had struck eleven. The subordinates who had been noisily carrying on upstairs—playing shogi, dealing hanafuda cards, drinking sake—had at some point fallen silent. (It was about time he came back.)

Just as she was thinking this, the sound of the front lattice door opening came.

“I’m home.” It was the voice of Genzō of Rokuzoro. However, unlike usual, there was no energy in that voice.

Man took the bow-shaped lantern and went to the entrance. Genzō and Tokujirō. Not particularly drunk yet acting oddly reserved, they fidgeted uneasily. They squinted at the lantern light.

“Good work—I see everything went smoothly.” “…Come on in.” “I’ve got sake warmed up for you.”

“That’s enough already. We’ve had our fill over there before comin’ here.” “If that’s all you’ve had, you can’t say Mr. Samezō here’s drunk, can ya? To freshen your mouth, have a drink with Tokiyan. Got some baby octopus here.” “Nah, we’re goin’ to bed. Been rough. We’re beat.” “Tokiyan too?” “Yeah.”

The two men went upstairs sneakily yet hurriedly, as if they had coordinated their actions beforehand. They had most feared being asked by Man, "Weren't you with the boss?" when returning home, but since the question they had naturally anticipated never came, they thought with relief. They didn't want to tell Man how Kingoro and Okyo had grown so close that they'd disappeared from Asuka at some point.

(Something's off...) Man found the two men's unprecedented attitude slightly suspicious. Though she herself had seen Kingoro walking through town with the geisha and had heard about it from her brother Hayashisuke, she didn't find it particularly strange that Genzō and Tokujirō hadn't been with Kingoro. What did bother her was the subordinates' oddly secretive demeanor—their furtive glances and evasive mannerisms that seemed deliberately designed to avoid her notice. She tilted her head slightly and furrowed her brows.

To her brother Hayashisuke she had spoken boldly, but after all, Man was a woman. Suddenly within her breast arose suspicion tinged with jealousy - dark distrust taking root.

Even as Man still continued her task of polishing the three-shō pot in the kitchen, the front lattice door opened.

“Pardon me.”

When she went out to look, a young rickshaw puller was standing there. “The proprietress of Asuka asked me to give this to you.”

It was a letter. After giving a tip and sending the messenger off, Man brought it to the kitchen and opened it. As Man read on, her complexion visibly changed. Her eyes slanted upward like a fox's. The awkwardly written katakana text in feminine handwriting began: "Ms. Man, I did not wish to inform you of such matters, but please read this with full understanding."

Thus it began.

"A problem has occurred. Though the reconciliation ceremony concluded peacefully, this matter involving a woman has created an unpleasant atmosphere between your Mr. Kingoro, Boss Tomoda Kizō, and our group. Tonight, there was talk of Mr. Tomoda taking charge of Okyo-san—the geisha under my roof. He was extremely insistent. However, Okyo-san has been involved with Mr. Kingoro for some time now and flatly refuses to consent. Mr. Kingoro too appeared unwilling to let his woman be taken by Mr. Tomoda, so both of them left midway through the banquet and disappeared somewhere."

Ms. Man, You likely know nothing about Kingoro-san and Okyo-san's relationship. I too wished not to inform you of such matters, but with no other means to resolve this issue without your involvement, I hastily wrote this letter. Though it should be Shin-san or myself coming to explain rather than writing, as the banquet remains ongoing and requires cleanup afterward, I beg your indulgence in accepting this written account.

Ms. Man, Both Shin-san and I, knowing well of your marital history from the past, have persistently worked to ensure Mr. Kingoro doesn't get involved with other women. However, matters of love are a different story—it appears Mr. Kingoro and Ms. Okyo had been deeply involved for some time now, and they ignored our warnings entirely.

Both Shin-san and I had always made it our habit to say to Okyo-san— "Cut things off with Tamai-san. Ms. Man, we can't let this trouble you any longer." We had always told her this, but Okyo-san too seemed determined to refuse any such patronage arrangements.

Even so, if it had stayed just between those two alone, it might still have been manageable, but now that it's turned into this kind of situation, we're at our wits' end. When you consider that the other party serves as mediator for this recent dispute while also being Wakamatsu's leading authority and a top-ranking member of the Yoshida family, the calamity that might rain down upon us defies imagination. When Boss Tomoda found out that Mr. Kingoro and Okyo-san had gone off somewhere together, he flew into a furious rage and said these words at our establishment:

“Mori-kun, you’ve really smeared mud on my face,” Tomoda Kizō said to Mori Shinnosuke. “Despite knowing full well how much I’d insisted on taking care of Okyo tonight, you let Tamai and her slip away. To repay my kindness in mediating this quarrel with betrayal—what kind of logic is that?” “No, I know nothing,” Mori replied. Shin-san was taken aback and attempted to reason, but Tomoda would not listen. Even so—

“Well, I’ll endure it for tonight.” “If I don’t get Okyo under my care tomorrow night, there’ll be consequences.”

Thus, he left. Ms. Man, To separate Mr. Kingoro and Okyo-san, there is now no way but to borrow your strength. If it comes from you, Mr. Kingoro will surely listen. Please make Okyo-san break away. I beg you. "I entreat you."

Man was like a volcano. Until she finished reading Kimika's letter, she turned pale, turned red, rolled her eyes wildly, exhaled breaths like steam, heaved her shoulders like great waves, and several times felt dizzy enough to nearly collapse. She thrust the letter into her obi and scrubbed the three-shō pot vigorously. When something angered her, Man had a habit of throwing herself into work with redoubled force; now, with hands transformed into those of a jealousy-fueled demon pouring her whole being into the task, the pot was polished until it gleamed radiantly.

(Damn...)

While burning with intense anger, tears streamed down her face. (To deceive me...) The figures of Kingoro and the checkerboard-patterned geisha she had seen in town floated vividly in the space before her, as though mocking Man's kindness and foolishness. As if to dispel them, Man shut her eyes, shook her head fiercely, and gritted her teeth. (What should I do?) Precisely because she had believed in her husband completely, the backlash was immense.

As midnight approached, the surroundings were profoundly quiet. Until around the time she began washing the pot, the groans of critically ill patients from the hospital behind carried on the east wind, but after a spell of footsteps running down the corridor and a clamor of voices, everything fell silent. They might have died. A cat was sleeping on the stove.

Man washed and wiped the pot clean, then placed it before the Kōjin-sama altar in a corner of the kitchen. In an earthenware vessel holding rapeseed oil, she trimmed the wick and lit it with a match.

She quietly pressed her hands together in prayer and clapped once. The sound of her palms echoed eerily through the utterly silent house. The cat briefly opened its eyes but soon sank back into listless sleep. Man entered the inner room. (He’s decided not to come back tonight anyway.) Though she thought this, she had no intention of panicking and rushing out to search for where Kingoro and Okyo might be. Once, when Tokujirō and Man had been together, Kingoro—returned from his travels—suddenly appeared,

“I’ve found your lover.” “I’ll have you cut down.” “Both of you—sit there!” She remembered him shouting that.

(Hmph—instead of worrying about others' affairs, maybe I should stack up [his deceptions] and slice them into quarters myself.) Man thought of where Sukehiro's dagger might be kept and resentfully muttered such things to herself. Yet despite this defiance, an indescribable desolation and loneliness—as if she were being relentlessly sucked into a collapsing universe—enveloped her entire being. Tears welled up endlessly, one wave after another.

And yet, "Hmph—are you the only man in existence?"

Muttering such petulant words with affected nonchalance, she kept herself busy preparing her belongings.

From the paulownia chest, she took out several kimonos, undergarments, and waistbands, wrapping them in a furoshiki cloth. Was it due to the extremity of her fury? Unusually, she could feel the violent movements of the child in her belly. (And now this child is about to be born...) As she thought this, even more new tears streamed down her cheeks. After preparing for the journey, she spread out the futon and crawled into it. She kept only her own pillow where she usually placed two. After taking a short nap, she intended to make breakfast for her subordinates and depart early in the morning.

However, as she lay there unable to fall asleep, after twelve o'clock struck, a knocking sounded at the front lattice door. It seemed like Kingoro. “Man, open up!” he shouted. Since settling in Wakamatsu, Kingoro had never once left the house. Therefore, he had never been locked out either. No matter how late he had been out socializing, he had always come back. Man too had made it a habit to wait without locking the front door, even when one o'clock struck and then two.

However, tonight, she had locked the door before midnight. “Hey! Why’d you lock it? …Open up!” Rattling the lattice door, Kingoro shouted discontentedly.

Man lay still in the futon, holding her breath. Someone seemed to come down from the second floor, creaking the ladder steps. The sound of footsteps on tatami mats headed toward the entrance. "Is that you, Boss?" It was Tokujirō. "It's me."

“I’ll open it right now.”

When the lock was undone from inside, the lattice door swung open violently. In a harsh, hurling tone, "You knew I was coming back! Why’d you lock it?!" "Is Man not here?" “She is here.” "Who locked the door?" “Man locked it.” "You're taking me for a fool." From Kingoro's perspective, even if there had been some secrets, he had kicked away the woman's temptations and returned home. Though he felt guilty toward Man for the ways in which Okyo had captured his heart, in the end, he had remained faithful to her. He thought his wife ought to be grateful to him. That said, he didn’t particularly want to be praised, but being locked out like this—

(Where else would you find a husband like me?) Such resentment welled up within him. Among contractor colleagues, womanizing, buying prostitutes, purchasing geishas, gambling mania, and keeping second, third, and fourth mistresses had become everyday occurrences. Having many women was even said to be a sign of capability. Moreover, as the saying went, "A man who refuses a meal laid out for him brings shame upon himself," and any man who raised the white flag when a woman made advances would become a laughingstock.

Even so, Tamai Kingoro had resolved not to succumb to such vulgar customs and had persisted thus far; tonight too, he had extricated himself from that beautiful peach-colored snare. All the more for that, being locked out made him strangely angry. The alcohol’s intoxication was also fueling it.

“Toki-chan, go to bed already.” With that, after driving Ōkawa Tokujirō upstairs, he charged into the bedroom.

It was pitch dark, but he knew the layout. Without a word, he discarded his kimono and tried to burrow into the futon where Man lay. However, Man had wrapped herself tight in the quilt like a bagworm cocoon. With both hands firmly clutching the covers, she kept it wrapped tight, not letting Kingoro near.

“What’re you doing?” “What’re you doin’ yourself?” “Move the futon aside.” “Ugh—stinks of powder.” “Disgustin’.” “If you got business, go do it at Okyo-san’s place.” “You… Say that again, I’ll rape you.” Anger and mockery mixed as Kingoro laughed and lunged at Man. Against brute strength, Man couldn’t hold out. She fought back hard, but he yanked off the futon.

However, in the next instant, Kingoro—who had been looming over Man—let out an eerie groan ("Ah... t-t-ta... tsu"), his face turning a sickly green like daikon leaves before collapsing limply onto the futon.

Man sprang up. With both hands and her bottom planted firmly on the tatami, she let out one enormous sigh. She was disappointed. Her heart raced uncontrollably. Kingoro lay sprawled carelessly in the darkness. He writhed in agony, his breath as faint as an insect's, but even that grew silent. The surroundings suddenly fell silent.

Man gently brought her ear to her husband’s chest. Then she stood up and went to the kitchen. She transferred the flame from the household shrine’s lamp to a candle and lit the Tamai Group’s arched lantern.

She went to the reception room. In front of the mirror stand, she adjusted her appearance. The travel preparations had already been completed earlier. After placing the furoshiki bundle at the entranceway, she entered the bedroom holding a lantern in her right hand and an iron kettle in her left. She draped the futon over her husband, who lay sprawled like a tuna washed ashore. Then she took water from the kettle into her mouth, but when she saw her husband's face—pale and contorted—tears suddenly began streaming down.

"Splat-splat."

With a “spurt, spurt,” she sprayed water onto his face twice. When the muscles in Kingoro’s face twitched and she sensed signs of his breathing returning, she hurriedly dashed out of the bedroom.

She went to the staircase and climbed five or six steps, “Toki-chan! Toki-chan!”

she called out.

Ōkawa Tokijiro, having not slept a wink while monitoring the situation downstairs, crawled out and revealed his face at the landing—twisted with tension. “What’s wrong?” “My man says he’s feelin’ unwell. I’ll dash to the town pharmacy an’ come right back, so you look after him for a bit.” “I’ll go get the medicine.” “It’s better if you stay here.” “Toki-chan wouldn’t know how.” “Then I’ll leave it to you, Toki-chan.”

Man hurriedly went to the entrance. She grabbed the furoshiki bundle, opened the lattice door, and dashed out into the midnight streets. As she closed the door, for some reason, she looked around the entire house. Suddenly, her chest felt as though it were being constricted by a wire hoop.

Relying on the lantern's light, she made her way through the hushed Shin-Nakamachi. The night air was cold. The sky brimmed with stars glittering so close they seemed to rain down overhead like fiery sparks, while before Man's path two meteors streaked across the sky one after the other. Man felt an icy chill from those shooting stars. Her legs nearly buckled beneath her. The white sign for "Nagata Soft Drink Factory" floated dimly in the night's darkness.

“Good evening.”

When she knocked on the door, Yone immediately showed her face. Nagata Mokuji also came out. He was still awake and seemed to have been playing Go with someone. "Oh, it's you, Man? What's gotten into ya', preparin' to leave at this hour?"

“I heard both my father and mother back in Hiroshima have taken ill, so I’ll be going home to the countryside for a little while.” “Sudden again... You say you’re leavin’ now, but there ain’t no train this late?” “No, I’ll make the last train just fine.... Well then, please watch over things here...”

The Nagata couple called out, intending to offer get-well wishes and a parting gift, but Man retreated into the depths of the night as if fleeing.

When Man left, Tokijiro took the lamp and went down the stairs.

Genju and a few others had also woken up and were about to go with him, but he held them back. The subordinates exchanged looks of concern in the darkness.

He deliberately made his footsteps louder as he approached the bedroom.

“Boss.” He tentatively called out. There was no reply—only a faint moan could be heard. When Tokijiro entered, perhaps roused by the lamp’s light from his hazy consciousness, Kingoro—who had been lying on his back—twisted his face toward the light. His pale face was drenched with water. He faintly opened his eyes,

“Man?” “It’s Ōkawa.” “Toki-chan? …My throat’s parched beyond bearing. Give me ramune.”

“Just a moment, please. I’ll go get it now.”

Tokijiro closed the sliding door and left the room. To Genju and the others, who had gathered at the second-floor landing and were peering down,

“There’s nothing more to worry about now, so go to sleep.” With these words, he went out through the entrance. Through the midnight town, hurrying toward Nagata Ramune Shop, (Tamai Kingoro—who had never feared any hardship, yakuza gang, violent raid, fire, or arrow, and who had never been defeated—had now been brought down by his own wife.)

Thinking about that, he couldn't help finding it absurd.

In Ōkawa Tokijiro's mind surfaced an old incident from his hometown. It concerned a Monopoly Bureau official said to have been bewitched by a fox. The arrogant lecher known as “Oni”—a man who specialized in bullying the weak—had lain collapsed inside Nanase’s watermill shed one evening. Master Bujū of Takado encountered this “Oni” crawling out with death rattling in his throat. Afterward, it became the talk of every household in the village. Yet the truth—that he hadn’t been fox-bewitched at all, but had met disaster while attempting to violate Man—had in time become known to all.

Man’s father, Taniguchi Zensuke, had also known about that since then, “Even the village girls and children should look up to our Man-bo!” he went so far as to boast things like that. That women’s self-defense method, which had been taught by her father, was what Man used against her husband.

(What a fierce woman!) As his strange amusement began to fade, Man grew frightening to him. He had left his hometown solely out of devotion to Man, determined to make her his wife—but even if they were to marry, he now understood she was not a woman he could ever hope to control.

However, even as he thought this, on one hand—

(Perhaps this incident will make Man-bo leave Tamai Kingoro.) (If that happens...she might become my wife...?)

That heart-pounding, beautiful dark desire smoldered persistently and cunningly in the depths of Tokijiro’s chest.

Kingoro, who had received ramune from Nagata, drank two bottles in a row with apparent relish and then fell into a limp sleep.

One o'clock struck.

Man, who had left saying she was going to buy medicine, did not return until morning.

When morning came, chaos erupted. Every single household task became divided among the subordinates.

“If it’s shogi and cooking, leave ’em to me.”

"Noro Jin" said this and with his inherently slow movements made miso soup and prepared grated daikon. Genju, responsible for rice cooking, fed firewood into the stove while Seiji, the tool manager, lit the charcoal brazier and grilled dried sardines. Shunji, "the middle school student," specialized in water fetching; at the sink area he washed dishes and bowls.

Tokijiro took a broom and swept inside the house.

The one opening the storm shutters was the twenty-five-year-old Shiro Sanji, who prided himself on his strength.

The one sweeping outside was Shintani Katsutarō, a lanky, tall man nicknamed "Kamakiri." Twenty-seven years old. The one scrubbing the floors was Matsumoto Shigeo, the boatman. Thirty-one years old. "Rokuzoro no Gen," squatting in front of the stove with tears streaming down his face amidst the smoldering smoke as he blew into the bamboo bellows, spoke to "Noro Jin," who was grating daikon.

“Hey, Jinkō, this is unbelievable, I tell ya.” “What’s that about?”

“Right now, the work we eight are doin’ together—every mornin’, Sis was doin’ it all by herself.” “Now that ya mention it, that’s right.” “Even so—with the rice already washed ’n’ set in the pot since last night, ’n’ stuff like miso ’n’ tofu ’n’ daikon all bought up—it’s still easier than I thought. The shoppin’ was Sis’s job too—then the laundry, sewin’, makin’ straw sandals, ’n’ even goin’ out to the site… This here’s no joke.”

“And we gotta feed the cat too, huh.” “Even things you thought were nothing special, just ordinary—when you actually run into ’em, there’s times you go, ‘Huh,’ I tell ya.” “Sis is as strong as eight men, isn’t she?” “Bōshin, I’ve made a great discovery!” “This ain’t just our Sis!” “When it comes to wives—every wife everywhere’s doin’ this much work, y’know.” “We’re all single now, but since we’ll be gettin’ wives someday, we gotta think this through proper-like.”

“And then, treasure your wives and become henpecked husbands?” As they chatted about such things, uproarious laughter filled the kitchen with liveliness.

“What about the old man?”

“He says he still ain’t feelin’ well and’s stayin’ in bed. He ain’t too hungry, so y’all just go ahead ’n’ eat breakfast on yer own. Just a bowl of miso soup is fine... ’s what he said.” While sipping the overly spicy miso soup lacking dashi that Shunji had brought, Kingoro lay under the futon, forcing nothing but bitter smiles.

(This is even more absurd than a comedy act.) When the culmination of life and fate reaches the brink for humans, invariably, their transformation or rebirth manifests in strangely comical forms. Does what we call truth—those voices of grief and pathos—mock humanity in some absurd place beyond words? Tragedy or comedy—no one could tell. When I was in my hometown village, bound by inescapable duty, I became an adopted son of the Kuroishi family. Every night tormented by an imbecilic giantess named Yasu, I finally fled. Okyo the tattoo artist challenged me once in Hakata and again after I came to Wakamatsu—I escaped her too. And now my own wife had fled from me. I wanted to roar with laughter. Yet all that surfaced were twisted, bitter, soundless smirks at the corners of my mouth.

(What did I think I was going to do if I died?)

Truly, for a moment, I thought I would die. Man likely had no intention of killing me, but accidents do happen. From Man's perspective—as someone experienced and already a kind of skilled worker—it must have been a calculated act that shouldn't have been fatal, but I couldn't comprehend such a thing. (To act so recklessly without even verifying what happened...) For me—who had until now shared mutual trust from the heart with Man and remained faithful—the misunderstanding and jealous violence from my wife were anything but amusing. As I thought about it, my anger gradually grew,

(If Man's serious about this, then I'll...) And so, rebelliously, he began falling into dangerous thoughts.

“If you have business to attend to, go to Okyo-san’s place.”

Man said. "Should I go then?"

He voiced it aloud—"Whatever happens, I don't care"—and strained as if Man were right there before him. At Midoriya, pressed by Okyo-san and interrogated with “Are you even a man?,” he had promised only to have a descending dragon tattooed on his right arm. Of course, their contact had been limited to tattoos; but now that things had come to this, there was no guarantee it wouldn’t develop into a deeper relationship. Into Kingoro’s tangled heart, a devil crept.

The morning light streamed in through the shoji window. Today too seemed to be a fine day. The chirping of sparrows joined with the commotion of the underlings in the kitchen to play a lively symphony.

The depths of his head throbbed dully, heavy. Having set down the miso soup bowl, Kingoro contorted his body to reach for the ramune by his pillow. His eyes caught a glimpse of a light blue sealed letter lying there. He stretched out his hand and picked it up.

On the front was written "To Tamai Man-sama," and on the back "From Asuka, Mori Kimi"—with "Kimi" being Kimika's real name. The seal had already been broken.

With a suspicious expression, Kingoro pulled out the letter inside. He read it. Having finished reading,

"What in..." "So that's how it was."

He muttered as if spitting it out. He had come to understand the reason behind Man’s actions. Then fury toward Kimika—who had written such a letter to Man—and toward Mori Shinnosuke, who must have colluded with her, suddenly set Kingoro’s entire body ablaze. (To think they’d become this rotten-hearted…) Though they’d been sworn brothers since Moji—the one and only friend he’d trusted—had the time come to part ways? —Kingoro, wrapped in indescribable desolation and loneliness, felt his spirits sink.

“Boss, Master Nagata has arrived.” Shunji came to usher him in. “Now of all times, I hear you’ve caught a cold?”

Nagata Mokuji entered with a beaming face. Yone and her son Shigemune Hira followed behind.

Several days passed. Kingoro spent each day in a listless state of mind, living through a desolation he had never before experienced. His physical condition had quickly recovered, so he returned to work, but no matter what he did, there was simply no drive. The house without Man was like a mouth that had lost its teeth. And that was exactly like Kingoro's heart.

Everything went mad in a strange way. (I was planning to return to my hometown with Man after so long and soak leisurely in Dogo Onsen together, but...) Even that, he no longer felt like going out alone.

Then, in the midst of his anger, dangerous thoughts rose in his head. (Four years ago at Shikokuya in Dogo where I first met Okyo-san—should I go there now, just the two of us? And have a descending dragon tattooed on my right arm—maybe even become proper partners with her.)

The neighbors asked. “We haven’t seen Goryon-san around lately—what happened?” “Since her parents in Hiroshima fell ill, I sent her to care for them.” When he answered like that—knowing how close they usually were—no one doubted him. No one knew that after their tremendous fight, Man had stormed out.

The "middle school student" Shunji pouted, "You promised to take me to see the play at Asakusa-za..." The underlings had already collapsed under the strain of household chores after just one day. On the day Man disappeared, they'd made a half-hearted commotion while dividing tasks among eight people, but after finishing the meal, they discovered the real ordeal. "Cleaning up after meals is tougher than cooking them, eh?"

Seeing the remnants of their eight-man meal scattered across the dining table, they exchanged looks of disgust. Even if they gave the leftovers to cats, washing the soiled bowls, plates, pots, kettles and chopsticks remained a tedious and exhausting chore. What's more, with their regular work obligations, they couldn't keep doing this every day. Then when night fell, Matsukawa Genju appeared smiling as he brought along a woman. "I've hired us a proper maid."

She was a woman of medium build, seemingly healthy, with a dark complexion, a kind appearance, and a quiet demeanor. She was said to be the niece of Bōshin from the Misaki-gumi and had also worked as a female dockworker. Tanasaki Jun, twenty-six years old.

Kingoro too, upon meeting her, "I'm counting on you to handle things properly until Man comes back," he said.

One morning, Tamai Kingoro left home alone to meet Yoshida Isokichi. At Asuka, having been advised by Tomoda Kizō, he had made the promise.

A limitless blue sky pasted motionless white clouds against the heavens—a windless day. As though summer had come early, walking made his whole body break out in sweat. The cotton haori weighed heavy. The wooden clogs dragged heavy too. Kingoro's heart hung heaviest of all.

He wondered what to bring as a gift, but stopped by his acquaintance "Uokatsu" and procured two sea breams.

“Is this for a gift? Shall we deliver it for you?”

The affable "Uokatsu" had said so, but,

"No, I'll take them myself." He wrapped the sea bream platter adorned with green bamboo leaves in a furoshiki cloth and hung it from his hand. When he reached the corner of Rengamachi, Kingoro—walking with a hollow heart— “Well, if it isn’t Tamai-kun!”

At the same moment as the voice, his shoulder was struck so violently it felt like he’d been shoved. He turned around, “Mr. Shinagawa? You startled me!” “No need to be startled. But if you keep wandering around in a daze like this, you might get stabbed by an enemy at any moment. This town’s dangerous, I tell you.” As he said this, the man shook his whole body and laughed heartily with abandon. This was Shinagawa Nobutake, who was independently publishing the Wakamatsu Jitsugyō Shinbun. Though he was around fifty, the continental spirit—an unyielding will and fighting spirit forged in his youth when he wandered Korea and Manchuria with grand ambitions—still glared brightly on his ruddy, drinker’s face. Now that he mentioned it, even though it was still before noon, he seemed to have already been drinking a bit.

Shinagawa Nobutake, in his bowler hat, handlebar mustache, and Western suit, boomed in a voice so loud it made nearby listeners strain their ears: “Tamai-kun! You’re remarkable. “Give it your all. “Stay beneath a large umbrella, and you’ll never feel the rain. “I understand that. “Here in Wakamatsu, we might call the Yoshida faction a grand umbrella. “But even drenched to the bone—refusing shelter under some crooked parasol—that’s where a man’s pride lies! “Soaked through for justice’s sake—what true man would hesitate?”

“I’m in a hurry…” “Now wait,” said Shinagawa Nobutake, his voice booming across the street. “Those who share common aspirations should share seats—wouldn’t you agree? Comrade Tamai-kun! To see you striving to establish the Wakamatsu Port Steamship Loaders’ Union despite this oppression—truly heroic! I speak from experience when I say how impossible it is to act outside the Yoshida faction’s umbrella here. …Yes, I’ve heard about Tomoda Kizō’s threats too. But press on! God shields the righteous.”

“Excuse me.” Unable to bear it any longer, Kingoro pressed his hands to his ears and walked away.

“Hey, Tamai-kun! Wait a moment. “I still have things to discuss!”

Ignoring the voice, he hurried as if running. While engaged in conversation, he had seen one of Tomoda Kizō’s subordinates listening intently at the fruit shop’s entrance. Indeed, in this cramped town, it was no exaggeration to say that every street was all ears. Shinagawa Nobutake could not possibly have been unaware of this, but the bold newspaper president always seemed to maintain absolute faith in the god of justice that protected him.

By the time he arrived at the gate of the Yoshida residence, sweat was pouring out and his heart pounded faintly. He looked back but saw no sign of Shinagawa pursuing him. He opened the lattice door. “Excuse me.”

“Hey!” The gatekeeper, whom he had met two or three times, came out. “I wish to see Boss Yoshida…”

“How strange—” “What business could Tamai Kingoro possibly have with our boss?” “You here to pick a fight or somethin’?” Kingoro was annoyed but kept his temper in check and replied calmly—

“Isn’t the Boss here?” “He’s here, but there’s no way he’d meet the likes of you.” “Please inform him of my visit.” “You’re one stubborn man, I tell you. Even if I relay your message, it’s bound to be pointless…” “I did not come here to meet you. I have come to pay my respects to Boss Yoshida. At any rate—Tamai Kingoro has arrived… Please convey that. If the Boss says he will not meet me, I shall leave.”

“You’re persistent,” said the gatekeeper. “Then wait here a moment.” “And this is merely a token of greeting...” The gatekeeper looked down at the sea bream plate Kingoro had presented with a sneering gaze but, seeming annoyed, picked it up and went inside. Perhaps a remnant of past brawls, he walked with a limp, and the wound on his right leg also appeared to be a sword scar. He was a dark-skinned, mean-faced fifty-year-old man known as “Koharu no Kyuhachi.”

Soon, he came out. In a spiteful tone, "Just as I told ya! The Boss said—'What business does Tamai Kingoro have comin' to see me? Did he come here to kill me? I can't stand even lookin' at the face of a bastard like Tamai. Drive him away.'... He said that! Now get outta here!"

“Is that so?” “In that case, I’ll take my leave.” “Please give my best regards to the Boss.” As Kingoro—now out on the street—began turning the corner, a shrill voice rang out behind him.

“Pisu, come here.” “Pisu, come here.” “Pisu, Pisu, Pisu, Pisu...” When he looked back, the gatekeeper from earlier stood holding the plate of sea bream in both hands, shouting persistently. This was the back entrance of the Yoshida residence. A garbage bin sat nearby. Soon, a dog came running from the direction of a temple surrounded by pine trees. It was a sturdy, tawny Tosa dog. Pisu appeared to be its name. “Here’s a treat for you.”

“Koharu no Kyuhachi” threw the fish at the dog. The two fresh sea breams—one large, one small—leaped through the air as though alive, their scales glinting in the sunlight. But this lasted only an instant; the bream that had fallen to the dirt were trampled under the dog’s muddy paws and seized in its jaws. The broad plate was flung down, shattering with a loud crash into countless fragments. There was not a shred of doubt that every motion had been executed as a calculated insult to Kingoro. Kyuhachi’s raucous calls for Pisu too had been deliberately staged to carry to Kingoro’s ears.

However, Kingoro said nothing and silently left the spot. (I’d thought Boss Yoshida Isokichi was a slightly higher caliber of yakuza...)

More than anger or hatred, contempt alone surged from his heart's depths. Then his mind grew lighter. Once he understood his adversary lacked worth, it ceased being worth his concern. He felt liberated. He wanted to whistle.

With suddenly lightened steps, Kingoro headed toward Asuka, humming a Gidayu-style ballad through vocalized shamisen-like sounds while wondering aloud, "Where could Hanshichi-san be now—and what might he be up to?"

When Kingoro saw Mori Shinnosuke's face, he made a sullen expression. "Shinkō, I've come today to discuss a somewhat complicated matter."

“Shinkō, I’ve come today to discuss a somewhat complicated matter,” he said.

“I see.” “I also have a complicated matter to discuss.” “Come to the back.”

In a six-tatami room facing the garden, the two faced each other alone. Both faces were tense.

“Isn’t Okyo-san here?” As soon as he sat down, Kingoro asked that.

“Well, about Okyo… There’s something I need to discuss with you, Kinsan…” “I don’t need to hear it—I already know.” “Just let me meet Okyo.” “Okyo isn’t here.” “Where’d she go?” “The hairdresser’s? Bathhouse? Lessons?” “Or Tomoda Kizō’s place?” “…Send someone to fetch her from training.” “Either way—I need to meet her right here before you.”

“Okyo is no longer in Wakamatsu.” “What?”

Even he was taken aback.

Shinnosuke wore a grave expression, “Earlier when I said there was a complicated matter—it’s about Okyo... I’d been thinking of coming to your house today to report it. Okyo—I bowed my head and made her leave Wakamatsu. It’s a problem having petty disputes keep popping up everywhere over just one woman. I got down on my knees before Okyo. I begged her—‘It must be hard for you too, but if you’d just withdraw from this situation, everything could settle peacefully.’ By now I don’t think anything will go smoothly—but if you weren’t around, they might’ve found some way to patch things up. Sorry... but I thought you were dead—”

“And then…?” “Then Okyo-san burst out laughing—‘Ah, how ridiculous! All these big bosses, middle bosses, and little bosses making a huge fuss over one woman? Hilarious. But really—who’d stay in this shabby Wakamatsu even if you begged them?’… That’s what she said. She’s gone off somewhere.” “When was that?”

“Well, the morning after the reconciliation.” “I see.”

Kingoro crossed his arms, wearing a complex bitter smile. “Shinkō, seems Tomoda Kizō threatened you over Okyo’s matter?” “Threatened? By Tomoda? That’s not true.” “Since Okyo and I disappeared halfway through that night, you must’ve been really threatened—how dare you disgrace me like that.” “Even though I kept telling you to take care of Okyo, you let Okyo and me escape.” “Repaying mediation’s favor with betrayal—what kind of act is this?” “...he said.”

“Who’s saying such things? There’s absolutely no such thing.” Tomoda left without a word. “Who’s spreading such outrageous lies…?”

“It was in your wife’s letter.” “My wife’s letter? You wrote that letter yourself?” “I did.”

“That’s strange.” “Your woman’s even more illiterate than me—can’t write a single character beyond her own name.” “No way she’d write any letter.”

At this, even Kingoro was taken aback and pulled out the letter from Kimika he had brought with him from his pocket. Silently, he handed it to Shinnosuke.

Shinnosuke, who had been reading silently, let out a deep sigh when he finished. “I see.” “Now I understand everything.” “So after all… it doesn’t match your wife’s handwriting?” “Whether it’s different or not—hell, I’ve never seen your wife’s handwriting.” “This here—Someki wrote it.” “Someki?” “She was a contracted geisha of ours, but the very next day, she suddenly said she was changing her name to ‘Yamane,’ so I thought it was strange.” “She’s pulled off such a cowardly scheme.”

“Why would Someki write such a fake letter?”

“Because she’s sweet on you.” “On me?” “Someki’s patron’s Tomoda Kizō, but Tomoda’s got women all over town.” “Tomoda’s tight with his purse-strings too—she’d been schemin’ to switch to a better patron for ages.” “That’s why she set her sights on you.” “But when she caught wind of your thing with Okyo, she hatched this whole plot.” “That’s the long and short of it.” “Women—once they get lust-drunk, there’s no tellin’ what mischief they’ll brew up.”

“Hmph.” Kingoro crossed his arms, wearing a thoroughly exasperated expression. “Truth is, I came today ready to fight with you over this letter. Even if my wife had written it, there’s no way you wouldn’t have known—and if things had gone sideways, I was plannin’ to cut ties for good.”

“So what happened to Man?”

“She’s run away.” “If she saw a letter like this—no matter how much Man trusts you—she’d get angry.”

“It’s because I trust your wife. …Speaking of which, where is she?”

“She went to Tomoda Kizō’s place.”

“Why?”

“There’s no way around it—I’m in trouble. The cost of that reconciliation banquet ended up being exorbitant, and Tomoda refuses to pay. You’ve been making your hundred prayers, but he says he doesn’t give a damn. Originally, it was Tomoda’s idea—we did exactly as instructed, so we thought he’d take care of the whole bill—but even just mediating for him, he oughta be grateful. Why should I care about cleaning up after the eating and drinking? …That’s what he’s saying. If I throw a banquet that big and don’t get a single sen back, my shop’ll go under.”

“Is that all? That sounds exactly like somethin’ Tomoda’d say.” “It started with me in the first place—I can’t let you take the fall for this.” “I’ll take care of it.” “I can’t pay it all at once, but… how much was it?”

“Nah, I ain’t takin’ it from you.” “Ain’t it the yakuza code for mediators to handle everything?” “Tomoda’s the big-shot fixer round these parts.” “I’ll squeeze the cash outta Tomoda myself.”

Shinnosuke talked tough, but he himself knew full well that it was an extremely difficult task—perhaps nearly impossible.

Evening fell, and dinner began at the Tamai household. The next morning would bring the Union's major task - loading three hundred tons of fuel coal onto the America-bound Mexico Maru. In preparation, they drank vigorously with Kingoro at their center. Jun the maid worked diligently about her tasks. Yet the house felt oddly hollow without its vital presence - Man.

As they chatted noisily, a visitor arrived at the entrance. When Tokijiro went out to check, there stood a large man in an informal kimono with his hands tucked into his sleeves. “Yoshida Isokichi here. Is Tamai-kun present?”

Tokijiro turned pale and rushed back to the dinner table. His acorn-like eyes wide open and his voice hushed,

“Boss, it’s serious.”

“What’s got you so flustered? Who’s the visitor?” “Yoshida Isokichi has made his move.” “Boss Yoshida?” Kingoro knit his brows in suspicion, his expression growing tense. He set down his cup and straightened his posture. “He’s standing right at the entrance asking, ‘Isn’t the boss here?’”

“Boss Yoshida?… Alone?…” “Yeah.” “Couldn’t be a case of mistaken identity?” “He gave his name himself.” “Yoshida Isokichi’s the only one at the entrance, but there seemed to be several others outside too.” “Boss,” Matsukawa Genju said, “you shouldn’t go out.” “I’ll check it out.” “Wait.” Kingoro stopped Genju, who was about to stand. “I’ll go out. …You lot aren’t to come.” “Don’t make a sound.”

Kingoro tidied himself, closed the sliding door in the hallway tightly, and quietly stepped out to the entrance. Yoshida Isokichi, standing casually with hands tucked into his sleeves, had been leisurely surveying the lanterns hanging from the lintel and the attendance charts of subordinates pasted on the office wall when he spotted Kingoro. “Well, Tamai-kun, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Though blunt, he spoke in a tone that carried an undercurrent of familiarity. This only heightened the unease, sharpening Kingoro’s vigilance to razor intensity. In this town where some even called him “Yoshida the Emperor,” it was strange enough that this paramount boss—locked in multiple conflicts with the Tamai Group—would visit their stronghold unannounced from his side; that he’d come entirely alone made it downright suspicious.

Thinking it might be a ploy to lower his guard, Kingoro discreetly remained attentive to any signs of movement outside.

In the dim light of dusk, a narrow road strewn with stones stretched palely ahead, the weeds along the ditches swayed in the faint breeze. However, Kingoro’s sharp eyes did not miss someone lurking in the shadows of the lattice door frame.

(He had his hands tucked into his sleeves—could he be hiding a pistol or a dagger…?) The tension of that inevitable final confrontation—the one that had to come someday—had arrived, and Kingoro trembled like a warrior poised for battle. Though crouched halfway down, he readied his entire body like a coiled spring to leap swiftly at any moment. Yoshida lightly pressed three fingers against the tatami mat. “Ah,” he said, “you’ve come out to greet me.” “Do you have business with me?…”

“Yeah, I thought I’d come see you.” “Won’t you come in?” “Here’s fine... Tamai-kun, I want you to come to my house today...” Kingoro stiffened. “You were supposed to send word through someone...?” “Nah, didn’t know a thing about that.” “Heard later—realized I’d done wrong.” “Just came out on a whim.” “That gatekeeper Kozaru didn’t tell me—acted on his own.” “Now don’t go getting angry.” “Tamai-kun—all sorts wash up at my place.” “The fringe ones always say—‘Commander, quit botherin’ with deadweight.’” “...But if even I don’t take ’em in—who will?” “Might as well say I’m humanity’s wastebasket.” “That’s fine ’n all—but when they play loyal and disrespect guests like now—it’s trouble.” “Tamai-kun—hold no grudge.”

“Understood.”

“I’d meant to go to ‘Asuka’ too, but couldn’t make it—a real pity,” Yoshida said, his hands still tucked in his sleeves. “This damn stomach’s been acting up something fierce. Been thinkin’ I might have to slit it open proper.” He chuckled dryly. “Come to think of it, meant to bring a gift when we were at Asuka that time—got lazy, I did. Do pass my regards to Mori-kun, would you?... Oy!”

Yoshida Isokichi called out toward the front. A voice responded, and a middle-aged rickshaw puller came along, heavily carrying a vermilion-lacquered fish tub. What Kingoro had earlier thought was someone lurking in the shadows of the door frame seemed to be this rickshaw puller, and there appeared to be a rickshaw waiting there as well.

Inside the bucket adorned with ceremonial cords and a decorative lid lay two massive red sea bream resting on a bed of green bamboo leaves, accompanied by one spiny lobster. On the bream's skin lay a formal envelope inscribed with the characters "Congratulatory Gift" in bold brushstrokes, which appeared to contain no small sum of banknotes, its thickness swelling conspicuously. Furthermore, a one-to barrel was brought in. The perplexed Kingoro watched wordlessly as the rickshaw puller placed those items on the entrance threshold,

“Tamai-kun, why don’t you come visit me properly one of these days?”

Yoshida Isokichi brusquely said that, urged on the rickshaw puller, and went out front. There came a sense of someone boarding the rickshaw, then the toot, too-oot of a horn faded along the road now darkened by dusk.

Detecting the smell of fish, several cats promptly came over. After chasing them away, Kingoro sat upright in seiza, kept his arms crossed in front of the fish tub, and remained motionless for some time.

(The world is complicated.)

The events of four years ago resurfaced in his memory. When Mori Shinnosuke—beaten bloody and hospitalized at Hikoshima Hospital—had lain recovering, Yoshida Isokichi had paid him an unexpected visit. Now, a similar emotion swelled within Kingoro’s broad chest. —The complexity binding humans: bonds both profound and shallow; chasms and valleys between them; gears grinding out of sync; treacherous notions of ally and foe; hellscapes born from comprehension and misapprehension—all these elements wove themselves against time’s current, interlacing life and death into fate’s grand tapestry. To reflect on it, life sprawled endlessly intricate, its path ahead strewn with trials.

(Even so...) Kingoro thought. Yoshida Isokichi did have his good points—a magnanimous side.

And then Kingoro, biting his lip, still reflected deeply on the inadequacy of his life's education.

Life

"I’m a dockworker, Raised in work coats— Long robes Hold no ties…"

The one singing the "Gonzo song" in a clear, resonant voice was Harada Tane, a female dockworker. Along the side of the Mexico Maru, shelves hung suspended as tiered cargo operations continued smoothly. Matching her movements to the work's rhythm, Tane wielded her shovel in the barge while singing a dockworker's song. Under the blazing sun, heat haze rose from the steamship's iron plates while dockworkers dripped with sweat. The waters of Dōkai Bay gleamed blue around buoys where dozens of seagulls flocked and dove for fish. Occasionally, mullet leaped from the sea's surface.

As soon as Tane finished a verse, the barge master—as if waiting for his cue—began singing in a booming gong-like voice. "The offshore Gonzo, If human, Butterflies, dragonflies— Among birds—" "You damn bastard!" Matsukawa Genju—nicknamed "Rokuzoro no Gen"—stood on the shelf, glaring with bulging acorn-like eyes at the barge master who squatted at the bow repairing sails. Then he started singing: "The ship's a wreck, The barge master's one-eyed, The stern's grime-scraper— Scabby head!" A boy of twelve or thirteen—clearly the barge master's son—diligently pumped stagnant water from the barge with a bamboo pump. His scalp gaped with scabs and pimples, four or five flies clinging motionless to the oozing sores.

The dockworkers burst into raucous laughter. The child didn’t understand why the adults were laughing, but he turned around, glancing around bewilderedly, and joined in their laughter. Another burst of raucous laughter erupted. The barge master looked irritated yet not truly angry; laughing himself, he sang back teasing verses at the dockworkers. Not to be outdone, the dockworkers this time took aim at the barge master’s wife. The crew of the Mexico Maru listened with amusement from the bridge and deck.

“Hey, hey, you lot, quit that song fighting!” Leaning out from the ship’s railing, Kingoro bellowed. He was grinning. “In that case, Boss, give us a round of yours!” Jō Sanji looked up and called out from the lower shelf.

“Alright, I’ll sing!”

Kingoro was in a good mood. *Wakamatsu Port's Gonzo is a flower,* *With deft hands,* *Japan's number one...* A surge of cheers and applause erupted. Laughter. Coal scattered in all directions. Kingoro continued.

On the tiered platform, Jinshichi and Seishichi stood side by side, their gazes fixed on a point within the harbor as they spoke in low voices. "Dotera Hag's crew are over on that Ume Maru, but Kakusuke's nowhere to be seen, eh?" "Jinkō, you don't know? Kakusuke's been gambling and wound up in Kokura Prison, I tell ya. Moshi."

“Huh… So that’s why I hadn’t seen ’im lately.” “I heard Dotera Hag’d contracted to kill our boss, but…”

“Well then, Tokiyan went back to Hiroshima saying he’d fetch Sis, but d’ya think he’ll manage to bring her back proper?” “Boss sure does risky things, huh?” “Tokiyan’s been sweet on Sis since forever, ain’t he?” “Ran off from his village just ’cause he wanted to wed her, didn’t he?” “Sendin’ Tokiyan of all people to fetch her…” “Tokiyan insisted on goin’ himself, I tell ya.”

"Still, isn't that dangerous?"

“Boss had that kinda guts since he was knee-high.” “That’s not somethin’ we could ever pull off, I tell ya.”

“I’ll tell you what—Tokiyan had been waiting for a time like this to come.” “……Will she come back……?” The two found it utterly baffling that Kingoro, who seemed carefree despite these internal and external troubles, was in such high spirits singing songs like the *Gonzo song*.

Behind the pine forest atop Kōtōzan’s peak—looming like a beached warship—the sun sank, setting the crimson sunset aglow. Before darkness could fully settle, the cargo work on the Mexico Maru had finished. They gathered their tools, all boarded two sampans, and returned to the Wakamatsu-side wharf where the Union kept its base.

Kingoro entered the office, announced the completion of the cargo work, and lowered the Tamai Group signboard that had been hung up. At the Tamai Group outpost on the coast, Matsumoto Shigeo was distributing advance wages—called kozukai—to the members. Settlements were made every half-month, and on days when there was work, married men would receive thirty sen upon returning home while single men got twenty sen as an advance. The bookkeeper and accountant was Okawa Tokijiro, but since he was away, Matsumoto was acting in his place.

“Please… Just today, thirty sen.” The alcohol-loving Jō Sanji pleaded.

“What’s this ‘just today’? “It’s every day with you.” “You shouldn’t drink so much cheap sake.” “Got dumped by a woman, so I’m drowning my sorrows.” “You get disliked because you drink too much. …Really, just today, I tell ya.”

Later, Matsumoto Shigeo, who succeeded Matsukawa Genjū as the boss of the Tamai Group, proved himself dependable. While airing their various grievances, the underlings noisily headed home. Along the way, many stopped at street stalls, oden stands, and izakayas. Their greatest pleasure lay in *kakuuchi*—drinking chilled sake straight from the corner of a square wooden cup. They would tip back the masu cup and gulp down the cold sake in one swift motion.

Kingoro thought to acknowledge the efforts of the deckhands supervising the cargo work.

“Mr. Fukushima, let’s step over there for a moment. Let’s just grab a quick bite…” “Sure, I’ll join you.”

As the two were about to leave the office, the old office attendant came to call Kingoro. A guest had arrived some time ago and had been waiting in the back, it was said.

Kingoro told Fukushima, "Just a moment," and went around to the back. It was Kochōya Mamehachi the jester.

"Mamehachi." He had wondered who it was.

“What’s this about?” “Boss, please take a look at this.”

Being cautious of their surroundings, Mamehachi took out a single piece of paper and silently read it by the lamplight. "Kingoro-san, Okyo is waiting. I believe you will surely fulfill your promise. Okyo's life now hangs on this single matter. If you ask Mamehachi-san, you can get in touch with me anytime. From Okyo" “Do you understand now?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then…”

Contrary to his usual joviality, Mamehachi wore a grave expression as he rolled the scrap of paper into a tight cylinder and tossed it into the lamp’s flame. The secret letter burned.

Since Fukushima Kappanban said he wanted beer with beefsteak, they went to Totsukantei on Yamatemachi Street. Mamehachi also accompanied them.

At the foot of Kōtōzan Mountain, on a hill near Hakusan Shrine, stood a modern wooden Western-style building painted blue in imitation of the Rokumeikan. The sign hung on the arched gate read "Latest-Style High-Class Western Restaurant: Totsukantei" under the gaslight. The great hall had both gaslights and electric lights installed. Surrounding it were deep bamboo groves and dense forests of towering trees where owls hooted at night, and foxes and raccoon dogs occasionally appeared.

“Welcome!” “New guests, party of three!” A young waitress in a white apron welcomed them in a sing-song voice and guided Kingoro and his companions to a corner of the great hall. As he settled into a chair at the table, Fukushima twisted his thin mustache while,

“Well now, look at all these distinguished guests here.”

he looked around the room. In the wooden-floored hall—which could have accommodated over sixty tatami mats if laid with them—numerous tables were arranged. At the very back, a banquet for about thirty people was underway. The low screens that were only nominally partitions had been set up, so the guests were fully visible. They were talking and laughing boisterously.

Kingoro, as he didn't yet know the people of this town well outside of work-related matters, decided to ask.

“Mr. Fukushima, who are these distinguished guests?”

“What’s going on here tonight, I wonder? The faces of town council members are everywhere you look.” “…Mayor Kamase is here too.” “Deputy Mayor Oda and Revenue Officer Ishii are here too.” “…Tamai-kun, that’s Mr. Satō Keitarō.” “He’s a tycoon who owns several coal mines… The one to his right is Mr. Yasukawa Keiichirō—head of the Yasukawa zaibatsu… Then, continuing to the right: Mr. Hoashi Ichiemon, Mr. Uryū Tokuhei, Mr. Ōgai Sentarō, Mr. Ishizaki Toshiyuki…” Fukushima, a native of Wakamatsu who knew all the local notables intimately, informed Kingoro of each one without exception: “Mr. Tanaka from the Port Construction Company is here too… Perhaps they held a consultative meeting at the town office during the day regarding the municipal system’s implementation.”

They drank beer while cutting into the beefsteak, pork cutlet, fried shrimp and other dishes that had been brought out, using unfamiliar knives and forks. “Tamai-kun,” said Fukushima, who had grown tipsy, in a somewhat teasing tone, “why don’t you run for town council?” “Don’t be absurd. For gonzos like us, even thinking about such things would invite divine punishment.” “Punishment? What sort of punishment? Who’d be dishing it out? I’ll tell you what I always think—since Wakamatsu’s a coal town, we need a coal carrier’s representative on the council. Union Group execs like Boss Tanaka Mitsunori-oyabun want to run, but someone’s got to step up from you lot working blackened by coal dust day in and out. You’re the perfect man for it.”

“I won’t.” Because it stood on elevated ground, the town of Wakamatsu could be seen in its entirety from the window. Tamai Kingoro pressed the glass to his lips, chewing on the bitter foam of his beer as he gazed down at the dimly lit town of Wakamatsu with eyes full of emotion.

(Finally, I've ended up settling in Wakamatsu.) He couldn't help pondering fate's inscrutability as if realizing it anew. Though several groups of customers sat at the tables, a voice from one suddenly made Kingoro prick up his ears.

“There’s no way that bastard Tamai can form a union. Plus, after being intimidated by our boss and warned in no uncertain terms, he can’t possibly form one.”

It was abundantly clear that their remarks—knowing full well Kingoro was present—were deliberately loud. At a table two tables apart, five or six customers had been drinking whiskey while picking at Western food since before Kingoro and his companions entered. Two geishas were among them. The man in the tubular-sleeved kimono who had spoken had his back turned to Kingoro, so he couldn’t tell who it was. However, it was easy to imagine that he was someone from the Kyōdō Group where Tomoda Kizō belonged.

Kingoro thought he had seen the face of one of the geishas at that table. *Someki*, he realized at once. “No matter how much they call Tamai a traitor, he’s no different—he still clings to his life,” one said. “If he forms a union by defying our boss, Tamai knows better than anyone what’ll happen.” The man in tubular sleeves was still going on.

“Boss, let’s get out of here.” As if he could no longer endure it, Kochōya Mamehachi whispered into Kingoro’s ear. “Yeah.”

He called a waitress and settled the bill. Propping up the reeling deckhand, he left the room. From behind came raucous laughter—men and women mingling together in explosive, derisive guffaws.

He left Totsukantei. The gas lamp at the gate cast a bluish-white light, and the surrounding area was hazed over as if shrouded in mist. In the woods behind, an owl was calling incessantly. From the direction of the harbor, the steam whistle of a ship could be heard. Since Fukushima still seemed not to have drunk enough, he ordered Mamehachi to go together to Asuka and have an after-party. “Are you returning home now, Boss?”

“I’m worn out today, so I’ll leave everything to you. Give Shinno my regards.”

When Kingoro started walking, Mamehachi clung after him.

“Boss, do you have any message for Okyo-san?...”

Kingoro did not answer and briskly walked away from the spot.

When he returned home, the maid Jun brought a sealed letter. It was a registered letter addressed to Man. When he looked at the sender, it read, "Fukuoka Prefecture, Onga District, Tobata Town, Makiyama, Ishikawa Niemon"—a strange name he had no recollection of whatsoever. Kingoro opened it and looked. "Dear Sir/Madam, I hereby return the money I borrowed from you some time ago, as I have at last managed to arrange repayment." "At great length and with deep gratitude, I hereby express my thanks—from the thief." The text was simple, and a six-yen postal order was enclosed.

Kingoro burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face.

Last autumn, he had been told by Man about the peculiar thief who had broken into the house while he was away at Musashi Hot Springs. At that time, he had been unable to stop laughing, but now, upon learning that the thief had returned the money, Kingoro was doubled over in laughter. (What a splendid thief!)

Lately, one frustrating thing after another had kept happening, leaving Kingoro’s heart unbearably gloomy—but now, it was as if a window had suddenly opened and a bright light flooded in, filling him with cheer. Ishikawa Niemon—even his name had a stylish ring to it. To set up a money order, a name was necessary, so he likely used a pseudonym, but what’s amusing is that it’s two characters shorter than Goemon. Then, Kingoro suddenly remembered something important he had forgotten.

(I also have to return thirty yen to Matsuyama's old man.) (I'll send it first thing tomorrow.) Thinking this, his heart felt refreshed.

A few days later, a strange incident occurred.

One night after returning from a banquet engagement, Someki had her hair forcibly cropped by someone. Though not completely shaved bald, her black hair had been nearly entirely sheared off at the roots with a sharp blade. Someki had switched establishments from Asuka to Yamane while maintaining her relationship with Tomoda Kizō, but that night she hadn't met with Tomoda. She had been invited to a Mitsubishi banquet instead.

When Someki came running back to Yamane, her head and face wrapped in her long-sleeved kimono like a pilgrim’s hood while letting out shrill wails between sobs, everyone at first suspected she had gone mad. “Someki-chan, what’s wrong?” The landlady and the others, shocked and present, swarmed around to soothe and reason with her, but the half-mad Someki continued to writhe across the tatami like a caterpillar in its death throes, never ceasing her wailing and crying. There was no stopping her.

When they realized Someki's head had been cropped into an unsightly mess, everyone was shocked anew.

“Who did this? Someki-chan? Tell me what happened.” The landlady turned pale and began crying along with Someki while persistently demanding to hear every detail of this horrifying incident. “Damn... Demon... Demon...” Someki kept babbling these words through her sobs like delirious ravings. “Who’s the beast? Who’s the demon? Come on—tell me!” The gathered crowd desperately wanted to know who had committed such cruelty and why.

However, no matter how much she was pressed, Someki would not tell. That night, she immediately went to bed and cried inside her futon until morning, but even after morning came, her attitude of not revealing the culprit did not change. She was unyielding. The matter even reached the police, and detectives came to investigate, but when it came to the perpetrator, Someki simply—she didn’t even know who it was. While slightly drunk, on her way back, in a lonely place where the houses ended, someone suddenly leaped out from the darkness and, with a dagger, did this before fleeing. ……She would say things like that and then do nothing but cry.

“Looks like the work of a molester.”

The detective nodded knowingly. Although the police officers could not help suspecting this might have been an act of revenge by someone harboring a grudge, no one seemed to consider the possibility that the perpetrator was a woman. Only a handful of people—Shinnosuke and his wife, Kingoro, and Kochōya Mamehachi—had dimly realized that the one who had punished Someki by taking her most precious black hair was none other than Okyo.

Someki, because she valued her life, absolutely did not utter that the perpetrator was Okyo. The threatening words from Okyo at that time had been terrifying. “Someki-san, I’m a woman who likes to carry out what I promise.” “After warning you so thoroughly in Ebisu Shrine’s precincts, you betrayed me.” “On top of that, you went so far as to write a fake letter to Mr. Tamai’s wife in your deranged state… Tonight I’ll let you off with just your hair, but if you utter even a word about me being the one who did this—” “That’s when you’ll truly lose your life, understand?” “Okyo of the Butterfly Peonies loves to properly keep her word once given.”

After that, Okyo’s whereabouts vanished without a trace.

Dressing her three-year-old daughter Yurika in a cute Western-style dress, Kimika took her by the hand and came to visit the Tamai household. Upon seeing Kingoro's face, “Hasn’t Ms. Man come back yet?” “She might never come back after all.” “I wouldn’t do such a thing myself, but… I’m sorry.” “You don’t need to apologize.”

“Someki’s gone too far.” “Well, anyway, from last night until this morning, there was a huge commotion.”

“Why?” At this time, Kingoro still did not know about the hair-cutting incident, so he asked back.

Kimika gave a general outline of the incident and sighed as if— “The one who’d do something that drastic has to be Okyo-san. For Okyo-san herself, that’d be impossible, right? But still, in the end, it’s us who end up troubled.” “Did Tomoda come complaining about something?” “Someki won’t say who did it, but Tomoda’s picking a fight with us. It’s sheer high-handedness—no logic or reason at all. No matter how much you argue sense, it won’t get through. One of Tomoda’s underlings—this scary guy called ‘Mountain Dog Matsu’ or something—came and said: ‘Cut off your pinkie and apologize, and we’ll let it slide. If not, fix Someki’s hair right now.’ …Saying things like that. They’re practically declaring they’ll attack if we don’t obey either demand! And after skipping out on paying for the reconciliation banquet themselves—how dare they make such unreasonable claims, I tell you! Shin-san gritted his teeth and wept… Kin-san, truly, it’s only because Yurika was here that Shin-san held back.” “And so, swallowing his tears and resolving to cut off his finger, he steeled himself to settle things for now, I tell you.”

“That’s absurd!” Kingoro was startled. “So did he cut off his finger and hand it over?” “At the last moment, he didn’t have to cut it. “Boss Hanada Junzō had restrained Tomoda for us, I tell you…” Kingoro recalled Yoshida Isokichi’s words—how he called himself a receptacle for human discards. Tomoda and Hanada couldn’t exactly be discards themselves, but they were clearly mongrels through and through. Perhaps this proved children never understood their parents’ hearts. Hanada Junzō—a subordinate inherited from Boss Egami Yasaku—was essentially a tozama daimyo. While Tomoda Kizō—a fudai daimyo—likely clashed with him through hidden rivalries.

However, that conflict unexpectedly proved fortunate for Mori Shinnosuke. Even though they had been worried they might collapse under the expenses of the reconciliation banquet, the congratulatory money that Yoshida Isokichi delivered to Kingoro allowed them to weather the crisis. Two coincidences saved Shinnosuke, but since they resulted from sources whose allegiance—friend or foe—was impossible to discern, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of having been hoodwinked.

It was the same for Kingoro as well.

(I must avoid getting dragged into unnecessary conflicts.)

And so, his vigilance grew increasingly stronger. Kimika said, "This town has become so scary," and while nuzzling her cheek against the innocent Yurika, tears streamed down her face. And then,

“Man’s going to have a baby this year, right? You should throw away that pointless pride of yours and hurry up to bring her back already.”

Like an older sister, she advised Kingoro and departed. About two months passed, and when midsummer arrived, Kingoro’s efforts finally bore fruit. He somehow managed to hold the inaugural meeting of the Wakamatsu Port Steamship Loading Foremen’s Union. Even so, the union was not complete. From Tomoda Kizō’s Kyōdō Group—which had opposed it vehemently from the start—there was not a single participant; moreover, even among the Eisō Group, Ōtaka Group, Mitsui Bussan, and others, some foremen did not join. These included those wary of Tomoda, ambitious outsiders eyeing work opportunities, and ignorant men with no understanding of the union’s purpose—yet even within the Union Group itself, some disapproved of Tamai Kingoro, a newcomer rising to prominence, and turned their backs. However, this imperfectly formed foremen’s union became the foundation for bringing order and discipline to Wakamatsu Port’s coal loading operations—until then an unregulated free-for-all resembling a battleground between bandits and pirates.

Ōba Haruyoshi, who had staunchly supported Kingoro, beamed with an Ebisu-like grin when he heard arrangements were made to hold the inaugural meeting. "The eye that spotted your potential must've gone mad, I suppose. From now on, you're not just part of the Union Group—you're Wakamatsu Port's central pillar, I suppose."

However, even upon hearing those words, Kingoro wore a cheerless expression. (My wife had been the most enthusiastic about forming the union...) Man might have wept with joy. Her absence left Kingoro unbearably lonely. Since Man had fled, nothing he did held meaning anymore; yet even now that the union he'd poured his soul into was finally established, he couldn't shake this strange hollowness.

Ōba Haruyoshi couldn't understand Kingoro's feelings, so he kept on—

“Keep pushing forward.” “I reckon you’ll be takin’ up the union president’s seat—use your strength to turn this quarrelsome port into a peaceful model port.”

So he said.

“That’s out of the question. With my meager strength, I could never accomplish such a grand task. I’ll simply do my best by working together with everyone. Moreover, once the union’s established, someone like me—a youngster—should step aside and let senior members with proper experience become president. I’m perfectly content staying an ordinary member.”

After numerous preparatory meetings were held, Shindō Rizō, a veteran foreman of the Union Group, was appointed as union president. Though Kingoro had firmly refused to take any position of responsibility, he found himself appointed vice president through unanimous recommendation. When Tomoda Kizō heard news of the foremen's union inaugural meeting, "Hmph, if that union lasts half a year, you won't be seeing me around."

It was said that he sneered derisively. Shinagawa Nobutake praised Kingoro in an editorial in the Wakamatsu Jitsugyō Shinbun. The author’s tone—vehement, befitting one who had studied Chinese classics—left Kingoro perplexed when he read it. "Using violence to strangle upstanding citizens. What is this but akin to the acts of devils? Followers of justice must rise resolutely. The ultimate victory shall be ours." "To Mr. Tamai Kingoro, who did not yield to the oppression and persecution of the Yoshida faction and finally formed the foremen’s union, we send our wholehearted applause. We have seen a hero in him. Even if there were a million people, the resolve not to yield—how could one not call it magnificent?"

“Comrades, follow Tamai Kingoro who holds aloft the torch amidst the darkness!”

Reading such phrases, Kingoro’s face flushed red. (What a brave president,) he thought, worrying more about Shinagawa Nobutake’s safety than his own situation. He picked a cloudless day and went to Nakanoshima for sampan maintenance.

At breakfast,

“Today, we’re going for taderu,” Kingoro announced. When he said this, his subordinates erupted in childlike cheers of delight. If left unattended too long, shells and algae would cling to the sampans’ hulls, slowing their speed. Moreover, the planks would get damaged and rot quickly. That’s why they periodically hauled the boats ashore, scraping their undersides clean and lighting fires to dry them out. In local dialect, this maintenance was called “taderu,” performed on days off work. For the dockworkers, “sampan taderu” felt as enjoyable as a school outing. They’d head to scenic beaches with lunchboxes and sake provisions in tow.

With Kingoro as their leader, fourteen or fifteen people—joined by female dockworkers—boarded two large sampans and two small sampans, each engraved with "Tamai Group," and rowed out from the Union Group pier toward Nakanoshima. When they arrived at Nakanoshima—located at the entrance of Dōkai Bay, wedged between Wakamatsu and Tobata—they immediately pulled the sampans they had come in onto the white sandy beach from the shore. They taderu-ed. Once all four boats had their hulls thoroughly polished, baked with fire, and coated with coal tar, the work was done. After that, they spent their time on the island’s shore where the gentle waves lapped—some swimming, some fishing, some gathering ark shells and clams on the tidal flats, some drinking sake, some lying about—each doing as they pleased.

In nothing but a loincloth, Kingoro swam. Venturing offshore, he compared the densely verdant great trees of Nakanoshima Island to his left with Midori-ya's second-floor hall visible to his right while immersed in peculiar emotions. (There on that second floor... talking with Okyo as I listened to the island trees rustling in the wind... From that night onward, Man was gone. Okyo had disappeared too.) As he floated on the waves gazing at the blue dragon on his seawater-washed left arm and the chrysanthemum flower on its forelimb—feeling lonely, irritated, yet absurd—right by his ear—

A voice called out, “Oyaji.”

When he turned around, it was Hayashisuke Taniguchi. Hayashisuke, not being particularly adept at swimming, floated using a sampan plank as a buoy. Having apparently swum over to Kingoro's side, when Kingoro returned a smile, "Could you grant me four or five days' leave?"

“Why?” “I think I’ll go call Man back.” “Then leave it be.” “According to my sister’s letter, Father and Mother aren’t in any serious condition anymore. “A piece of firewood flew and Father seems to have completely lost sight in one eye, but the other’s fine—he’s saying cheerfully that having one eye is enough.” “If that’s the case, Man should’ve come back by now—it’s been three months since then—but she still won’t return…”

“Tokiyan will bring her back.” “But that’s strange, Oyaji. Tokiyan doesn’t seem to have gone back to the village.” “There’s no way that’s possible.” “But Man’s letter says so. That’s why I thought I’d go fetch her myself…” “Unwanted meddling.”

Kingoro, who had shouted as if hurling the words, spun his body sharply around and suddenly began swimming out to sea with fierce strokes cutting through the water.

As he swam vigorously out to sea, moving away from the island, above Hyōga-nada’s horizon, pure white cumulonimbus clouds glared dazzlingly, forming a splendid procession like an advancing battalion of clouds. Petty earthly matters were but dust before the grand symphony of sun, sea, and azure sky. (If I keep swimming through this sea as I am now, I could reach China. This water stretches straight to the Chinese continent.)

In his youth, when consumed by dreams and scorched through with wanderlust, his aspirations had always stretched toward distant China's vast expanse. He was meant to seek freedom in that boundless world, to soar heavenward as a dragon. Yet here he crouched like a mole cricket in Wakamatsu's cramped corner of northern Kyushu. Swimming onward, Kingoro glanced at his left arm. Along the three-inch cylinder of pale muscle lay a dragon whose bulbous eyes glowered with false majesty—sporting horns and whiskers in pompous display, yet trapped forever within his flesh, unable to emerge or stir. The impulse to laugh kept prickling at him.

However, in truth, Kingoro's heart had become even more petty and narrow than this pitiful dragon. (There's something suspicious about Man and Tokijirō.) It was the first time such a doubt had arisen. (Me being jealous...) Even as he tried to kick away his dark thoughts and shout inwardly, the suspicion that had taken root in his heart refused to disappear. Okawa Tokijirō was hopelessly in love with Man—this he knew full well. And yet, the reason he had permitted Tokijirō's offer to go fetch Man was the magnanimity born of having trusted her completely. Man's misunderstanding would one day be resolved, he believed. Until then, even if she didn't return for one month, three months, or even if not a single letter came, Kingoro hadn't been troubled. Even if Tokijirō had been by her side during that time, he wouldn't have worried. Moreover, feelings of jealousy hadn't welled up in him at all. Kingoro, who was fond of joking, couldn't deny he found some amusement in it.

However, what Hayashisuke had told him struck harder than a bolt from clear skies. (If Man was hiding Tokijirō's presence, this meant serious trouble.) Kingoro felt strength gradually drain from his swimming arms as a stupor plunged everything around him into darkness and despair. Still refusing to turn back, he kept swimming mechanically toward the formation of blue sky and white clouds on the horizon. His limbs grew numb; intermittent dizziness washed over him. Yet Kingoro's head remained fixed toward that distant line where sea met sky.

“Hey, Oyaji!”

Even as his consciousness began to blur, a small sampan boat came chasing after Kingoro at full speed from behind as he kept swimming. "Rokuzoro no Gen," Seishichi, and "Chūgakusei" were aboard. Kingoro was hauled up onto the sampan.

The three did not know why their boss had undertaken such a reckless long-distance swim. On the contrary, knowing his usual prowess in swimming, even when they saw he was somewhat fatigued, they weren’t particularly worried. The reason they chased after him was something else entirely. “The fishermen from Nakanoshima are sayin’ if we don’t head back soon, a big storm’s comin’.”

They had come to inform him of that.

Sure enough, from around evening, a violent storm accompanied by ferocious gusts began.

The Genkai-nada was situated north of Wakamatsu. To the north of that lay Manchuria and Siberia. When winter came, the cold of the north wind defied description. However, even in summer, it was customary for the most intense storms to blow from this direction. The fine weather of daytime had been like a mask as the north wind mixed with torrential rain raged across northern Kyushu's sky. Then a pummeling gust of wind at twenty-five meters per second sent galvanized iron signs flying, tore roof tiles away, and knocked down sheds. As night fell, even thunder joined in, and in the darkness Dokai Bay seethed as if it might capsize at any moment.

“Don’t let the boats drift away!”

From somewhere in the darkness, Kingoro's voice resounded. Though frequently drowned by wind and rain, it reached his subordinates' ears.

“We’re all right!” Like a countersign, someone answered.

It was around when they had managed to row back from Nakanoshima to the Union Group Wharf that they first encountered signs of the storm. The sampan boats were the dockworkers' lifeline. Setting dinner aside entirely, they threw themselves into defending the four vessels. Tossed by seething waves, the many boats moored along the shore rubbed sides, jostled, and collided. Groans and cracks that threatened to split hulls apart erupted here and there. The forest of masts from barges and black ships tilted like pendulums, crisscrossing as if woven together. Some snapped clean through. From somewhere indeterminable in the chaos, whistles and sirens wailed like tormented screams, conjuring a hellish chorus of sound.

“The mooring rope’s snapped!”

The one who had shouted that was likely Noro Jin. “Tie it to another boat now!” Kingoro screamed, but there was no response. In an instant, they seemed to have been swept away.

“As expected, they’re uselessly slow at anything besides shogi, I tell ya. Wasn’t Seishichi on that small sampan too? That bastard got his head smacked in the mornin’ and by evening’s moanin’ ‘Ow’—perfectly matched bunch, I tell ya.” Kingoro said this to Rokuzoro no Gen beside him and laughed. “They’ll be all right?” “Even if they drift off, it’s toward the inner bay—no worry there... But if they sink, neither can swim worth a damn.”

“Oyaji, this storm ain’t gonna let up till mornin’.”

“We’ll guard the boats all night.”

The storm intensified relentlessly. Though the darkness made it hard to see clearly, every gang had sent out their men to keep watch over the sampans. In the ink-black night, shadowy figures shifted as lantern lights wavered. Worried about the large cargo boat on the far side of the pier, Kingoro leapt onto it from the wildly rocking vessels. He nearly missed his footing and almost plunged into the sea. After a desperate scramble, he finally stood upright on the pier.

As he leaned forward into the fierce wind and rain coming straight at him and began walking, someone suddenly struck his lantern with something. He instinctively dropped it, and the glass shattered as the flame went out. "Who's there? Looking for a fight?" As Kingoro shouted this, his eyes caught sight of five or six figures scattering and surrounding him. In the blue flash of lightning, each member of the group could be seen holding either an unsheathed Japanese sword or dagger.

It seemed to be a strategy to cut down Kingoro, who was unarmed, in one fell swoop. The assailants gave Kingoro no time to ready himself and all rushed in to attack at once. “State your name!” When he retreated to the edge of the pier and shouted that, Kingoro received a violent impact as if he had been struck hard on his back and the back of his head. Staggering, he grappled one assailant under his right arm and seized the dagger. At that moment, he injured his fingers.

“Kakusuke? Is that you?” “Ain’t him.”

In a hoarse voice, someone answered. "Is it Ezaki Mankichi?" "Shut your damn mouth!"

“The Tomoda Group, isn’t it?” “Quit your whining and get yourself killed!” Thanks to his agile body, some knowledge of judo, and his innate reckless courage, he had managed to survive previous fights—but facing numerous enemies armed with lethal weapons in the dark on narrow footing didn’t go like before. All the worst conditions had aligned. “Die already!” Shouting while wildly swinging and thrusting their blades, they cut Kingoro in several places. A sword tip pierced his left thigh, forcing him down onto one knee with his left hand planted on the pier. Then came a sharp impact on his forehead like a massive stone crashing down. His head snapped back as something warm streamed down his face. It flowed into his eyes and mouth—raw and fishy, like a fish.

He spat out the blood that had filled his mouth, “Are you Yoshida’s men?”

He tried to roar, but no sound came out.

The storm still raged with thunderous roars, occasionally flaring up in the lightning like acetylene gas and glowing an eerie blue. As though a ship were sinking somewhere in the bay, screams, steam whistles, and the clanging of gongs resounded incessantly.

Kingoro collapsed onto the pier as his consciousness grew dim. Through the numbness now devoid of pain, he clearly understood how his entire body was being pierced and sliced like sashimi with swords and daggers. Neither thoughts of death nor notions of life arose in his dying nerves. And a maddeningly strange sense of absurdity sought to twist Kingoro's lips into a bitter smile.

“Finish him off.” He faintly heard the voice.

Then, the moment he heard it—strangely enough—suddenly and violently, (I want to live. I won't let them kill me!) a fierce will to live surged back, and he spat out: "You think I'll lose to you bastards?"

Such words forced their way from his lips. Yet they never formed proper speech - just a pitiful murmur like bubbles from a crab's mouth. He tried to rise but couldn't budge an inch. Then gradually, his consciousness slipped away. The time until Kingoro fell had been brutally short. So short that even his Tamai Group men remained unaware.

In the blue light of lightning, "Rokuzoro no Gen," who had been the first to notice the suspicious scene, leaped onto the pier.

“Kakusuke, wait!” he shouted.

It hadn't been a wild guess. The moment he leaped onto the pier, in the blue light of a glittering lightning flash, Genju's eyes sharply discerned a single hand with short fingers. Only a pale, ginger-like hand of bizarre shape floated in the air, trying to fly away from the pier toward the quay. He ran. He was frantic. Along the quay where large cargo boats, small cargo boats, sampans, hawker boats, and others—packed together like washing potatoes—were jostling violently with a fierce clamor, Kakusuke fled, skirting the edge. Within the lightning's flash, two hands came into view this time. Both sets of fingers, severed at the first joint in several places, pierced Genju's eyes with an eeriness that was strangely clear, resembling a morbid illusion. The Japanese sword seemed to have been discarded somewhere.

“Kakusuke, you bastard...”

Young Genju was quick on his feet. Kakusuke, fleeing with splayed legs like a crab, was quickly overtaken. Kakusuke—who had pulled a black raincoat over his head—was thrown down by Genju grabbing him from behind. As he tried to rise, his attacker leaped on him and wrestled him down. The storm still raged fiercely, and where they fell had become a waterlogged mire. It was as if both men had turned into sewer rats. Lightning flashes illuminated their grappling forms above.

Kakusuke believed he had killed Kingoro. Genju believed the Boss had been killed. Both were desperate. However, neither had any weapons. They were merely locked in a chaotic grapple, hitting each other.

However, a few minutes later, under Genju’s relentless pummeling, Kakusuke suddenly went still. “Rokuzoro no Gen” was already in a frenzy. He verged on madness. His admiration for Kingoro had driven this sincere, single-minded man into a rage. At some point, a fragment of red brick had come to be clenched in his right hand. Emitting a strange, groan-like sound, he brought it down on Kakusuke’s head with all his strength. Even when Kakusuke stopped moving, he did not ease the force crushing the skull. Genju had become like a single machine.

And, strangely enough, from the mouth of Genju—who had become like a dementia patient—

“Man… Man…… Man……” Those words were being spewed out like a phonograph—monotonous and ceaseless.

Before long, the disturbance on the pier became known to everyone. A great uproar broke out.

“Tamai Kingoro was killed.” The news spread instantly, like ripples on water. The rioters had fled without exception. A Japanese sword was found inside a small cargo boat moored at the pier’s base. Kakusuke had meant to hurl it into the sea.

Coast Police officers rushed to the scene. Water Police officers also arrived from the Water Police Station. The pier became a swarming mass of people.

The Tamai Group members, driven to madness, searched frantically for their enemies, but by then, they couldn’t capture a single one. It was some time before Genju and Kakusuke were discovered. In the still-raging storm, the subordinates literally looked up to the sky and wailed bitterly with manly sobs.

Kingoro’s mangled body was placed on a plank and carried to the hospital. How many hours had passed? How many days had gone by? He had no grasp of time’s passage whatsoever. For Kingoro—wandering life and death’s boundary in a dreamlike state—there remained no sensation of pain nor stirring of emotions: joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure. Yet strangely, only an inexpressible desolation persisted,

(I want to run away to somewhere—anywhere—where there’s no one.)

That desire to escape would erupt only in sudden fits despite his body's utter immobility. ...oppressive white surgical gowns, masks, scalpels, iron implements, and the stench of blood mingled with carbolic acid. Then came white bandages wrapped round and round like reassembled pieces of some dismembered toy. There on the bed lay Kingoro - pallid, pitiful, appearing dead to every observer's eye - yet burning with desperate yearning to be anywhere but here.

A gloomy air hung heavy in the hospital room. Oppressive. Bright outside air struck the window, but the curtain blocked it.

The doctor entered. Behind him followed a nurse carrying a silver box. Gazing at the medical doctor's antler-shaped mustache and gold-rimmed glasses, Kingoro spoke.

“Could you let me take a walk?”

“Out of the question!” The doctor recoiled in shock. “If you move an inch, you’ll die!” “Then let me see outside through that window.” “Draw back the curtain.”

The nurse who had been ordered to do so quietly drew back the curtain.

The metallic sound of the rings attached above resounded pleasantly in Kingoro’s ears, like the ringing of a bell. But more than that, what captured his gaze was the splendid blue sky outside the window. So deep was its hue that holding out a finger might stain it. High, deep, and bottomlessly clear; there, clouds shaped like horses flew incessantly at high speed. It was like a race of white horses.

“Please open the window.” Kingoro said in a buoyant tone.

“Please open the window.” The nurse opened the window again.

Kingoro suddenly stood up on the bed.

The doctor and nurse were astonished and grabbed Kingoro’s arms from both sides.

“What are you—this is madness…” “Let go of me." “I’m ascending!” With a scream, Kingoro grunted, gathered momentum, and leaped. He jumped out the window. He turned his head and eyes toward the blue sky and, as if swimming, stretched both hands toward the heavens.

But the next moment, Kingoro discovered his own body was not in the heavens. It was the ground. Moreover, from his entire body—which had at some point transformed into an interminably long dragon—scales were peeling off one by one, leaving him in a wretched state resembling that of an eel. And then, Kingoro noticed that his forelimbs were empty. The chrysanthemum bouquet he should have been tightly clutching was gone. "Damn it!" The balding dragon thrashed about on the ground in frustration. Then, with a clatter, more scales fell.

In the deep blue sky, as ever, a herd of white horses continued their comfortable gallop.

As he was about to collapse from exhaustion, to his dying ears—

“You.”

A woman’s voice reached him from close enough to feel her breath. The dragon stopped thrashing about and listened intently. The voice seemed both familiar and utterly unknown. It sounded like one he heard every day, yet also like one he had never heard before. However, that voice once again— “You.” When the voice resounded louder and closer than before, shaking his eardrums, Kingoro felt something like an electric current course through his entire body. Then, the scales that had fallen off and scattered like flower petals across the ground began flying back to his body one by one with a clattering sound, as though drawn by a powerful magnet. When he came to his senses, he found himself clutching a lush chrysanthemum bouquet in his forelimbs.

When the beautiful flower's color pierced his eyes and its intense aroma assailed his nostrils, the dragon abruptly recalled one thing. It was a square box measuring one ken on each side. That was the makeshift hut where he had been confined during the Shanghai cholera outbreak. There had been a time when he choked on the scent of chrysanthemums inserted into this box. The fragrance of those chrysanthemums and the flowers he now held differed not in the slightest.

“You.” Then again it came. Kingoro faintly opened his eyes. Though his consciousness was hazy and the boundary between dream and reality unclear, within his misted vision he could discern his wife’s face like an apparition.

“Man.” The voice escaped reflexively. However, it was merely a low, weak voice like a whisper—just the faintest movement of his lips. Only Man could make it out. As she wept violently, Kingoro lost consciousness again, sinking into a deep coma where no dreams remained—only death’s pitch darkness. In the hospital room, apart from Man, there were his subordinates and four or five visitors.

Ever since the stormy night when Kingoro met with sudden calamity，guests had been swarming the hospital room. However，the rumor that “Tamai Kingoro had been killed” had become definitive and spread through the town，so every guest’s face was pained. No one had come to visit；they had come to offer their condolences.

Ōba Haruyoshi, who had always been Kingoro’s steadfast supporter, was overcome with profound grief. “It’s as if I killed him.”

Saying so, he broke down in a manly sob. “Master,” said Nagata Mokuji, tears welling up in his eyes, to Ōba Haruyoshi. “It’s all because I’m such a good-for-nothing that Tamai ended up in this state. You could say I killed him.”

However, needless to say, it was Man who was most violently overwhelmed by grief and sorrow. Man was on the verge of madness, one might say. She had been called reliable and had always confronted difficulties and dangers more bravely than any man, yet now she was on the verge of madness as she faced her husband’s death. “OYAJI KAKUSUKE NI KIRARETA” “SEIMEI KITOKU” MATSUMOTO SHIGEO Due to the telegram from that subordinate who had come to Hiroshima, she had flown back as if through the air, but both during her return journey and after arriving home,

(I’m the one who killed my husband.)

The terrible self-reproach would not leave her.

(If I had been there, this never would have happened.) That was how it felt to her. That misunderstandings clashing with misunderstandings had led to an absurd outcome was something Man had already understood. Trivial human emotions could trigger matters of life and death. Man cried until she could cry no more.

Man had met with Mori Shinnosuke and his wife, heard about Someki and Kingoro, and learned of her husband’s innocence. She had realized that what she had firmly believed were Kimika’s letters had actually been Someki’s scheme. “A man like Mr. Kingo is rare,” Kimika had told her. “No man could ever rebuff a fine woman like Okyo-san when she makes advances. And that too, Ms. Man—it’s all because he stayed loyal to you.” But even having heard this from Kimika, it was already too late to do anything about it.

However, upon learning that Kingoro had also doubted her, Man felt a shudder run through her. From her brother Hayashisuke,

“The old man figured you and Tokiyan were cozying up just fine out in the countryside.” “Tokiyan said he’d go fetch you and headed back to Hiroshima, but then you wrote in your letter he wasn’t there at all, so…”

When told that, she was shocked. "But he really wasn't there, I tell you." "Even if Tokiyan went to pick you up, if you hadn't come back for two or three months, I thought I had to go get you myself—couldn't face the old man otherwise." "That's strange. What happened to Tokiyan?... I never once left Mine, yet I haven't heard a word from anyone about him coming back." "Hmm...?" "The old man thought you and Tokiyan had already gotten together and were hiding it..."

“To think you’d believe I could do such a thing...” Man burned with humiliation. Yet no matter what she said now, nothing could change the reality that Kingoro lay slashed and dying. She stood in darkness, barely clinging to sanity. As if absorbing her grief directly, the child in her womb thrashed violently. The fetus had grown until her pregnancy showed unmistakably to all.

(Would it become a fatherless child?) Thinking this, Man found herself gripped by despair as if her life had already ended, beginning to lose the courage to keep living. Yet Kingoro's life, though repeatedly teetering on extinction, still feebly clung to breath. "Is there no hope?"

To Ōba Haruyoshi, who was asking with concern, Dr. Hamano Kenichirō, director of the surgical hospital, tilted his head and replied. "It’s strange." "An ordinary person would have died long ago." "As for treatment, there’s nothing more we can do… but… he might just pull through." "The next day or two will be the critical juncture."

Near evening that day, a nurse came to relay that there was a visitor. “A woman named Shimamura Gin is here to see you, but…”

It was the Dote-coat Hag.

Man's eyes glinted sharply.

Man smoked tobacco atop the tatami mat spread across the floor. When informed of the Dote-coat Hag's arrival, she tamped down fresh-cut tobacco once more and slowly struck a match. Clamping the pipe's mouthpiece between her lips, she arched her back just enough to thrust out her chest—a rounded pigeon breast beneath two swollen mounds—and drew deeply. Her seven-month-pregnant drum of a belly completed the strange gourd shape.

With a puff, she exhaled smoke,

“What will you do?” To Matsumoto Shigeo’s tense face,

“Let her in.” She answered in a resolute tone and stood up. Without hesitation, she circled around Kingoro’s bed and went to the right side of the pillow. There, between the bed’s straw mattress and iron frame, Sukehiro’s dagger lay hidden. She slid her hand in, felt the handle, and confirmed its presence. (It was the Dote-coat Hag who had subjected her husband to such a cruel fate.) There was no doubting that.

The assailants who attacked Kingoro that night still hadn’t been caught. The mastermind, Hirao Kakusuke, had been discovered, but his head had been smashed in and he had died. Matsukawa Genju, who had committed murder in a frenzy, was being held by the police. “Rokuzoro no Gen” clearly answered the police officers’ questioning. “In the heat of that moment, I couldn’t tell how many people had attacked Boss or who they were.” “However, I can guarantee with absolute certainty that Kakusuke was the leader who brought those guys here.” “And I guarantee with even greater absolute certainty that it was none other than the ‘Dote-coat Hag’ who gave Kakusuke the order to kill Boss.” “Just because dead men tell no tales doesn’t mean we’ll let the ‘Dote-coat Hag’ weasel her way out.” “Please let me meet that hag.”

Genju tearfully pleaded for a confrontation with the "Dote-coat Hag," but it was not permitted. "A troublesome incident occurred."

At this, the police chief also tilted his head in puzzlement and was utterly at a loss, it was said. Without evidence, they could not arrest Shimamura Gin based solely on rumors and the testimonies of underlings. Moreover, Gin and Tomoda Kizō had a close relationship, and Tomoda had the powerful backing of Yoshida Isokichi, referred to as "Emperor Yoshida." If someone were to carelessly take action that cast suspicion on Gin, there was no telling what troublesome political problems might arise. However, “The one who killed Oyaji is the ‘Dote-coat Hag’”—that was an unshakable conviction of the Tamai family’s.

The door opened.

The "Dote-coat Hag" entered. Her glossy, dusky face showed a strangely nervous expression tinged with deep bewilderment. There was her customary Ōmarumage hairstyle and the quilted chanchanko she never removed even in summer. Then with a cautious, sidling gait full of wariness, she moved her sumo wrestler-like corpulent body to Kingoro’s bedside.

After that, four or five underlings trooped in one after another. In the hallway as well, seven or eight people appeared to be jostling.

On this side were only Matsumoto Shigeo, “Norojin,” Toshitsugu “the middle school student,” and Man. When Gin saw Man, she said in a shrill voice: “Are you Goryon-san? Oh, Mr. Tamai was slashed. What a terrible thing to have happened.” Man quietly slipped her hand under the bed. Gripping the handle, she smoothly drew the sword. “Goryon-san, you must be truly worried, aren’t you? I get how you feel. My old man once got into a fight and ended up in a similar state, see… So… how’s he doin’?”

Even though she had inquired about his condition and received no response, Gin looked at Man with a timid expression in her eyes. Gin was startled by Man's bloodshot face - lips pressed so tightly they seemed to curl inward, leopard-sharp eyes staring unblinkingly at her. Her eyebrows arched upward, anger, hatred, and vengeance burning in her pupils like phosphorescence. Though the sword hidden behind her back remained unseen, her heaving shoulders and chest radiated an ominous murderous intent.

Gin, who had already entered nervously even without that confrontation, felt overwhelmed and took two or three faltering steps backward. Suddenly flustered: “Goryon-san, look here—the reason I came today was ’cause there’s somethin’ I needed to tell you proper-like.” “I’m in a real bind myself!” “I know full well this mess means the world to Mr. Tamai an’ you all… but it’s been weighin’ heavy on me too.” “That damn Kakusuke—thought I’d finally rid myself of that nuisance when he landed himself in Kokura Prison over his gambling! When’d he even get out to pull this shit on Mr. Tamai?” “I don’t know nothin’… Swear it… Goryon-san, you gotta believe me.” “Out there they’re talkin’ like I murdered Mr. Tamai myself.” “Kakusuke acted alone! I ain’t got no part in this!” “……It’s God’s honest truth.” “Why in hell would I wanna kill a stand-up man like Mr. Tamai?” “But then I hear this rumor—Tamai Group’s young bloods are fixin’ to raid my place over some grudge… Scared me shitless, so I came runnin’… Look here, Goryon—hatin’ me’s just plain wrongheaded.” “From the bottom of my heart, I truly grieve for Mr. Tamai’s misfortune.”

In a rapid-fire manner, as if being chased, Gin pleaded her case.

The intense light gradually faded from Man’s eyes as she clenched her teeth and glared fixedly at her opponent. The strength drained from her right hand that had been gripping the sword’s hilt. (I’ll stab her to death and die myself.) Despite having been in such a tense state, Man had somehow lost her frayed thoughts of revenge. The "Dote-coat Hag," renowned as a female outlaw, was displaying an unexpectedly disheveled attitude for someone of her reputation. She had thought Gin came to boldly mock Kingoro and deliver the final blow. She had brought along fourteen or fifteen underlings. However, Gin was solely devoted to making excuses. She was even trembling. The underlings she had brought along seemed to be for her own protection, out of fear of retaliation from the Tamai family. There was not a shred of will to fight. It could be said she had surrendered from the very beginning.

When she saw this, what welled up in Man was not hatred or anger but fierce contempt - she found herself thinking (I've no desire to cross blades with some vermin of a woman).

Moreover, as Gin was speaking, Kingoro stirred and groaned. It was likely an unconscious cry of pain, but to Man’s ears,

(For a woman, you sure meddle too much.) (Get back where you belong.)

Those words formed themselves with crystalline clarity. Yet what truly settled Man was the life within her womb. The fetus writhed urgently inside her—a flurry of limbs conveying wordless warnings. When Man’s agitation broke upon realizing this child straining toward birth, every violent impulse dissolved into stillness.

From that day onward, Kingoro’s days of unconsciousness persisted.

A “No Visitors” sign was hung on the door of the hospital room.

Yoshida Isokichi, Hanada Junzō, Shinagawa Nobutake, and others came to visit, but Director Hamano refrained from letting them meet the patient. They all left get-well gifts and departed.

Inoue Yasugoro came. Having spoken with his father, he had taken it upon himself to deliver the get-well gift from the Hardware Merchants' Association. This young man, brimming with righteous indignation, mourned Tamai Kingoro's calamity more profoundly than anyone else in town. Though they had never exchanged words, in his heart he already felt a powerful comradely bond with this man he deemed most worthy of trust. All the more reason his anger burned fiercely.

(What a barbarically violent town this Wakamatsu is.)

However, Yasugoro burned with a passionate courage in his youthful breast—not from fear of that injustice, but from a fervent need to eradicate it. "Just a brief look would be sufficient..."

At the hospital entrance, he pleaded earnestly but was not permitted. “We are refusing all visitors.”

“In that case, this…”

Reluctantly, he left the get-well gift and had to return empty-handed. With feeble footsteps, he turned back toward town while—

(Please don't die) he prayed from the depths of his heart. Man never missed her visits to three shrines starting from the morning after her return. To her clan's three tutelary shrines—Hakusan Shrine, Ebisu Shrine, and Konpira Shrine—she made daily dawn pilgrimages, performing the *hyakudo* ritual of one hundred prayers.

She would rise at three in the morning—still pitch-black, what could be called the middle of the night—and first head to Hakusan Shrine. She climbed the high stone staircase with a hundred steps. The dense forest rustled in the wind, and an owl hooted atop tall cedar trees. At times, the sharp cry of a fox could be heard—"Keeeen!" However, Man forgot all sense of eeriness and fear, went barefoot, and made a hundred round trips before the deity. The dark Konpira Shrine and Ebisu Shrine were no less ferocious than Hakusan Shrine. With her hands still pressed together in prayer, Man—single-mindedly treading the earthen ground—had no thoughts whatsoever beyond praying for her husband’s survival. Because of that anguish,

(If my husband’s life were to be taken, then there would be no such thing as a god in this world) Even such desperate emotions welled up within her.

At the third shrine, as the *hyakudo* pilgrimage neared its end, the eastern sky began to lighten. Bright sunlight began to stream in. To Man, it felt as though the morning of life had revived from the dark night of death.

(If only my husband could come back to life like this...)

As she thought this—as if carried by that very feeling—she ran back to the hospital as though flying through the air. However, Kingoro remained sunk in deep slumber, still lying in the valley of death.

On the morning of the fifth day, when Man returned from her three-shrine pilgrimage.

Until now, Kingoro had not moved at all, but he moaned painfully and twisted his face.

"You." When Man involuntarily called out, he opened his eyes slightly.

“Man?” “Yes.” “Give me ramune.” “Yes, just a moment.” As she answered, her breath caught from the joy. In torrents, like a broken dam, large teardrops overflowed from Man’s eyes. By the time the autumn winds began to rise, Kingoro was able to leave the hospital. Of course, he still couldn’t even conceive of returning to work, but having recovered enough to walk with a cane, he decided to convalesce at home.

Ōba Haruyoshi, overjoyed, broke into an even broader grin with his innate Ebisu-like face and expressed his gratitude to Dr. Hamano, the hospital director.

“Thank you very much,” said Ōba Haruyoshi, his face breaking into an even broader smile than usual—the kind that made him resemble Ebisu, the god of fortune. “It’s entirely thanks to you that Tamai’s life was saved. I’ll never forget this kindness as long as I live. Let me thank you on his behalf.” “No,” replied Dr. Hamano with a troubled expression, his kind features clouding over. “This is all rather odd, you see. I don’t believe I’m the one who saved Mr. Tamai’s life. As I mentioned before, any ordinary man sustaining such injuries wouldn’t have survived three days. He should have died instantly.” The doctor adjusted his glasses, their lenses catching the light as he shook his head in disbelief. “It’s astonishing tenacity. He struck me as... invincible.”

“Invincible—Ah, now that you mention it, there was a similar incident in the past.” “Would that be about three years ago now?” “…In Moji, there was that terrible outbreak of Shanghai cholera, remember?” “I know.” “Hundreds fell ill each day, and tens died each day.” “Though it was outside my specialty, I went to assist due to the shortage of doctors.”

“That was when Tamai—along with his sworn brother Mori Shinnosuke, you know, the one running the Asuka restaurant in Sannai-cho now—the two of them cared for their comrades completely naked every day right among cholera patients without contracting it themselves.” “There he was—the Immortal Man, utterly unfazed in that sea of cholera germs.” “…They even wrote about it in the papers with photos.” “The lack of fatal wounds proved fortunate.” “After all, their attackers—starting with that ringleader Kakusuke—weren’t proper swordsmen.” “Clumsy fools swinging unsharpened blades in panic.” “And since Mr. Tamai wore that raincoat, they missed his vitals.” “…Regardless, surviving was what mattered.”

“I truly thought we’d have to hold a funeral.” “I’m not too fond of funerals, you see.” “Doctors aren’t too keen on getting chummy with temples either, you see.” And so, the Boss and the Doctor laughed together in bright voices. As Kingoro was being carried in a rickshaw and departing through the hospital entrance, amidst the crowd, there stood Okyo, secretly seeing him off. Whether from recent illness or not, her once-voluptuous face had turned pallid, her emaciation strikingly apparent. Her once-lustrous gingko-leaf updo had been let down for washing, now stripped of its sheen, with disheveled strands hanging limp. Only in her piercing eyes did the old mysterious light still linger—yet even that was frail, tinged with a deep hue of sorrow. In those eyes, tears had pooled faintly.

With a toot-too-oot of the horn, several rickshaws departed toward town at a leisurely pace. In the lead rickshaw rode Ōba Haruyoshi, followed by Kingoro, then Man. All had their hoods drawn down, rendering their faces unseen. Through the small celluloid window of a hood, only Kingoro's white bandage flickered intermittently.

Okyo glanced back at Kochōya Mamehachi beside her. She put her mouth to his ear and whispered something. Mamehachi nodded repeatedly with a grave expression. Tears glistened in his eyes too. Okyo’s figure vanished into the crowd.

A cold wind began to blow through the skies of Kitakyushu, coming from the wilds of Manchuria and Siberia across the Sea of Japan.

As soon as December arrived, it would be time for the Ebisu Shrine Grand Festival. The festival was held in two seasons—spring and winter—but the winter observance constituted the main event. Every year, pilgrims from nearby towns and villages would gather in such numbers that the event customarily took on the seething bustle of a boiling cauldron.

“Oyaji, take me to the circus.”

For over a week now, Shunji, 'the middle schooler,' had been pestering Kingoro.

Kingoro had already reached the point where he could walk freely without a cane,

“This year, to celebrate my recovery and have everyone in the Tamai Group take seats at the Ebisu Seat—whether it’s the circus, the Rokurokubi show, or patrolling Yawata’s thickets—I’ll take you all anywhere you want!” He declared this in high spirits.

On the first day of the festival, the Ebisu Seat opened from early morning. In a spacious worship hall built separately from the main shrine building, worshippers took their seats. With trays bearing shrimp and sea bream, they drank sacred sake, made ritual offerings, and celebrated auspicious fortune. Due to the large number of applicants, it proved difficult to obtain that qualification, but Kingoro was determined to have all Tamai Group members seated at the Ebisu Seat this year. “Man, you sit down too.” “Well…?” Man tilted her head slightly. “Hmm… With this big belly of mine…”

“What’s shameful about having a big belly?” “There’s nothing shameful about it, but if I went into labor right in the middle of the Ebisu Seat, that’d be one hell of a situation.”

“What’s more auspicious than that? I’ll hire a midwife and have her stay right beside you—you’re coming too.” “But that’s…”

Then, from beside them, Matsumoto Shigeo lowered his voice and,

“Boss.” “Hmm?”

“There’s been strange talk going around,” Matsumoto Shigeo said, lowering his voice. “At the barber’s—they say if the Tamai Group all take seats at the Ebisu Seat, the Tomoda Group will fill it too. They’ll find some pretext and wipe you out completely this time.” He leaned closer, urgency tightening his words. “You’d best be careful.” “Again?” Kingoro clicked his tongue, then barked a laugh that echoed off the shrine gates. “Let them try. I’m a man who’s already died once.” He spread his arms wide, bandages peeking from his collar. “Nothing left to fear now.” The wind carried his challenge down the stone steps as he grinned. “We’ll see how far those bastards can push—comes to it, we’ll outlast them.”

Having passed through the valley of death, Kingoro felt that some new power—one even he himself couldn’t quite comprehend—had been bestowed upon him. Rather than retreating, the courage to advance even further overflowed within him.

Kingoro finally reached his hand to his forehead, now free of the bandage. With a dull sword struck sideways, the scalp had been peeled back like a hat being removed. It had been covered back over and stitched, forming a large crescent-shaped scar. From there, a great deal of blood had flowed out, but in its place, something like a new element seemed to have been infused.

(I'll never die again.) Such a strange confidence also took root.

December 3rd. A cold wind blew mixed with sleet.

Before dawn, the members of the Tamai Group assembled at the house in Shinnakamachi in their new short coats. Here too they drank sacred sake, and since it was still dark, they took up bow-shaped lanterns and set out for Ebisu Shrine with Kingoro leading the way. Cautioned by the midwife, Man remained at home.

The eastern sky began to lighten, and when, at the Ebisu Seat, the priest began reciting the norito, the maid Jun came rushing in.

“Boss, a boy has been born!” At the Ebisu Seat, people thought a commotion might erupt, but it remained mere rumor and ended without incident. To name the boy Man had borne, Kingoro spent days in delightful torment. In that moment, he tasted the bitterness of illiteracy and lack of learning. Still refusing to ask others for help, he grappled with Chinese-Japanese dictionaries, almanacs, books on name divination, and such. Seeing this, Man laughed and,

“What name will you give him?” “I’ll give him a good strong name—one that won’t lose to others.”

“Then why not include the character for ‘victory’?” “Hmm, that’s right…” “You...”

“Yeah.” “I just realized—this year’s Hinoeuma, the Fire Horse year. “Good thing it wasn’t a girl. “They’ve always said Hinoeuma women are too fierce—devour men, kill men.” “That’s just superstition... Still, this year—for all its hardships—it’s been one I’ll never forget. “The year we moved to Wakamatsu, hung up the Tamai Group signboard, had our fierce marital fights—the year I got killed and came back to life—the year our heir, a son, was born...”

“And then there’s buying that expensive watch for four yen and seventy sen—also this year.” “Meiji 39—it’ll be remembered as a landmark year down the road.” “Down the road? When I’ve become an old woman?” “When I’ve become an old man. By then, this kid’ll be all grown up! ...That’s right. I’ll put the character for ‘Katsu’ in his name... Katsu... Katsu... What’s good with ‘Katsu’...?”

On the fifth day after his birth, the name "Katsunori" was finally decided. He wrote this on Japanese paper in his usual self-taught bold characters and pasted it beneath the household shrine.

However, a troublesome problem had arisen. There was no family register. Both Kingoro and Man had left their hometown without permission, so they had no registry in Wakamatsu. Though they had discussed several times the need to register soon, since doing so would require returning to their hometown or contacting someone by letter, matters kept getting postponed. "What're we gonna do?" The couple were utterly at a loss. Gazing at their baby—blissfully unaware as it blinked its adorable eyes—they would exchange looks and sigh anew with each passing day.

Nagata Mokuji, unable to stand idly by any longer, “Leave it to me. Even a useless fool like me might be of some use at times like these. “I’ll handle the procedures for you. “Now now—no need to feel bad about it. “Just think of it as combining a soak at Dogo Onsen with a pilgrimage to Miyajima.”

Saying this, he went all the way to Shikoku and Hiroshima for them.

The Tamai Group's work progressed smoothly. After Matsukawa Genju was confined in Kokura Prison, Matsumoto Shigeo became Bōshin and assisted Kingoro. By December, Kingoro began appearing at the union office and could occasionally inspect work sites.

As the year-end approached, Nagata Mokuji returned with a disappointed look.

“No matter what I do, nothing works out.” “Couldn’t even handle the family registry.” “Good grief.”

He gave a wry smile and scratched his head.

The year dawned.

On New Year’s Day, they dressed Katsunori in new ceremonial clothes, and the couple visited their ancestral Hakusan Shrine together.

The baby was fair-skinned, and the neighbors—

“Well now, for Gonzo’s kid to turn out this cute—who’d have thought?” “This must be what they mean by ‘a crow hatching a hawk’!”

Hearing such things, Man was so happy she could hardly stand it.

So, thinking to make her son even cleaner, she took him to the public bath and scrubbed him vigorously with a bran bag and raw egg white, but ended up scraping the baby’s face. The family registry matter showed no signs of being resolved. Since they had to withdraw from both family registries, submit their marriage notification, and then file the birth registration, there was no sign of it being resolved quickly. “You can’t keep leaving the boy without a family registry forever.” “As for you two, it’s fine to handle your part later.” “For the time being, how about putting your son in my family registry?”

Following Nagata Mokuji’s suggestion, they registered Katsunori as the second son of the Nagata family. However, even when presented with his actual birthdate of December 3rd from the previous year, the rule-obsessed registry clerk adamantly refused to acknowledge it. Consequently, the certified copy listed his birthdate as January 25, Meiji 40 (1907).

Winter’s Ebisu Festival drew near. Around the time Katsunori finally became able to walk by clinging to the shoji frame’s crossbars, Man told her husband, her face flushing.

“You… It seems there’s another one on the way.”

“What?”

“A baby.” “Well now, before Katsunori came along, I thought you were barren, but seems you’ve found the way out, eh?” “This year, if it’s a girl…”

The following year, a girl was born. They named her Fumiko. After that, Man gave birth to children one after another, as if she were some kind of life-manufacturing machine. And as the family grew with Katsunori, Fumiko, Masao, Hideko, and Kuniko born in quick succession, the Tamai Group gradually expanded, and the era shifted from Meiji to Taisho. On January 12th of Taishō 3, Sakurajima erupted violently. Volcanic ash blown up from the mountains at the southern tip of Kagoshima rode the wind and drifted all the way to the skies of northern Kyushu. Katsunori was a second-year elementary school student, but the school building's roof had turned pure white as if snow had fallen. Even though it was sunny, he was told by his mother Man to take an umbrella to protect against the ash. Many people were holding umbrellas.

This year, the First World War broke out.

The Tamai family had relocated to Shōhōji Town. It stood back-to-back with the former Shin-Nakamachi neighborhood, not even a block away from Ipponmatsu. They had built a new house. All except their eldest son Katsunori were born in this house. The backyard had been turned into a flower bed by Man, who loved chrysanthemums, while inside the house, cats continued to swarm as usual. And so, the drawers of the zelkova chest—about three tiers of them—were filled with Japanese swords, beginning with Sukehiro’s tanto. “Father.” She no longer called him “you”—Man had come to address him as “Father.” “It’s been tough up until now, but things are going to get even tougher from here on out.”

“I’ve been thinking the same.”

On April 1, Taishō 3 (1914), the municipal system was enacted in Wakamatsu. At that time, there were 6,258 households and a population of 37,393. Incidentally, Wakamatsu Village had become Wakamatsu Town on March 1, Meiji 24 (1891), with 881 households and a population of 3,131. In Meiji 5 (1872), Wakamatsu Village had been nothing more than a small fishing village with 20 households and a population of 580.

A grand celebration for the municipal system implementation was held.

Tamai Kingoro, 35 years old. Man, 31 years old.

Katsunori, 9 years old.

Part Two

Metropolis

"Tokyo... Tokyo..."

The express train entered the platform.

The passengers streamed out. Every face showed the weariness of a long journey, yet each bore a look of relief.

The ten-member delegation of Wakamatsu City Council members also disembarked from the second-class carriage, each carrying their respective luggage.

For Kingoro, this was the first time in his life he had ridden in a second-class carriage. In a third-class carriage, it felt as comfortable as being in his own home, but a second-class carriage was like being in a mansion belonging to someone of different social standing—he couldn't feel at ease. However, since this inspection trip was government-funded, he wasn't permitted to act on personal preference. "Inoue, you look worn out."

He called out to Inoue Yasugoro walking beside him. Yasugoro wore stylish Western clothes and carried a red leather bag. On his tanned face sat large, distinctive eyes that had earned him comparisons to goldfish since youth.

“My back’s gotten a bit sore.” “Kyushu to Tokyo sure is a long way.” “When I think how feudal lords of old walked this endless road for their alternate attendance, it’s downright staggering.”

“Would take about two months, I reckon.”

While talking and laughing about such things, they descended into the underground passage,

“Mr. Tamai.”

he was addressed.

It was Tomoda Kizō. His kite-like eyes had only grown sharper with age, their depths now revealing an unmistakable glint of cunning and malice. He wore what appeared to be a newly tailored pale blue suit that hung awkwardly on his frame like borrowed clothes. A gold watch chain peeked from his vest, his spectacles bore gold rims, and even his cane's grip gleamed golden.

When it came to Western clothes, Kingoro too felt his suit didn’t quite sit right yet. They say "clothes make the man," but seeing dockworkers, brothel owners, gamblers, thugs, coal brokers, and the like dressed in three-piece suits and shoes, putting on airs, struck him as utterly absurd. “What is it?”

When he turned around, “There’s something I must discuss with you tonight.” “You seem to be using this Tokyo trip as cover for some shady scheme.” “I want to go over that matter at the inn.” “There are other things I’d like to discuss with you—face to face.” “Understood.” Inoue Yasugoro listened to their exchange with a resentful yet anxious expression.

They exited through the ticket gate.

Standing amidst the crowd, Kingoro looked up at the ceiling. The roof of the exit formed a bronze circular tower when viewed from outside. The inner ceiling had been painted pure white and towered high like an enormous parasol. The inner wall was divided into twelve sections where paintings of the zodiac signs were rendered in soft hues. In the central circle flew a heavenly maiden. It might have been a kalavinka. (Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon...) Counting the zodiac signs in his mind, Kingoro stopped at the Dragon. A single dragon with blazing eyes gazed down at him from the high ceiling in a dancing pose. Kingoro gently pressed his right hand against his left arm through his suit.

(There was another dragon there too, but…) He then made a gloomy face.

At that moment, the surrounding crowd suddenly erupted into commotion. Kingoro was shoved violently. He nearly dropped the bag in his left hand. “A pickpocket!” “Don’t let him get away!”

Such voices rang out. A man pushed through the crowd and dashed out from the exit into the open.

Hearing “pickpocket,” Kingoro reflexively reached for his pocket. The wallet he’d placed in his jacket’s inner pocket was gone. “They say Tokyo’s full of pickpockets—you’d better be careful. If you see someone, assume they’re a thief—that’s exactly the mindset you need.” Man had warned him with a laugh when he departed, but he’d forgotten. He found no pleasure in such distrust—suspecting everyone around him—and though he hadn’t been careless, staring vacantly up at the ceiling’s artwork had left him completely dazed. For a seasoned pickpocket, relieving a country bumpkin of his wallet must’ve been child’s play. All his cash—every last coin—along with important documents and seals had been kept in that large wallet.

“Damn it!” he thought, and hurriedly exited through the station exit. “Tamai, where are you going?” Inoue Yasugoro asked his friend with a suspicious look as he rushed out, his face pale.

“Damn it, I’ve been had!” “By that pickpocket just now?”

“Yes, go on ahead to the inn, all of you,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he broke into a run. The crowd surged toward Marunouchi Building. The pickpocket’s figure flickered in and out of view—a man past sixty in a threadbare unlined kimono, its three-foot belt frayed nearly to threads. His shaven head gleamed white under the sun. Straw sandals long discarded, he ran with desperate, stumbling steps. Kingoro slowed his pace. There was no need to chase—the outcome was certain. Three o’clock on a bright afternoon, Tokyo Station’s bustling plaza before them, an old man trembling on his legs… Escape couldn’t be farther from possible.

“A pickpocket! “A pickpocket!” Hearing the crowd’s voices screaming like a rallying cry, a policeman came running out from the police box. Kingoro, relieved, walked slowly. Despite his hurried state of mind, he found himself with enough composure to look around at his surroundings. He gazed in admiration at the beautiful gateway to the metropolis—the stately red-brick Tokyo Station, Central Post Office, towering Marunouchi Building, and other grand architectural structures lining up; the Imperial Palace visible in the distance; the concrete-reinforced station plaza; and the moving streetcars, automobiles, and rickshaws.

Then, Kingoro noticed something strange. Though the crowd's true attention remained fixed on the pickpocket, as he watched the man stumble and scramble in his desperate flight, something resonated in his chest with a pang of relief. His eyes widened.

The not particularly agile old pickpocket was caught by the crowd several times. In some instances, pursuers closed in from behind; in others, curious onlookers blocked his path head-on. Each time, he struggled desperately and slipped through, but gradually weakened as his belt came undone and his kimono was stripped away. Since it was April, it wasn’t cold. Far from it—the thief was drenched in sweat. “Go on, tie him up!” When the crowd realized the pickpocket was not only old and decrepit but also unarmed, they found it amusing and gave chase.

Finally, he had been stripped completely naked. He might have done it to himself.

Kingoro was startled. The emaciated body was entirely covered in tattoos. Though reduced to just a bellyband and loincloth, he appeared as if wearing a bluish-black shirt. And those tattoos were of a Hannya and a giant serpent.

Kingoro had a clear memory. A man from Dōgo Onsen whom he could not forget, no matter how hard he tried.

(It's Hannya no Goro.)

Kingoro looked around. Along the path of his flight lay scattered everywhere the old pickpocket’s discarded obi belts, kimonos, hunting caps, straw sandals, and other items. The striped tobacco pouch might also be his. All of them had been trampled under the shod feet of the crowd and were caked in mud. Kingoro searched for each item one by one and gathered them up. He brushed off the dust and tucked them under his right arm. One of the straw sandals had flown into a puddle beside the tree-lined path, but he retrieved it and hung it up. Drops dripped down. By the time he noticed, the thief had already been caught and handcuffed by the policeman. Around the police box, a massive crowd had gathered. Kingoro approached there.

“Officer, could you please have him put this on?” He placed the bag from his left hand inside the police box and held out the kimono with both hands. The young policeman wore a bewildered expression. “What’s all this?” “I gathered these and brought them here.”

“Are you acquainted with this pickpocket?” “No, I’ve only just arrived in Tokyo from Kyushu.” “And at the exit, I had my personal effects pickpocketed by this person.” “…Didn’t you have my wallet?” “What kind of wallet was it?”

“It’s a black leather wallet with a small silver chrysanthemum flower on the clasp. The width is about five sun [approximately 5.9 inches], and the length around three sun [approximately 3.5 inches].” “Is this it?”

The policeman showed the wallet that had been placed on the desk at the back.

“That’s it.” “What’s inside?” “There’s no mistake—please return it. This is who I am. There should be an identical business card inside that wallet too...” The policeman began meticulously comparing the business card received from Kingoro with the wallet’s contents. The crowd observed the proceedings with rapt curiosity, but it was the old pickpocket who stared at Kingoro most intently—his gaze sharp with near-astonishment.

Released from his handcuffs, he put on his crumpled kimono, and as he tied his obi and slipped into his sandals, his gaze never left Kingoro. Hannya no Goro had sustained light scratches all over his body, a lump on his forehead, and his gums were faintly stained with blood. However, no matter how suspiciously he stared at the suited gentleman, he seemed unable to discern his true identity. He tilted his head slightly, as if utterly perplexed. (What kind of fool would pick up the kimono of the thief who stole my own wallet?)

The old pickpocket's expression clearly seemed to be saying just that. Having finished his inspection and apparently finding no discrepancies, the policeman jotted something in the documents before returning the wallet. "Officer, could you please let this person go? I'll act as his guarantor..."

“That’s out of the question.” “You’re not the only victim here. We need to interrogate him properly, so he’s going in the lockup.” “Might end up sending him to jail.” “Now if you’ll kindly move along - no real damage done after all.” The charmless, overbearing policeman clamped the handcuffs back on Hannya no Goro and marched him off, jabbing at his back with sharp prods all the while.

The slow-to-fade spring day at last began deepening toward dusk.

The "Chikushikan" located at Kudanzakaue was managed by someone from Hakata and served as the regular lodging for people traveling to the capital from Kyushu. It was a three-story building blending Japanese and Western architectural styles. The six-tatami room at the far end of the second floor had been assigned as quarters for Kingoro and Yasugoro.

Having arrived a moment late, Kingoro changed into the inn's yukata while his gaze remained fixed on the western corner of the sky. In the still-bright western sky, Mt. Fuji stood in stark relief. The portion of sky framing it appeared as if carved out from the surrounding expanse, like an elegant picture frame. The evening clouds glowed a beautiful crimson. A profound calm settled over Kingoro.

When he turned his gaze to the right, the roof of Yasukuni Shrine and its great torii gate came into view just nearby. The shrine grounds were filled with cherry trees now verdant with leaves, only a few Higan cherry trees among them adorned with thick clusters of double-layered petals.

The maid entered. “Sir, would you care to take a bath?”

“What about the others?” “Mr. Inoue here has entered along with the other guests.” “The bath can accommodate up to ten people together...” “Do you have a private family bath?” “We do have one, but...” “I’d like to use that one alone.” “Is that so?” “...Then please wait a moment.” “I’ll go check.” The maid left, eyeing this guest who made such an unusual request with suspicion.

As they passed each other, Yasugoro returned with a towel slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, Tamai-kun, it’s a nice bath—won’t you join?” “Ah.” “And the wallet?”

“It came back.” “Nothing’s missing.” “That’s a relief.” “As expected, Tokyo sure is dangerous.” “I suppose I should be more careful.”

He laid out a zabuton cushion in the hallway and said, “Ah, you can see Mt. Fuji.” As he spoke, he sat down. He lit a cigarette and smoked it with evident relish.

The young Yasugoro, who had once been the son of a hardware merchant, had long held a strong interest in Tamai Kingoro's deeds and had earnestly wished to become acquainted with him early on. And now, after many long years had passed, they were equals as friends. Though Yasugoro was seven years younger than Kingoro, Kingoro respected Yasugoro’s education and political acumen, maintaining a friendship that transcended their age difference. The strong comradely bond between these two was recognized as something beautiful by the townspeople, though from the opposing faction’s side—

“When Yasugoro and Kingoro team up, their ‘Gorō-Gorō’ pair rumbles like thunder—what a nuisance they become,” their opponents would mutter irritably. Kingoro sat down and lit a cigarette. “Tamai-kun, I heard Tomoda was causing trouble again at the station...?” “He claims he wants to talk tonight, but I know exactly what he’ll say without hearing him.” “You’re in a bind yourself, aren’t you? Given your direct stake in coal matters...”

“It may finally have come to the brink.” “We’ve been enemies long enough—I reckon this problem might settle things for good.” “…Being a man who’s already died once… Might be interesting to try dying again.”

Kingoro said such things and laughed heartily, but Yasugoro, with an ominous premonition, was in no mood to laugh.

The maid came to inform him that the family bath had become available.

Passing by the lively communal bathhouse where voices of conversation and laughter could be heard, there was a quiet family bath. There was no one. Kingoro entered the bathroom and stripped naked. Immersed in the bathtub, it felt pleasant. The slightly hot water seeped through his entire body, and with an audible sound, the fatigue of travel began to drain away. In the cramped bathhouse, white steam hung like mist, and the electric light resembled the moon. He submerged himself up to his neck and chin, closing his eyes in blissful contentment for a while. In Kingoro’s mind, the image of that old pickpocket from earlier now rose up vividly.

(I'm soaking comfortably in the bath, but I bet Mr. Hannya no Goro's in some flea-and-louse-infested detention cell by now.)

He let out an odd sigh. The time when he had first met Gorō at Dōgo Onsen alongside Kiyoshichi the blacksmith had become an indelible memory for Kingoro. That peculiar three-copper gambler had given him the chance to meet Okyo, but beyond that, there was something Kingoro secretly felt indebted to Hannya no Goro himself for. In the bath at Yumachi’s “Kami no Yu,” he remembered the conversation he’d exchanged with Gorō.

Gorō said while kneading Tamai Kingoro’s naked body without reserve, his hands working vigorously. “You’ve got fine build. If I were a woman, I’d be smitten. Wasted on a farmer. Get a dragon tattooed on you, I’ll guarantee you’ll become a boss like Ōmaeda Eizaburō.”

Thereupon, Kingoro replied half in jest. “Can even a peasant’s child become a boss?” “Well, ’course you can.” “Truth is, I’ve always liked chivalrous types.” “When I read those kodan stories… I used to think ’bout becomin’ a boss like Shimizu no Jirocho or Kunisada Chuji.” “The hell you say.” “Brother, that’s wrongthink right there.” “How come?” “Jirocho ’n’ Chuji? Worthless.” “Gutter trash of the underworld.” “Bosses who peddle fights ain’t worth shit.” “Real proper bosses don’t go lookin’ for brawls.” “That’s why Ōmaeda Eizaburō was the real damn deal.”

“I don’t know Ōmaeda Eizaburō.”

“That’s right. They don’t go around slashing and stabbing, so they never end up in kōdan tales or naniwa ballads. All those boring yakuza types are just flashy show-offs.”

At the time, he had casually dismissed those words. If anything, he had even considered it downright foolish. He’d never had the slightest intention of becoming a boss. After Hannya no Goro left the bathhouse, (That damn gambler—spouting nonsense.) When I teased him, he took it seriously. Who’d want to become a boss? Don’t mock tattoos. Become a dragon—ride clouds and wind, soar through the sky!)

And he screamed it in his heart.

Yet despite his resistance, caught in fate’s mighty yoke and plunged into the valley of human bonds, he had eventually become something akin to that boss he once spoke of. At that moment—like a thunderclap rumbling with peals of thunder—the words of that down-and-out gambler from long ago came surging back into Kingoro’s mind. And this had unwittingly become the most vital creed by which Kingoro lived. How profoundly those words had saved him. Likely, Gorō—the one who’d uttered them—had long since forgotten. Yet for Kingoro, Hannya no Gorō had grown into an unforgettable man; someone he now yearned to meet just once and thank.

Kingoro had not become Ōmaeda Eizaburō, but by maintaining his self-awareness as a man who worked rather than brawled for a living, he had nonetheless managed to become a boss known throughout northern Kyushu. At present, the Tamai Group held contracts not only with the Union Group but also with Mitsui & Co., Yamakyu Transport, Tokai Steelworks, Yahata Steelworks, and others, with direct subordinates now numbering in the hundreds. As president of the Wakamatsu Port Steamship Loading Foremen’s Union, he became the overseer of harbor coal handling and, as a representative of the workers, was pushed by the city council and elected. He was currently serving his second term, having been elected in Taishō 11 (1922) for the first term and in Taishō 15 (1926) for the second. His term was nearing its end, with reelections coming next month. There were even movements afoot to recommend him for prefectural assembly membership.

Even after things had come to this, Tamai Kingoro and Man would habitually say, “We are coal dockworkers. With nothing but our own two hands in Moji, Shimonoseki, Tobata, and even after coming to Wakamatsu, we must never forget how we worked covered head to toe in coal,” they would remind each other. Even now, Tamai Kingoro never failed to go to the offshore worksite wearing his hanten. To his eldest son Katsunori he would say, “You’re Gonzo’s child.” And at every opportunity he would admonish him: “You’re Gonzo too.” That Katsunori had grown into a sturdy twenty-five-year-old who threw himself into his work each day, clad in the Tamai Group hanten.

And so, at the foundation of their long years of life, Hannya no Goro’s words had always shone with solemn radiance. It was with this Gorō that he had a strange encounter after thirty years. What brought Kingoro to his knees was the tattoo. (Was Gorō-san’s tattoo also done by Okyo?) That might be the case. However, did Gorō—with his full-body tattoos—regret and agonize over them in the same way Kingoro did with just his left arm? For Kingoro in his later years, his tattoos could indeed be said to be akin to hell.

(Might as well just cut off this arm?) In his overwhelming despair, he had even considered such drastic measures more than once. Having only his right arm remaining, he even dreamed of feeling liberated.

"What do you think? Quite magnificent, eh?" The youthful days when he had said such things and shown it off to others now filled him with shame. To have boasted of its beauty was nothing short of utter ignorance.

The real trouble came from the children. Starting with Katsunori, the children born one after another detested their father’s tattoos, and there were even days when they refused to go to school.

“Heya! Your old man’s a tattooed thug, ain’t he?” Elementary school students openly spat such hateful remarks. The children came home crying and begged to have the tattoo removed as soon as possible. He tried everything to erase it. However, chemicals, moxibustion, surgery—none had any effect. If that was the case, there was no other way but to keep it hidden from public view. Even in summer, he never went shirtless and wore long-sleeved shirts. Even when traveling with others, he would sneak into family baths alone.

That said, he did not resent Okyo of the Butterfly Peonies. Even now, after his encounter with Hannya no Gorō— (Gorō might know Okyo’s whereabouts.) (I’ll go meet Gorō.)

And so he was thinking.

Someone slid open the glass door and entered the bathroom. Tamai Kingoro hurriedly wrapped a towel around his left arm like a bandage and hid his tattoo. The one who appeared was Tomoda Kizō. He was stark naked. His entire body was wet, with a dripping towel wrapped around his waist. It seemed he had been using the communal bath until now. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Since you were in the family bath, I moved over here.” Then with an “Oh, it’s freezin’!” he abruptly leaped into the bathtub. The water had already been near overflowing with just Kingoro alone, but with two people, it cascaded over the rim like a waterfall. The bath was so narrow that their feet touched at the bottom.

“This bath here’s meant for newlywed couples or something, eh? Tattooed bosses sharing a bath—what a godsend for boors!” Tomoda said such things and laughed shrilly, but Tamai Kingoro could tell it was a forced, artificial laugh. Since it was Tomoda, there was no need to hide it, so he removed the towel wrapped around his tattoo.

In contrast to Tamai Kingoro’s pale, finely grained skin, Tomoda’s body was shark-skinned and livid black. His arms and entire back bore Jiraiya tattoos that clung like a soiled shirt to his flesh. The plumpness of his slightly overweight frame stood in stark opposition to Kingoro’s bony emaciation. Yet through the bathwater’s glistening sheen, the eyes of serpents, toads, and slugs etched into Tomoda’s skin seemed to glare at Kingoro—sinuous forms writhing with eerie malice. The dragon coiled around Kingoro’s arm appeared to return their baleful gaze. With these monstrous figures joining their silent confrontation, a strange demonic presence permeated the cramped bathing chamber.

“So I hear Chibo got you.” “Yes, but nothing was lost. He was caught on the spot, so...” “What a moronic thief.” Tomoda might have thought that the theft from Kingoro served him right. And perhaps he had hoped that the wallet would not be returned. “Was there something you needed?”

Kingoro asked.

“Yeah, there’s something I need to discuss.” “At the station tonight, I’d said we’d talk things over at the inn, but after dinner those thugs started yapping about heading off to Yoshiwara, so I figured we’d better hash it out beforehand.” “Where we talk makes no difference anyway—that’s why I came here.”

Tomoda was making every effort to appear nonchalant, but his hostility toward Kingoro, seething in his gut, intermittently revealed itself in the sharp glint of his hawk-like eyes and the metallic edge lacing his shrill voice.

“I will comply.” “I’m sure you already know what I’m going to say without me spelling it out, but…”

“I don’t know.” “How about cutting ties with Inoue Yasugoro and joining the Minseitō?” “......” “Tomorrow, I’m going to observe the 58th Assembly, and Boss Yoshida Isokichi should be waiting for you in the waiting room.” “You’re not unaware that Boss has always held you in high regard since the beginning, are you?” “Boss says he absolutely must have you in the Minseitō.” “You claim neutrality, but getting cozy with Inoue Yasugoro reeks of the Seiyūkai.” “The Boss doesn’t intend to keep you as a mere figurehead.” “He says he’ll appoint you as secretary-general, have you run as an official Minseitō candidate in the next prefectural assembly election, and guarantee your victory.” “You owe the Boss a debt, and if you know your obligations, you shouldn’t be able to refuse…”

“I have always deeply appreciated Boss Yoshida’s generous consideration.” “Then will you obey the Boss’s orders?” “That is something I regrettably cannot do.” “That matter and this are separate.” “Which ‘that’ and which ‘this’…?” “What I owe Boss Yoshida is a personal debt.” “Politics belongs to the public sphere—they cannot be mixed.” “I am not claiming the Minseitō is inherently flawed.” “Even an uneducated man like me knows political parties are essential in national governance—the Diet’s constitutional norm.” “But my conviction remains: in local governance, parties bring harm without benefit.” “This truth is evident from Wakamatsu City’s current state… To speak plainly—forgive my bluntness—… Here we have the saying: ‘If you’re not Minseitō, you’re not human.’ Because of this, see how our municipal affairs warp! How our citizens suffer!… All stems from Councilman Yoshida’s might—foxes basking in a tiger’s borrowed authority—”

“Am I supposed to be one of those foxes too?” “No, that is absolutely not what I mean… But I do not consider Wakamatsu’s current state to be right.” “Therefore, as a citizen maintaining neutrality, I am resolved to devote my modest efforts regardless of political parties.” “You claim no party ties, yet you’re clearly connected to Inoue Yasugoro and the Seiyūkai.” “That is merely solidarity against the Minseitō’s tyranny.” “Mr. Inoue does not belong to the Seiyūkai.” “He maintains neutrality like myself.”

“Is there no way you’ll agree?” “I must ask for your understanding.” “You do know what became of Shinagawa Nobutake in the end, don’t you?” “I am well aware.” “That fool kept insolently opposing Boss Yoshida in the *Wakamatsu Jitsugyō Shinbun* until he got himself killed.” “I believe he conducted himself honorably.” “The Boss has more loyal men willing to die for him than you can count.” “In Wakamatsu, those who cross Boss Yoshida never fare well.” “Tamai-kun, you’d do well to reconsider.”

“I will not reconsider.”

In the narrow bathtub, the words exchanged by the two men sitting knee-to-knee were calm, but the eyes of the beasts leaping across their skin—dragons, giant serpents, toads, slugs—seemed to grow even more eerily luminous within the white steam.

“Well, let’s put that matter aside for later.” “More importantly, Tamai-kun, your conduct is unconscionable.”

Tomoda became blatantly confrontational. He had anticipated the recommendation to join the Minseitō, but Tamai Kingoro also understood what Tomoda was about to say next. Even when told "This is unconscionable," he did not ask "What is?" and remained silent. He silently washed his body with a towel.

Tomoda, as if Kingoro’s composed demeanor grated on his nerves even more,

“You’re impossible.” “I’ve always wanted to get along with you, but your methods are so underhanded we’ll end up clashing. … Tamai-kun, you’re planning to use this Tokyo trip as an opportunity to visit Mitsubishi headquarters, aren’t you?” “That is what I intend to do.” “You cannot go.”

“I will go.” “Stop.” “I will not stop.” “Even if someone like you goes, no one will take you seriously.” “Moreover, the decision to build coal-loading machines at Shinkawa Wharf has already been made.” “It’s useless even if you go.” “I do not consider it futile.” “If I lay bare my sincerity and speak, I believe they will understand.” “Even now, the dockworkers barely eat—if coal-loading machines are built on top of that, starvation will be their only fate.” “I intend to meet with the executives at headquarters and implore them by any means necessary to reconsider.”

“You’re behind the times,” “If civilization progresses, you know everything gets mechanized.” “I know that well enough.” “Dokai Bay’s got wharf facilities—hoists, cranes, railway piers. Offshore too—loaders, pontoons.” “That’s what the new age demands.” “But building machines without caring if dockworkers starve—that’s not civilization’s progress.” “Human life comes first. Always.”

“That’s exactly why they call you a fool.” “Stop playing the workers’ ally. You ought to think more about yourself.” “Even if you kill yourself working for some bug-like Gonzo, you’ll gain nothing.” “If you’d just act smart and play the game, you could grow fat... Truth is, they’ll pay good money if you quit opposing the coal-loading machine construction...”

“I must decline. As I am a dockworker, I cannot consider anything beyond dockworkers.”

“Hmm—…” Tomoda laughed resentfully through his nose.

At that moment, suddenly, (Should I kill this man?) A strange thought flashed through Kingoro’s mind like thunder. (If I were so inclined, killing this skinny man here would be nothing. It might pass as a heart attack during bathing. Even if they found out I killed him, I’d die content.) If Tomoda Kizō alone were gone, how delighted would the many dockworkers—no, the people of Wakamatsu’s streets—be? —he thought.

However, needless to say, Kingoro was appalled by this demonic thought and shook his head as if to cast off the delusion. “Tamai-kun.” Tomoda still seemed to have more to say.

“Huh?” “There’s one more thing I want to say. Your son Katsunori-kun—lately he’s been getting cozy with a geisha called Hikaru. I need you to put a stop to that.” “If that woman gets her claws into him, it’ll mean trouble.”

Kingoro was taken aback.

Tomoda Kizō, who had watched that look of surprise with evident satisfaction,

“Ah, I stayed in too long and got lightheaded.” With that, he sent water surging and leaped out of the bath. Caught in the backlash, Kingoro was splashed all over his face.

Tomoda wrung out the towel, stood naked before the mirror, and wiped himself down, exposing his bluish-black tattooed back. "You know Tsujiki Sōhachi of Take no Ie well enough, don’t you, Tamai-kun? Anyone involved in Jōruri narration or Gidayū performance knows Tsujiki. You must be aware he’s an executive in the Wakamatsu Minseitō faction." "I know." "Hikaru’s his adopted daughter. Not some ordinary geisha. Tsujiki doesn’t need her working banquets, but she enjoys the arts and gets bored—lets her do it as a hobby. He’s got a promising son at university already lined up to marry her next spring after graduation. I’ve arranged to mediate the ceremony myself." Tomoda’s damp fingers tightened on the towel. "Now they say your boy’s sniffing around Hikaru. As his father—rein him in."

“Understood.” “Well then…”

Tomoda Kizō left. Due to the long bath and his dazed state, Kingoro exited the bath feeling flushed. His entire body turned red like arm calluses. In a dazed state of mind, he crouched down, hugging his knees. He felt dizzy.

(What the hell is this?) In the chaotic turmoil that felt as though he were being dragged into the earth, Kingoro wanted to cry.

He had been certain he completely understood everything Tomoda wanted to discuss. He had thought it was only two things: the Minseitō membership recommendation and the withdrawal of the opposition movement against the Mitsubishi coal loader construction. The third problem resembled a giant iron hammer that had been suddenly swung down upon his head in the dark of night. Just before departure, he had just made a binding agreement with Ōba Harukichi. “The other party is quite insistent—if you give your consent, they wish to proceed with arrangements for a wedding this autumn.”

At Master Ōba’s words, “I’ve already heard Katsunori’s opinion.” “It should be fine—we’ll follow your wishes.” “Becoming relatives with the Fujimoto Group is such an honor.”

“In that case, please inform them we accept, understood?” “That’s acceptable.” It was a marriage proposal for Katsunori to wed Kinu-ko, eldest daughter of Fujimoto Kihachirō—a contractor handling major projects at Yahata Steel Works. Man remained open-minded about it. More than anyone, mediator Ōba Harukichi showed enthusiasm, boasting to the point of declaring, “I’ve arranged many matches myself, but such an excellent union comes but once.” Katsunori too had been told of this proposal. “I leave it to Father and Mother.” “Please decide what’s best,” he said.

Kingoro groaned. He let out a volcanic sigh.

(Is what Tomoda said really true?)

Once he returned home, he would have to investigate immediately—he felt panicked.

The next morning from Chikushi-kan, Mount Fuji appeared hazily through the late spring sky.

In the washroom, Kingoro, who was brushing his teeth, was tapped on the shoulder by Tomoda Kizō.

“Good morning. “My apologies for last night. “Today I’m supposed to attend the assembly, but regarding what we discussed in the bath—about joining the Minseitō—I want you to give your answer directly to Boss Yoshida. “I’m not some child’s errand boy, and I won’t be given the same reply over and over.”

Having said that abruptly without waiting for a reply, he clicked his slippers and left. Inoue Yasugoro, who was beside him, “Yoshida-san’s sure got himself some fine underlings.”

He muttered strangely, yet resentfully.

Tamai Kingoro left the inn alone, one step ahead of the others. He intended to visit the police box in front of Tokyo Station to inquire about Hannya no Goro. He hadn’t told anyone.

When he reached the tram stop at Kudanzaka, he noticed the strange atmosphere of the city. He had intended to take the train, but there was no sign of it coming. Passengers were densely packed.

They had become a crowd, everyone noisily shouting something. This was no ordinary matter.

“Has something happened?” he asked. “The city streetcars have been on strike since yesterday.”

A middle-aged man who looked like a salaryman answered as if glaring at Kingoro. He must have been late for work and in a foul mood.

Having not read the newspaper, Kingoro was unaware of such a major event until that moment.

“The bus is here!”

The crowd rushed en masse toward the blue bus that came up from the direction of Hitokuchizaka. Roars and screams erupted. It was practically a brawl. There was no hope of boarding at all. Finally, a streetcar arrived from the same direction. They were pushed aside and couldn't board that one either. The second car they'd waited so long for was also no good. Kingoro grew irritated. Through the crushing press of bodies, he somehow managed to board the third vehicle. Clang, clang, poom—the streetcar started moving. It was faster than walking but couldn't honestly be called speeding. It crawled along at a snail's pace. Due to the general strike, there were no professional drivers or conductors; he realized clerks from the Electricity Bureau, technicians, and youth corps members were temporarily filling in.

“Yesterday there was a rear-end collision in Aoyama, I hear.” “They say seven passengers got injured.” “At Kōgai-zaka, seems there was a runaway.” “Heard there was a derailment at Suidōbashi too.” “This is dangerous...” The passengers packed like sardines exchanged these stories uneasily. Due to their inexperience, accidents seemed to be breaking out everywhere.

A middle-aged gentleman in Western clothes and rimless glasses was issuing tickets. He seemed to be a novice conductor. "How much is it?" Tamai Kingoro asked. "The standard fare is 7 sen, but during the strike, we've decided to reduce it by 2 sen." The temporary conductor who had handed Kingoro his ticket looked outside and suddenly became flustered. Though approaching a stop, he apparently couldn't tell for certain.

“Next is… Next is… Uh…? Next is…” Repeating himself urgently over and over, he finally pulled out a map booklet from his pocket. He frantically flipped through the pages.

Then, one of the passengers shouted. “Ladies and gentlemen, our next stop is Jinbōchō. Those alighting or transferring, please prepare.” A roar of laughter suddenly filled the car.

The novice conductor was scratching his head.

Given this state of affairs, it took a long time to reach the destination. Having been chastened from his very first step in Tokyo, Kingoro remained vigilant against pickpockets and kept careful watch over his belongings. Inside the car, there was no room to move a muscle.

Finally, he arrived in front of Tokyo Station. He went to yesterday's police box. "I'm afraid we don't handle such matters here. Please go to headquarters." Having been told off impatiently by the police officer, he visited Marunouchi Police Station.

He was made to wait on the bare bench at the entrance for a long time. Though his face commanded respect when visiting Wakamatsu Police Station as a Kitakyushu boss, here in central Tokyo he amounted to nothing more than a country bumpkin. To make matters worse, having come to visit some shady old pickpocket, he found himself subjected to suspicious glares from young officers who dismissed him contemptuously. Even his sword scar met with brusque disregard. A large gash from Kakusuke's blade still marred Tamai Kingoro's left forehead. The sutured wound had swollen into a crescent shape that bit halfway into his forehead and scalp, leaving that patch perpetually bald. It wasn't exactly disfiguring, yet some detectives stared at it with undisguised curiosity.

After an hour had passed, he was ultimately refused visitation. However, the middle-aged police sergeant told him, “We may need you to act as guarantor and take custody of Onuki Gorō within the next day or two, so please make sure your contact details are clearly established.”

Clutching this sliver of hope, he left the police station after designating the Chikushikan inn in Kudan-Fujimichō as his contact point. He told them he would be proceeding to the House of Representatives next. The Marunouchi district seethed with unrest due to the ongoing streetcar strike. At the moatside, a tram and bus appeared to have collided, drawing a thick crowd. Abandoning plans to ride the tram, he flagged down a rickshaw. “Where to, master?” “To the Diet Building.” “Which house, sir?” “What do you mean, which house?”

“The House of Peers and the House of Representatives...”

“The House of Representatives.”

Though he had left the inn at dawn, unexpected delays at every turn consumed his time. In the big city, nothing went as smoothly as it did in Wakamatsu. Kingoro once again keenly felt his own smallness.

Upon arriving at the Diet Building and entering the second-floor gallery, he found the raucous bell signaling the session's commencement ringing loudly. The chamber remained completely empty.

Kingoro sat down next to Inoue Yasugoro. The gallery was unexpectedly deserted. The Wakamatsu city council members had gathered in one spot and were incessantly chattering while curiously surveying the chamber's interior. Perhaps they found themselves moved by comparing the meager Wakamatsu City Council with the opulent Imperial Diet. Or perhaps they were even having their ambition stirred—the ambition to one day hold seats in this very Diet.

Tomoda Kizō turned to look back at Kingoro and smirked meaningfully. Soon, the doors on both sides opened, and Diet members from various factions poured into the chamber like flowing water. In moments, every seat filled with people. "Boss Yoshida has arrived," Tomoda declared, though feigning a mutter. His tone dripped with calculated triumph meant for the gallery's ears. Among the sea of Western-suited assemblymen, Yoshida Isokichi stood conspicuous in his haori and hakama—a colossus with hands tucked in sleeves who settled calmly into the Minseitō benches. Before sitting, he cast a fleeting glance upward at the observers. Spotting familiar faces from home, he offered a silent, magnanimous nod.

Kingoro was called by a guard. A piece of paper was handed to him. "There are matters I wish to discuss man to man. I will await you at the members' dining hall during the noon recess. Yoshida"

“The Minseitō’s really something, huh?” Tomoda Kizō crossed his arms and leaned back in an exaggerated recline, muttering just loudly enough for the gallery to catch his words.

“No doubt ’bout it.”

A fellow party member chimed in agreement.

Facing the Speaker’s seat, from near the center to the entire left side were Minseitō members’ seats. The confident and arrogant vitality of holding an absolute majority of 271 members was visible on every Diet member’s expressions. Even on Yoshida Isokichi’s sharp features, the triumphant glow of pride in his dominion was impossible to conceal. To the right were the 173 Seiyūkai seats, but on the aged face of President Inukai Tsuyoshi, positioned toward the center-rear, burned a fierce fighting spirit. His thick beard was white, and his large eyes gleamed restlessly. The reformist, proletarian, national cooperative, and independent Diet members were huddled tightly together in the right corner. In the front were Minseitō President and Prime Minister Hamaguchi Osachi, along with cabinet members Adachi, Tawara, Koizumi, Machida, and others.

Amid applause, Secretary-General Taguchi took the Speaker’s seat. “In accordance with Article 2, Clause 2 of the Diet Law, I will assume the duties of Speaker until the Speaker and Vice-Speaker are appointed by imperial mandate. In accordance with House of Representatives rules, we will now conduct the election for Speaker and Vice-Speaker candidates.” Then, following the roll call, the methodical voting procession began. Diet members swarmed around the podium, circling endlessly.

Kingoro watched this and recalled an ant procession. A kindergarten game came to mind. It also looked like clockwork. At city council meetings too during votes—they often did this same thing—but seeing it from the gallery made him blush at how similar it must look. "You don’t need to count votes to know how this’ll turn out." Tomoda Kizō said in a sneering tone.

The outcome had been predetermined in favor of the Minseitō. True enough, with 268 votes out of 442 total, Fujisawa Ikunosuke was elected as the primary candidate for Speaker. The secondary candidate failed to secure a majority, forcing a revote. Another identical whirling dance of parliamentary procedure ensued. This too resulted in Minseitō’s Nishimura Tanjirō being elected, with the third candidate likewise from Minseitō. “The Vice Speaker’s ours too.”

The only one doing all the talking was Tomoda Kizō. No one responded.

Was this what they called politics? Kingoro grew bored and found everything increasingly absurd. Yet being keenly aware of his own ignorance and lack of education, he kept silent. Someone would surely say, "What do you know about politics?" Still he strained to comprehend something more.

“Excuse me.” He was called out again. It was the same guard as before. “What is it?” “If you would.”

So as not to disturb the other observers, he went to the door. “There was a telephone call for you.” “Where from?”

“From Marunouchi Police Station.”

“What kind of...?” “If I told you, you’d understand, they said… Though I couldn’t quite grasp the situation myself.” “Wasn’t it about a man called Hannya no Gorō?” “Hannya’s…? No—they said Gorō… Yes, Onuki Gorō or something…” “That’s correct. "It’s Onuki Gorō." “And that…?” “They said that if you act as his guarantor, he’ll be released, so they want you to come to the station right away.”

“Right now?” “Yes, they said they won’t release him unless it’s done right away.” Kingoro looked at his watch. His brows drew together. He was perplexed. 11:42—approaching the noon deadline set by Yoshida Isokichi.

On the bare bench at Marunouchi Police Station, Tamai Kingoro grew impatient. Despite several hours having passed since rushing straight from the Diet, Hannya no Gorō still had not been released. They wouldn’t even allow a meeting. Irritably,

“Please wait a little longer.”

was all he would say.

As he reluctantly sat down, he could indeed see various people coming and going in quick succession, making clear just how busy this police station in the central district of the metropolis was. There must have been many incidents as well. Yet, at the same time, Kingoro’s eyes could clearly see that none of these matters were being handled efficiently. They were not taking anyone’s convenience into account at all. Moreover, if pressed too urgently, one could even perceive a tendency for them to deliberately delay matters. Tamai Kingoro, who had never liked officials or police officers from the start, grew increasingly irritated,

(If it was going to be like this, I should've gone to meet Boss Yoshida.) Even if I’d met him afterward, there still would’ve been plenty of time. They’re messing with me.) He was on the verge of exploding in a fit of rage. The spitefulness of fate—he had experienced it to the point of disgust up to now—had done him in once again today. He had ended up missing the time when Yoshida Isokichi had said he wanted to talk man-to-man. Boss Yoshida must be furious beyond doubt.

Here, even as this major incident was unfolding, the police kept offering nothing but vague explanations—something about protests from other victims—and several more hours slipped away. When he pressed them, “The main station is considering taking a favorable—one might even say unprecedented—lenient measure.” “When releasing that villain, if you aren’t here, we cannot guarantee he won’t be sent to headquarters and imprisoned.” “If that’s acceptable to you, you’re free to leave now.”

He would say things to make him feel indebted or threaten him.

It was only after the long spring day had completely darkened that Hannya no Gorō was finally released. Kingoro’s stomach growled and rumbled incessantly from hunger.

The two walked through the night streets in silence. They reached the edge of the Imperial Palace moat.

The towering buildings glittered with hazy electric lights in every one of their countless windows. The beautiful scenery—its lights arrayed like kasuri-patterned fabric—made Kingoro feel as though he had stepped into a storybook realm, enveloped in fantasy. The quiet presence of aged stone walls, the well-shaped pines along the earthen embankment, the moat with faint ripples, leaping carp, rows of willow trees, soft moonlight streaming from the sky—these elements gradually began to soothe Kingoro’s frayed nerves from the police station.

When they reached a spot where Nijubashi Bridge was faintly visible even in the darkness, Tamai Kingoro came to a stop. “Gorō-san.” “Right here.” Hannya no Gorō already knew exactly who this strange country squire—the one who had become his guarantor—was. With hands thrust into his front sash, he followed wherever Kingoro walked, but on his aged face—one might call it old and ugly—an eerily complex expression had been flickering like foxfire since earlier, appearing and vanishing.

“You don’t know where Okyo-san is, do you?” “I certainly do know.” he answered without hesitation. “Where is she?”

“Asakusa...... If you like, shall we go there together now?” Then the two boarded the streetcar.

Asakusa.

As they entered through Kaminarimon Gate, Tamai Kingoro found himself captivated by the beauty of Nakamise Street. Narrow stone-paved streets were lined with shops on both sides, and despite it being an ordinary day, it felt just like a festival, with women in traditional Japanese hairstyles appearing here and there among the stores. Kingoro kept looking around restlessly while Gorō—wearing a sullen expression that seemed to say Asakusa was nothing special—marched straight toward the Kannon Hall. “Gorō-san, wait a moment.”

At Kingoro’s call, he turned back.

“I want to do some shopping, so…” “If it’s a souvenir for Okyo-san, you should quit that notion.” “No need to fret over such things.”

“Well, I’ll decide that after meeting Okyo-san, but... just a moment.” He had no idea what had become of Okyo. No matter how much Kingoro asked, Hannya no Gorō refused to elaborate beyond saying “You’ll understand when you meet her,” maintaining a grave expression and repeating only, “Please don’t be startled.” However, as Gorō had said, if they just met, even those mysterious words would melt away completely.

Tamai Kingoro stopped because he found numerous lighters displayed at one of the shops on Nakamise Street. “Could I have one of those inside the glass there?” “Is this the one you mean?”

“That’s the one.” Kingoro was suddenly seized by an inexplicable recollection of the past. It might have been a borrowed nostalgia fostered by the atmosphere of the metropolis. Lighters were no longer rare things. They were sold even in Wakamatsu now, but here—finding an item precisely matching the shape of the “pocket lamp” he’d given Man in his youth—his legs locked in place. (I’ll get this as a souvenir for Man.) As if by divine revelation, he made up his mind.

He took out his wallet and paid.

On both sides of the Nio Gate stood two gigantic Nio statues, their terrifying bulging eyes glowing even in the night as they glared wide open. From the center of the temple gate hung a single enormous straw sandal and a red lantern. Everything was overwhelmingly large. As Kingoro gazed admiringly at the muscular Nio statues, thinking This face resembles someone he knew—

“Boss Tamai, let’s go.”

He was urged by Hannya no Gorō.

“You country folk—everything’s a wonder to you…” “There’s even more astonishing sights up ahead!”

They entered beside Kannon Hall and passed through the noren of a diner with a red lantern labeled "Ichizenmeshi." Both were ravenous. They took a bottle of sake each and ate oyakodon. One bowl each wasn’t enough, so they ordered seconds. They finally began to feel human again.

“Is that right…? Thirty years since Dogo Onsen… Can’t believe how time flies… Well I’ll be…”

Each time Hannya no Gorō saw Kingoro’s utterly transformed figure, he would repeatedly let slip such nostalgic words of admiration. However, there was something forced about it, and in the depths of those bleary eyes flickered a snake-like glint of cunning. “Gorō-san, you’ve changed so much—it surprised me. But being able to meet you again... I’m truly happy.”

Kingoro said this with complete sincerity.

They settled the bill and left.

“This way, c’mon.”

Following Gorō’s lead, they emerged beside Hyōtan Pond. The bright neon-glittering electric lights, gaudy colors, swarming crowds, movie theaters, playhouses, vaudeville halls, merry-go-rounds from the carousel pavilion, provocative billboards, banners, flags, rows upon rows of food stalls and drinking establishments with their yakitori aromas, and jinta music combining to produce a decadent cacophony unlike any other in the world—Tamai Kingoro once again looked around in a daze,

(Somewhere in this Asakusa, Okyo must be.) He found himself caught in a dreamlike melancholy.

On the surface of Hyōtan Pond, the glittering scenery cast an inverted reflection. It was beautiful. However, the side with the communal toilet and trees had turned dark in that single section alone, like a hole within the light. Following Hannya no Gorō unconsciously, Tamai Kingoro suddenly realized he had come to a desolately lonely place. What kind of trees they were—low-standing ones with thick foliage clustered densely, completely shutting out the surrounding clamor. The light only flickered through the leaves.

“Gorō-san, are we getting close to where Okyo-san is?”

So he asked. “Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah!” A strange crow-like guffaw came echoing back. Gorō laughed, his aged body recoiling like a spring mechanism while bending at the waist as if overcome by unbearable hilarity.

As Kingoro stood dumbfounded, the surrounding thicket rustled, and five or six black figures appeared. They surrounded Kingoro. In the dim light, they could all be recognized as having the appearance of hoodlums. Gorō had apparently made contact with them somewhere, quite skillfully. “Country Boss.” Already exuding the arrogance of a victor, his tone had turned sneering. Kingoro could not respond. “Take a look at this.”

What Hannya no Gorō pulled from his pocket was Kingoro’s wallet. When—and where—had he stolen it? Kingoro stood dumbfounded.

“Kantō pickpockets never miss a mark once we’ve set our sights.” “Miss once, and it’s your honor on the line.” “Screwed up yesterday—today I finish the job.” “Take that, you bastard!”

“Gorō-san, I can’t make sense of what you’re doing,” Kingoro said. “Why would you treat me like this—me who helped you?” “Helped me?” Gorō’s laugh cracked like dry wood. “Don’t make me laugh. This is Okyo’s reckoning. Prepare yourself!” “Okyo’s reckoning? What do you mean? Tell me why!” “I know exactly how things stand.” Gorō’s voice turned venomous. “...You lot—strip this bastard down to his skin! Once he’s naked, toss him into Hyōtan Pond!”

“Bring it.” “Understood.”

In an instant, a brawl broke out. Tamai Kingoro had no choice but to deal with the thugs assaulting him, yet he struggled desperately to prevent Hannya no Gorō from escaping. And then, when he finally managed to drag Gorō down at his feet, suddenly, the surroundings fell silent. The thugs had vanished in an instant. They must have spotted the police rushing over. They start fights quickly, but they’re quick to flee.

Kingoro leapt up. He had Hannya no Gorō pinned down but gave up. If caught, he didn’t want trouble. It was regrettable, but unavoidable. Sensing police approaching, he pushed through the thicket and fled. He ran. He emerged into the entertainment district. Frantic, he plunged into a restaurant.

“One ramune, please.”

*I just don’t get it…?* No matter how he thought about it, he simply couldn’t make sense of it. Kingoro felt his spirit grow heavy from his daze. *This is such a ridiculous situation.* Fury welled up inside him. A middle-aged woman wearing a red apron brought ramune on a tray. The bottle opener hung from the ceiling by spinning thread.

Kingoro took it and removed the ramune's stopper. Pop—a crisp sound rang out, followed by a fssht as white foam bubbled up. The round marble fell with a clink. Kingoro liked this sound. He gulped it down in one go. The intensely cold, fizzy ramune water flowed down his throat, and he felt a slight easing of the bitterness lodged in his chest. “Ah, that’s good.”

The words escaped him before he could stop himself. He drank another bottle. The sound of hurried footsteps passing outside, voices calling in search of someone, whistles, and the clatter of sabers reached his ears. It might have been the police squad from earlier. “Another fight, I wonder?” One of the customers muttered in a weary tone, as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. He was a laborer-type man drinking Denki Buran. (I wonder if Hannya no Gorō got caught?) Though Gorō had committed hatefully inexplicable acts, Tamai Kingoro found himself hoping the man had managed to escape unscathed.

“Auntie, another bottle of ramune.” “You’re really putting them away, aren’t you?” “I can handle ramune pretty well.” While drinking his third bottle, he absentmindedly read the newspaper spread out on the table. It was less reading than looking. In Kingoro’s eyes, now somewhat calmed, the jumbled headlines of various articles came into view. ――10,000 Streetcar Employees Finally Launch Full-Scale Strike. The authorities’ emergency mobilization swift, their battle tactics cunning.

――58th Special Diet Convenes Today ――London Naval Disarmament Conference Reaches Climax; Treaty Draft Approved at Today’s Chief Plenary Session—Final Signing Tomorrow. ――Their Highnesses Prince and Princess Takamatsu Depart for Europe Aboard Kasuga Maru from Yokohama Port at 3:00 PM. ――Six University League: Waseda Defeats Hosei 3–0, Completes Undefeated Season ――Brutally Murdered Man Suddenly Receives Message One Year Later. The wife’s shock after retrieving his remains. ――Asakusa Senzoku District: Traveling Woman Strangled to Death.

――Three Sen Stolen. Tsurumi’s Mysterious Thief. Kingoro gave a wry smile. He had nearly ended up with headlines like “Country Bumpkin City Councilman Done In by Pickpocket in Asakusa” in the newspapers. (What day was it today again?) On this momentous day when so many incidents overlapped across the world, Japan, and Asakusa, Kingoro gained yet another unforgettable memory.

He checked the newspaper’s date—April 21, 1930. Kingoro recalled the words Hannya no Gorō had spoken. “There’s stranger things yet in Tokyo.” And then,

“Please don’t be startled.”

Indeed, he encountered something unusual. He couldn’t help being startled. He was startled. In the whirlpool of the metropolis, Kingoro came to find himself—floundering and making nothing but blunders—both comical and pitiful. He wanted to laugh until he clutched his sides. Yet his face only grew more sullen. “Would you like another bottle?”

“No, I’m fine now.” Tamai Kingoro smiled and paid. The wallet had been stolen，but fortunately，there was a little small change in the pocket. When he paid for three bottles of ramune，five sen remained. Finally，he could ride the discounted train. He brushed mud off the suit，tidied up，and went outside.

As if nothing had happened, Asakusa’s bustle remained resplendent yet decadent. Tamai Kingoro’s eyes flickered; the glare was unbearable. “Okyo—”

If he shouted at the top of his voice, would it not be heard?

Kingoro suddenly blushed. He hurried toward Nio Gate as if fleeing.

Youth

“We’ve imposed on you terribly.”

“Well then, we’ll take our leave now.” “Oh, won’t you stay a bit longer?… It’s still raining, and…”

“No, this rain seems like proper steady rain—it won’t stop anyway… Master, we’ll take our leave now.” “Yeah, suppose so.” Man and Ōba Haruyoshi stood up.

From the Fujimoto residence on the elevated ground at the foot of Hōbashira Mountain, Yahata Steel Works lay spread out below. Deafening noise and billowing smoke. Beyond stretched Dokai Bay crowded with countless vessels large and small at anchor, while across the water ran the highlands of Wakamatsu’s Takatoyama and Sekihōzan—hills that might better be called overlords of foothills than proper mountains. Hazed by rain, it resembled a blurred painting. A ship’s whistle sounded dully—whether from an arriving or departing vessel.

Fujimoto Kihachirō was absent, but through his wife, all matters had been conveyed. So resolute was Mrs. Sugie that there were even those who called her “the Fujimoto Group’s heroine.”

When they exited the entrance—as though applying a final touch from both sides—

“Now we can rest assured.” Both parties said the same thing and exchanged smiles. Kinuko, the eldest daughter, who had been sitting at her seat pouring tea and peeling fruit, had remained mostly silent and expressionless until then, but suddenly flushed as though doused in red ink. Ōba Haruyoshi and Man walked along the rainy road, holding umbrellas.

“Well, that went fairly well.”

“It’s all thanks to you, Master.”

“You’ll make a damn fine couple.” “If the Tamai Group and Fujimoto Group join forces, it’ll be like giving a demon an iron club.” “The wedding ceremony probably won’t happen this spring anyway—let’s hold it early in autumn.” “Summer’s too damn hot to handle.”

“I leave everything to you, Master.”

“Is Kin-san still in Tokyo?”

“Since it was supposed to be a one-week plan, he should be returning around now.” “Tomoda Kizō seems to be mixed up in this too. Heh... A long-time enemy, ain’t he? I heard from someone—that Tomoda bastard said he should’ve finished off Tamai before he grew this big. ...And he was damn bitter about it, I tell ya. Still, with that man, you never know what cowardly schemes he’s cookin’ up.”

“Master.”

Man suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” “This path.” “What about this path?” “This path.” “When my husband and I first came seeking Master Nagata’s help, we walked this very path.” “Driven out of Hikoshima with empty pockets and emptier stomachs… Both of us looked like beggars hauling their measly possessions—trudging, step after step, down this mud…”

“That’s an old story, ain’t it? How many years has it been since then, I wonder?” “It’s been nearly thirty years.” “That’s about how long it’s been, I tell ya—me turnin’ into such a feeble old man.” “I’ve ended up becoming such an old woman…” The two exchanged glances and laughed, but in Man’s eyes lingered a faint glimmer.

Though the area had completely opened up and changed in appearance, the path itself—flanked by cliffs and hills—still retained vestiges of its former self. The lone pine tree that seemed to dance in perpetual motion, the crumbling stone steps ascending toward the bamboo thicket, and the Sarutahiko Ōkami shrine all held vivid memories. Even the roadside stone where Kingoro and his companion had once slumped in despair over their bleak future remained exactly as it was.

―The days of youth.

Memories of distant days welled up one after another in Man’s mind— (That youth had now begun in the children.) The thought made her chest ache.

Both of them walked carefully along the muddy path in their high geta. The newly cleared mountain road would often catch the teeth of their geta with a crunch, throwing off their balance. “Master.” And this time, as they walked, “Hey.” “There’s… a little something that’s been worrying me, though…” “What is it?” “Our Bōshin mentioned something… that Katsunori has been getting rather close with a geisha lately…”

“What about it?” “Is this arranged marriage because of that…?”

“Ha ha ha!” Ōba Haruyoshi laughed nonchalantly. “You don’t need to worry about that sort of thing, I tell ya. That’s nothing to fret over. Contractor work means heavy socializing—no matter what you do, you can’t sever ties with the pleasure quarters. In that case, it’s only natural he’d know a geisha or two. Katsunori’s already twenty-five, ain’t he? A full-grown man. When a fellow spots a beauty, his heart races a bit, or sometimes, fired up by drink, he might even grab a woman’s hand… Heh heh heh. That’s just human nature, ain’t it? If they didn’t, they’d be cripples. I’ve had my share of that too. Don’t you go stewing over such trifles. Man, you’re quite the worrywart, aren’t you?”

“Do you think so?” “They might have their own past too, you know.” “Fujimoto’s daughter is twenty-two—no, a grown woman. I don’t know any fancy words, but at that age of youth awakening or whatever they call it, there’s no telling if she hasn’t had one or two men she’s taken a liking to.” “Even if there were some, it’s fine.” “Once they’re married and become husband and wife, such things won’t matter at all.” “I’ll handle the arrangements.”

“If that’s the case, then I suppose it’s fine, but…” Man still wore a worried expression. “And Man, even if Katsunori has gotten somewhat deeply involved with that rumored geisha, when it comes to geisha, money can settle things.” “Just leave it to me.” “Don’t worry.” “Katsunori’s a quiet boy who cares about his parents—he wouldn’t go ruinin’ this arranged marriage, I tell ya.” “I think so too. …But that child—he’s quiet and well-behaved, but there’s something about him… you never know what he’s thinking or what he might do…”

“Even after goin’ all the way to university, he’s out on the docks wearin’ a workman’s jacket—I’ve been watchin’ him with admiration.” “He ain’t had to struggle like Kingoro did, but he’s got a good build—he’ll make a fine boss.” “Marry into the Fujimoto Group, and it’ll be smooth sailin’ for the Tamai Group!” “My husband and I were complete illiterates without an education, which is why we suffered hardships all our lives. So we vowed that no matter how poor we got, we’d at least give the children schooling… But then… if we do that… won’t they just leave their parents’ side…?”

“It’s a tricky thing. But if you think too much about it, things ain’t gonna work out. Well, don’t you go frettin’ over this arranged marriage, you know. Katsunori wouldn’t do somethin’ to disgrace us.”

They reached the entrance to Makiyama where Ōba’s residence stood, and there the two parted ways. As they parted, Ōba Haruyoshi said, “Have Katsunori come visit my house tomorrow evening.”

Ōba appeared as if Katsunori were his own grandson, finding him unbearably adorable.

Man walked alone toward the ferry landing, anxiety still not gone, and thought she would stop by Harada Kumoi’s place now to borrow his wisdom on this matter.

She boarded the ferry. It was a stocky little steamship of about fifty tons. Connecting Tobata and Wakamatsu, it crossed Dokai Bay’s bustling port entrance—frequented by incoming and outgoing vessels—along both sides of Nakano-shima Island in under five minutes, with departures every ten minutes and a fare of three sen.

Man was on board when,

“This ferry’s dangerous.” “They should’ve built a bridge by now or dug an undersea tunnel!”

Someone was talking. “Well now, Tamai’s Sis—where might you be headed?” The words came calling out to her.

When she turned around，Jō Sanji was standing there．He wore a hanten with “Yamakyu Transport” embroidered on its collar，so-called “tank” half-pants，rubber boots，a vest bearing a silver watch chain，and carried a large furoshiki bundle．When Sanji laughed，the left side of his lip would twitch，contorting his face into a bizarre expression—a scar from a Japanese sword slash．On his occipital bone too，were he to remove his cloth cap，a large scar would likely show．On a stormy night over twenty years prior，when Tamai Kingoro had been slashed repeatedly by Kakusuke’s gang，Jō Sanji too had sustained wounds．It was later learned that Sanji had chased down one fleeing assailant，grappled him，and been injured．The attacker had fled．

“If I’d been cut instead of the boss, it would’ve been better.” At that time, upon seeing Kingoro’s pitiful state, Sanji said those words and wept like a man.

That Jō Sanji had now become a minor boss as a foreman of the Yamakyu Group. "The reason a guy like me can walk around Wakamatsu with my head held high is all thanks to Boss Tamai."

He would say this like a catchphrase, and though he’d reached a status where others called him “Oyaji,” he still called Kingoro “Oyaji” just as he always had. Jō Sanji’s face was flushed. “I went to Master Ōba’s place… What about you, Sanji-san?” “Just comin’ back from Ube Coal Mine.” “Ah, if you went to Ōba’s place, must be about Young Boss’s happy news, eh?” “You already know?” “Everyone knows, I tell ya.” “Great Boss Ōba’s been shoutin’ it from the rooftops—it’s famous now!”

“I’d hate for this to cause too much of a stir…” “Oh, come on—let’s throw a celebration so grand we’ll turn the whole town of Wakamatsu upside down! I’m fired up from the get-go myself. Plenty of our old Tamai Group underlings have become big shots now—they’ve already gathered to plan the festivities. Goes without sayin’. We’re plannin’ to shock ’em good…”

“It really would be better not to make such a fuss.” “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing—what’s there to hold back for?” “Let’s do it and keep on doin’ it till we’re through!”

Sanji, slightly drunk, spoke to her in a loud, brash voice, leaving Man at a loss for words.

The ship was cramped, so all the passengers were listening. Among them were some familiar faces who asked things like, "When is Katsunori-san’s wedding celebration?" making her face turn even redder.

Over the rain-hazed sea, the ferry arrived at Wakamatsu.

Man parted ways with Sanji and turned from Hiruko-dori toward Hamano-machi, where Harada Kumoi’s house was located.

Before she had walked even a block, from inside a house,

“Tamai’s wife! Won’t you come in?” someone bellowed. It was a woman’s voice.

Man smiled and stopped. She walked toward that house. To Man’s ears came the sound of cats’ cries, like a clamor. When she circled around to the familiar veranda side, “Second-generation Dotera Granny” was scratching a camp stool amidst a crowd of about forty cats. On the veranda, there were two young geisha. “Well? You can’t just pass by my place without stopping, can you?”

Kawano Nobu shook with laughter. "Well, when it comes to cats, I can’t beat you either, Nobu-san." "You’re a cat lover, I’m a cat lunatic—no one beats a madman." "But I don’t trust folks who don’t like cats." "Wicked-hearted souls can’t grasp how sweet cats are." "Then I must be trustworthy."

“Plenty, plenty… See here, even the cats know it well.” “Cats won’t go near folks who don’t like ’em, but when you come around, they all come crawlin’ over like this.” “Cats are smart, I tell ya.” Even as they spoke, seven or eight cats swarmed around Man—who sat on the veranda—clinging to her knees and shoulders alike. The types of cats were so varied, it could truly be called a cat exhibition. This house was called “Cat Mansion,” and Kawano Nobu was known far and wide as “Cat Granny.” Shimamura Gin, once renowned as a female outlaw, had died at the end of the Meiji era from injuries sustained in a fight. Gin had been called “Dotera Granny,” and Kawano Nobu was also referred to as “Second-generation Dotera Granny.” Although they shared no blood relation, her appearance so closely resembled that of the first generation that it was astonishing how much they looked alike. Nobu herself deliberately tied her hair in the Ōmaru mage style, wore a dotera robe resembling a chanchanko coat, and adopted masculine speech patterns to mimic the original, delighting in the confusion it caused. The only difference was the cats.

“The previous generation didn’t like cats or anything.” “When cats came near, they’d kick them away.” “Since they did such things, the cats’ retribution struck ’em—couldn’t even die on their tatami mats.” “When Gin-san got injured during that raid in Rōmatsu-chō, they say there was a black cat in the house they stormed.” “Gin-san stepped on that black cat’s tail and tumbled right into the garden, see.” “That’s the cats’ retribution.” “And that’s what killed ’em in the end.”

Man had lost count of how many times she'd heard this story from Nobu. And she never failed to add, "Man-san, since the cats are protectin' you, you'll live long, I tell ya."

Outside, the rain intensified as distant thunder reverberated. “Tamai’s wife! With a good litter’s coming this time, I’ll hand over two or three of ’em again.” “One’s plenty.”

“Well, don’t hold back—I won’t give ’em unless you take ’em. “I’ve even given cats to those geishas sittin’ right there.” “Since they take such good care of the cats, I’ve been favorin’ ’em.” “I call ’em Nekomaru and Nekosan on my own whim.” “They’re sister geishas, see—both of ’em fine geishas, I tell ya.” It was immediately clear they were sisters—both fair-skinned with round faces, each wearing plain meisen silk kimonos patterned with green leaves. The older one was around twenty-three or twenty-four, and the younger about twenty. The older sister wore her hair in hikami style, the younger in shimada updo, but there was something amateurish about them—a lack of worldly polish unbefitting geisha. Each held a calico cat.

The two had been looking at Man in a strangely dazzled manner since earlier, but at Cat Granny’s words, they both bowed lightly to Man. Man also silently returned the bow. “Where to, Man-san?” “I thought I’d just stop by Harada Kumoi-san’s place…” “Oh my, your Katsunori-san just left—said he was headin’ to Harada-san’s place. He was hangin’ around my place just now.”

At those words, the younger geisha’s face flushed crimson. “Auntie, we’ll take our leave.” The older geisha sister rose to her feet.

“Well, isn’t that fine? Tamai’s wife loves cats, you all love cats—that’s right—even Katsunori-san who just left loves cats. Outside, the spring rain’s fallin’. Let’s all take our time talkin’ ’bout cats. In this world where there ain’t a single decent thing to discuss, stickin’ to cat talk makes for perfect peace.” “Yes, but it’s time for our lesson…” “To Master Fujima’s place?” “Yes.” “From Tokyo, I hear Ms. Ise has come?”

“My younger sister will be performing Kiyomoto’s ‘Yuudachi’ at the upcoming recital, so…” “That must be beautiful.” “I’ll definitely go see it, I tell ya!” “Shall I make a floral wreath for ‘Nekomaru-san’?” “Saying that—Ha ha ha!”

“Well then.”

The sisters left Nekoyashiki together. Each holding a cat in their sleeves, they stepped under the single snake-eye-patterned umbrella held by the older sister. The pale green hue of the umbrella tinted their faces, and the sight of them sharing it was beautiful.

They walked toward Ebisu Shrine.

“Yoshi-chan, Katsunori-san’s mom seems pretty kind after all, doesn’t she?” “But…” “They say she’s tougher than any man, don’t they?” “I thought she’d be some kind of monster.”

“Toki-nee.”

“Hmm?” “I don’t know if Cat Granny will say anything.” “About you and Katsunori-san?” “Yes.” “With all that, she isn’t so tactless as to go blabbing about it.” “What’s wrong with talking about it?” “Anyway, things can’t stay like this.”

The younger geisha sister fell silent. On her seemingly shy face, a deep hue of sorrow lingered.

They turned the corner at Ebisu Shrine. In the branches of a large hackberry tree that had weathered many years, a flock of pigeons, soaked by rain, fluttered restlessly.

“Yoshi-chan.”

The sister’s tone, stronger than ever before, struck their ears. They were true sisters bound by blood. Though they used the stage names Mitsu and Hikaru from Wakamatsu Kenban, they called each other by their real names Tokiko and Yoshiko in private. Hikaru had been adopted into Tsujiki Sōhachi’s Take no Ie establishment where Mitsu also resided. The ryotei Take no Ie doubled as a geisha house that employed four or five other geisha.

“What?”

When she turned around, once more in a strong tone and with her eyes, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m all over the place, fooling around with everyone—but you’re different from us. You’re the legitimate adopted daughter of the Tsujiki family and Yōnosuke-san’s fiancée. Even when you became a full-fledged geisha from being a maiko, you didn’t receive any financial backing and have been working freely in teahouses relying solely on your art. But at your age, I won’t stop you from having a favorite customer…… but if you don’t keep it in moderation, you’ll end up in trouble later, I tell ya!”

“I know.” “I’m actually your spy. Father and Mother bought me off. I have to strictly monitor your actions—meaning your interactions with men—and if there’s even a hint of suspicious behavior, I’m required to report it to Father and Mother.”

“Did you report it?” “I’m still considering it.” “Sis, I’m begging you.” “Wait just a little longer.” “If you don’t buy me off, I’ll report you.” “I’ll buy you off.”

“Hehe…”

As if unable to contain her amusement, Mitsu laughed—startling awake the kitten that had been sleeping peacefully in her sleeve.

“Yoshi-chan, don’t you worry. I’m on your side. I understand your feelings perfectly. They went and decided that marriage arrangement with Yōnosuke-san without even asking you, and… First off, I can’t stand that smirking guy. Just thinking about Yoshi-chan becoming that man’s wife makes my back crawl with goosebumps. It’s like a centipede, an earthworm, and a caterpillar all jumped down your collar at once. Ugh, that’s disgusting. Yoshi-chan—don’t let that man lay a single finger on you.”

In a flirtatious yet bossy tone, Mitsu spoke as though issuing a command.

Hikaru walked with her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the raindrops scattering across the path. In her single-lidded clear eyes, faint tears had pooled. “It seems Tomoda Kizō-san will be mediating.” “We don’t understand a thing about politics, but why do they go on about ‘parties, parties’?—If you’re not Minseitō, you’re not even human.” “...What a ridiculous notion.” “I don’t know about not being human or whatever, but in Wakamatsu, you can’t run a single business right unless you join the Minseitō.” “Even the restaurant association’s all Minseitō.” “Our father’s Minseitō too.” “Everyone’s just scrambling to please Boss Yoshida-san’s whims.” “Ridiculous!” “...Right, Yoshi-chan? You think so too, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand politics.”

“Well, Sis doesn’t get it either.” “But since our father plans to run in May’s city council election, he’s trying to stay on Tomoda-san’s good side.” “The other day, I heard Tomoda-san talking with Father—‘In this election, we’ll have Minseitō run seventeen or eighteen candidates and get every last one elected.’” “‘The council’s fixed at thirty seats—that’ll give us an absolute majority.’” “‘Tsujiki-kun, you won’t lose your seat either.’” “‘And our main goal this election is to crush those loudmouth deadweights—Tamai Kingoro and Inoue Yasugoro……’ or something like that.” “……Seems Mr. Tomoda loathes Mr. Tamai and Mr. Inoue right down to his bones.” “……That you’re lovey-dovey with Mr. Tamai’s son—now that’s rich!”

Mitsu was oddly excited, amusing herself alone—but the gloom on Hikaru’s face only deepened.

The sign for Wakamatsu Kenban came into view. The sounds of shamisens and drums from the practice hall were faintly audible, threading through the rain. “Yoshi-chan, you go on ahead to the Kenban.” “I’ll go home once and leave the cats there.” “I’ll go get your fan for you... Come on, hand the cats over here.”

After sending Hikaru into the Kenban, Mitsu, holding two cats and opening an umbrella, headed home.

Hikaru climbed the stairs to the second-floor practice hall.

“Why, Miss Hikaru, the master has been waiting for you.”

Kimika, the proprietress of *Asuka*, greeted her with a smiling face. “I’m sorry for being late…” “Miss Hikaru, I hear you’ll be dancing ‘Evening Shower’ with our Miss Tsumatarō as partners.” “Miss Tsumatarō may seem unreliable, but please do rely on her.” “The same here.” A large number of geishas were engrossed in their practice under the guidance of Fujima Ise. That atmosphere gradually drew Hikaru, her heart heavy, into the world of performing arts.

Hamanomachi consisted of districts numbered from Ichibancho to Juichibancho. All of it had still been sea until the beginning of the Taishō era. Wakamatsu—which had the towering Kōtōzan standing like a folding screen behind its urban areas—could only develop by expanding its territory seaward. To reclaim land from the ocean, slag from Yawata Steel Works was transported, and rapidly the town stretched toward the sea. Compared to the old city center’s disorderly streets, Hamanomachi was laid out as orderly as a grid. The vast reclaimed land beyond Hamanomachi became an industrial zone. In one block of Hamanomachi 4-chome stood Harada Kumoi’s house.

After leaving Nekoyashiki, Katsunori Tamai took longer than usual to arrive at the Harada residence. His heart was heavy, and his steps lacked strength—that was why. However, since it wasn’t a great distance, he eventually arrived naturally at the Harada residence’s gate. A large signboard reading “Wakamatsu Shimbunsha,” ill-suited to the house, hung there. While gazing at it, Katsunori—wearing a Tamai Group happi coat and holding a bat umbrella—hesitated for some time, seemingly unable to muster the courage to ask for entry.

He was noticed by Harada Kumoi.

“Ah! You’re here—it’s Katsunori-kun, isn’t it?” “Yes…”

He answered reluctantly. “So then, what’re you doin’ there? Don’t just stand in the rain—get your ass inside already!” “Pardon the intrusion.” He passed through a crumbling, doorless structure that resembled a gate and made his way to the entrance. When he tried to fold the umbrella, “Leave it open, just like that. On rainy days, inside’s no different from out here. Keep it up and come on in!”

Katsunori also began laughing and removed only his shoes. After thoroughly shaking the water from his umbrella, he opened it again and stepped up into the tatami room. It was a single-story row house unit with three rooms—six-tatami, four-and-a-half-tatami, and three-tatami—but its state of decay rendered it practically indistinguishable from an abandoned building. There were scarcely any furnishings; the sliding doors and paper screens hung in tatters, while few glass panes remained intact in the windows. The tatami mats resembled overgrown turf more than proper flooring. At the center of the six-tatami room sat a vermilion-lacquered desk—an inkstone box, ink bottle, and disorganized bundles of papers lay upon it. Harada appeared to have been writing some manner of manuscript at that desk until Katsunori's arrival. To claim the interior was no different from outside would be exaggeration—it wasn't actually raining indoors. Leaks plagued every corner of the house, with basins and kettles positioned throughout to catch water, though in the six-tatami room only occasional drops fell from the ceiling.

Harada Kumoi was fifty-eight years old. He wore a large hat of the type used by Zen monks for alms-gathering—one called a "Takonobatcho." Standing over six feet tall with an obese frame, his face was nearly engulfed by an immense beard. Round Lloyd-style glasses sat above narrow eyes that transformed into a boyishly kind expression when he laughed openly, yet his entire countenance radiated an indescribable stubbornness and audacity. His black suit had faded colors and torn cuffs. Dripping water from the ceiling struck the batchō hat with intermittent plinks.

“The wicked landlord’s bastards have finally gone and stripped off all the roof tiles.”

Harada looked up at the ceiling, shook his entire body, and laughed. “The weather’s cleared up over here.”

With that, Katsunori folded the bat umbrella. (How should I bring this up?) His heart felt heavy. "Really now, when it comes to our landlord, he's utterly worthless." Oblivious to his guest's feelings, Harada Kumoi—looking like Hotei the Laughing Buddha—continued puffing on his hatchet-shaped kiseru pipe with a cheerful grin. "I'm thinking of suing them for human rights violations." "It's not that I'm wrong for not paying rent—we're so poor here we can barely eat, let alone scrape together rent money." "...Wait, no—that's not it." "You should know this already." "Truth be told, I could manage the rent if needed." "In a real pinch, I'd just come running to your place—Mr. Tamai would cover the rent anytime." "This isn't about money, I tell you." "We must fight those wicked landlords tormenting common folk to the bitter end!" "...Damn bastards." "They think stripping roof tiles will make me suffer." "They think I'll leave." "Hah! Soon enough they'll be the ones crying into their sleeves!"

With that, he shook his entire body and the house itself as he roared with laughter.

“Who is the landlord?” “Mori Goichi, I tell you! From the look of his face alone, he’s got the mug of an utter villain. He smashes botamochi rice cakes onto the ground—has a face like someone dragged an abacus across it—and keeps two mistresses. And that’s why he’s planning to run in the upcoming election, I tell you, Katsunori-kun.”

“Mr. Mori’s son was my elementary school classmate.”

“Kuichi, right?” “Yes.” “That Kuichi isn’t a decent person either. Despite his youth, he’s become a devilish loan shark—they say he’s following his father’s example by keeping mistresses too. But none of that matters! I’ve made it my life’s work to crush the enemies of common folk—wicked landlords, loan sharks, unscrupulous merchants! No matter how rough it gets, I’ll see this through to the end! My weapons aren’t brute strength—they’re justice, public morals, discourse, and the law! But here’s the rub—most of these villains in Wakamatsu belong to the Minseitō party and Yoshida clan! Troublesome lot! But a lone man can’t retreat! Plenty warn me—‘Your life’s in danger! Be careful!’ They remind me how Shinagawa Nobutake got killed years back—say I shouldn’t share his fate! But what’s carefulness when there’s no way to be careful? When turning corners, I just take wider arcs—if death comes, that’s fate! You think I’d lower my banner after decades of stubbornness—just because they stripped some roof tiles?”

The hero of the back alleys laughed once more.

Tamai Kingoro and his wife had become acquainted with Harada Kumoi through matters related to their family registry. When Katsunori was born, there being no registry entry for him, they had reluctantly registered him as Nagata Mokuji's second son. After finally settling in Wakamatsu, they attempted to enter Katsunori into the Tamai family registry but were only permitted to record him as an "adopted son." The regulations were stringent. Kingoro and his wife—who understood nothing of legal matters—found themselves at an impasse. Then Inoue Yasugoro appeared,

“For such matters,” Inoue said, “you need none other than Harada Kumoi—the three-hundred-tongued lawyer.”

With that, Inoue Yasugoro introduced him. Harada Kumoi, who single-handedly ran the *Wakamatsu Jitsugyō Shinbun*, was a samurai descendant from Fukuoka; his father had been a judge, and in his youth he had worked as a court clerk, so he was well-versed in legal matters. Through Harada’s devoted efforts, Katsunori’s family registry was corrected for the first time to officially recognize him as the Tamai family’s eldest son. Because of this, Kingoro and his wife held profound gratitude toward Harada. And though an eccentric man, Harada Kumoi—with his kindness and practical competence—gradually grew as close as a member of the Tamai family himself, becoming their go-to advisor for all matters.

“My wife has gone out to town to buy side dishes for dinner, so I can’t offer you tea, but…”

Saying that, he looked around the kitchen area, then finally seemed to notice, “Now that I think of it—Katsunori-kun—you had some business with me, didn’t you?” “Yes… well…” “Speak up now.”

“It’s a bit… delicate…”

“Is it complicated?” “Yes.” “Tell me everything. If it’s about you, I’ll help with any kind of problem. Even things you can’t tell your father or mother—you should be able to tell me. I’m the one who handled your family registry, after all. No need to hold back, I tell you.” “It’s about the marriage matter…”

Katsunori sat formally, placed both hands on his knees, kept his head bowed, and said in a pained voice. Thick, long hair hung down in front of his face.

“Marriage problem, I see… And?” “A problem has arisen.” “Speak plainly.”

“Have you heard anything about my recent marriage proposal?”

Harada Kumoi pretended to consider for a moment— “Don’t know the details myself, but… wasn’t it ’bout the Fujimoto Group in Yawata?” “That’s correct.” “Then I’ve heard bits from Inoue Yasugoro before.” “So what’s gone wrong with it?” “I’d like to ask you to turn down that marriage proposal for me...”

“You want to break off the engagement?” “Yes.”

“Why?” “Well…” Katsunori hung his head even lower, his distress deepening. His face burned hot and flushed crimson up to his eyes. He bit hard on his lower lip and furrowed his brows, seemingly wrestling with some inner torment. Harada Kumoi—resembling Hotei the monk—peered through his thick glasses with narrowed eyes, silently observing the young man’s anguish before nodding deeply enough to make his neck crack with a loud *koku*. (I understand), his expression seemed to say.

“It seems the rain has let up.”

Looking up at the ceiling as he said this, he took off his batchō hat. His curly, salt-and-pepper hair looked as if he were wearing a wig. Harada straightened his posture. Assuming a serious expression, he solemnly said, "Katsunori-kun." "Yes." "You've gotten yourself mixed up with a woman, haven't you?"

Unable to reply, Katsunori hung his head again. Then, as if having made up his mind, he inserted his hand into the pocket sewn inside his hanten and took out a sealed letter. He silently placed it on the desk in front of Harada. “Thinking you might be out, I wrote this letter and came here, but…” “Let me read it.”

Harada opened the seal and read through it. Outside, the rain appeared to let up. The drips falling from the ceiling grew less frequent. However, occasionally onto the desk, Harada’s head, the batchō hat, Katsunori’s shoulder, and the letter would drip a reddish-black mixture of red clay from the attic—where tiles had been stripped away—and soot from the ceiling. Katsunori bowed his head and waited for the verdict.

The lawyer Harada Kumoi read the lengthy letter—five or six sheets of stationery densely filled with small characters—with a face like he’d bitten into a pickled plum, contorted like a deer’s hoof. From time to time, he snorted—Hmm, hmm. He nodded. He tilted his head contemplatively. He flipped back to earlier sections or laid two pages side by side to cross-reference them, his manner resembling that of someone examining legal evidence. Eventually, when he finished reading, he let out a single peculiar cough—something between a sigh and a sneeze. Then, he arranged the letter on the desk—starting from the first page—in a neat horizontal row,

“Katsunori-kun, I understand.” he said with a sharp jerk of his face.

Because he didn’t know how to respond, when he remained silent, “This geisha named Hikaru written about on the second page—you’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Flustered by the blunt words, he had no choice but to, “Yes.” “And Hikaru-kun is also in love with you, isn’t she?” “……Yes.” “This is serious, isn’t it?” “Yes.”

“On the fourth page here—it says Hikaru-kun’s already pregnant. No doubt it’s your child, eh?” “No doubt whatsoever.”

“Very well.” Harada Kumoi thumped the desk. “No problem at all. People who’ve fallen for each other should just get married. I’ll talk to your father. What, calling off the engagement with the Fujimoto Group is no big deal. Since it seems you’ve only made verbal promises and haven’t exchanged betrothal gifts yet, such trivial matters shouldn’t cause problems. ……When’s Mr. Tamai coming back from Tokyo?”

“In another two or three days, I think…” “When he returns, I’ll meet him straightaway... Katsunori-kun, I’ll come clean—my wife was a love-driven bride too. When we were young, we had our... entanglements.” “We’ve both gone and turned into old geezers.” “Well now—your father and mother also fell in love and wed back then. They’ll understand your plight too.” “Please handle this properly.”

“Rest assured as if aboard a great ship—ah, seems the wife has come home.”

The back door opened, and Mrs. Harada entered. She put down the various items she'd bought in the kitchen and went up to the sitting room. “Oh, Katsunori-san, welcome.” “Pardon the intrusion.”

The wife was large in build, and her features bore an uncanny resemblance to her husband’s, earning them the nickname “Hotei Couple.” “Since there’s nothin’ else to offer, let me at least peel ya an apple.” “No need—I’ll be takin’ my leave now…” “Just now, ’round that corner there, I met your mother.” “I see.” “She wanted to discuss somethin’ with Harada and meant to stop by, but since it looked like you’d gone there first already, she said she’d come back another day and headed home.”

“Did Mother know I was coming here?” “She said she heard it from ‘the Cat Lady’ or something…”

At those words, Katsunori stiffened.

(Did Hikaru and Mother meet?) (And didn’t “the Cat Lady” say something to Mother?)

The ring of fate tightened around him inexorably, bit by bit, drawing him toward an inescapable final reckoning. Even had a clear resolve already taken shape in Katsunori's heart, he understood all too well that bringing this to fruition presented difficulties beyond words.

“I must take my leave.”

He expressed his gratitude and left the Harada residence.

He walked through the light rain without an umbrella. *Mother’s business with Harada must also be about this.* The thought made his chest ache.

Truth and Fiction

The city council members’ delegation that had gone to Tokyo on an inspection tour returned safely to Kiwaka.

Harada Kumoi, who had been lying in wait, immediately confronted Tamai Kingoro. However, even Harada’s eloquence and enthusiasm were curtly rebuffed by Kingoro’s ironclad defenses. “Harada, if it were anything else, I’d hear you out—but this? Not even you can change my mind. Absolutely—Katsunori will marry into the Fujimotos. Don’t ever bring this up again.” There was no foothold to be found. Man reported that during Kingoro’s absence, she had visited Ōba Shunkichi and the Fujimoto household, but as expected, she spoke with a frown about her son and the geisha.

“Ah, just leave it to me.”

Kingoro sullenly said that and seemed disinclined to elaborate further.

(Not a single decent thing had happened.)

Even the big-hearted Kingoro had finally grown disheartened by the relentless string of misfortunes since his recent trip to Tokyo. The wallet theft and Hannya no Gorō’s strange behavior. The troubling news of Okyo’s whereabouts. He skipped the promised meeting time, infuriating Yoshida Isokichi. Regarding the coal-loading machine issue, he visited Mitsubishi headquarters four times yet they didn’t give him the time of day. And when he returned home, there was his son’s act of betrayal—just as Tomoda Kizō had told him in the bathhouse.

One night, Kingoro invited Katsunori and went out fishing. This was their usual routine—the son would row the oar of the small boat from which the father cast his casting net. They set out from Benten-hama. This was the place where Kingoro had once been cut down, but the coastal road had widened, and the pier’s appearance had completely changed from days past. “Well, father and son out fishing, are you?” It seemed there was night work, for Shintani Katsutarou was still at the union office and greeted them with a smile. Shintani, who had been a subordinate of the Tamai Group, had become the deck watch of the Union Group.

“I’ll haul in a mountain of fish, so have the sake warmed up and wait for me.”

Kingoro also laughed and replied.

The moon shone brightly.

On a spring night, Dōkai Bay lay without a ripple, moonlight drifting across its surface as it blurred into a misty haze. Along the coast and within the harbor, electric lights glowed like illuminations while the sounds of steam and machinery from winches on night-shift ships unsettled the nocturnal air. The flames from Yawata Steel Works' blast furnaces reflected off the sky, their red glow pulsing rhythmically. “Let’s go to Nakano-shima.”

As Katsunori handled the oar and moved the boat forward, Kingoro sat at the bow and inspected the net. Both wore work clothes, shorts, and straw sandals that could get wet. “Let’s cast here. “…Steer around here.” Near Nakano-shima’s shore, they stopped the boat. Kingoro removed sandals and stood barefoot at the bow. Using recoil from preparatory swings with the left arm, he twisted his waist and cast the net swiftly onto the sea surface. Efficient. With considerable strength, the net spread fully and sank with a splash. Katsunori skillfully handled both oar and boat through practiced familiarity.

“They’re not here.”

While hauling in the net by hand, Kingoro muttered. When he lifted it up, there was a single small sea bass inside. They cast about two more nets there, but as the results were poor, they decided to change locations. “Let’s head over to Kireto.” Having said that, Kingoro sat down at the bow and lit a cigarette. The small boat exited the harbor while faintly creaking at the oarlock. Far ahead, the lighthouse was blinking.

Katsunori pushed the oar slowly while,

“Father.” “Hmm?” “Did you visit Mitsubishi headquarters?” “I went.” “How did it go?” “No matter how you look at it—this way or that—it’s hopeless through and through. Went four times I did—not once would they see me. Turned away at the front desk every time! Place is like some grand building they’ve got—no way through once that receptionist cuts you down. Now if it were our sort of house? We’d bust in any way we pleased and grab whoever we wanted to talk to…”

“Was it someone from the Wakamatsu branch or Tomoda Kizō who contacted them in advance?” “Must’ve been. “No mistake—Tomoda pulled strings in Tokyo. “So I thought about sending a letter... but... I barely know my characters, can’t string together a proper sentence...” Though the darkness hid it, what might have been a sorrowful, self-mocking expression seemed to surface on Kingoro’s face.

When his toil bore fruit and he gradually gained social standing while taking on responsible positions, what tormented Kingoro most was his lack of education. In his boyhood, he would leave home each morning with lunchbox and bag in hand under the pretense of attending school, only to spend days playing in mountains and rivers while giving free rein to his mischievousness. He had overestimated the meager talents he was born with and scorned academic learning.

"Learning? Don't need it. As long as I had arms and strength, I could become a dragon and ascend to heaven. There's such things as know-it-all fools too. Didn't want to become something like that."

And so, starting from nothing, he worked diligently and built up the foundation of his life. However, when that time came, Kingoro encountered an unexpected barrier. He was illiterate, lacked knowledge, and found himself constantly humiliated. —Tattoos and illiteracy. He writhed in agony between two hells. Illiteracy was the same for Man, and the couple would often say to each other, "No matter how poor we get—even if we have to pawn everything—we'll make sure the children go to school."

When he was recommended as a city council member, he had hesitated; however, seeing it as a role to represent the dockworkers and stand with laborers, he couldn’t refuse and ran for election. He was elected and served two terms, yet time and again found himself confronted with his illiteracy, leaving him disheartened. There were those even more illiterate than Kingoro who flourished arrogantly, but try as he might, he could never develop such brazen shamelessness. Thus he humbly declined the recommendation to become a prefectural assembly member.

“For the prefectural assembly, it would be better to put forward Mr. Inoue Yasugoro.” “I want to stay behind and help Mr. Inoue.”

He refused to yield on that proposal. As the oar moved, noctilucae emitted a pale blue light. The gunwale too was lit with noctilucae. Only the glow of Kingoro’s cigarette burned red. The small boat carrying father and son gradually made its way out of the harbor, keeping the reclaimed factory district to its left.

Pushing the oar once more,

“Father,” he called out. “Hmm?” “There’s something I want to discuss…” “What is it?” “I want to form a union.” “There’s already a union.” “A stevedores’ union.” “Stevedores are tied directly to foremen. If we’ve got a foremen’s union, why’d we need another?” “The Mitsubishi coal-loading issue won’t resolve cleanly. It’ll grow into something bigger—a different kind of problem altogether. When that happens, situations might arise that a foremen’s union alone can’t handle.”

“Is that so?” “Especially since Tomoda Kizō keeps meddling in between and causing trouble, I can’t help thinking things will get even more complicated and difficult.” “If we’re just going to lie down and take it, that’s one thing—but if we mean to see our demands through to the end, we’ll need a much stronger organization than we’ve got now.” “That’s why I think forming a Stevedores’ Labor Union would be best.” “Is that…so…?” “Of course, I don’t imagine this union will be easy to establish, but…”

“Kyōdōkumi will oppose it again.”

“That’s right. Surely, the same thing that happened when you formed the foremen’s union will occur again.” “It’s strange, isn’t it?” “To me, contractors should be people standing on the workers’ side, but Tomoda-san always positions himself against the laborers.” “The real person in charge of the Kyōdōkumi is Mr. Okabe Teizō—he’s even the head of the contractors’ union—yet he’s so quiet he hardly ever appears publicly.” “Right now, it’s Mr. Tomoda—acting as their strategist—who handles everything… But as long as Tomoda-san remains, there’s no chance things will turn favorable for the stevedores.” “Tomoda-san is tied to capitalists.” “To counter this, I believe there’s no alternative but organizational power.”

Kingoro turned around and looked at his son. The moonlight was shining from behind, making the face hard to see. Yet as he gazed at his son’s gentle face—calmly rowing the boat—Kingoro sensed something uncanny lingering there, as if touched by possession, mingled with a fierce will and passion that resolutely anchored his own actions. (This child has an intensity that belies his appearance.) And Kingoro, reflecting on the path he himself had once walked, secretly acknowledged the valor with which his son was preparing to step into danger, armed with conviction and courage. Though he hadn’t yet fully grasped why this new labor union was necessary,

“If you think that’s better, go ahead and make it,” he said.

“I’ll try.”

When night fell, a steamship came into port. With the blast of its whistle, a white flower of steam bloomed in the air. The small boat caught a crosswave and rocked. Red, blue, and white navigation lights glided silently as the steamship, trailing a white foamy wake, moved away from the harbor mouth. On the stern, the characters "Panama Maru" could be read.

When the light of Kireto Lighthouse drew near, he said in a light tone,

“Katsunori,” he called. “Yes.” “Do you know a geisha named Hikaru?” He held his breath and hesitated for an instant before replying, “I know.” “That geisha has a fiancé—do you know that?” Startled, his hands faltered, making the oar slip from its groove. “I’ll take over.”

Kingoro stood up and took the oar. He fitted it into the oarlock and rowed. Katsunori sat down at the bow. He turned his face away from his father and lowered his eyes to the pale waves shimmering with bioluminescence. "Hikaru—Tsujiki's adopted daughter—has a man betrothed to her." "Come spring, once she finishes school, he'll be marrying her.... Did you know about this?" "I didn't know."

He hung his head and answered in a feeble voice. “I see. “Then I’ll let you know. “The mediator is Tomoda Kizō. “I’ll let you know about that as well.”

On the boat, human voices ceased for a while. With only the sound of the oar and faint waves, the small boat approached Kireto. The waves grew slightly rougher. “This area should do. … Katsunori, try casting a net.”

Katsunori wordlessly stood up. He took off his straw sandals. He grabbed the net and planted himself at the bow. For a brief moment, he stared at the sea's surface to gauge his aim, then cast the net using its recoil. It failed to spread open like his father's would have. Warped into a gourd shape, the net sank beneath the waves. "Still clumsy," Kingoro remarked while pushing on the oar and laughing. A sharp tug vibrated through the lines. But when he tried to cinch and haul it up, the net refused to budge. It had snagged on a seabed rock or some such obstruction. He yanked harder and tore the net.

“Wait a second.”

Kingoro came over to the net.

Katsunori took over the oar. He moved the boat and patiently raised the net little by little. The net was torn in multiple places.

“Seems like somethin’ was caught, but it got away, I reckon.”

As he said this, Kingoro finally pulled up the tattered net. “Whoa! A huge sea bass is caught in here!” he shouted in a shrill voice. When it had thrashed about—perhaps knocking its snout against a rock and getting knocked out—the sea bass measuring over two feet came up quietly wrapped in the torn net. Its scales glistened beautifully in the moonlight. “A fluke success, I reckon.” Just as Kingoro laughed with these words, an engine noise sounded behind them. A white motorboat from the water police station drew near. It came alongside their fishing boat and stopped.

A young police officer appeared. In a domineering tone,

“Hey! You got a permit?”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s about fishing. You know damn well what it’s about!”

"I don't have one." "This here's a no-fishing zone." "No permit means violation." "Get to the station."

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was a no-fishing zone—please forgive me. I’ll be more careful from now on.” “You’re pushing your luck. The fishing union’s been complaining nonstop. We’re making an example out of you. Come. You’re going in the slammer.” “I swear I didn’t know—have some mercy.” “I apologize.” “You think apologies fix anything? No excuses—when I say come, you come!” Kingoro scowled but choked down the fury rising in his gut,

“I am Tamai Kingoro. I’ll come to the station to apologize properly later, but please spare me the slammer.” “Not happening. Whether you’re Kingoro or Gingoro—committing crimes and trying to slither your way out? You’ve got some nerve… Get over here!”

“I ain’t goin’.” His tone was fierce.

“You’re not coming? What a lazy bastard you are. Planning to defy orders from above?” “I will. No matter how those in power bluster—I won’t obey commands that bully the weak. Didn’t know it was a restricted zone, so I’m apologizing proper-like here. If I were you—I’d watch my back from now on... But I’ll let it slide this time. And you—working as a cop in Wakamatsu without knowing Tamai Kingoro? Must be real cozy. Tell your station chief—‘Tamai Kingoro violated regulations and refused arrest when attempted.’... Say that.” “Katsunori—no use dealing with this blockhead. Let’s go. Row.”

As the small boat began moving toward the port entrance with Katsunori at the oar, the water police station’s motorboat also roared away with a thunderous noise. The driver gently tugged at the police officer’s sleeve. The driver appeared to know Kingoro’s name well. Though heading in the same direction, their speeds differed so drastically that the motorboat left white smoke and white waves shimmering in the moonlight before being swallowed by the bay past Nakano Island and vanishing from sight. The Water Police Station stands alongside Wakato Ferry Terminal at the port entrance.

For a while, father and son remained silent, so only the oarlock's creak flowed kii-kii over the quiet spring-night sea. As they neared the port entrance, the noctiluca's glow grew faint. The blast furnaces of Yahata Steel Works—their fires never extinguished—still stained the sky red like breathing.

"I’m no good."

While securing a large sea bass—too big for the fish basket—with rope and rolling up the torn net, Kingoro muttered in a self-deprecating tone. “What’s wrong?” “Why on earth did I go and say such a stupid thing? The cop was actin’ so damn cocky, I just fell into my old ways… Leaves a bad taste in my mouth… Katsunori, how ’bout we swing by Genkō’s place on the way back? Use this sea bass as a snack to wash it down with a drink?”

“Yes.” For Kingoro, who always strove to remain humble, this outburst had bordered on arrogance. In his youth at Moji during the Shanghai cholera outbreak, that contrarian streak which had defied city hall officials had hardened with age into his usual disdain for authority—yet even he found it startling how this time it had manifested, however impulsively, in such an unforeseen display of self-aggrandizing swagger. Could it be that the pent-up resentment from being dismissed as mere country bumpkins at the Tokyo police station had now erupted through some perverse trick of the subconscious?

(I’m just a small fry.) Once spoken, words do not vanish. Kingoro felt nothing but dejection.

As for Katsunori, he was experiencing another shock. Unlike the many bosses in this town who would bluster phrases like "Don’t you know Tamai Kingoro?," he had no memory of ever hearing his father deliver that sort of ultimatum, (Father is upset because of me and Hikaru.)

Interpreting it that way, he felt a pang of anguish.

When the boat came alongside Nakano Island,

“Did you go to Harada Kumoi’s place?”

“Yes.” “In this election, Harada-kun’s running again from the Neutral Faction.” “He lost twice before, but this time I mean to get him elected.” “That oddball needs to make it into the city council.” “…Katsunori—leave me be. You put your back into supporting Harada-kun.” “I will.”

The barge passed by the Water Police Station.

They tied the boat to the Rengō-gumi Pier and went ashore.

The light was still on in the office. Seven or eight figures were bustling about restlessly, and among them, the figure of Shinya Shotaro could be seen.

Kingoro walked straight to the entrance.

“Working late?”

“Boss,” said Shinya, a tall man, as he approached with a tense expression. “Something strange has happened.” “What’s going on?” “Earlier… Right, right—shortly after you rowed out to fish, Boss, the Panama Maru entered port.” “We passed each other just past Nakano Island.” “They had an agreement to load Mitsubishi’s cargo coal overnight as soon as it docked, so I put up the Misaki-gumi’s tag first.” “The young men from Misaki also came out, waited for it to come alongside the buoy, and tried to make arrangements.” “So then, Boss, Mitsubishi’s deckhand—this was supposed to be handled by the joint work group.” “…he was saying.” “He says the Tomoda-gumi should be arriving any moment now.” “So Bōshin and the others came up on a small barge and were making a fuss just now.”

“Wasn’t it the same with the Kuramayama Maru last time?” “The deckhand was saying—that all Mitsubishi jobs might end up being handled by the joint work group… Or so he claims.”

“I see.” Kingoro bit his lip slightly. “Can’t be helped. Tell the Misaki-gumi to withdraw. If they rush things at the site and it turns into a fight, that’ll be trouble. I’ll go sort it out tomorrow and settle things… Well, for tonight, have a drink and keep quiet. I’ll give you half of this sea bass. As for the sake, get it under my name from Kimuraya or wherever.”

Kingoro entered the kitchen，borrowed a kitchen knife，and split the sea bass cleanly in two. He left the tail portion，

“Katsunori, let’s go.” Hanging the head portion with a coarse rope, he strode ahead.

Behind him, the clock struck eleven.

“Father.” “Hmm?”

“Is this the aftermath of the Mitsubishi coal-loading machine issue?” “Disgusting.”

As if spitting out the words, Kingoro spat saliva on the road.

They emerged into Nishijinmachi.

“Excuse me.” They passed through the shop curtain.

On an old ship plank signboard, “Rokuzōro” was carved. At both ends were large dice embedded one at each side, both showing six pips facing front. At the top read “Oden・Sushi・Kappō”. This was Matsukawa Genju’s shop—the man who had killed Kakusuke. When Genju finished serving his sentence and left prison, Kingoro provided funds to have him open an oden shop. It started small but unexpectedly prospered, gradually expanding over time. They began serving sushi and installed small private rooms on the second floor, giving it the air of a proper restaurant.

“Boss, please write the characters for the signboard.” Because Genju had pleaded, Kingoro wrote it for him in his signature bold characters. The board was made from the bottom plate of a decommissioned Tamai-gumi small barge. When Man had a marital fight and fled back to Hiroshima, Gen of Rokuzōro once hired Jun, a female dockworker, as a housekeeper. He married that Jun, and they already had four children. “Well now, Mr. Tamai, you’ve brought the whole group…”

With those words, Kochōya Mamehachi welcomed them with a beaming face. “Mamehachan, fancy meeting you here.” “Not at all, Boss.” “We laid out the net and waited for when you’d come around, I tell you.” “Got some business?” “Somethin’ big happened…” “Again with this? “I’ve heard enough of your ‘big issues,’ Mamehachan. “You’d make a fuss over a cat fart and call it a major crisis.” Kingoro said with a laugh and handed the sea bass—now missing its tail half—to Genju, who stood at the kitchen counter.

“Can you fix this up proper-like?” “What happened to the tail?”

“The Union Group was working night shifts, so I brought this to Shintani and his crew for drinks.” “…Still cold at night.” “Make it hot.”

“Right away.”

Genju, who had completely settled into his role as a bar owner, ordered Jun to heat sake and prepared the sea bass himself. Using a deba knife, he severed the head, skillfully filleted it into three pieces, and made sashimi. When he and Katsunori sat down in a corner that had been converted into a narrow tatami room,

“Boss, a moment.” Mamehachi signaled with his eyes. The small-statured Kochōya Mamehachi—now completely bald and smooth-headed—had developed a far more jovial appearance than in years past. He walked with an exaggerated bounce in his limp, scattering charm and laughter wherever he went. Having abandoned his work as a banquet entertainer, he now roamed red-light districts and nightlife areas as an itinerant fortune vendor. A traditional ledger hung from his shoulder. With an uncharacteristically grave expression, he led Kingoro toward the back room.

“Something confidential?” “A huge secret, a major incident.” Several groups of customers were drinking boisterously in the small private rooms. The shrill voices of drunkards and geisha alternated with the somber plucking of a shamisen and a melancholic folk song—as they made their way through these sounds, they found an empty two-tatami room at the very back. Mamehachi, who had gone up first, stood on tiptoes and twisted the electric light switch. Kingoro entered and sat facing him, lowering his voice. “Boss, don’t be startled.”

“Don’t be stupid, trying to scare me like that.”

“This.” He took out a rectangular object wrapped in oilpaper from his breast pocket and said, “This was sent to you by someone—who might you think it’s from?”

“How should I know?”

“A woman from long, long, long ago.” “Hmm…?” “It’s Ms. Okyo.” “Oh.” “I was shocked, I tell you. Boss, you might’ve been surprised, but I was downright flabbergasted. My heart turned a somersault, I tell you. When I counted on my fingers—twenty-five years since Okyo-san left Wakamatsu—a quarter of a century had already passed. I’d ended up being your contact person, Boss, but before I knew it, all these years had gone by, I tell you. There’d been no word from her, and when she left Wakamatsu, she was terribly ill and weak—poor thing—so I was certain she’d died. When this arrived, I honestly trembled and shook, thinking a ghost had sent mail from the afterlife, I tell you. But it was genuinely from Okyo-san…… Boss, please take your time and look through it carefully. I’ll keep the young master company while you do, so……”

Mamehachi left.

Kingoro unwrapped the oilpaper package. A wallet emerged. It was the one that had been taken from Hannya no Gorō in Tokyo. When he checked inside, not a single thing was missing. The money, too—not a single sen was missing.

Okyo’s letter was inside. “Kingoro-san, how regrettable that we failed to meet in Asakusa. Had Hannya no Gorō-san not made that needless interference, we might have seen each other after all these years. Yet I cannot say whether meeting would have been for better or worse.” “I return the wallet Gorō-san retrieved.” “How many times in her life does a woman truly stake her life on something? I cannot speak for others, but for me—only once. And that life I staked still seems to have left some vital work unfinished, burning with a flame untouched by time’s passage.”

Kingoro-san, I do not resent you. When you were cut down by Kakusuke, I went to Ebisu Shrine every morning before dawn to perform the hyakudo ritual—a hundred prayers. Needless to say, it was to save your life. And each time, I encountered Mrs. Man. However, the single-minded Mrs. Man seemed not to have noticed me. Mrs. Man had been making morning pilgrimages not only to Ebisu Shrine but also to Hakusan Shrine and Konpira-san.

On the day you were discharged from the hospital, I too stood in the hospital crowd and watched you leave. In three cars—the first carried Oobayashi Oyabun, next yours, and last Mrs. Man's.

“At that time,” I said to Mamehachi-san standing beside me, “I’ll give up on Kingoro-san.” “Why?” “I lost to Mrs. Man.” “I see.” “I’ll disappear from Wakamatsu now.” And with that, I vanished without a trace.

After twenty-five years, what happened in Asakusa surprised me. When I heard you had saved Hannya no Gorō-san and said you wanted to meet me, the embers of my pitiful life crackled once more with an eerie sound. But perhaps it was better we didn't meet in Asakusa. Kingoro-san, There will surely come a day when we meet again soon. Though I thought I'd lost to Mrs. Man, I've come to realize there may be ways I still prevail. Letters can't convey my full heart. All will be settled when we meet again. "From Kyo"

After finishing reading, Kingoro let out a gigantic sigh.

(It was exactly like a riddle.)

Okyo’s letter was vague and elusive. It was eerie.

Kingoro put the letter into the wallet and placed it into his jacket’s inner pocket. He went out into the shop. Joined by Mamehachi and Genjū, the four of them—Katsunori included—spent about thirty minutes in meaningless chatter over suzuki as a snack before leaving Rokuzoro.

They passed through the moonlit streets and returned home.

Man, who had stayed awake waiting, greeted them, "You must be tired." "The bath has been prepared." "...Oh? Where's the catch?" "We'd already eaten it on the way back."

“I thought I didn’t need to buy tomorrow’s side dish…” “Go catch some at the market.” With such relentless banter and laughter, Kingoro and Katsunori stripped naked and entered the bathhouse. When she was trying to tidy the clothes he had taken off, something fell from her husband’s garments. It was the wallet.

Man picked it up with a suspicious expression. (But this wallet was supposedly stolen by a pickpocket in Tokyo...?) Three inches wide and five inches long, made of black leather with a silver chrysanthemum carved on the clasp. It was something Man had chosen when they visited Chikiriya, a bag shop in town. There could be no mistake. “At Tokyo Station, while I was gazing blankly at the zodiac paintings on the ceiling—that’s when they got me.” “Right at the start of my trip to the capital, I wound up penniless and had to borrow from Inoue-kun.”

Kingoro gave only that simple report. “This lighter is also a souvenir from the debt, then.” “It reminded me of the old pocket lamp, you see.” “…it probably resembles it closely though.”

“Speaking of which…”

Despite having become parents to seven, they recalled their youthful days and exchanged bashful smiles. “I wonder if that lighter’s still sunk in the Kanmon Strait?” “The Heike crabs are probably using it.” They had such foolish talk and laughed together in good spirits.

Precisely because of that, the wallet’s unexpected appearance stirred in Man’s chest an indescribable confusion and suspicion.

She brought it to the Buddhist altar room and examined the contents. From among the jumble of paper money, documents, seals, and such, a single sealed letter emerged.

On the front—Mr. Tamai Kingoro. On the back—From Kyo. The seal had already been broken. Man gulped and swallowed her saliva. She placed the letter on the long hibachi. She took the long pipe, packed it with tobacco shreds, puffed out her chest, and took a deep, deliberate puff. It was unusually bitter.

Then, she pulled out the letter and read it.

From the bathroom beyond the corridor came the sound of the parent and child talking. Through the glass door, the voices were muffled and low, making it impossible to make out what they were saying. “Father, let’s rinse it off.” Being told that, Kingoro had Katsunori scrub his back. As they talked about tonight’s Panama Maru cargo handling, the increasingly bizarre complexity of the Mitsubishi coal-loading machine issue stemming from it, how the relationship with Tomoda Kizō had become so entangled that it seemed to be nearing its breaking point, and how a clash and explosion were inevitable—

“Father, is this character part of the inscription?” Katsunori, who was washing his left arm with soap, asked.

“Inscription? …There’s some character written here?” “On this scale of the dragon’s tail—the character ‘Kyo’ is carved.” Tamai Kingoro was startled. But instantly adopting an unaffected manner,

“I see. Then it’s the initials of Kyōjirō, the tattooist who carved this. Huh… Never noticed that before…” On a spot hard for him to see himself—the inner part of his arm—and on one small scale that required close inspection to notice, Okyo had engraved her own name.

Katsunori had no understanding of the meaning behind his father’s shock, so “Ordinary dragons hold a sacred jewel, but yours is clutching a chrysanthemum flower.” “That’s strange.”

“You think you could get one done?” he ventured. “Could I get one done?” “As a mark of becoming full-fledged boss.” “Then I’ll get a dragon tattooed too.” “And have it grasp a lily flower in its limb.”

Katsunori’s pupils gleamed with a strange, sleepwalker-like light. From the back room came the sound of approaching footsteps. Man hastily slipped the letter into the wallet and thrust it into her kimono’s inner pocket.

“Man-san?” “Yes.” “Kin-san and Katsunori haven’t come back from netting yet, have they?” “They’ve come back, and both of them are bathing.” “Aren’t they hungry?” “Well…? On their way back, they mentioned something about stopping by Gen-san’s shop…” “If they want to eat some rice with tea before bed, I thought I could give them some pickled radish…”

“Please ask Baban.” “I suppose I should,” she started to leave but, as if suddenly remembering something, turned back after a few steps and said, “Chihiro has a slight fever and is making a strange cough. Just like when Katsunori was little, if it turns out to be diphtheria or something serious, once morning comes, best have a doctor look at him right away.” “Let’s do that.”

Baban left toward the bathroom. Around the middle of the Taishō era, when Nagata Mokuji died, the ramune shop was passed on to someone else. Their only son, Shigemune Hira, showed no interest in taking over the business and instead became an apprentice at a rather large printing factory in Port Arthur, Manchuria, run by Yamada Ken’ichi—Yone’s future brother-in-law.

Yone, who had been left behind, was taken in by the Tamai household. She was a beautiful old woman. Among all children Man had borne, there was not one who hadn't passed through Yone's hands. Over time, what began as "Bahan"—warped by dialect into "Baban"—became her name; this kindhearted woman, naive yet overflowing with affection, came to be wholeheartedly cherished by the children. Tamai Kingoro and his wife too treasured Yone as though she were their true mother.

The sound of Baban’s footsteps moved from the bath to the kitchen, and as the clatter of her geta disappeared toward the storage area with the pickled radish tub, it seemed Kingoro and the others had decided to eat rice with tea.

Knowing this, Man stood up to boil tea. The house in Shōhōji-machi had been expanded little by little and grown larger. The second floor contained three rooms; downstairs there were eight rooms including a tatami hall that could host gatherings or banquets for forty to fifty people when the sliding doors were removed. The garden featured stone lanterns, a gourd-shaped pond and an artificial hill, along with a bathroom. In the past he had lodged his subordinates there, but now only family remained.

The dining table was set in the kitchen, and Tamai Kingoro, Man, Katsunori, and Baban sat down.

While they were talking about fishing and the police, the clock chimed twice—ding, ding.

“What? It’s already two?”

Baban let out a shrill cry.

Having finished the rice with tea and pickled radish, Kingoro stood up as if remembering something and went into the inner room. When he emerged moments later, he held a black leather wallet. He tossed it down before Man.

Man took it in her hand with an air of feigned innocence. "Huh? Didn't you say this wallet got lifted by a pickpocket in Tokyo?"

“That’s right.” “But why…?” “Tokyo’s got some peculiar pickpockets.” “They’ll swipe something once just to bring it back later.” “Check inside.” “Not a damn thing’s gone.” “Even the cash stayed put.” “Man—remember when that burglar took six yen years back?… Wait no—wasn’t that you who did it?… Then that six yen showed up again ’bout a year later.” “Might be the same hand behind this wallet business too.”

From inside the wallet, only Okyo's letter had been removed.

“Father.”

“Huh?”

“Is that pickpocket a man?… Or a woman?” “How’d I know somethin’ like that?” “Might be a woman, no?” “Why d’ya say so?” “This wallet reeks of face powder.” Kingoro stiffened.

“Huh?!” “Here, let me see that.” She took it and pressed it to her nose. There was no particular scent of face powder. “You there—give it a sniff!” She handed it to Katsunori, but even after he did so, she remarked that her son didn’t seem to detect much of a scent either. Finally, Baban—sniffing meticulously again and again—rubbed the wallet against her nose before rolling her large eyes wide. “Well now,” “This reeks of a woman’s smell!” she declared shrilly.

Man was holding the wallet again,

“I’ve long heard Tokyo has no shortage of beautiful pickpockets.” “I don’t do that myself, but they say there are female bosses who keep whole gangs of pickpockets.” “She must be one of those.” “But why wouldn’t they take the money before returning it?” “That’d be following that six-yen thief’s style, I reckon.” “You think so?” “I believe it’s different...” “Then what do you think?”

“Couldn’t a female pickpocket have fallen for Father?” “Don’t talk nonsense.” “It’s not impossible, you know. They stole it once to try their hand at it, but being smitten, they returned it… Then someday, when they find the right moment, they’ll come to make their move…”

“Man’s come up with another strange idea, I tell you…”

Baban wore a look of utter dismay. “I don’t know what kind of female pickpocket she is, but…”

Man’s eyes took on a dreamy, mysterious glint as she murmured to herself, “I’d like to meet her just once… I’d like to meet her and say thank you.”

“What kind of thanks would you say to a thief?” Baban’s expression grew increasingly exasperated.

“Various things.” She let the words fall like a sigh. Then took the tobacco pipe and quietly smoked. Outside, a motor’s vroom shattered the midnight air. Following that came the flapping sound of a belt. The sound of water. “Oh, the tofu maker’s already up and working.” “Alright, time for bed.”

At Baban's words, everyone stood up. Kingoro had intended to report to Man that after Baban and his son had left, he had gone fishing and spoken to Katsunori about Hikaru, but he stopped himself. There was something ominous about Man's demeanor.

This was no ordinary matter. She kept saying strange things. (Did she see Okyo’s letter while I was taking a bath?)

That suspicion welled up.

They each retired to their bedrooms.

Kingoro kept a diary. It was a long-standing habit. He knew neither characters nor could he compose sentences, yet for his own study, he had never neglected it. Text in katakana and kanji full of incorrect characters—if someone were to see it, they might find it incoherent—but it wasn’t meant to be shown to others, and that sufficed. From the start, Kingoro had possessed a sort of compulsion to document things. No matter how trivial, he never forgot to meticulously jot it down. Later, it would prove impossible to know just how useful that had been.

Kingoro wrote in the first line: "Truth and lies—human secrets are deucedly sixfold complex."

he wrote. He had not the slightest intention of lying or deceiving Man, yet in the end, that was precisely how things had turned out. What in the world were secrets between husband and wife? Even when he had Okyo tattooed—designing the dragon’s claw to clutch a chrysanthemum bouquet as testament to their marital love and trust—he had never breathed a word to Man about Okyo. I believe I have done nothing wrong toward my wife. Even so, I still hesitate to confess. Man, for her part, had not tried to ask.

“When it comes to marriage, a married couple should lay everything bare—not keepin’ a single secret—and hash things out from both sides; that’s what works best.” When they first set up house in Shimonoseki’s Hikoshima district, that’s what the go-between—the “fixer”—had told ’em. Back then, they’d figured that’s just how it went, but as years rolled by, they came to see plain enough that human life ain’t so cut-and-dried.

――Secrets weren't always just dirty or bad things. There were such things as noble secrets, beautiful secrets. He had come to know that. The matter with Okyo couldn't be explained in just a word or two. If I said just a word or two, it would only lead to misunderstanding. If I let the chance slip away while thinking I'd explain everything properly someday, it would only grow harder to broach.

Lately,

(Isn’t it all right for there to be a secret—one she doesn’t forcibly pry into—left untouched for a lifetime?)

In that way, he had come to think.

(Maybe Man has some too?) The world where humans clashed in close combat while struggling to survive was filled with contradictions and absurdities born of misunderstandings—Kingoro had experienced this to the point of surfeit. Was it not barely sustained by nothing more than a beautiful secret—one that wished to leave human melancholy undisturbed?

"We'll manage somehow." Putting it into words and muttering them aloud, Kingoro let a meaningful smile drift across his face. Long ago, when Man had suspected his relationship with Okyo because of Somekko's forged letter, she'd resorted to violence against him and fled back to Hiroshima—but now that she'd read Okyo's genuine letter, what action would she take? —Feeling almost playful, Kingoro decided he would wait to find out.

“Come on, have Baban carry you on her back.” With that came signs of Yone taking Chihiro—the feverish twelve-year-old youngest son—to the toilet. What was wrong? The cat kept meowing incessantly. Kingoro flipped through the earlier pages of his diary. “No Smoking,” “No Alcohol,” “No Lust,” “No Gambling,” “Sincerity,” “Don’t Act Arrogant,” “Endurance”—phrases like these were scrawled everywhere in the margins. _Hadn’t I managed to uphold any of these?_

He formed a self-mocking smile tinged with tearful bitterness.

Pages filled to the brim had several days where only "今ニ見テオレ" was written.

“Kin-san, you’re still up?” At Baban’s voice, she turned off the light.

Showdown

The sounds of shamisen and drums quivered seductively through the late spring morning air, flowing out from the geisha association's training hall. With the day of the recital drawing near, they seemed to be exerting their final burst of effort.

Just then, someone parted the noren curtain— “Pardon me!” When Kochōya Mamehachi suddenly poked his head in, the geishas surged toward him like leaping predators. “Now now—don’t roughhouse! Y’ll finish me off!” The petite old man shrieked as women resembling enormous flower petals cascaded upon him all at once. He wriggled free and escaped into the hallway.

“Hurry up and show me the slips!”

“I’ll show you now.” “No need to rush.” “We’re swamped with practice!” Surrounded by a dozen geishas, Mamehachi deliberately produced a large envelope from his breast pocket with theatrical slowness. He pulled out gambling slips from within and methodically handed one to each woman.

“Mamehachi-san, there’s no trickery here, right?”

Mitsu glared and said. “Don’t speak such insolence.” “Heaven and earth, the sun sees all! The organizer is Boss Shimazaki himself—now in his prime! The Ant Runners are led by yours truly, Mamehachi-san, a man of unwavering integrity! Let those who doubt us keep their money!” “You’re putting on quite the act. I only spoke up ’cause you never get it right... Today I’ll show you how it’s done!” “Without proper dedication, you’ll never win.”

“What’re you blabbering about? Kiyofuku nee-san’s five times less devoted than me, but didn’t she hit big yesterday? Guess the god of Chīhā likes perverts!” “Stop yappin’ and buy already.” The gamblers compared Mamehachi’s separately produced “Fuwa paper” against the anatomical diagram with bloodshot eyes, each marking the lines they fancied on their betting slips. They added their stakes and passed them to Mamehachi.

The long horizontal betting slips had two rows—upper and lower—divided into thirty-six boxes, each printed with characters such as “Tenkai,” “Gonjitsu,” “Bankei,” “Meiju,” “Geppō,” and “Hōshun.” This lottery-style gambling called “Chīhā,” which had come from China, was spreading with ferocious speed throughout Wakamatsu City. Numerous couriers called Ant Runners, dispatched by the gambling organizer, would rush to every corner of the city by morning to distribute betting slips and collect small sums of money.

In the afternoon, the bets were brought to "the site," where the Ant Runners gathered, opened the organizer’s tightly sealed prize money, and determined the results. The site was moved daily to evade the police’s watch. Then the organizer’s accountant arrived and proceeded to distribute the money. The payout for a winning bet was thirty times the wager, but since the Ant Runners took a commission, it ultimately amounted to twenty-eight times. Since the payouts were substantial, it instantly took the pleasure quarters by storm.

“I’ll bet on ‘Kōmyō’ after all.” “I’ve taken a liking to the ‘light’ character.” “……Mamehachi-san, here’s two yen.”

“Whoa, they’ve really splurged!” “All or nothing.” As the geishas kept making a racket, Kimika of Asuka appeared. “This is troublesome, Mamehachi-san.” “You’re going around egging the geishas on to gamble—they can’t rehearse properly at all.” “Their heads are full of Chīhā.” “Don’t show your face in this rehearsal space starting tomorrow.” “Yeah, yeah.”

Mamehachi hunched his neck in a comical pose and ran off, deliberately exaggerating his limp. Just as he left, Hikaru entered. Her face was pale.

She seemed to be searching for someone, her restless eyes scanning through the geishas gathered in the spacious rehearsal space. When she found Mitsu, “Hey, Sis.”

She called with her eyes. As the two pushed aside the Danjuro-striped noren and tried to step out into the hallway,

“Hikaru-san, it’s already your turn.” From behind, Master Fujima Ise’s stern voice pursued them. “Yes… Right away…” Nervously, with a tense expression, she led her sister to a corner of the hallway.

“Yoshi-chan, what’s wrong?” “Sis, this morning, I got this letter. …Read it.”

Mitsu read the sealed letter that Hikaru had taken out from her obi.

"Omitted. I trusted you, but I’ve realized you’ve been terribly dishonest. I want to have one final talk. May 3rd, 6:00. I’ll be waiting at Marukin. Katsunori" On the scroll was scrawled such a brief message. "What am I supposed to do…?" "What else can you do? You have to go, don’t you?"

“I’m scared. A final talk… what does that even mean…”

On her pale, beautiful face, Hikaru already had tears welling up. “You haven’t told him about Yōnosuke-san, have you?”

“Yes… but…”

“Katsunori-san must’ve heard about your engagement from someone.” “But isn’t that fine?” “You can’t keep hiding forever. Work up your courage and go meet Katsunori-san.” “I’m scared to go alone. Sis, come with me…” “Don’t be stupid. No way. If you were serious about what you did, settle it properly yourself.” “You can’t keep deceiving people anymore.” “Yōnosuke-san must’ve heard about you and Katsunori-san from someone… probably Tomoda Kizō-san… and is coming back from Tokyo.” “Heh, he just started the new semester in Tokyo, but with these rumors about his fiancée’s affair, school’s the last thing on his mind.” “Says he doesn’t want to wait till next year’s graduation—wants the wedding right away.” “This is getting interesting.” “……Yoshi-chan, do your best.”

“But…” From the rehearsal space, a voice called out for Hikaru repeatedly.

“Come on, cheer up and get to your rehearsal. I’m done here, so I’ll just slip out for a little rendezvous. …Yoshi-chan, this is the most crucial moment now. Get a hold of yourself.” Mitsu gave her younger sister’s shoulder a firm pat and hurried down the stairs.

In her listless state, she passed through the noren curtain. Fujima Ise— “Hikaru-san, are you feeling unwell?” “No, it’s nothing…”

“In that case, hurry up and…”

“Yes.”

With Tsumetarō, her partner for the Kiyomoto "Evening Shower" dance, she ascended the rehearsal platform. Tsumetarō took the male role; Hikaru played the palace maid—the two stepped beneath a single snake-eye umbrella. The jiuta began with the shamisen joining in, and they started dancing, but Hikaru—her heart heavy with gloom—repeatedly fumbled her hand movements and was harshly reprimanded by her teacher. ...the white jewels' unyielding code, Never moistened by dew... Little by little, she found her rhythm.

In front of Ebisu Shrine’s great torii gate, Kochōya Mamehachi stood with his eyes closed, pompously clapping his hands—when someone tapped him lightly on the back from behind. He whirled around frantically. With a sullen face,

“Oh, it’s you, Mitsu-san. You startled me. You’ll ruin my carefully made wish halfway through!”

“With that pious look on your face, what wish are you making?”

“Don’t ask such obvious things.” “These days, what else would anyone beg from the gods besides lottery numbers?” “Mamehachi, which ones did you pick?” “Can’t tell, can’t tell.”

“If mine don’t hit today, I won’t stand for it. I bet my meager pocket money—even the hair-styling fee—on it.”

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that.” “You oughta put yer trust in the gods proper-like too, y’know.”

Making a hateful face and sticking out his tongue mockingly, just as Mamehachi began to leave, from behind the ema hall—

“Mamehachi, wait a second.”

Along with that voice, a man leaped out.

Mamehachi sprang up like a spring-loaded mechanism, his lively demeanor on full display, “Well, if it isn’t Boss Kurita-san.” “Today’s sure a day for getting scared outta my wits, ain’t it?” “My heart was racing!” “And ya call that a big deal?” “I know what you’re sayin’.” “You’re spoutin’ nothin’ but exaggerations—basically lookin’ down on people, ain’t ya?” “Nonsense! How could I ever dare to look down on Boss Kurita, the man who silences even crying children?”

“That’s exactly what I mean—you’re lookin’ down on me.” “Mamehachi—you’re gettin’ all carried away. Nothin’ good’ll come of this.” “I can’t even get a word in edgewise… Boss, did you need somethin’?” “Hurry up an’ tell me.” “I’m busy here.” “Yappin’ with some whore geisha—call that busy? Makes me sick.” “I’ll be goin’ then.”

Coldly, Mitsu started to leave when— “Hey, woman! Don’t move.” “You’re involved too. …From what I’ve overheard, you two were yapping about the ‘Chi-Haa,’ but seems Mamehachi here’s been running an ‘Ant Run.’” “Perfect timing.” “I’ve got questions for ya. Answer straight.” “If you lie, I’ve got plans for you.”

He was a pallid refined man whose eyes gleamed with an eerie sharpness like twin razors. His tall lanky frame exuded a morbid air. Clad in traditional kimono with hands thrust into a white crepe sash, he stood trembling—a poor man’s shiver mimicking warrior’s bravado. He stuttered slightly.

Kurita Gingo, thirty-four years old. A gambler under Tomoda Zenzō's thumb. "What's this about?" Mamehachi too shifted into a guarded stance. "Where's today's Chi-Haa den?" "I don't know anything about that."

“You expect me to believe the Ant Run doesn’t know about this?” “Even if I’m part of the Ant Run, I’m just a lower member—ain’t never been present at the scene even once.” “Someone oughta ask the main Ant Run.” This was a spur-of-the-moment lie. Mamehachi had just been promoted to the main Ant Run and knew today’s “scene” was at “Cat Granny’s” house. He was headed there right now. “I see,” Kurita said, surprisingly quick to buy it. “Then tell me—is it true Tamai Kingoro’s backing Shimazaki Yūji, the Chi-Haa boss?”

“There’s no such thing, sir. Boss Tamai wouldn’t do something like backing gambling operations, would he?”

“Even so, one of our underlings was sayin’ that at Konpira-san’s cockfighting arena—the one Shimazaki runs—Tamai Kingoro showed his face too.” “Shimazaki Yūji’s barely been in Wakamatsu five minutes, yet he’s throwin’ his weight around like this… To act all high-and-mighty while goin’ against the Yoshida family—there’s gotta be somethin’ proppin’ him up.” “The Chi-Haa’s gotta be in cahoots with Tamai.” “Spit it out straight.”

“I’m telling the truth. Well, Boss Tamai does have a liking for gambling. It might be wrong to say this, but given his business dealings and social connections, he dabbles in everything from hanafuda cards, dice, horse races, cockfights, go, shogi, to the ‘Chi-Haa.’ But when it comes to things he wouldn’t do just for his own amusement—making them his trade or using them to stake out territory—he’d never even consider it. Even with the Chi-Haa, he only jokes around with his men sometimes when placing bets. The idea that he’s in cahoots with Boss Shimazaki—that’s just you overthinking things, Boss.”

“Is that so?……”

Still half-doubting, Kurita Gingo seemed to have somewhat accepted what Mamehachi was saying. Straightforward and impulsive—known as the "Brawling Demon" when angered—Kurita unexpectedly appeared to possess a trusting nature and good heart. He was violent and single-minded yet also pure-hearted, and it was rumored he had several subordinates who would gladly lay down their lives for him. Mamehachi was feeling relieved when, this time—

“Woman.” The sharp edge of his attention turned toward Mitsu. “What’re you gettin’ all high-and-mighty for…?” “You’re Mitsu from Take no Ie, ain’t ya?” “Yeah. What’s it to you?” “Convenient meetin’ ya here. “Was headin’ to your place on Boss Tomoda’s orders. “Earlier—when I went talkin’ ’bout that Naniwa-bushi Masters Tournament with the boss—he says if I’m goin’ theater-ways, stop by Take no Ie. “Now I seen ya here, no need. “Tell Tsujiki’s old man this—Boss Tomoda’s gotta hash out Yōnosuke-kun’s marriage mess ’n’ election business. Have him come by the house tonight. …Got it? “Don’t forget. …Then Mamehachi—tell Boss Shimazaki: He even know what kinda town Wakamatsu is? Should study up ’fore doin’ as he pleases. “…Or somethin’.”

Having said what he needed to say, Kurita Gingo—still with both hands thrust into his sash—headed off toward city hall. The tall, lanky figure in undecorated kimono looked oddly carefree as he retreated. He didn’t seem like a man who had dodged beneath gleaming blades countless times—who had cut others and been cut himself. Mamehachi and Mitsu had stood blank-faced watching Kurita until he disappeared from view; when their eyes met, they burst into raucous laughter. It was the desperate cackling of cornered rats.

“This town of Wakamatsu,” Mamehachi mimicked in a playful manner, “Do you even know what kind of town this is?…” “Know it, know it!” Mitsu also quipped in a playful tone, “It’s a brave town like an American Western—just lacks horses.” As the two walked toward “Cat Granny’s” house, Tamai Kingoro, Inoue Yasugorō, and Harada Kumoi could be seen approaching from ahead while talking.

Upon meeting, they stopped. From both sides, they exchanged friendly greetings.

The damp east wind blowing from the harbor carried the smell of coal soot through the second-floor window. Even after May began, rainy days persisted, and the clear blue skies typical of early summer remained stubbornly absent. Dokai Bay, where ships of all sizes were anchored, lay under a leaden overcast sky, its gray waters rippled occasionally as the wind picked up.

On the front of the second floor hung a sign in Roman letters that read “OYADAMA SHOKUDO”. It was a restaurant painted green. “The weather just won’t clear up.” Looking up at the sky that looked ready to pour down any moment, the potbellied Harada Kumoi said. He stroked the long beard enveloping his chin. “Yesterday’s May Day events—apparently many places held them in the rain.” Inoue Yasugorō also looked up at the sky as if straining his goldfish-like eyes wide open.

Harada lit a cigarette, took a drag, and then— “Bad weather leaves people’s spirits unrefreshed. The Imperial Diet’s apparently in utter turmoil too. This 58th session started tense enough, but once they moved to budget debates—huge brawls breaking out again. Wakamatsu’s councilmen aren’t exactly saints themselves, but those Diet members? They’re worse by half. They couldn’t care less about the people. Party interests, petty jealousies, turf wars, vile slander, crude buffoonery, staged fights, ignoring parliamentary rules—and in the end? Deranged scuffles even thugs’d think twice about… Bet Boss Yoshida Isokichi had himself a field day.”

“At the very least, we must ensure the Wakamatsu City Council doesn’t become Minseitō’s domain this time.” Kingoro declared in a tone brimming with resolve. “Well,” Harada Kumoi said, his narrow eyes glinting, “they’re scheming to secure an absolute majority again, from what I hear.” “Since this is the first general election under universal suffrage, even Minseitō’s struggling with candidate selection.” “However you spin it, there’s a talent shortage.” “So they’re propping up brothel madams, streetwalkers, restaurateurs, coal brokers, thugs, gamblers, loan sharks, slumlords—eighteen or so clueless about governance—and plotting to get every last one elected.”

After saying this, he noticed Mitsu beside him and scratched his head slightly. “Well now, Mitsu and Mr. Tsujiki Sōhachi here are talents among the candidates, but...” Mitsu burst out laughing. “Such forced flattery—you really don’t need to bother with that, you know.” “I’m not part of the Minseitō Party or anything.” “Really, as Mr. Harada says, someone like my father isn’t fit to be on the city council, you know.” “Being flattered by Mr. Tomoda with promises like ‘I’ll absolutely get you elected,’ he’s developed ambitions beyond his station.”

Earlier, when they met on the road, they had decided to have lunch at Oyadama Shokudo; however, only Mamehachi—needing to go to the site—lacked time and didn’t join them. They drank beer while waiting for their food. “Even if Tomoda Kizō said—‘I’ll make sure he gets elected no matter what’?”

“Yes—he’s confident he won’t let a single candidate lose.” “Yes… Mr. Tomoda has been telling my father that many times.” “Ah.” Harada glared at a corner of the ceiling. “The same old tricks again?… Bribery, wining and dining, door-to-door canvassing, intimidation… And our party government’s election meddling… With such garbage-tier candidates flooding in, if they all get elected—well, there’s no other explanation.” “Damn it! Do they think there’s always a loach under the willow tree every damn time?” “We won’t lose this time!”

“Now now, Mr. Harada—no need to get so heated up.” Inoue Yasugorō laughed. “Our own candidates aren’t exactly prize specimens either.” “Some are downright questionable.” “Even Minseitō has decent candidates mixed in.” “All we can do is try our damnedest.” “…This time though—I’m dead set on getting you elected no matter what…” “It’ll work this time,” Kingoro declared, iron in his voice. “General suffrage changes everything—Wakamatsu folks aren’t complete fools.” “After two losses? Get a firebrand like you on that council—even the bigwigs know it’d scour that cesspool clean.” “No doubts.” “I stake my name on it.”

“We’ll support Mr. Harada too.”

“Really?” “We may not have votes, but even so, a woman’s power shouldn’t be underestimated.” “Hearing that puts my mind at ease. I already feel like we’ve prevailed, I tell you! …Miss Mitsu, let’s have a drink.”

Harada Kumoi held out a glass and poured beer. Mitsu gulped it down and handed it back.

The food was brought in. “Well now, that’s one hell of a beefsteak, ain’t it!” Harada let out a shrill shout.

“Doesn’t this suit Harada-kun’s physique perfectly? Back at a Western restaurant called Totsukan-tei, they served up a mighty fine beefsteak, but this here’s even better.” “The owner Oda Kamezō’s quite the character—they say he worked as a cook on an American destroyer. We’ve put in our order already, so he’ll likely bring out those peculiar dishes later—Chaplin this and chop suey that.” “Went digging for gold up in Alaska once, got himself buried in snow and damn near froze to death.” “Still walks with a limp from it all...”

“Mr. Tamai, what party does that Oda belong to?” “Elections always bring trouble,” he said. “People instantly divide everyone into allies and enemies.” His tone softened reassuringly. “No need to worry, Harada-kun. Our comrades are your staunchest supporters.”

“Is that so?” Harada’s childlike face lit up with undisguised delight. “Today’s a damn fine day! A geisha and the Western restaurant owner have been found as supporters. I’ve got confidence now, I tell you!” “Harada-kun, have you checked the vote counts?” “I’ve checked roughly,” he said, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. “But we won’t know exact numbers until closer to election day. The death registry hasn’t been completed, and disqualified people might increase. Wakamatsu City’s population is 57,326 now. Looking at last September’s voter registry, there are 9,329 registered voters—but with various issues, actual votes come to 8,929.”

“So then?…” “While the exact number of candidates isn’t definitive yet,” he said, pulling out a small notebook, “if we tentatively assume seventeen from the Minseitō Party, twelve from the Seiyūkai, fourteen independents, and one from the Social People’s Party—forty-four total—that comes out to roughly 193 votes per candidate. Since top candidates might grab three or four hundred votes, generally speaking, around a hundred fifty to sixty should put someone in the running.” “Mr. Tamai. Mr. Inoue.” Mitsu’s expression turned uncharacteristically grave. “This isn’t something someone like me should mention… But they’re saying—the Minseitō Party—they’re determined to defeat both of you no matter what this time…”

“Bwahahaha!” Harada laughed with such force it seemed he might flip the table. “So they’re going to knock us out—huh.” “That’s something we’ve known from the start.” “But there’s no way these two are losing!”

Outside the window, it turned to rain.

With clumsy hands cutting into the thick, tender beefsteak that dripped blood, “It’s just like the rainy season.”

Still concerned about the weather, Harada Kumoi said. Mitsu, her cheeks flushed cherry-pink from the beer, suddenly seemed to remember something,

“Earlier, right before meeting all of you, I was terribly threatened by Oyabun Kurita Gingo at Ebisu Shrine’s torii gate.”

“What’s that?”

“Mr. Tamai, it seems Mr. Kurita was suspecting you and Shimazaki Yūji-oyabun of Chi-Haa might be working together.” “This too will soon become an excuse to sort everyone into enemies and allies, I suppose.”

Harada laughed. “Mr. Tamai, what sort of man is this Shimazaki Yūji?”

Inoue Yasugorō still seemed not to fully understand. "I don't have that deep a relationship with him either, but from what I've seen so far, he seems to be a man with some backbone." "After killing someone at Kokura Racecourse, serving his sentence, and returning, he's been running a restaurant in Shinchi. Since Mori Shinnosuke of 'Asuka' acts as his sworn brother, that's how I became acquainted with him." "He's a man still some years short of forty who seems physically weak, but..."

“Mr. Tamai,” Harada said, “if Mori-kun and that Shimazaki are sworn brothers, and Mori’s your junior, then wouldn’t that make you sworn brothers with Shimazaki too?”

“That’s true enough, but I haven’t thought that far through.” “Since I can’t rightly stop Mori Shinnosuke from getting along with Shimazaki, I’m just staying silent on it.”

“This Wakamatsu sure has some damn strange aspects,” Harada Kumoi said. “If you just kill someone and come back, you can throw your weight around. You can become a boss and make a name for yourself. And so these greenhorn outlaws act as if that’s some sort of yakuza code and go around wanting to kill people. Moreover, there’s a headquarters that issues assassination orders.” His voice grew sharp as he added, “Upon the issuance of the order, Nishinaka Munenosuke—who killed Shinagawa Nobutake—was released from prison, received a small coal mine as a reward, and became a local boss. The mastermind who issued the crucial order remains completely unscathed, still reigning as the supreme boss.” He snorted derisively. “He’s become a Diet member. What an absurd town this is!”

“Harada-kun, there are aspects that can’t be so easily dismissed,” Tamai Kingoro said, his voice deepening gravely. “Those who’ve killed aren’t all villains. And even committing murder doesn’t guarantee making a name for yourself—that goes for Mori Shinnosuke or Matsukawa Genshū of Rokuzoro too.” He wiped condensation from his beer glass, the Hakata dialect thickening with conviction. “From what I hear, Mr. Shimazaki Yūji got dragged into a fight he couldn’t back out of. Maybe that’s why Mori related to him.” The union leader’s tattooed fingers tightened around his chopsticks. “Make no mistake—murder’s the worst crime a man can commit. But there’s times we’ve got to do what we mustn’t.” His gaze drifted to the rain-streaked window where neon signs bled through Asakusa’s gloom. “Or lose control and act without thinking… Preaching to the Buddha here, but—”

Gradually adopting a somber tone, Kingoro was recalling the terrifying events in Tokyo.

When he had been in the family bath at Chikushikan with Tomoda Kizō, (Should I kill this man?) Suddenly, that wicked impulse had surfaced. Stunned and in a panic, he had driven away the demonic thoughts, yet shuddered at the existence of an unforeseen devil dwelling deep within the human heart.

Mitsu was thinking about something else. (Does Tamai’s husband know about my sister and Katsunori-san?) (If he found out—what kind of face would he make?) With such thoughts running through her mind, when she looked at Tamai Kingoro’s overly earnest face, the very concept of parenthood struck her as absurdly comical—she could barely contain her urge to burst out laughing.

The next day also had gloomy, oppressive rainy weather.

Man woke up early and prepared breakfast for the children going to school. She packed their lunches. It was a long-standing daily morning habit. There was one young maid, but when it came to the children’s affairs, she handled them herself. With Baban also around, the children were well looked after. Since the youngest, Chihiro, was twelve, there were no longer any children who required so much attention.

Man gave birth to ten children. “Until Katsunori came along, I thought you were a barren woman, but it seems the floodgates opened.” As if mocked by Kingoro’s words, she bore them one after another in quick succession. The eldest son Katsunori and youngest child Chihiro differed in age by only thirteen years. Male, female, male, female, female, female, female, female, female, male—in that order. Yet she lost her fourth child Ichiyo at three years old and her sixth child Kuniko to illness after she turned fourteen. The seventh was a stillbirth.

The eldest daughter Fumiko was married off to Maeda Masahiko who worked for the railway. The second son Masao had graduated from Kumamoto Fifth High School and was enrolled in Tokyo Imperial University’s Law Department. He had returned home during spring break but went back to Tokyo.

The third daughter, Hideko, had graduated from girls' school and was helping with household chores. For Shigeko and Satomi below her—who were in girls' school—and Chihiro in fifth grade of elementary school, Man prepared lunch boxes for the three of them. However, this morning, since Chihiro had a fever and was lying down, she only needed to make portions for the two daughters. "Mother, how is Chihiro-chan?"

Shigeko and Satomi both had worried looks as they ate. “There’s nothing to worry about. “Baban’s looking after him, so don’t worry and go to school.” Yone answered.

Yone answered.

“We’re off to school now!”

After the sisters left together, the family’s meal began.

Kingoro, a hearty eater and lover of miso soup, would routinely down at least four bowls every morning as a matter of course.

“A fool’s three bowls of miso soup—or rather, I drink four!”

With that, he laughed.

Gathered around the dining table were six people: Kingoro, Man, Katsunori, Hideko, Baban, and the maid. Baban cooked porridge for Chihiro, added his favorite rolled omelette, and took it to the back room.

“Katsunori.” “Yes.” “Tonight, I need you to come out too. At the Rengō-gumi meeting tonight, we’re inviting Mitsubishi. The coal-loading machine issue has gotten complicated, so we need to have a discussion. Mitsubishi is a major client of the Rengō-gumi—if they get angry and all the work goes to the Kyōdō-gumi, we’ll be in trouble. It’s distasteful, but there’s no helping it. Within the Rengō-gumi, some aren’t pleased with how strongly I’ve been opposing the coal-loading machine, and…”

“I’m afraid I have a prior engagement tonight…”

“If that’s how it is, then there’s nothing to be done. But if you can make it, come out. That labor union you’ve been talking about might come up too. Master Ōba will also be coming.” “Where will it be?”

“Marukin.” “It’s scheduled to start at five.” An expression of extreme bewilderment appeared on Katsunori’s face. However, neither Kingoro nor Man noticed the meaning behind it.

Man was serving rice into bowls while,

“Father.” “Huh?” “Another election, huh? I really can’t stand them. Every time one comes around, you see right through people’s dirty ulterior motives…” “It’s not like I’m doing this because I want to. Once was enough to learn my lesson—I want to quit, but obligations won’t let me.” “Isn’t there a better way to handle elections? It’s utterly absurd. Since you’re running, once you’ve entered the race, I know you can’t lose—so I’ll help as much as I can, but this awful feeling lingers the whole time. Once it’s over—never again—that’s what I think every time… I feel bad for you, Father, but…”

“Don’t worry about it.” “I’m the same way.” “Honestly, how they lie so shamelessly—it makes me want to cry. ‘Such-and-such district has this many votes...’” “‘We’ll definitely vote for you,’ they say.” “Then they come here to eat and drink and wheedle pocket money out of us, only to go sell those same votes to another candidate.” “It’s transparently obvious—you can’t tell friend from foe.” “They say elections are fickle—but really, they’re just shoddy affairs.” “Last time we had that Commercial Council reelection, didn’t we get that farce with the fish market incident?”

“What happened?”

Katsunori asked.

“You were still in school back then, so you wouldn’t know, but…”

Kingoro spoke with an embarrassed smile. …A Commercial Council member could be elected with just three votes. The president of the fish market, Kawamura Risaburō, ran for office. There were nineteen voters among the brokers; Kawamura had been using money to win them over all along. Finally, on the morning of voting day, everyone gathered at the fish market. “Well then, we will now go cast our votes for the President.” They all pledged their commitment and set out. When they returned, every last one reported, “We voted for the President.” Delighted, Kawamura—convinced he had received the highest number of votes—thanked the brokers and hosted them lavishly.

When the votes were counted, there was only one, and he lost the election.

The election campaign manager flew into a rage.

“Every last one of you—nothing but liars!” However, that one vote was one that the candidate himself had cast for himself.…… “Because of this, the fish market incident occurred—the furious president carried out layoffs, there were injuries from ambushes, and finally, it turned into a legal dispute, with the trial dragging on for ages… It seems Kawamura Risaburō is now running for the city council with the Minseitō Party this time…” “Even if it’s just that people become untrustworthy—I hate elections.”

Man spoke in a sighing tone and smoked tobacco with her pipe. “On the other hand, elections do reveal who’s trustworthy.” “That may be true, but… candidates strut around acting important day-to-day—they won’t even glance your way if you meet them on the street—yet once elections near, they suddenly become all smiles and charm.” “Bowing like groveling dogs—‘Please honor me with your pristine vote.’” “…Then once elected, they flip their palms and pretend not to know you.” “…You’re not like that, Father, but at least quit scrambling for votes like some starved beggar.”

Unable to counter Man’s sharp tongue, Kingoro could only force a wry smile, looking thoroughly resigned.

(This might be her lashing out over Okyo’s letter.) He felt sickened. He felt as though he were standing on thin ice. “Only Mr. Harada Kumoi—this time, we must get him elected.” Man said abruptly.

Kingoro and Katsunori left through the entrance together. The father wore the "United Group" hanten; the son, the "Tamai Group" hanten—both in traditional work coats. Their heights were similar at around five shaku four or five sun (approximately 5 feet 4 inches), but when standing side by side, Kingoro was stouter and more solidly built. Katsunori, who played baseball, judo, kendo, and the like, had a sturdy frame but was lean.

At the entrance of the two-story house across the street, a nameplate reading “Matsumoto Shigeo” was displayed. Kingoro shouted from the entrance,

“Have they all gone to work already?”

Kingoro called out. “They’ve already left.”

Matsumoto’s wife answered from the dark depths of the house. Matsumoto Shigeo became the Tamai Group’s top enforcer and oversaw all its operations. The house housed fourteen or fifteen unmarried stevedores while also serving as a dining hall. In the back stood a tenement housing families. The Tamai Group was divided into Unit 1, Unit 2, and Unit 3—each with deputies named Nakayama Yashima, Hirose Denkichi, and Ōshima Sōta. Watanabe Tokuichi handled work for Tokai Steel Industry, while scrap metal operations at Yawata Steel Works fell under Tani Shunji, known from his youth as the “junior high student.”

Next to the Matsumoto house was the tofu shop run by Noro Jin. As the two passed by, “Boss, wait…”

Jinshichi, his face tense with urgency, rushed out to the front in such a hurry that even putting on his geta seemed too slow for his frantic haste. He was clutching a newspaper.

“There’s something strange written here, but…”

When he took it and looked, it was the Wakamatsu Minyu Shimbun. The Minseitō Party’s official newspaper had a reporter named Kawakami Ken’ichi who daily promoted his party and attacked opposing parties. On the Seiyūkai side, there was the Kyūshū Minpō, where reporter Takano Teizō vigorously argued day after day.

At the spot where “Noro Jin” was pointing, “Molesters, swindlers, inhumane bosses—bury Tamai Kingoro!” There was a large banner headline. It was the front-page headline article. Somehow, they had investigated—the circumstances surrounding his adoption into the Kuroishi family in his hometown of Shikoku were written with exaggerated and distorted pen strokes, using the strongest possible language to vilify him. It claimed he had assaulted Yasu.

Kingoro gave a wry smile. “Operation Thunderclap has finally begun, hasn’t it?” Katsunori also laughed.

“Ah, good morning! Heading to work together?” When he turned around, it was Taniguchi Masakichi. He was pulling a horse-drawn carriage. He, too, was likely about to head out to work. Man’s brother Hayamasuke had died about six years prior. The eldest son, Masayoshi, became a cart driver. Like his father, he was as robust in physical strength, but he was too kind-hearted, and his work was barely average. Even so, once he became a cart driver, he managed to get himself a good horse fit for riding and was making a decent go of it.

He often said to Man, “Aunt, Aunt, you’re good at horseback riding—Father often talked about it—why don’t you ride? It’s a fine horse, I tell you.” he would say things like.

With a rattle, he went off, pulling the empty carriage. After stopping by the Rengō-gumi office once, Katsunori boarded a small transport boat and headed to the Genkaimaru worksite where cargo was being handled.

In the evening, a banquet hosted by Mitsubishi was held in the grand hall of Marukin. Marukin was located about two blocks away from Midoriya. Kingoro had taken a great liking to this restaurant and patronized it frequently because the Tamai Group's emblem featured a gold character within a circle. The guests numbered about ten, starting with the branch manager. The Rengō-gumi included executives such as Ōba Haruyoshi, Tanaka Mitsunori, and Makino Tōsaburō; lower-ranking leaders like Okano Matsushirō, Misaki Seijirō, Watanabe Kuniaki, and Kingorō; deckhand Shingaya Katsutarō; accountant Matsumaru Ryūzō; and others. With about ten geishas added, the banquet instantly became lively.

“Well now—let’s get along, support each other, and keep things peaceful.” Those vague words were repeated again and again amid the drinking.

While Kingoro was playing a game of fox, hunter, and village headman with the Mitsubishi deckhands, the waitress quietly tugged his sleeve. He stepped out into the hallway. “Boss, your son is here.” “I see. Then bring him here right away.”

“No, in the detached four-and-a-half-tatami room…” “Who with?” “With Hikaru-san… just the two of them.” Koyo—the head waitress now fifty years old—was short in stature and dark-skinned, petite in every way with a face resembling a small raccoon dog’s, yet she capably managed Marukin’s kitchen. Her white-streaked hair bore a dewy-fresh small round chignon tied in an endearing manner. Whispering furtively, she maintained an oddly grave expression.

“Have they been here since early?”

“Since around six.” “Did they arrange to meet here tonight?” “The day before yesterday, I got a call asking to reserve a room, so I kept it open.” “I thought maybe someone was coming with friends to drink.” “But then he came alone first, and later Hikaru-san arrived.” “Wasn’t Hikaru summoned through the usual channels?” “She must’ve lit her incense elsewhere. Or maybe she brought her own supplies—came without checking in at the geisha office.” “Not trailing her hem either—looks like she’s wearing regular clothes.”

“I see.” At breakfast, when Katsunori had said there was something in the way tonight, he understood the reason. He also understood the meaning behind the strangely perplexed expression Katsunori had shown when he mentioned holding the Mitsubishi reception at Marukin. Kingoro bit his lip.

However, Koyo had not come merely to inform him that Katsunori and Hikaru were there. She wasn’t one to be so tactless. A woman who had undergone shrewd training in the world of the flower and willow quarters knew a hundred ways in the art of “devouring lotus roots.” She had called Kingoro out from the banquet for a different reason. “Boss.” Then, she lowered her voice even further and leaned her face closer. “Hmm?”

“Somehow, things feel off tonight.” “It’s completely different from usual, so I was worried and came to inform you, Boss.” “What do you mean by ‘off’?…” “It’s hard to put into words, but… Boss, please go and see for yourself.” In the banquet hall, it had already become a rowdy uproar. With shamisen and even drums adding to the mix, the clamor threatened to split the air. Through the middle corridor where Kingoro and Koyo stood, waitresses carrying sake, geishas, drunken customers, and others frequently came and went.

The two went toward the detached room. They crossed the winding bridge corridor. In the bamboo grove, the wind rustled, and from somewhere came the sound of water falling into a spring.

“It’s the innermost room.” Guided by Koyo, he muffled his footsteps. The guilt of spying on his son’s rendezvous momentarily grazed Kingoro’s chest. The baseness of stealing a glimpse into someone’s secrets left his mouth gritty and dry.

(Should I stop?)

The thought suddenly crossed his mind. However, Koyo's words—"Things feel off"—still weighed on his mind. He couldn't say nothing had come to mind. The other night, when he'd gone net casting, he'd told his son about Hikaru having a fiancé. He'd also informed him that the marriage to this fiancé would take place next spring, with Tomoda Kizō acting as mediator. Katsunori had seemed unaware of this—so startled he'd let go of the scull. There was no doubt turmoil and change had arisen in his state of mind since that moment. Kingoro hadn't pressed deeply into the matter nor applied pressure; he'd been waiting for his son to reflect and act autonomously. Now he was about to witness that manifestation.

He stood in the corner of the corridor, his heart pounding, and listened intently. Inside the room was dead silent. Whether the two were there or not, all he could see was the bright electric light cast on the shoji; no sound or voice could be heard. It was so quiet that he turned to Koyo behind him,

“Are they here?” he asked in a whisper. “Of course they are.” Koyo answered with her eyes and nodded repeatedly.

After a prolonged silence, “I was a fool.”

Katsunori’s hoarse voice could be heard. “I’m sorry.” Hikaru’s voice was thin. “I trusted you alone, but… I knew the flower and willow world was full of lies, but you… I never imagined even you would lie.” “No.” Hikaru’s tone grew urgent. “That… When did I ever lie? What lie…?” “You had a fiancé.”

“Yes, there was one.” “Why did you hide it?” “That’s impossible. It’s impossible. If I’d spoken about that, I thought I’d never see you again. If I meant to be with that fiancé, I’d have quit being a geisha ages ago. Because I hate that person… and because I wanted to meet you… that’s why I stayed a geisha. To say I lied about that…”

Hikaru’s voice came haltingly, gasping, seeming to mingle with tears.

“Anyway, I was the fool. “I was a fool—that’s why I got tricked.” Words flung out. “If you say you were deceived… If you say such a thing, I… I have nowhere to stand. “I cast aside both gratitude and obligation, all to yearn for you, yet…”

Then, it fell silent again.

While Kingoro still held his breath, a violent sob arose in the room. It seemed to come from one person alone, yet also from two together—a plaintive sound resembling the torrent from a broken dam, where sorrow and anguish, though suppressed by some force of will, overflowed uncontrollably. Silence fell again. “See? It’s just as I said, right?” As if to say so, Koyo looked at Kingoro’s face.

Kingoro heaved an enormous sigh. "...I threw away both gratitude and duty..." Hikaru's words pierced through Kingoro's broad chest like a steel arrow.

In the room came a sense that someone had stood up. They seemed about to emerge. Kingoro hurriedly hid in the adjacent washroom. The seasoned Koyo abruptly composed her expression and feigned having just arrived. As the shoji slid open and Hikaru’s face appeared,

“I thought the liquor might’ve run out, so I came to check.” Koyo said.

Wiping her pale, tear-stained face with a handkerchief, “I’m going home now.” “Alone?” “No, together.”

Katsunori also came out. He hadn’t drunk any alcohol and wore an angry-looking scowl.

“Isn’t this too soon? Take your time now.”

“I’m leaving,” Katsunori said. “Koyo-san, Father’s in the hall, right?” “Yes, he’s here.”

“I was supposed to attend too.” “But I can’t go today.” “We ran into each other by accident—what a mess.” “Please don’t tell Father I was here.” “Yeah, yeah.” “If I go to the main hall and meet someone, it’ll cause trouble.” “I’ll slip out through the back garden gate—sorry, but I wonder if you could bring my geta over here?”

“Clandestine love sure is a hassle, isn’t it?” With that quip, Koyo crossed the bridge corridor and walked away. Hikaru followed after her. She seemed to be heading out toward the front from the direction of the cashier’s area. Tamai Kingoro, who had been hiding in the washroom, was startled by the apparent situation of Katsunori coming in to urinate. In a panic, he opened the toilet door and flew in. He pinched his nose, stood stiffly, and heard the sound of his son urinating. He had a hard time suppressing the impulse to burst out laughing.

(I'm a master of comic acting.) He had often witnessed humanity's profound secrets manifesting in inexplicably absurd expressions, but being cornered in a toilet was a first. (Well, if it's come to this...)

He decided to defecate.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot—” He heard his son’s forlorn voice mumbling while urinating. The toilet was clean, with a small alcove built into the front wall. A lily that appeared to have been grown in a greenhouse stood in a silver single-stem vase. Under the dim electric light, the white petals glowed with chaste clarity. Kingoro felt his heart grow solemn. (Once, Katsunori had said that if he were to get a tattoo, he’d have a dragon carved with its claw gripping a lily flower…)

He recalled the incident in the bath. And yet—though he hadn’t noticed it at the time—like a thunderbolt striking through shit-stained air, Kingoro now realized in that cramped toilet stall that when his son had spoken of lilies all those months ago at Marukin’s bathhouse banquet table cluttered with sea bream bones and empty ramune bottles—he’d been thinking of Hikaru. (My chrysanthemum was for Man...) Squatting over the hole while his bowels emptied into darkness below—the stench mingling with lily perfume from that absurd silver vase—he let this peculiar melancholy wash over him like Hakata Bay’s brackish tide. "But—!" His eyes suddenly narrowed into slits sharp enough to gut mackerel. (I can’t permit this betrayal. Not when Fujimoto’s marriage deal hangs over us like executioner’s blades. No excuses. The boy himself said he’d leave things to me once—a man keeps his damn promises.)

Kingoro's determination was firm.

Katsunori washed his hands and left.

“I’ll leave them here.” On the garden stone, Koyo aligned the wooden clogs. “Thank you… Koyo-san, here.” “It’s fine—you don’t need to worry about that.” “Well, it’s just how I feel.” “I see.” Koyo accepted the paper package Katsunori held out. Koyo took another look at the youthful face of the young man wearing an Ōshima haori and kimono. Within his gentle expression, along with unbearable anguish, something like a surge of extraordinary resolve could be discerned.

As Katsunori disappeared into the dark backyard, Kingoro came out. “Koyo-san, could you follow after him?” “If they commit lovers’ suicide, that’d be trouble, no?…” “That won’t happen.”

Kingoro returned to the hall. “Hey Boss, where’d you disappear to?” “Came tonight specially to hear your *jōruri*.” “Give us a show.”

The Mitsubishi Labor Section Chief, who was already quite drunk, raised his hand and shouted from near the alcove pillar.

Applause broke out. “Let’s begin.”

Having had a stand resembling a lectern brought over and fashioned an impromptu shoulder garment from newspaper, Tamai Kingoro took his seat at the front. There was no stage. With no thick performance frame available, he had the geisha named Tokuya hold a regular shamisen and positioned her on his left. Putting on a comical expression and using an absurdly exaggerated voice, he delivered the introductory address himself. “East and west, east and west! The jōruri performance you have all been awaiting: ‘The Alluring Figure: A Woman’s Dancing Attire.’ Narrated by Tayū Tamai Harushō, shamisen by Tokuya. Now begins the act of ‘Mikatsu Hanshichi’s Sake Shop’—with this announcement: east and west, east and west!”

This performance piece became like a fool’s single memorized routine. Ever since he was young, he had loved performing *gidayū* and kept at it, but perhaps he lacked talent—he never improved much. He never became a true practitioner and could at best muddle through as party entertainment at drinking gatherings. However, as he narrated, Kingoro could not suppress a wave of nostalgia. Long ago, during a mediation banquet for a fight with Ezaki Mankichi, on the stage of “Asuka,” with Okyo’s shamisen, he had narrated this. The events of that night were impossible to forget. Suddenly, he even experienced an eerie illusion—as if turning to look beside him, wondering if Okyo was there.

“……Wherever might Hanshichi-an be now…?”

Narrowing his eyes with a groan, he thought of Okyo—where she might be now, what she might be doing. As the applause subsided, another chaotic melee of flying cups erupted. Ōba Haruyoshi called to Kingoro. "A couple days back—Fujimoto came all the way from Yahata specially. Says he wants to invite you and me out. What d'you think?" "To Mr. Fujimoto's home?"

“No—in Beppu, there’s a villa with a hot spring. He said he wants to take us there.”

“Please put it off for a little while.” “Then let me know when suits you best. The other side’s thrilled about this marriage arrangement—my face has perked up too.”

Then, with serious expressions, they began discussing work. The Mitsubishi cargo handling issue might achieve a temporary lull through that night’s banquet, but the root problem would not be resolved. As long as the construction of coal-loading machines wasn’t halted, it would develop into a new problem and escalate significantly. Not only Mitsubishi but also Kaijima and Mitsui built coal-loading machines, and the mechanization of port cargo handling would inevitably lead to hardships in the livelihoods of coal handlers and unemployment. Ultimately, in the near future, they would have to confront issues of restructuring, career transition, and relief.

“When that happens, that Tomoda Kizō fellow will…”

Ōba wore a thoroughly bitter expression. "A cancer on the port, isn't it?" "It's not just a cancer—it's an ogre." "Well, let's save that talk for another time..." Tamai Kingoro had been evasive because several Minseitō Party members sat among them. The Rengō-gumi had begun as a cargo handling company and remained politically unaligned. Many executives and foremen had entered city councils or chambers of commerce over the years, but they scattered across Minseitō, Seiyūkai, and Neutral factions. This fragmentation complicated the Rengō-gumi's internal dynamics.

Makino Fujisaburō, an executive, was a distinguished champion of the Minseitō Party. He had a bold temperament but also composed tanka poems that weren’t particularly skillful. When it came to drink and women, he was second to none. He styled himself as Don Juan. Makino, at tonight’s banquet as well, “Tamai-kun, you should join the Minseitō Party. Even if you keep spouting pretty words about neutrality, you’ll never get ahead, no matter how much time passes.” And he repeated this countless times.

However, he did not get along well with Tomoda Kizō, who similarly persistently urged him to join the Minseitō Party, and in business matters—namely, the Rengō-gumi and Kyōdō-gumi—they were directly opposed. Even within the same Yoshida faction and the Minseitō Party, they were not all of one kind.

Makino Fujisaburō, too, “Tomoda, that metal-club-wielding bastard—a beast in human skin. It’s called a stomach ulcer, but I wish he’d just hurry up and drop dead already.” He would indulge in such extreme vilification while drunk. Amidst the singing, dancing, and wild revelry, Koyo came to summon Kingoro once again.

He went out into the hallway.

“Did they commit a love suicide?”

“I thought they might get desperate and do something foolish, so I desperately trailed them. The fog was so thick—luckily I wasn’t spotted—but their figures kept vanishing from sight.” “Terrible fog it was.” “This hardly ever happens—must be all the rainy weather since May began.” “Couldn’t see nine meters ahead.” “They walked side by side without saying a word, like ghosts.” “Straight toward the sea…”

Koyo, tailing Katsunori and Hikaru as they walked silently in circles around the town, found her nerves frayed. Though the fog was thick, staying undetected until the end proved difficult. Petite as she was, her short scurrying steps made her geta sandals clatter louder than necessary. In her haste to pursue them as a detective, she hadn’t even considered wearing quieter zōri. She regretted it now but couldn’t catch up. Still, she struggled to stay hidden while following their tracks.

Katsunori and Hikaru would occasionally stop when they reached a corner. They seemed to be deliberating—which way to go, what to do next. At such times, they peered through the fog toward where Koyo was. Koyo thought she hadn’t been discovered, but it seemed they had noticed her. In the fog, the dimly hazy electric lights resembled noctiluca. The red electric lights seeped out a much deeper crimson than usual. As they passed through Hamano-machi and headed toward the dark sea, Koyo grew worried. However, upon reaching where the sound of waves began, they turned back. They reentered the town area. They stopped at Sannai-machi’s corner. They faced each other.

Until then, Katsunori had not spoken a single word. Abruptly, he said:

“Let’s part here.”

“Are you going back?”

“Are you going back?” Hikaru asked in a lonely voice.

“Yeah… Goodbye.” Katsunori extended his right hand. He gripped Hikaru’s hand with a forceful grip imbued with some emotion. When he let go, he spun around and disappeared into the fog. In a dazed state, Hikaru watched until the man’s figure was swallowed by the fog.

Koyo watched her figure furtively and was reminded of O-Ro’s ghost from The Peony Lantern. She shuddered. Hikaru’s dejected form truly seemed about to vanish soundlessly into the fog. Hikaru hung her head and began walking with strengthless steps. She approached Koyo. Koyo hid behind a large movie advertisement billboard leaning against a telephone pole. Her petite frame fit entirely within. The billboard showed Kunisada Chūji—a child strapped to his back—swinging a great sword against crowds of arresting officers waving official lanterns, all painted in gaudy colors.

Hikaru passed by the billboard. Quietly, Koyo peeked out and watched her figure. Just as her back was beginning to fade into the fog, Hikaru spun around.

She was startled. She hurriedly pulled her face back. “Koyo-san, you idiot!”

No sooner had the voice—sharp as a thrown stone—sounded than suddenly, the clatter of geta sandals rapidly faded into the distance. By the time she dared to peek out again, there was nothing but fog…… “And then you came back here, is that it?” Kingoro asked. “No, there’s still more to come. Even if they part once, it ain’t like there’s no chance they’ll change their minds and meet again somewhere. Well, I’m too stubborn to quit easy either—before comin’ back here, I swung by ‘Rokuzoro’. Just like I figured—right as my hunch said—your son went to ‘Rokuzoro’ and had already started drinkin’ beer.”

“I see.”

“Boss, there’s still more.” “Your son spoke to Mr. Gen and had someone go fetch his friends.” “The usual drinking buddies—Mr. Hoshino Jun’ichi from the laundry shop and Mr. Iwashita Kiyomitsu from the railway inspection office—we sent a young woman out promptly.” “Drinking alone must be lonely.” “Boss, everything’s settled now.” Koyo reported every detail like a scout completing a major mission, then scurried down the corridor with a relieved expression.

Kingoro also felt relieved, but strangely, his heart felt sour and his mouth was unbearably bitter.

(It’s fine now—what’s fine about it?) Kingoro found himself assailed instead by an indescribable anxiety and mental fog. Yet since he’d been imagining Katsunori and Hikaru leaving Marukin for some secret rendezvous, at least their parting had lightened his spirits somewhat.

(Maybe Katsunori had resolved to break things off with Hikaru.) That seemed possible too. Yet even as he considered this outcome—which should have been most favorable for his own side—Kingoro found it strange that his own feelings remained clouded.

“Hey Boss—what’re ya doin’ standin’ ’round loafin’ in a dump like this? Everyone’s lookin’ for ya, I tell ya!”

Shintani Katsutarō, the deckhand, came staggering over and dragged him off toward the hall. “All right, I’ll dance the stevedore song!” Kingoro shouted like a man possessed. Applause broke out. Wakamatsu Port’s Gonzo is the flower, Stylish handwork

Japan’s number one…

Kingoro started dancing in a comical manner, mimicking the gestures of a tengu cargo handler.

Niwaka-za Theater had been bustling since morning. Given that preparations had long been underway for this very day, it was as though a hundred flowers had burst into riotous bloom all at once around the theater. The place was teeming with patrons.

"Wakamatsu Kenban Spring Recital"—from the large signboard to the banners and plaque-like signs, numerous instances of these characters were written everywhere. The front of the theater, both wings of the stage, and even the hanamichi were adorned with what could be called countless flower wreaths, many of which bore the names of their favored geisha. Amidst that beautiful artificial garden, a single particularly enormous flower wreath stood at the theater’s front, visible to all. On it was written, "To Hikaru-san—Tomoda Kizō." Next to it, one labeled "To Nekomaru-san—Dotera-baa" was lined up as if shoved aside.

Harada Kumoi stood before this flower wreath wearing a puzzled expression. He wore a formal montsuki haori jacket and hakama trousers. (Speaking of Hikaru—she must be the woman Katsunori-kun was talking about—but why on earth would Tomoda Kizō give such an outrageously large flower wreath to that Hikaru?)

Harada's face, as he tugged at his beard with a puzzled look, clearly conveyed that sentiment. He didn't understand. "Harada-san."

he was called out to— “Well now, Mrs. Tamai—here to see the show?” “Harada-san, even you came to watch such a dance?”

“But really, how dreadful.” “I’m quite the connoisseur myself, aren’t I?” “Why, I once kept nightingales singing for me in my prime.”

Man glanced at the flower wreaths in front of the theater. “Harada-san, do you know this geisha named Hikaru?”

Harada flustered, his eyes darting wildly, “I’ve never met her. Today, I thought I’d catch a glimpse of your face from afar. But when I look at this wreath—it seems Tomoda Kizō’s behind it… So Tomoda’s her patron now, you reckon?” “It seems Miss Hikaru has a fiancé and will marry that person next spring. They say Mr. Tomoda is mediating that arrangement.” “You’re remarkably well-informed, Mrs. Tamai.”

Even as he said this, Harada couldn’t help but steal a glance at Man’s face. Having been confided in by Katsunori about Hikaru and having taken responsibility for breaking off the engagement with the Fujimoto Group, he had been swiftly rebuffed by Kingoro. He had boldly told Katsunori to feel as if aboard a great ship, yet possessed no more authority than a skiff. Ever since then, though it weighed on his mind, he had avoided addressing the issue; but now, standing before that bizarre flower wreath, he realized the problem was far more tangled than he’d ever imagined.

“Good day,” Harada said, steering the conversation elsewhere as he found the topic uncomfortable. “Niwaka-za’s interior is quite lively.” “Geisha have all sorts of strings tied to them—black strings, red strings, blue strings—so it’s like sworn enemies sharing a boat; allies and adversaries all gather here.” “There might be quite a disturbance.” “In Wakamatsu, you can’t even watch a dance in peace.” “It’s a matter of life and death!”

Mori Shinnosuke and Shimazaki Yūji arrived.

Niwaka-za Theater was operated by Mori and Kumamaru Toraiichi. The theater proprietor was registered under Kumamaru’s name, but Shinnosuke held the real authority. Shimazaki also held shares.

Shinnosuke’s face turned pale, filled with extraordinary tension. This was because they had obtained information that the Tomoda Kizō faction, with Kurita Gingo as their commander-in-chief, was plotting sabotage against today’s Recital.

“Man-san, a moment.”

Mori Shinnosuke led Man alone to the side of the theater. In a tense tone that avoided drawing attention from those around,

“Is Kinsan here?” “Not yet, but he should be here soon.” “He said it’d be better to go together with the Rengō-gumi members.”

“When he comes, tell ’im—today might be when somethin’ big goes down for me, so keep your guard up.—Got that?”

“What kind of thing?”

“I don’t know yet what exactly it is. You know well there’ve been all sorts of disputes with the Tomoda faction over the performances for ages now, but four or five days back, Kurita Gingo came as Tomoda’s messenger and demanded we lend Niwaka-za for their election rally—wish they’d told us sooner. We’ve already promised both the Neutral Alliance and the Seiyūkai—day or night, not a single day is free… That’s what we told them. Then—whether they come early or late—we ain’t got no intention of lettin’ Minseitō use it, right? Hmph, seems your Recital bunch’s putting on a flashy show—but don’t come bawling to me later…” With that bold declaration, he left. “We’d steeled ourselves for that much at least—thought they were just spoutin’ hot air—but… seems like they’re plottin’ something downright nasty at today’s Recital. So then, Man-san—ask Kinsan to lend his strength. Tell him to stay vigilant and remain here until the end. Make sure you relay that properly. Right? …I’ll meet him directly and talk to him myself, but…”

“Understood.” Shinnosuke entered the theater through the ticket gate with Shimazaki. “Ah, so that’s Shimazaki Yūji, the ‘Chīhā.’ The man’s all puffed up—his whole body like a razor, seething with murderous intent.” “They say he’s got lung disease or something. Maybe his short life’s made him resent the world?” Harada Kumoi said this to Man—who had returned wearing a look of startled confusion—before both entrusted their shoes to the attendant and entered the venue.

Both the ground floor and the second floor were overflowing with people. Since all of them had brought boxed meals and alcohol for their viewing, the commotion went beyond lively to become tremendously boisterous. In each box seat, a small banquet was laid out, yet the entire theater seemed to host nothing less than a grand feast. At the group areas, they had removed the partitions between the box seats to create more space and drank freely. When the curtain opened, they grew somewhat quieter. The audience’s eyes turned toward the stage. However, from time to time, a vulgar Yaji would leap out, and the theater would erupt with laughter that filled the space.

The program advanced steadily, one act following the next. Slightly to the left from the center of the second floor, the Rengō-gumi had taken position. Kyōdō-gumi was in the right box seats on the ground floor. This seemingly ordinary seating arrangement was also born of Mori Shinnosuke’s painstaking considerations—while nothing could be done from the ground floor to the upper floor, from the upper floor, they could accomplish anything if they so chose.

Surrounding Ōba Haruyoshi were Kingoro, Man, and Katsunori. Alongside the Rengō-gumi were members of the Neutral Alliance—the so-called neutral faction. Inoue Angorō, Harada Kumoi, Nakamura Tsutomu, Kojima Umatarō, and others. “Boss Yoshida Isokichi hasn’t returned from Tokyo yet—looks like parliament’s still in session.”

While looking down at the first floor where Okabe Teizō, Tomoda Kizō, Nagatomi Monta, Kurita Gingo, Fujino Seiji, and other prominent bosses of the Yoshida family were gathered, Harada Kumoi said. “Bah!” he remarked with a bitter smile and guarded expression. “No matter where they’re stationed—if headquarters sends out some dangerous order—it’s no different than them being right here.” The Minseitō members weren’t particularly clustered together. Each had secured seats either through their affiliated groups or individually.

“Hey there! Want some ramune?”

Carrying a small box packed with ramune bottles, the female vendor pushed through the crowd. “Give me about thirty bottles of ramune.” Kingoro called out to her. The Rengō-gumi had many family members attending that day, so he’d placed this order for their sake. The husbands were drinking sake. Some already slurred their words. When told thirty bottles weren’t available, he bought every last one. After passing them out to the wives and children, Kingoro declared, “I’ve got a strong head for ramune!” Laughing at his own joke, he drank some himself.

“Well, well, Tamai-san, you’ve come, haven’t you?” A man in his fifties with a half-gray crew cut—perhaps heading to the restroom—passed through the narrow aisle and called out while flashing his gaudily aligned gold teeth in both upper and lower jaws. Yazaki Shinbei was the operator of the largest brothel called “Iroha” in the Rengamachi red-light district. This was the man whom the sharp-tongued Harada Kumoi always derided as “nothing but trash among Minseitō candidates—especially that uneducated, illiterate lecherous ape of a brothel owner.”

"Well now, Mr. Yazaki," Kingoro amiably turned and said, "the election’s finally drawing near, hasn’t it?"

“That’s right, sir. It’s such a nuisance again. When will the Neutral Alliance submit your candidacy registration?”

“I’m thinking we’ll submit it within four or five days.” “I ask you to go easy on me.” “Likewise.” “…And when will Minseitō?” “The registration?” “Indeed—we’re in no rush. We’ve decided seventeen of us will line up our pillows and run on the auspicious eighteenth.… Well then—” As Yazaki Shinbei left with magnanimous airs, Harada Kumoi clutched his stomach and burst into laughter.

“Bwahahaha! Just what you’d expect from a brothel owner—the things he comes out with are downright showy, I tell ya! Lining up pillows—that was rich, eh? What a masterpiece! He probably meant ‘lining up bits,’ but…”

Everyone joined in the laughter, and in no time, Yazaki’s quip became a topic for drinks.

Outside, dusk gradually deepened. The venue blazed dazzlingly bright with electric lights. The program progressed, and at last,

The curtain rose on "Kiyomoto: Evening Shower." At the center of the set stage stood a single houseboat; to its right were a weeping willow and a black curtain backdrop. On the right side lay a red-carpeted floor arranged with five local geishas in black formal attire, three singers at music stands, and two shamisens. At first when the curtain was drawn, there was no one on the stage. To ordinary audience members this stage was merely one scene in the program; but for Kingoro, Man, Katsunori, Harada and others—though varying for each—it held special interest. In silence they focused their own attention.

The drum’s rain-foreboding rhythm sounded as the shamisen and singing began. A single furled snake-eye umbrella emerged on the hanamichi. The two dancers’ upper bodies were enveloped within it. Their faces remained unseen. Maintaining this posture, they advanced from the hanamichi to center stage. Reaching the houseboat’s front, they unfurled the umbrella. There stood Hikaru in palace maid attire—a hand towel draped over her ornate bridal coiffure, swirling long sleeves adorned with five-heron hem patterns.

The woman playing the male role had her head under a wig base and wore a kimono with a bold striped pattern. After settling into their pose beneath the shared umbrella, the one playing the male role turned to face front.

Kingoro was startled. His eyes widened into saucers.

(Okyo...?) Twenty years old— Though I pass beyond, Romantic love…

Guided by the song and shamisen, the two moved fluidly across the entire stage as they danced. Graceful and beautiful. "The code strict as white jade, never moistened by dew—" It appeared to be a dance piece depicting an innocent palace maid—one who had been shielded from romance by prohibition—becoming flushed with the intensity of her first longing for a man. To the uncultured Kingoro, that was all the meaning he could grasp, but beyond that, his eyes remained fixed unblinkingly on the face of the woman playing the male role. And,

(It's Okyo. It must be Okyo.) At the end of doubt and bewilderment, he nodded clearly with a massive sigh, confirming that truth.

When he looked at the program, the dancers were listed as Tsumatarō and Hikaru. However, since Tsumatarō was a geisha at Asuka, Kingoro knew her well. It was completely different. It wasn’t particularly strange that Tsumatarō wasn’t performing—last-minute cast changes were common on show days—but if this replacement was Okyo, then even without Kochōya Mamehachi’s involvement, you’d have to call it “a major incident.” Still, it wasn’t impossible. Okyo was ever-changing, abruptly appearing in unexpected places—a master at startling Kingoro. He’d experienced it time and again. In Tokyo, Hannya no Gorō had blocked their meeting, but she’d sent a letter saying, “Surely someday soon we’ll meet.” Maybe she’d sneaked in and asked her old acquaintance Kimika at Asuka to suddenly replace Tsumatarō. True, her age seemed too young—but with stage makeup, hiding twenty or thirty years would’ve been nothing. Just before this Evening Shower performance, an elderly geisha named Miyokichi—nearly sixty—had disguised herself as Yaoya Oshichi and astonished everyone with her dewy youthfulness.

(What could Okyo be planning, coming here again?)

Feeling an unusual sense of unease, Kingoro glanced at Man beside him. Man, appearing uninterested in Okyo, was casting a strong gaze at Hikaru.

Katsunori was immersed in another thought. With a slightly bitter expression, he wrestled with his desolate feelings. (She was dancing so joyfully like that. Neither sadness nor suffering remained in Hikaru anymore. She didn’t seem to be thinking about me at all) To Katsunori, Hikaru’s dancing figure seemed utterly entranced within her art— (That’s how it should be. Ah, that’s just fine. We’re in separate worlds.) Such resigned emotions violently tossed him about as he endured the loneliness of Hikaru growing distant.

Violently shaken by such resigned emotions, he endured Hikaru growing suddenly distant with a lonely heart.

Amidst applause, the curtain closed.

“Father.”

Man looked back at Kingoro. Kingoro flinched.

“Huh?”

“Hikaru-san is quite a beauty, isn’t she? The other one—Tsumatarō-san—she’s lovely too.” “Yeah… suppose so…”

Katsunori stood up. He couldn't stay seated. He descended the stairs under the pretext of going to the restroom. He continued straight out through the gate.

“Hey, hey, Tamai youngster!” He was called out to.

It was a loafer-like man. He had been told there was something to discuss and was led to the dim back of the theater. A bespectacled university student shaped like a blue gourd waited there. “Brought ’im for ya.”

As if unable to wait for the loafer’s report, the youth wearing a hat with Keio University’s emblem— “Is it you—the man who’s been messing with my wife?”

He sprang forward as if on coiled springs, his entire body bouncing as he shouted. His voice was oddly hoarse. His breath reeked of nicotine. He must have been quite the heavy smoker; until then, he had been pinching the shortened gold-tipped cigarette between his yellowed fingertips, but with those words, he flung it far away. The lit cigarette drew a red line through the night air and seemed to land on something piled near the base of a tall red brick structure.

Katsunori intuitively realized this university student was Tsujiki Yōnosuke—Hikaru’s fiancé. Finding himself at a loss for words, he stayed silent. “You’re the young boss of the Tamai Group, aren’t you?” With an unnervingly polite yet mocking tone, Yōnosuke stretched only his neck forward like a turtle.

“Yes.”

Reluctantly, he answered. "This Wakamatsu crowd’s nothing but ill-natured lechers—can’t drop your guard for a second." "Tamai-kun, Hikaru is my lawfully wedded wife." "You ought to learn the difference between some flighty geisha and another man’s spouse." "What exactly is your relationship with Hikaru?" "There’s no relationship whatsoever." "If it’s merely customer and geisha dealings, I’ll let it pass." "But I won’t have you calling on Hikaru anymore."

"I won't call her." "Kindly withdraw cleanly."

“I’ll back off.” “You’re from Waseda, I hear—but you’re not actually planning to start a Waseda-Keio rivalry with me, are you? If you go mixing up love and baseball, it’s a real nuisance. Or should we try having a Waseda-Keio showdown and see who wins or loses…?”

“I lost.”

Yōnosuke, who had fully expected Katsunori to put up fierce resistance, seemed somewhat deflated by the unexpectedly timid response. However, he appeared thoroughly satisfied, convinced his opponent had yielded to the ferocity of his own assault and the might of his bodyguards. A victor's self-satisfied smirk spread blatantly across his grinning, pallid face.

One of the loafers who had been rolling up his sleeves sneered derisively, "Hmph. The old man's a coward, but the son's just as spineless, huh."

He sneered derisively.

“Excuse me.”

As Katsunori was about to leave, the lanky man called out, “Wait,” and issued commands to his subordinates. “As a warning for what’s to come, let’s give him a little taste of pain.” At those words, the ruffians with their arms itching rushed to attack Katsunori.

He tried to escape but was grabbed. After throwing the man off, he was struck hard on the shin with a piece of wood. It felt like his leg had broken. He collapsed. The enemy mounted him and tried to pummel him. Summoning all his strength, he sprang up and hurled his opponent in all directions. However, the moment he saw several short blades glinting in the faint light, he felt an intense, fiery pain in his left thigh. “Don’t kill him!”

Then someone’s voice rang out. At the same moment, the assailants scattered and disappeared into the depths of the unlit alley behind the theater. Kneeling on the ground with teeth clenched, Katsunori heard the distant sound of shamisen and drums flowing from the stage—music like something from a dreamworld.

Man left the Niwaka-za Theater.

She had come to see the "Recital" at Kingoro’s suggestion since the Rengō-gumi members were attending with their families, but when the curtain fell on "Evening Shower," she abruptly lost all interest in watching further. Looking back later, though she hadn’t clearly realized it at the time, it might have been Hikaru’s dancing—or rather, seeing Hikaru dance—that she had wanted to witness. As a mother, her desire to ascertain what sort of woman had captured her son’s heart was fierce.

And so, Man, entirely unaware, had simultaneously seen not only the woman her son was drawn to but also the one who held her husband’s heart.

“Are you leaving?”

To Kingoro, who asked,

“Chihiro was coming down with a fever again, so I was worried and couldn’t settle down to watch. It isn’t right to leave everything to Baban.”

Having answered thus, she stood up from her seat. Because she had gone in the opposite direction of the theater’s back alley, she didn’t know what had happened to Katsunori, who had left ahead of her. It appeared Tomoda’s group had formulated a plan from the very beginning to attack—each in some way—the three who had come to Niwaka-za: Kingoro, Man, and Katsunori. For this reason, blending in with the crowded audience, they had kept watchful eyes from somewhere and spied on their movements. Katsunori was the first to fall into that trap. Following Man as she exited the theater, two or three loafer-like men were also tailing her from behind.

When she emerged onto the bright Honmachi Street, she entered a bookstore and bought a few beautifully illustrated fairy tale books for her bedridden youngest child. At the fruit shop, she bought a few bananas and apples that Chihiro liked. Holding the paper package with both hands at her chest, she climbed the gentle slope of Asahi-dōri. This road was dark. Flanking a road about two ken wide on both sides stood high granite cliffs and brick walls. To the right was Anyōji Temple; to the left stood the Chikuhō Mining Association Office, a Meiji-era building with an old-fashioned spire. From the temple side rose a single ginkgo tree towering black even in night’s darkness, alongside tombstones and a bell tower.

(Will my twelve-year-old youngest son, who now delights in fairy tale books, one day reach adolescence and fall for beautiful girls again?)

And then, as she thought about how Hikaru, whom she had just seen performing in *Evening Shower*, was the same geisha she had once met at Old Cat Lady’s place, she reached the middle of the dark slope when— “Hey there, Mrs. Tamai.”

she was called out to.

When she turned around, three men swiftly surrounded Man.

“Do you have business with me?” “Well, if we ain’t got business, why’d we call ya out? There’s somethin’ I gotta tell ya for sure.” “I’ll hear you out.” “Make your brat Katsunori stop pawin’ at every girl in sight.” “Katsunori isn’t the sort to do such things.” “What if there’s proof?” “What proof?” “The girl who’s set to be someone’s wife—he’s gone and put a bun in her oven, they say…”

“Don’t spout such nonsense. Even if that were true, Katsunori would surely take responsibility.” “Take responsibility?…” “Yes—as a man should.” “Like child, like parent! Ah—so you put him up to it! Then I can’t forgive you.”

A stout, burly man exhaling alcohol-tainted breath grabbed Man’s left shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s obvious.” “You think you can get away scot-free after damaging someone else’s precious wife?” “Take this!” With his right hand, he struck Man’s cheek fiercely. At that signal, the other two also lunged at Man.

Man was kicked down to the ground. Even so, trying not to drop the paper package containing the picture books and fruits, she pressed it tightly against her chest. As a result, she lost her freedom of movement and was then mercilessly beaten. However, in the next instant, the three assailants fled as if erased. They seemed to have noticed a policeman approaching from afar, clattering his sword. They were quick to flee.

Man clenched her teeth and forced her aching body up. She brushed the mud from her kimono and tidied herself up. She picked up her scattered geta and put them on. One had a broken strap. Because her mouth felt foul, when she wiped it with a handkerchief, blood came from her gums.

The sound of footsteps drew near. The middle-aged policeman who shone his flashlight on Man wore a startled expression,

“Oh! Mrs. Tamai, what happened to you?” Man managed a smile. “I fell. “This place is dangerous. “Even though the waterworks left all these holes everywhere, there’s not a single streetlight…” “You don’t seem hurt, but…” “It’s nothing serious. “...Well, I’ll be going now.”

“Are you all right?” “I’m all right.” Man started walking, though she was far from all right. Every part of her body ached. Her kicked side throbbed; she might have sprained something and couldn’t walk without limping. The deserted night road’s loneliness proved a blessing. The policeman watched her with apparent concern for a moment before spinning sharply and descending the opposite slope. Listening to his retreating footsteps, Man bit her lower lip until it nearly split,

(I won’t lose to you all!) She screamed those unknowable words amidst intense fury. Her eyes, welling with tears, glinted glaringly and eerily. At the Niwaka-za Theater too, an unforeseen incident had occurred.

The next act after *Evening Shower* was *Fox Tadanobu*, but when the play reached its climax, the Kannon Hall set—massively constructed at center stage—collapsed with a thunderous crash. The geisha performing as Fox Tadanobu was Ayuji, patronized by Shimazaki Yūji of "Chīhā." In the stage wings stood an exceptionally conspicuous flower wreath labeled "To Ayuji-san—From Shimazaki Yūji." Stagehands clad head-to-toe in black moved fireballs atop long poles in sync with Tadanobu’s motions. When Tadanobu knelt before the hall’s latticework, settled into pose, and momentarily stilled himself, the roof suddenly swayed before plummeting down with devastating force. Ayuji leapt aside barely avoiding being crushed beneath it. Panicked stagehands abandoned their flaming poles and fled, letting flames instantly engulf the paper-walled hall.

The inside of the theater instantly descended into chaos.

To put out the fire, a large number of people rushed up onto the stage. Water drawn into buckets and pails was splashed on continuously. Some swung long poles around, trying to beat it out.

“Fire!” “Run!”

The audience pushed and shoved their way out of the venue in a frantic rush to escape first. Sparks soared up to the ceiling before raining down on the panicked guests scrambling below. With so many women and children present, shrill screams, wailing cries, and angry shouts swirled together chaotically—the horrific congestion truly resembled a scene from hell. The flower wreaths were trampled underfoot, scattering garish artificial blossoms everywhere.

Mori Shinnosuke carried buckets of water like a madman. “Damn… damn,” he ground his teeth. Kingoro also helped.

“I never thought they’d go this far.”

Shinnosuke shouted with a furious expression. They knew Kurita Gingo’s gang was up to no good, but collapsing the stage was beyond anything they could have imagined. They had been on strict guard, yet their expectations had been completely off. The skilled stagehands who handled the equipment knew the critical points of the assembled set. They knew exactly which nails, wedges, clamps, or binding ropes needed removing to collapse the set; if someone intended, they could accomplish anything. The Kannon Hall had apparently been rigged as a suspended set piece. Due to the suspension ropes being cut, it appeared to have fallen in an instant. It was clearly premeditated.

It was only when the hall collapsed that Shinnosuke realized what had happened. (Who did this?) Like a madman, while working to put out the flames, the faces of the theater's stagehands surfaced and vanished one after another in Shinnosuke's mind.

(Could it be him?)

He recalled a particular face, his eyes glinting. They had been short-staffed and hired four or five people temporarily without proper vetting; that must have been when an enemy infiltrator slipped in. A man around forty years old, small in stature with a tattoo of Iwami Jūtarō on his back—this man, known only as "Saku-yan"—was deemed suspicious.

“Shinnosuke, it’s about to die down!”

Kingoro, who was desperately helping, called out in an upbeat tone to cheer up his close friend.

“Yeah, I’m grateful. If it would just go out with this much…”

However, something unexpected occurred. Even though the stage fire was about to subside, a new blaze rose from behind the theater. The chaos redoubled. “They set a damn fire!” Shinnosuke’s face twisted into a demon-like visage. The fire bell began to ring. The fire brigade came rushing out. Hand pumps were lined up. Toward the ferocious flames that raged endlessly, countless water lances were poured from all directions—front, back, left, and right. Firefighters in sashiko-patterned coats, holding fireman’s hooks, sprang into action.

Stripped to the waist, Kingoro helped carry out backstage luggage from the dressing rooms. The arriving subordinates waved Tamai Group lanterns as they darted about. The long-sleeved shirt he wore even in summer to hide his tattoo snagged on something and tore. Through the rent peered a dragon's face with blazing eyes and a chrysanthemum clutched in its claw.

As Kingoro reached for the costume trunk, someone struck him on the head from behind with a fireman’s hook. “Agh!”

The cry escaped him before he could stop it. He thought something was about to fall on him. Had the sharp tip of the fireman’s hook pierced his head, it was unclear whether he would have survived. The chaotic narrowness of the place likely threw off their aim—and perhaps the attacker’s own agitation played a role. However, since the base of the fireman’s hook struck the back of his head with full force, Tamai Kingoro felt dizzy. In an instant, he realized someone was attacking him; turning around, he grabbed the handle of the fireman’s hook with his right hand.

“Who the hell are you?” The figure wore full firefighting gear. A fireman’s hood shrouded his head and face completely. Only the eyes showed through, but Kingoro couldn’t make out who it was. Realizing his strike had failed, the man ducked his head. “Put out the fire before trying to kill me!” With that retort, Kingoro flung the fireman’s hook back at him. The attacker bolted toward the flames. He touched his head. Thick blood coated his fingers. “Goddamn mess,” he muttered.

A wry smile welled up on his face. Noticing the dragon and flower peering from his torn left sleeve, he hastily draped the kimono over just his left shoulder. Sparks mingled with pump water that cascaded like a torrential rain. He became drenched to the bone. Hoisting the half-moved costume trunk onto his shoulder, he rushed toward the evacuation shelter. The fire’s ferocity showed no sign of abating. Beyond the traffic-blocking ropes cordoning off the area, onlookers packed tightly together. Wearing expressions that seemed to declare “The bigger someone else’s fire, the better the show,” they stared at Niwaka-za Hall as scarlet flames roared upward while continuing to spread. Officers clutching lanterns barked orders as they managed crowd control and security.

As he ran, Kingoro thought he saw Okyo’s face among the crowd. He startled and came to a halt. By the time he looked again, it had vanished.

“Damn… damn.”

The ashen-faced Mori Shinnosuke kept muttering those same words like a delirious chant.

Kumamaru Koichi had also collapsed limply onto the luggage that had been carried out, his mouth hanging open like a fool as he simply panted.

By the dead of night, the fire was finally extinguished. Niwaka-za Theater was completely destroyed by the fire, but due to the high red brick walls surrounding its rear, the spread to neighboring buildings was minimal. Shimazaki Yūji, having drawn his sword, apparently chased Kurita Gingo until morning, but since the latter had gone into hiding, it seemed no fight had broken out. The lively and beautiful recital came to a close with such a gruesome conclusion.

Nevertheless, the incident was being buried in an extremely murky fashion. Saku-yan—whom Shinnosuke had pegged as the culprit who cut down the hanging props—had vanished without a trace since that night. Yet even that enemy agent might not have planned to start a full-blown fire. The operative who discarded the incendiary device was actually an honest man Shinnosuke had trusted. The fresh flames erupting from the rear had to be arson—of that there was no doubt. Still, no evidence remained. Though it seemed a cigarette Tsujiki Yōnosuke had tossed aside while threatening Katsunori had sparked the blaze, not a soul had noticed this crucial detail.

“What the hell are the police doing? This is no different from having no police at all! Are they the Yoshida faction’s private police force?” No matter how fiercely Shinnosuke ground his teeth or seethed with frustration, in the end, it seemed he had no choice but to swallow his grievances.

The next morning, Harada Kumoi came to visit the Tamai household. In front of Norojin’s tofu shop, he met Katsunori. The young man was in his usual workman’s coat but leaned on a thick oak cane and walked with a severe limp.

“What in the world happened?”

Harada asked with a surprised look. “Last night, I got drunk and fell into a ditch.”

“That’s dangerous! Where were you hurt?” “In my left thigh... There’s something like pieces of a tin can...” “With that limp, you can’t go to the offshore site. You should rest.” “No, there’s no dockwork today. It’s about the labor union—the Bossin crew from Rengō-gumi are supposed to meet. ...Well then.” “Take care on your way.” After watching Katsunori—walking with an unsteady gait—disappear around Sanfuku-yu’s corner, he entered through the front door.

“Excuse me.” “Yes?” Man, apron-clad and holding a broom, came out limping heavily. It seemed she had been sweeping the tatami room, but now she was using the broom as a cane and grimacing in pain. “Oh! Madam, what happened?” “Last night, on my way back from watching the dance performance, I ended up falling down on Anyōji Hill.”

“Well—that place has had the waterworks construction left half-finished, making it dangerous, you see. They need to clean it up quick and put up streetlights.” “Like I said, I’ve protested to the city hall five, even ten times, you see.” “…I see.” “…And Tamai-san?”

“He’s in the garden. Please.”

Harada went up and headed toward the garden.

Kingoro had rolled up his trousers and stepped into Hyōtan Pond, scooping goldfish with a hand net. In a large tub beside him, carp, crucian carp, turtles, and other creatures from the pond had been gathered. He appeared to be preparing to change the pond water. On the sun-warmed veranda, four or five cats sprawled lazily while a birdcage perched atop a snow-viewing lantern’s canopy held two Japanese white-eyes chirping incessantly. Noticing the bandage wrapped around Kingoro’s head, Harada asked, “What happened?”

“Last night, I took a tumble at the fire.”

“Well now, last night was an unlucky day for the Tamai household.” “Katsunori-kun and Man both said they took a tumble.” “It’s rare for a parent and child trio to all take a tumble like that.” “Just took a tumble, so it’s fine.” “You should be careful not to take a tumble yourself, you know.”

“I may not look it, but I don’t tumble easily. When I do tumble, I won’t get up without a fight.” Harada laughed heartily and sat on the veranda edge, but their conversation lacked focus.

“Tamai-san.”

“Huh?”

“As for last night’s fire—that must have been ordered from the Yoshida headquarters in Tokyo.”

“Who knows?” “I don’t think Boss Yoshida would go that far.” “I suspect it’s the scheming of underlings—ones even Mr. Yoshida and Tomoda Kizō aren’t directly involved with.” “Though I say that, in the end it comes to the same thing, but…”

Tamai Kingoro, Man, and Katsunori agreed never to disclose the previous night’s incident to anyone else. It was better not to speak of it even to those within their circle. If even their subordinates were to find out，there was no telling what acts of revenge they might commit. They gritted their teeth，avoided petty conflicts，and resolved to devote their full strength to a more crucial battle—parent and child were of one mind.

Parent and Child

The bell of Anyōji Temple rang, vibrating the quiet night air. It seemed to be nine o'clock.

In the perfectly clear starry sky, the Milky Way lay stretched overhead as an exceptionally bright, shimmering band.

From Hamano-cho, passing by the post office, Kingoro and Kimika walked side by side talking as they headed toward town. It was on their way back from consulting Harada Kumoi about legal matters concerning the Niwaka-za fire incident.

Kingoro was talking about the "Evening Shower" dance,

“I was truly surprised,” he said. “Okyo’s just like a ninja.” “Truly,” Kimika nodded with a sigh. “I was astonished by how abrupt Okyo-san was. On the day before the recital, she suddenly showed up… Let me see—it must be twenty-five years since then, right? There was no way around it—since it was her lifelong wish to perform ‘Evening Shower,’ she insisted… and replaced Taro-san.”

“Just as I thought,” “…And then?” “Then with all that commotion—the hut burned down and everything ruined—she came all the way from Tokyo to see you, Kingoro-san, but decided to go back once more… Oh dear…” “Did she return to Tokyo?” “After being away so long, she saw how things were in Wakamatsu… but more than anything, she first wanted to know about you… With the mess of settling Niwaka-za’s aftermath and the election chaos… she said she couldn’t distract Kin-san during such times—so… early the next morning after the fire…”

“Did she go back?” “Once the election’s over, she’ll come back to start fresh, I tell you.” “Hmm…?”

As elusive as ever, Kingoro thought, feeling an ominous premonition about Okyo’s next appearance. (What could Okyo be thinking? What could she be planning to do?)

However, even amidst that anxiety, his desire to meet her once was strong. Kingoro did not notice that Kimika was hiding some significant secret. “I’ll leave you here.”

With that, Kimika parted ways with him at the corner where the gate lantern of the women’s hairdresser’s shone.

When Kingoro approached the front of the Public Hall, someone called out to him from behind.

He turned around. “Boss Tamai, could you spare a moment?”

He was a hulking man with a roguish air. He wore a hunting cap. Not this again, he thought, clicking his tongue in annoyance, but followed as he was led to the dark area behind the Public Hall.

About twenty ruffians came swaggering out. They surrounded Kingoro. The man in the hunting cap barked an order.

And all of them drew their swords.

With a whistling sound like a draft wind, the tips of drawn Japanese swords—twenty-odd blades—were thrust toward Kingoro at the center. Illuminated by the faint light leaking from the Public Hall’s custodian’s room, the neatly arranged swords resembled a row of white leeks at a greengrocer’s stall. The sword-drawing group, as if someone had given a command, all stripped to the waist. Not a single one wore a shirt, and even in the dim light of night, one could see that all the men’s bare skin bore various tattoos.

Kingoro gave a wry smile. (I may be a master of farce myself, but it seems there are actors on the other side who won’t lose to me.)

He felt no sense of danger whatsoever. Kingoro had keenly discerned they bore no intent to kill. Yet stifling his urge to laugh behind a strained scowl, he spoke in a voice feigning tremor: “Quite the elaborate show to frighten me—but what’s your aim?”

“This isn’t intimidation.” “Depending on the circumstances, we will take your life.” Tamai Kingoro thought he had met this tall man who seemed to be their leader—a forty-year-old—somewhere before, but he couldn’t recall a clear memory. Now that he thought of it, all the yakuza members’ faces seemed vaguely familiar, yet he didn’t know a single one of their names. On the leader’s arms were tattoos of Chinese lions. He was a man with an unnervingly calm demeanor and overly polite speech, his eyes gleaming white even in the dim night light—someone who exuded a fearsome air. He must have been the director of tonight’s performance.

“By ‘depending on the circumstances,’ you mean…?”

Kingoro asked, keeping his hands tucked in his sleeves. Keeping his hands tucked in his sleeves was undoubtedly dangerous, but the enemy’s theatrics had rubbed off on him.

“I am merely a messenger, so I will only relay the message.”

“Let’s hear it.” “Please join the Minseitō Party.” “I won’t.” “Tonight is the final warning.” “The election is fast approaching.” “The Minseitō Party will file simultaneously on the 18th—an auspicious day—while the Neutral Alliance plans to do so slightly earlier. Before you file as part of the Neutral Alliance, we’re thus making this final appeal.” “I’ll say it once more—join the Minseitō Party.” “So if I refuse, you’ll kill me here and now—is that it?”

“That’s correct.” “Then I guess there’s no choice. Kill me.” “You’re really willing to die rather than join us?” “Boss Yoshida’s acting rather petty.” “I can’t understand why the great Minseitō Party would bother obstructing some nobody like Tamai Kingoro.” “Whether I’m in the Neutral Alliance or not makes no real difference to their strength.” “Justice doesn’t hinge on individuals.” “Even if you slaughter me here tonight, justice won’t disappear.” “No—what’s interesting is how my murder will take shape and flare up afterward. I’m already a dead man walking. My wife and kids know crossing our threshold means facing seven... no, a hundred or two hundred enemies out there. This outcome was inevitable from the start. So make it clean—slice me up however you like.”

Even Kingoro began to show theatrical affectations, his words acquiring an odd, script-like rhythm. This self-deprecating resignation then propelled him further into unrestrained absurdity.

He stripped off his clothes. After taking off his shirt and exposing his tattoo, he lay down on the ground. When he lay on his back, the night sky studded with countless stars opened up directly before his face. This was the first time he had ever gazed at the night sky in this manner. It was beautiful. Each glittering star seemed alive. The galaxy’s great band gathered its light densely, running north and south, appearing so near it might fall if one raised a hand to brush it away. For a moment, Kingoro felt as though he had entered a fairy-tale realm—a dreamlike sensation. He forgot that twenty swordsmen stood surrounding him.

“That’s good resolve.” The human voice dragged him back to reality. Lying spread-eagled, he looked around. Each of the twenty swords reflected the stars. “Hurry up and come at me, won’t you?” He urged them mockingly. This time, there was no reply. Kingoro floated a faint smile and closed his eyes. (What the yakuza do is always the same.) Threats, assassinations, duels—how many dozens of times had these been repeated? Yet through their crude simplicity and danger, they had always treated human life—that most precious thing—with contempt. It would be fair to say Kingoro had spent half his life seething over that very fact. And now, having received these theatrically violent threats from those who overrelied on force, his contempt for them burned stronger still. At the same time—

(Tch. They have no real intention to cut me down, yet…) A sense of contempt for his opponents welled up within him.

However, for some reason, Kingoro was suddenly struck by a chilling shudder that ran through his entire body. He opened his eyes. The eerie silence that had fallen around him was unnerving.

Kingoro gasped. He sat up abruptly. Though twenty men still held drawn swords just as before, a terrifying murderous intent—absent when he had closed his eyes—now permeated the canopy of blades. Most unnerving were the leader’s eerily glowing eyes and the sword that seemed poised to pierce him at any moment. Kingoro held his breath. No words came. He tried swallowing the dry saliva in his mouth, eyes darting wildly. A surge of terror abruptly welled up within him.

(They’re seriously trying to kill me.) He had clearly realized it. However, he couldn’t understand the reason for that sudden change. Kingoro suddenly sensed danger and assumed a defensive stance. The leader who had been glaring at Kingoro with fierce eyes clicked his tongue in frustration, then sheathed his Japanese sword with a sharp clack. “Alright men, fall back.”

At that command, the men sheathed their swords in unison. They disappeared into the dark hedges along the wall in a line.

“Please put your clothes back on.”

Being told this, Kingoro put on his kimono. He stood up. He felt an unfamiliar pressure from the man in the bird-hunting hat - something he had never experienced before. (Not from around here.) (Who is he?)

That doubt grew stronger.

“Boss Tamai.”

After covering the karajishi tattoo, the man called out in a calm tone.

“Huh?”

“That was a close call.” “You narrowly escaped death.” “Since I’m just a mercenary hired for money, threatening you was all part of the job… But if you hadn’t been Tamai Kingoro-san, I might’ve actually cut you down.”

At the enigmatic words, Kingoro simply stared silently at the man. The strange man adopted a somber tone, as if speaking to himself,

“About fifteen years ago, I cut down a boss who’d shown me great kindness. I was just remembering that.” “We’d clashed over some matter.” “When he started hurling insults, my hot-blooded younger self lost control and drew my dagger.” “Then my boss sneered—‘Planning to kill me?’” “‘Fine! This’ll be amusing.’” “‘I’ll let you cut me down.’” “‘Go on—strike wherever you like.’... Just like you did earlier, he stripped to his tattoos and lay spread-eagled.” “‘Think you can cut me?’ He looked at me with utter contempt.” “Of course I’d drawn the blade in the heat of the moment, but I never meant to actually strike him.” “But when he kept taunting—‘Go on then, cut me!’” “‘If you can do it, try!’” “‘You can’t do it.’” “...Seeing him mock me like that—I ended up cutting him down.” “That’s what happened.” “……My apologies.”

The man bowed courteously, then strode briskly down the front path of the Public Hall. Having lost any words to call after him, Kingoro stood transfixed. Only when the man’s retreating figure vanished into the night-clad streets and the clack of his geta faded did Kingoro regain his senses. An involuntary sigh—vast and shuddering—escaped him. (What in blazes was that?)

He burned with anger at his own foolishness. It felt like being brutally slammed to the ground by a shoulder throw. That pretentious, affected heroic pose—the sheer ugliness of his earlier demeanor made him want to retch.

(But still—who was he?)

It was a crisp Tokyo dialect, unfamiliar in these parts. Kingoro suddenly remembered Hannya no Gorō. Then, some inexplicable memory buried in his subconscious suddenly activated, taking Kingoro back to Asakusa in Tokyo. The thought that he had seen him before—perhaps it had been in Asakusa. By Hyōtan Pond, he felt sure the man had been among the thugs who attacked them as Hannya no Gorō’s underlings. And there was no mistaking it—the resemblance to Hannya no Gorō was uncanny.

(Was he Gorō’s child?)

However, why Hannya no Gorō's son had been asked by Yoshida Isokichi to threaten me—I couldn't understand. He'd secretly been grateful for having important life principles taught by Old Man Gorō without realizing it, but had he now been given another lesson from the son? It was a strange twist of fate. Bitter smiles kept welling up.

(Could he have come with Okyo?) It didn't seem impossible. "I'm such a fool." Kingoro's face twisted as if on the verge of tears, and he began walking with a listless gait.

He emerged into Nishishinmachi and ducked under the noren curtain of Rokuzoro. “Hey, Boss, you alone?” Genjū, who was making sushi, noticed Kingoro’s unusual lack of vigor and had a suspicious look. “Yeah, give me a cup of hot sake.”

“Boss, Shin-san from Mori’s here upstairs. Not comin’ up?”

“Is he drinking again? Every night, isn’t it?” “Since Niwaka-za burned down, things have been in utter chaos—no wonder.” “...Since you’re alone, go on up.” “No, here’s fine.”

He didn’t want to feel any more miserable.

When mid-May passed, the town suddenly stirred to life.

Throughout the streets, candidates’ billboards, posters, and such were put up, and campaign flyers were distributed. Voting was to take place on the 31st, with the votes to be counted the following day, June 1st. Aiming for that fateful day, each faction and candidate deployed their respective tactics; with each passing day, the entire city grew more tumultuous, and as election day approached, the streets became filled with an air akin to murderous intent.

“I wish this election would just end already.” At the Tamai household, Man muttered the same thing every day with a sullen face. “Once June first comes, it’ll all be over whether they like it or not.” When Kingoro said that and laughed, “I feel like running away sometimes. The election’s truly vile. People’s eyes turn into foxes’ eyes, raccoon dogs’ eyes, monkeys’ eyes—even wolves’ and tigers’ eyes. Nothing but violations everywhere. How can anyone trust politics run by people who get elected like this?”

However, while voicing such grievances to her husband, she received the gathering crowds with warm courtesy and smiles. She efficiently managed the constant flow of people entering and exiting without congestion.

A sign reading "Strict Neutrality: Tamai Kingoro Election Office" was hung in front of their home in Shōhōji Town. The calligraphy had been done by Kawai Shōki—a long-bearded elderly man who was both a calligrapher and a teacher at the elementary school their children had attended. It was said that any candidate for whom Mr. Kawai wrote a signboard was certain to win. ...At some point, such a strange legend had emerged, and while there were many who sought his services, the principled old teacher would only write for candidates he deemed worthy. Even if they brought stacks of bills, he refused. Harada Kumoi had also had one written for him, but he patted his Hotei-like belly, his bearded face breaking into a smile as he declared, “This time, there’s absolutely no doubt about victory,” brimming with confidence.

Harada made sure to show his face at Kingoro’s election office at least once a day. He reported on the situation and discussed strategies. While playing Go,

“The 58th Diet ended on the 13th, but at the last minute, they’d gone and started another mudslinging match. What a disaster!” “A massive brawl—a hand-to-hand melee. Raomaki Keikichi, the Minseitō Party’s general affairs chief, got beaten by Seiyūkai’s Shiga Watari and injured.” “That disciplinary committee turned into another fight—they cut the lights and went wild.” “From the start, it was one disgrace after another, but that farce of a Diet somehow pulled off a grand finale.” “Like they forced Boss Yoshida Isokichi to sell his soul.”

“Mr. Inoue mentioned that Boss Yoshida has returned to Wakamatsu, but…” “They’ll get all seventeen candidates elected by any means—the General himself is running the show.” “The police act like their private army—bribes, banquets, threats, door-to-door coercion—they’ve got free rein.” “Tamai-san, optimism’s a luxury we can’t afford.” “They’re gunning for heavyweights—meaning you and Mr. Inoue need eyes in your backs.” “From what I’ve dug up, their methods this time leave no stone unturned.”

“For example?...” “The ward chiefs, sanitation group leaders, and small group leaders—most are Minseitō. If they use these guys as their hands and feet, they’ll be unstoppable. The small group leaders take their members to vote, make them copy their chosen names onto blotting paper, then check them later. Votes generally go for fifty sen to two fifty, but on voting eve, they target key districts with five-yen bribes like real ammunition. When that happens, the police chief summons every officer for three or four hours of ‘election guidance.’ Empties out the whole city. When it’s Emperor Yoshida’s divine command, they’ll pull off any damn thing.”

“Would they really go that far?” “If we judge the opponent by our own standards, it’ll lead to catastrophe. When dealing with that kind of enemy, unless we develop resolve so ruthless it’s downright vile, we won’t keep pace. We’ve planted our own spies too—we know most of what’s happening. Tamai-san, you must stay vigilant. They’ve scoped out your and Mr. Inoue’s bases and aim to devour every last vote.”

“What? No matter how many enemies come at us, we’ve got votes that ain’t budging.”

“The Neutral Alliance candidates all seem pretty weak.”

“I’ll distribute my votes appropriately.” “Even if only I and Mr. Inoue get elected, it won’t mean a thing.” “We need even one more comrade to win.” “Harada, I’ve set aside about thirty votes for you too.” “Much obliged.” “With that many votes coming my way, it’ll be like arming a demon with an iron club.” “I’m about to lift the lid on the battle of words.” “I intend to lay bare before the citizens—thoroughly—the Yoshida faction and the Minseitō Party’s history of tyrannical crimes.” “The municipal bus procurement scandal, public hospital corruption, Wakato ferry bid-rigging, Wakamatsu-Shimagō merger disputes, unfair tax collections, water rate cuts, and now this Niwaka-za arson case—material’s plentiful as rice grains. …Speaking of which—how about having Mr. Katsunori speak at the rally day after tomorrow?”

Kingoro momentarily lowered his eyes but, "I'll tell him." "He'd known from the start I'd back you full force."

“He seems to be acting as chief of staff for my friend Mr. Nakamura Tsutomu.” “Yeah, he hasn’t turned twenty-five yet—no voting rights.” “Nakamura’s twenty-seven, youngest of the candidates—made Tochimura Taro-san his puppet campaign manager while Katsunori pulls the strings... But... Truth is, that boy’s got his heart set on leaving for Tokyo right away, but...” “Now why’s that again?”

“It’s about Hikaru—the matter I heard from you some time ago.” “Given up?……”

“I can’t say for certain, but could it be he’s come to feel that way? He said he wanted more time to think about the autumn wedding with the Fujimoto Group, but at any rate, it seems he’s resolved to part ways with Hikaru. So he must be feeling lonesome after all, I suppose. He’d apparently asked Man to let him go sightseeing in Tokyo for a while. In Tokyo, there are many friends from his Waseda days—he probably means to distract himself. Man said to me—‘Since Katsunori’s in such a sorry state, how about letting him go on a trip for a while?’ …Seeing how things stand, I agreed it’d be best to let him go. But with the election underway—me and Mr. Nakamura both running as candidates—he seems concerned about that too and still stays home. It appears he means to leave for Tokyo right after the election ends.”

“Hikaru-kun... So he’s truly resigned himself to letting go, has he?” “What exactly he’s feeling—there are parts even I still can’t quite grasp.” "But if he’d set his mind to marrying into the Fujimotos, everything would settle neatly." “I wouldn’t have to ruin Ōba no oyakata’s reputation either, and it’d all work out…”

“Asking Mr. Katsunori for a campaign speech when he’s like this… I can’t help feeling conflicted.” “But we’re at the brink between victory and defeat—I must insist.” “Well then… until next time.”

Harada Kumoi left as if stirring up a gust of wind.

Right after Harada left, Ōishi Tsurumatsu arrived. He wore an angry-looking grimace. Standing squarely in his path, he suddenly—

“Tamai-san, please let me resign as election campaign manager.”

Kingoro was startled,

“What’s this, Ōishi-san? So abruptly?…”

“It’s not abrupt at all, I tell you.” “The reason I took on the role of election campaign manager was solely to get you elected—I’ve strained every last bit of my meager wisdom and strength to keep at it this whole time.” “But I can’t do it anymore.” “Why?”

“No matter how much I tell you, you don’t listen and keep splitting the votes around.” “I fully understand your feelings about not wanting our comrades to lose.” “I do find that sentiment admirable.” “But if you keep doing that, you’re putting yourself in danger.” “Votes—they’re fundamentally uncertain things—but this time the enemy’s encroachment is fierce, I tell you.” “This is no joke.” “I’m determined not to let even one vote slip away and am struggling desperately to hold on.” “Yet here you are, splitting votes left and right—what purpose do I serve as campaign manager anymore?” “You might call it optimism, but I see this ending in defeat.” “If you don’t stop splitting votes, I’ll have to ask you to dismiss me.”

“If the election campaign manager gets angry at me, I’ll be in a bind.” “Then let’s stop the vote distribution at this point.”

Kingoro forced a wry smile and reluctantly answered.

“If you’ll do that for me, I’ll give it my all.”

Ōishi Tsurumatsu finally recovered his good humor.

Next to the Tamai house stood a bathhouse called "Sanfuku-yu" (Three Fortunes Bath). This had been started about ten years earlier as a joint venture by Ōishi, Kingoro, and a pawnbroker named Yamamoto Shishirō—hence the name "Three Fortunes Bath"—but was later transferred solely to Ōishi. Nearly sixty years old, Ōishi was a bald, imposing figure who remained stubborn yet sincere in character, which was why Tamai Kingoro had him serve as campaign manager every election. Ōishi Tsurumatsu noticed the Go board before Kingoro,

“First match—let’s avenge yesterday’s loss.” With that, he immediately took the black Go stones. Just as they had started playing, Man came in carrying tea. “Ōishi-san, you must be exhausted every day…”

“It really is exhausting. Whenever there’s an election, I always lose about fifteen pounds.” “Dear,”

With that, Man turned toward Kingoro. “Huh?”

“Is tonight’s speech rally at the Public Hall?” “That’s right.” “Maybe I should go hear it?” “You don’t need to listen to my speeches. After thirty years together, you must’ve heard enough of my ramblin’...” “True enough.” “I know what you’ll say before you open your mouth.” “But I’ve got business out there.”

“What kinda errand?” “I hear there’s someone who never misses coming to listen whenever you have a speech rally?”

“There could be someone like that.” “A woman?” “A woman?… There’s no woman.” “I can’t say for sure without meeting her, but they say she’s quite the stylish beauty.” “…That person—couldn’t she be the female pickpocket boss who once sent your wallet back from Tokyo?… I can’t help but feel that’s the case, though…”

Ōishi made a strange face and, still holding a black stone, “Heeh? Is that a female pickpocket?”

“Well… Ōishi-san, you’ve noticed that woman too, have you?” Kingoro, slightly flustered, asked. “I have noticed.” “At first, I didn’t think much of it, but since it happens every single time, even someone as slow as me started to find it strange.” “When there’s a large crowd, she can blend in unnoticed, but in smaller venues with fewer people, that woman stands out immediately.” “Even so, somehow trying to hide from Tamai-san’s eyes, she’d bury her face in a shawl or peek out from the corridor entrance.” “Everyone—what could that woman be? “‘...saying, “What could that woman be?” we were discussing it.’”

“Look here,” Man laughed. “The only one who hasn’t noticed is you.” “Is that so,” said Ōishi, placing a stone with a forceful click, “the female pickpocket boss… I’d thought she might’ve been a geisha or something.” “She’s a female pickpocket. Ōishi-san, our father here has his good points, doesn’t he? A female pickpocket from Tokyo has fallen for him—she even returned the wallet she stole and comes all the way to Wakamatsu to see him. I’ve been wanting to meet that woman who’s smitten with Father for a while now, so I think I’ll go to the Public Hall tonight. She’ll surely come today as well.”

“Well, she might come, but… Heeh? Is that how it is?”

Ōishi Tsurumatsu looked between Kingoro and Man’s faces with an awkward expression, as if scouting the state of their marital relations.

Kingoro was making a face like he’d drunk vinegar. (The wife’s jealousy had surfaced in such an odd place and manner!) Ever since that night when he’d gone casting nets with Katsunori and Man had seen Okyo’s letter, he’d felt uneasy deep down because she hadn’t said a single word about it. There had been so few signs that he’d even wondered if she hadn’t noticed it at all. She had seen it after all. Even so, he couldn’t understand why Man would boldly declare such things in front of others. Why would Man air a marital secret they could resolve privately?

(What a strange woman.)

However, from Man’s perspective, discussing such matters solely between husband and wife risked unnecessarily creating friction and descending into gloom. In the past, when she had read the fake letter written by Some no Yakko, she had flown into a rage and rushed out, but Man had aged and become more thoughtful. As a mother of seven, she could not act rashly. At the same time, since her trust in her husband had not changed, she thought that by bringing Okyo’s issue out into the open rather than leaving it in the shadows, they might achieve a clean resolution with a refreshing aftertaste.

Ōishi Tsurumatsu, unaware of the intricacies, turned toward Man and volunteered to mediate.

“Madam, Tamai-san isn’t like other men—he keeps things clean when it comes to women.” “I’ll vouch for him.” “Moreover, that woman is always accompanied by a man.” “A large man with sharp eyes, wearing a bird-catcher hat and with a vagrant-like build.” “He must be quite the ladies’ man.” “Ōishi-san, there’s no need for you to comfort me.”

Man laughed. Then she took her pipe, packed it with tobacco, puffed out her chest, and took a deep deliberate drag. With a soft puff, a mysterious smile hovered around her lips as she gently exhaled smoke.

That night, the Neutral Alliance joint speech meeting was held at the Public Hall.

At 7:00 PM sharp, it began as scheduled. The hall was packed beyond capacity. On the white wall behind the podium stretched a row of slogans and speech titles: "Bury Wakamatsu's Germs—Harada Kumoi," "What Is Autonomy's True Meaning?—Inoue Yasugorō," "Return the City Council to the People—Tamai Kingoro," "A Light in the Darkness—Nakamura Tsutomu," "Politics for Working People—Tamai Katsunori," and others.

Harada Kumoi was eloquent. In daily life, he wore Western clothes with frayed cuffs, fastened with a worn-out band, and tattered shoes, but when he stood at the podium, he was truly imposing. The beard enveloping his face, together with his massive Hotei-like frame, displayed a commanding presence that swept through the surroundings. “……The Minseitō Party are germs. “They are bacillus. “We must not let these germ-like violent gangs ravage our beloved Port Wakamatsu. “The germs—all seventeen of them—have lain in wait and run for office, but unless every last one is made to charge into battle with bits in their mouths and die, the peace and happiness of Wakamatsu’s citizens will never be realized.”

“Nervous murmurs.” “Just as the sage says!” Shouts, applause, and laughter erupted all at once,

“You’re the germ!” Some in the crowd jeered. In the green room, fourteen or fifteen speakers waited for their turn while engaging in casual conversation.

Outside was already pitch black. The acacia leaves swaying in the night breeze beyond the window were caught in the electric light, their vivid emerald green standing out like a magic lantern projection. The stars shone beautifully.

(Under this tree, just the other day, I was threatened by twenty drawn swordsmen, but…)

Kingoro recalled that incident and tasted the gritty sensation in his mouth. At the same time, when he considered how the leader from that time—the man with the Chinese lion tattoo and bird-catcher hat—had appeared at the speech venue together with Okyo, he couldn't help feeling an uncanny sense of disorientation. There was no room for doubt—that man had to be Hannya no Gorō's child. (The two must surely be mingling with tonight's crowd again.)

As he considered that and felt a strange unease,

“Tamai-kun, is something wrong? You seem rather fidgety...”

Inoue Yasugorō said.

Ōishi Tsurumatsu entered. “Tamai-san, they’re standing by the pillar at the south staircase.”

Ōishi put his mouth to Tamai's ear and whispered.

A fierce round of applause erupted in the hall.

Harada Kumoi descended from the podium, wiping sweat from his brow. “Tamai-san, it seems a considerable number of the enemy’s spies have infiltrated. You should be careful.”

Nodding at Harada, he ascended the podium. Applause. Kingoro first drank a glass of water. Unlike usual, he felt somewhat unsettled. Even his heart fluttered slightly. In his youth, when he had fled his rural home, come to North Kyushu, and worked as a dockworker stained with coal, his uneducated self had never dreamed he would end up wearing Western clothes, standing on such a high podium, giving pompous speeches before a crowd. Even I found it bizarrely unsettling. Still, with his goddamn guts, he’d somehow muddled through until now.

Kingoro began to speak in a halting tone. However, his eyes kept being drawn to the column at the south staircase. And then he faltered. Okyo’s face came into view. Another person was beside her—a familiar face: Hikaru’s face was there. Man was there too. Kingoro felt sweat begin to bead on his forehead. From under his arms as well, cold water welled up and flowed unpleasantly down his sides. He drank water repeatedly.

“...As I’ve been explaining, every last one of the Minseitō Party’s tactics is underhanded.” “There’s a proverb—‘digging up burdock roots at someone’s memorial feast’—but…” A thunderous wave of laughter shook the hall.

Kingoro was startled and corrected himself.

“No—that was a mistake. “—To dig up burdock at someone’s memorial service…” Again, the audience roared with laughter.

Kingoro stood frozen and drank water. The bitter smile wouldn’t fade.

(Should we really be laughing at Yazaki Shinbei’s "pillow-lined campaign"?)

While thinking this, he now slowly,

“Using others’ burdock roots to hold memorial services—keeping their hands clean while skimming the cream is the Minseitō Party’s specialty.” “Your specialty is skimming cream at memorial services with burdock roots, isn’t it?”

Someone jeered, and once again, the hall erupted in commotion.

Kingoro continued his speech while mopping sweat, but through occasional glances toward the south staircase, he saw Man approaching Okyo. It seemed Man had called out to her; Okyo turned around and was responding with something. Of course, from the distant podium, he couldn't discern what they were saying. Before long, the two left together.

Following that, the giant man in the bird-catcher hat disappeared as if pursuing them. Only Hikaru remained. (This was getting strange.)

But now that things had come to this, there was nothing to do but leave it to fate. Kingoro steeled his goddamn guts. Then, on the contrary, he became calm, and after that, his speech went smoothly, turning out better than ever, “…On the upcoming 31st, voting day, I earnestly request that everyone kindly cast their precious votes to our comrades in the Neutral Alliance, the party of justice.”

he was able to conclude. After being showered with applause and returning to the waiting room, Harada Kumoi— “What happened there? “The start and finish of your speech were worlds apart. “The first half was a C, but the latter half was above an A.” He said this and laughed.

He said such things and laughed.

(If Katsunori sees Hikaru’s face from the podium, he might falter like I did.)

Watching his son place the manuscript on the desk and read through it silently, Kingoro found himself entertaining a rather mean-spirited thought. Nakamura Tsutomu went up to the podium. He was an employee of a port construction company and twenty-seven years old. His angular, sharp-featured face was filled with a fighting spirit that seemed ready to burst.

From the back entrance of the waiting room, a man in a serge kimono sauntered in.

“Boss, you’ve worked hard.” “Well, Toki-yan, you came to Wakamatsu, didn’t you?” “Two or three days ago.” “Heard this election’s gonna be real tough and that you’re in danger, Boss—came outta worry.” “Even someone like me can scrape up a few votes if I move around.” “Well, much obliged.”

Ōkawa Tokijirō currently resided in Nogata City. He operated a small coal mine. A full twenty-five years earlier, Tokijirō had left under the pretext of bringing back Man - who had run away from home - but instead of returning to Hiroshima, he went in the opposite direction to the Chikuhō coal mines and became a miner. When he set out, he had absolutely no intention of doing so, but upon boarding the Sanyō Line from Shimonoseki, he changed his mind. Rather than calling Man back, he had become afraid of meeting her. Tokijirō was tormented by his trust in Kingoro, his longing for Man, and his own position. And so, resolving himself alone, he abandoned returning to his hometown and sought a new life in the coal mines.

And several years passed. His honest and diligent character was recognized, and as a result of his efforts, he was able to become a small mine owner. For the past two or three years, he had started showing his face at the Tamai household again.

Man, together with the woman, exited the public hall and came to a stop before the large stone monument beside the entrance. (Now then—where should I go?)

She pondered. A slight miscalculation had thrown the planned strategy into disarray. During the day, when she had declared to her husband—with election campaign manager Ōishi Tsurumatsu as witness—that she would meet Okyo, she had turned over in her mind various scenarios about what might follow their encounter. She certainly had no intention of dueling, but that didn’t mean she lacked things to say. Simultaneously, deep within her heart, she contemplated the mysterious depth and sorrow of a love that defied logic and societal norms—that singular emotion a woman holds toward a man—and Okyo’s devotion to her husband Kingoro. In doing so, she found herself harboring a faint sympathy and what could even be called gratitude.

(I must meet that woman named Okyo.) That desire had transformed into a pure motive far removed from ordinary emotions like romantic rivalry, jealousy, or revenge—a motive to uncover the secrets shared between women’s hearts and explore their emotional homeland. (What kind of woman was she?)

Curiosity also welled up. However, just when she thought the day had come to fulfill that task, she was met with a baffling letdown. “That’s the woman.” At the speech venue, when shown by Ōishi and seeing the woman leaning against the southern staircase’s pillar, she furrowed her brows in suspicion. The woman in the Genroku-patterned kimono—her wig-covered head unmoving—stared unblinkingly at Kingoro on the podium. That glamorous figure was youthful and beautiful. Man felt as though she’d been bewitched by a fox.

(She shouldn’t be this young, but...) Though Okyo’s letter had described events from twenty-five years prior, the woman before her eyes appeared no older than just a few years past twenty. However much one might claim not to age, without knowledge of immortality’s magic, such a thing was impossible. (It must be a case of mistaken identity.) The thought left her disappointed at first. But steeling herself, she ventured to speak. “Excuse me?”

“Are you referring to me?” The woman turned around.

“You’re the one who came from Tokyo, aren’t you?” “Yes.”

“Okyo-san?”

The woman showed a slightly hesitant expression but, undaunted, formed a bewitching smile. “Yes.” “I’m Tamai Man. There’s something I need to talk to you about…” On the podium, Kingoro spouted nothing but nonsense while being laughed at. He kept wiping sweat and guzzling water incessantly. “Are we going outside?” “Just outside.”

And so, the two left the public hall.

As they exited, the woman bid farewell with her eyes to Hikaru, who stood at a slight distance. The two had become companions through dancing "Yuudachi" together and since then appeared to have grown swiftly closer. Hikaru returned the nod, but when her gaze met Man's, she abruptly lowered her eyes.

“Let’s go over there.” Man exited through the back of the public hall and guided the woman toward Ebisu Shrine.

The woman obediently followed along.

At the base of the large hackberry tree in the shrine precincts stood a long bench. When Man wordlessly settled onto it, the woman too sat silently to her left. The night wind carried a chill. Directly before them lay a pond where a stone turtle at its center sent a fountain jetting high from its mouth. The water dispersed into mist, glittering under faint shrine lanterns as it fell back to the surface with a rain-like patter. Carp seemed to teem beneath, leaping occasionally where the cascade met the water.

Both of them gazed at it and remained silent for a while, but Man was the one to break the silence. “Okyo-san.”

The woman did not respond. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and stifled a laugh.

“Okyo-san.”

And she called again.

“No, I’m not Okyo.”

The woman turned toward Man as she spoke. Her face had grown serious. When her beautiful oval features faced forward and emerged in the faint shrine lantern light, Man gasped with recognition. Though the impression differed between seeing her distantly on stage and up close, this was unmistakably the geisha who had danced *Yuudachi* with Hikaru during the Recital night. Amused by how she’d been dodged until now, “Oh,” Man said, “so you’re Ms. Tsumatarō?”

she said, feeling somewhat lighthearted. “No, that’s not it.”

A bewitching smile reappeared on the woman’s face. “Then who are you?” Man wore a fox-bewildered expression.

“Okyo is my mother.” “My name is Yōko.” “Okyo-san’s daughter?…”

Man, surprised, looked again at the woman’s face. “Jūrō-san.”

Yōko turned around, faced the darkness, and called out. “What is it? Oha-san.”

At the same time as that voice, a giant of a man in a hunting cap, with his hands tucked into his sleeves, appeared from the shadow of the large hackberry tree.

“We’re done here.” “Got it. Then I’ll head over to the hall…” “Don’t draw it.” “Don’t you worry.” The man quickened the clatter of his setta sandals as he crossed the stone bridge spanning the pond. He seemed to be heading to the public hall again. “Who is that?” “He’s a bodyguard.” “Yours?” “No, your husband’s.”

Man, not understanding the reason, was briefly at a loss for words. Oha, finding Man's bewildered expression amusing, giggled with apparent amusement and,

“The other day, Jūrō-san hired twenty-odd hired hands and threatened Tamai-san, you know.” “Did you know?” “Ah, it was behind the public hall, wasn’t it?” “Yes.”

“Everyone drew Japanese swords…” “Yes.”

“I heard about that from my husband.” “Well, is that so?” “I thought they were all from the Yoshida faction.” “But that’s strange…” “Threatening my husband, becoming bodyguards to protect him…” “It was all my mother’s doing.” “Okyo-san’s?……”

“Though my mother remains in Tokyo, her heart has come to Wakamatsu.” “I am her proxy here.” “Please explain this more thoroughly.”

Man’s expression grew urgent as she leaned forward.

An owl hooted in the branches of the large hackberry tree. Half-hidden by the Butokuden building in the distance, the public hall could be seen. From the second-floor speech venue packed with spectators, occasional applause, bursts of laughter, and the clamor of cheers would drift over.

Gazing in that direction, Oha began to speak as if to herself. "My mother isn't someone to be proud of." "From a young age, she joined gamblers' crews—as a woman—and wandered from town to town." "From Hokkaido in the north to Kyushu's southern tip." "She roamed across the entire country." "She cheated naive country folk with rigged games and swindled their money." "They called her 'Okyo of the Butterfly Peonies.' She carved her place as a matriarch in that deadly gambling world—her skill and nerve surpassing any man's." "The one always stuck to my mother was Hannya no Gorō—a low-ranking thug, that man in the hunting cap earlier—father of Karajishi Jūrō-san."

“Do you know where she first met my husband?” “Dogo Hot Spring.”

“Around when?” “Let me see,” said Oha, bending down each of her flower-like fingers one by one, “About twenty-seven or twenty-eight years ago—in Meiji terms, that would be the autumn of year thirty-five.”

“Meiji 35?” “Are you certain?”

“There’s no mistake.” “I remember my mother’s affairs more clearly than my own—no, more clearly than my own.”

“So…” Man’s heart pounded. “So he had already met Okyo-san before we became husband and wife—or rather, before we even met.” “That’s right.” “At that time, my mother first came to know Tamai-san.” “But back then, it was merely that the still-young Tamai-san—having been invited by Hannya no Gorō-san—made a casual appearance at the gambling den in Yunomachi.” “He apparently knew little about dice rolls or betting strategies, as if it were his first time, but with a half-sided fixed wager, he kept winning continuously, astonishing the professionals.” “That seems to have left an impression on my mother.” “Tamai-san too—though it’s awkward to say—appeared slightly drawn to my mother’s beauty… her bold demeanor so uncommon in the countryside… beauty that made people turn to look.” “……But had they parted after that single encounter, it would have meant nothing.” “Even my mother wasn’t particularly smitten with Tamai-san at that time—not enough to say she’d fallen for him.”

“When did they meet next, I wonder?”

“Three years later—April of Meiji 38.”

“Please wait a moment.” This time, Man—her knotted fingers, bearing the marks of youthful hardships, folded in counting—said, “That was the month my husband went to Musashi Hot Spring in Futsukaichi on the Rengō-gumi’s outing, but…”

“That’s right.” “At that Musashi Hot Spring, my mother met Tamai-san for the second time.” “Again, at a gambling den?” “Yes. “My mother’s group, targeting naive country marks, were staying at Tsukushi-kan, where the Rengō-gumi members also lodged.” “There, my mother and Tamai-san reunited after three years, but that night, an incident occurred at the gambling den.” “However, just as it was about to become a major incident, thanks to Tamai-san, my mother was saved.”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Tamai discovered the bamboo basket trick my mother had been using with her dice.” “But since he quietly warned her about it, Mother avoided public disgrace.” “That connection led to Mr. Tamai receiving a tattoo on his skin.” “A tattoo?”

Man was astonished. Oha, brushing aside Man’s feelings, spoke in a somewhat cheerful tone. Hugging her knees with both hands and keeping her gaze fixed on the water spray scattering from the fountain in front of the Public Hall, she continued as if muttering to herself,

“As I’ve been telling you, my mother wasn’t a woman with anything to boast about.” “Yet what makes me want to praise her is her single-minded devotion to Tamai-san… To think a woman could pour herself so completely into one man—it made even my younger self yearn to learn from her.” “No—far from learning, that’s precisely why I came to Wakamatsu as my mother’s substitute, though…”

“Substitute, you say?” “To meet Mr. Tamai.”

“What do you intend to do once you meet my husband?” “I simply need to meet him.” Oha seemed to be confessing everything, yet at this very moment concealed the most crucial point. In the dim shrine lantern light, Oha’s floating face exuded such bewitching allure and fierce vengefulness that one might doubt how completely she’d inherited her mother’s blood and spirit. In the depths of her phosphorescent-blue eyes flashed something verging on madness. It was a savage intensity—an eerie aura that cast aside worldly concerns, common sense, even ethics, asserting what could only be called a woman’s right to love.

It was no wonder Kingoro had convinced himself Oha was Okyo. Right after the forewarning of her imminent appearance, on three occasions—the stage of "Evening Shower," the fire scene, and the speech venue—seeing from afar Oha, who was the spitting image of her mother, it was only natural he had believed her to be Okyo. That he had even involved Kinuka and, on his way back from Harada Kumoi’s residence, spoken of Oha as Okyo could also be considered contributing factors.

Man held her breath, “Is it true that your mother was the one who tattooed my husband?”

“Didn’t you know?” “This is the first time I’m hearing about it.” “Oh my, Tamai-san had been hiding that.” “Twenty-five years… Well, I never…” In Oha’s eyes, for an instant, a new suspicious light flashed cunningly and vanished immediately. A knowing smirk also flickered across her face. Man was confused, and while battling intense inner turmoil, she simply stared at Oha’s face.

(A full twenty-five-year lie…)

Her emotions coalesced into a single thought.

Okyo’s letter came to mind. The words from that passage—"I thought I had lost to Man-san, but I came to realize there might be ways in which I was winning."

(Could this be about the tattoo’s secret?)

Man was rendered speechless. “Tamai’s Madam,” Oha continued undeterred by the lack of response, “But my mother lost to you. She carved a rising dragon on Mr. Tamai’s beautiful white left arm, only to be rebuffed and driven away. Even that tattoo she poured her soul into ended with the dragon’s claw clutching a chrysanthemum. Mother later realized that flower symbolized his thoughts of you. Please rest assured, Madam. Mr. Tamai and my mother shared no improper relations. Though she pursued him as a geisha all the way to Wakamatsu after that, he utterly rejected her. And when Mr. Tamai was gravely wounded by Kasuke’s gang during that stormy night, she finally abandoned hope and returned to Tokyo.”

Oha fell silent for a moment. She took a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. Man thought Oha might be crying, but hardening her resolve not to be swayed by the other’s sentimentality, she paid even closer attention to Oha’s words and actions. However, within Man herself, there existed one such sentiment.

(When my husband was slashed and wandered between life and death, I made daily morning pilgrimages to this Ebisu Shrine—Okyo-san too came here with single-minded devotion to undertake the hundred-visit pilgrimage.) Even though Okyo-san, with her infuriating forbidden love, was someone to resent, Man could not help but feel a deep empathy with the sincerity of such a woman’s affection. And now, after so many years had passed, she had even come to feel something resembling gratitude.

A single firefly traversed the mist from the fountain and vanished high into the branches of the great zelkova tree.

“Mother,” Oha continued. “After that, she became completely unhinged. Alcohol, gambling, debauchery, fights—and men.” Her voice tightened. “It pains me to say this about my mother’s mania, but she—as if struck suddenly blind—began bedding any man she encountered, wallowing in utter dissipation.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “How many men she took at once? ‘Utter madness’ describes it best.” She paused, fingers whitening around her sleeve. “And so I was born... Though it shames me to admit—” Her breath hitched. “—I don’t know whose child I am.” The words fell like stones. “All I know for certain is that Okyo was my mother. As for my father?” Her lips twisted. “Not a clue.”

Oha cut off her words there and, wearing a self-mocking smile, turned her gaze toward a lone firefly that had appeared above the fountain. Then, as if following that firefly’s lead, others came flying one after another, scattering glimmering flecks of light across the pond’s surface. Man stared not at the fireflies but at Oha’s beautiful profile, her breath caught in her throat. (It seems my husband destroyed Okyo’s entire life.) The feeling was profoundly unnatural.

“Tamai’s Madam, Mother left everything half-done like this—but there’s one thing she abandoned completely.” “That was tattooing.” “As a female tattoo artist, my mother’s skill was highly praised even by renowned male masters, yet from her return to Tokyo until today, she never once touched brush or needle.” “Do you understand now?” “She made the rising dragon she left on Mr. Tamai’s left arm her final work.”

Man could not respond. “Last month, Mr. Tamai went to Tokyo.” “By coincidence, Mr. Hannya no Gorō pickpocketed his wallet at Tokyo Station then.” “That’s how we strangely reconnected with Mother after all these years.” “Truly twenty-five years—and I’m twenty-three now.” “Mother’s debauchery cursed her—she developed awful illnesses and lies bedridden.” “When Mr. Hannya no Gorō lured him to Asakusa—gathered thugs—stripped him naked—tried drowning him in Hyotan Pond—it must’ve been revenge for tormenting Mother.” “Mr. Kara-shishi Jūrō was there too then.” “But Mother bears no grudge against him.” “This time she sent us to Wakamatsu.”

“I understand… a little.” Man said in a tone that seemed to sigh.

At that moment, in the Public Hall’s speech venue, a commotion suddenly erupted. With a tremendous roar of angry voices, the audience rose en masse. Four or five windowpanes shattered and went flying.

Several days passed.

On the back coast of Wakamatsu, at the edge of Wakinoura opposite the port, there stood Hakuchō Hot Spring. Though called a hot spring, it amounted to nothing more than a trickle of sulfurous springwater that someone had heated up. Only one hot spring inn existed there—a dilapidated two-story house coated in blue paint. If forced to name its merits, they would have been limited to the view overlooking the misty expanse of the Hyōga-nada Sea and the freshness of its fish.

On the second floor of that hot spring inn, Kamomekan, two people—Kara-shishi Jūrō and Oha—lay sprawled in their post-bath attire, talking in high spirits.

The May sky stood perfectly clear, and the sound of waves lapping at the shore seemed to make the deep blue firmament quiver. The intense scent of tide and seaweed, carried by the north wind, blew in through the window. Out in the offing, many fishing boats were out.

“The place called Wakamatsu—it’s even more damn terrible than I heard from your mother.”

Jūrō pressed a bandage over the wound on his forehead from glass shards. “Mother must be worried sick, don’tcha think?” “Damn straight.” “How’s a bastard like Tamai Kingoro stayed breathin’ this long?” “Tomoda Kizō—shoulda offed Tamai when he was still small-time… That’s what he keeps bitchin’ about.” “With the Tamai-gumi dug in this deep now, even Yoshida’s boys can’t make a wrong move.”

“So, Oha-san, how did your meeting with Tamai’s wife go?”

“Honestly, I was surprised too.” “At the Public Hall, when I was suddenly called out—” “But I steeled my damn nerves and met her.” “I told her everything—Hmm, so this is Mother’s rival in love?” “Did Mother lose to this woman?” “The more I thought about it, the firmer my resolve became.”

“Heh, I just can’t figure you out as a woman,” Jūrō said. “They say Ms. Okyo tormented my old man when she was young, but you’re tormenting me just the same.” He shook his head roughly. “I don’t get it.” His bandage pulled taut as he leaned forward. “With that body and those eyes dripping allure? No one’d ever believe you’re still some untouched virgin.”

“Watching Mother made me terrified of men.” “Or rather—would it be better to say I’m terrified of women altogether?” “…Women are pitiful creatures.” “That’s why I’m treading carefully.” “Even if they say it doesn’t suit me.”

Oha gazed at the fishing boats offshore hauling up their nets full of leaping fish, puffing on a cigarette with dreamlike eyes. Those bluish-tinged eyes- (I'll get Tamai Kingoro into my net like those fish. Mother let him slip through, but...) -seemed to clearly articulate this resolve while emanating an uncanny light.

In Jūrō’s irritated expression, one could discern a bitter tinge—some unbearable emotion he was suppressing through clenched teeth.

Oha gazed at the sea with entranced eyes, as if muttering to herself,

"I'll definitely carry out Mother’s orders." "No—I've already become Mother, body and soul." "I hadn't told Tamai’s wife the most crucial thing." "As if I'd tell anyone!" "I'm confident." "Mother gave me two orders." "One of them might fail—since there's a promise to tattoo a descending dragon on your right arm too, you go fulfill that promise." "...Mother said that, but I wonder...?" "...But the other one... I'll... I'll..."

Jūrō stared at the woman—her eyes blazing with near-insane obsession—with undisguised disgust. “Oha-san, you’re not actually aiming to get pregnant with Tamai Kingoro’s child, are you?” “Not seriously, no.”

“That’s something. A parent and child both chasing after someone else’s lovers? If you’re going to fall for someone, why not go for the younger one? Like Katsunori…” “What on earth are you saying? How repulsive.” “My target is Tamai Kingoro—him alone.” “Mother’s spirit has taken hold of me.” “Besides, Jūrō-san, the son already has a woman lined up.” “The geisha called Hikaru-san who danced ‘Yuudachi’ with me.” “Oh? You’ve dug that deep already?”

“A snake knows a snake’s ways. What’s more, when I danced with Hikaru-san, I realized that geisha was pregnant. She seemed to struggle through the dance, her shoulders heaving with every breath. And after the curtain fell, she collapsed backstage in the dressing room, gagging and retching. It must’ve been morning sickness. But both their parents seem opposed to the relationship... Jūrō-san, why not lend a hand not only to Kingoro-san but to Katsunori-san as well?”

“Cut the jokes.” “Can’t handle that many plates.” “Even without that, I wanna quit this damn job.” “Took on a cursed role.” “When both Okyo-san and the old man bowed to me, couldn’t back out after that.” “But you got your daily pay proper-like, didn’tcha?” “Hmph—money? Don’t want that crap.” “Tamai-san thought it real strange—you threatening ’im then protecting ’im all at once.”

“I’m sick of this act.”

Outwardly, they appeared to be a couple on good terms staying at a hot spring inn. But fundamentally, there was something that clashed and didn’t quite fit.

The reason Jūrō had led as many as twenty swordsmen to threaten Tamai Kingoro the previous night was that Tomoda Kizō had commissioned him. Though strictly speaking, it might be said that Jūrō had been the one to initially make the offer. Upon arriving in Wakamatsu, Jūrō had immediately made an appearance at the Tomoda faction’s gambling den. A first-time traveler to this land—and a hardened Kantō tough at that—he leveraged those credentials with menacing flair and took on the task of threatening Tamai Kingoro. Along with making money, there had also been no small curiosity to test the man called Tamai Kingoro. And thus, that farce behind the Public Hall had come to pass.

Originally, Kara-shishi no Jūrō had felt intense joy and an unusual excitement about embarking on a journey with Oha. That aching emotion now threatened to erupt in the hot spring inn where only the two of them remained. He bit his lip and restrained it. However, even that patience reached its limit. When Oha, attempting to sit sideways, brought her ornate left hand resting on the tatami near Jūrō’s nose as he lay sprawled out, he could bear it no longer and seized her hand.

“Oha-san, don’t torment me any more than this.”

“What are you talking about?” Oha harshly shook off Jūrō’s hand. “Stop these frightening words. You and I might be siblings.” “Hannya no Gorō-san wasn’t Mother’s husband, but there were times he acted as one.” “No one can prove I’m not your father’s seed, can they?” “I refuse to become beasts.”

“Sirs and Madams, the carriage bound for Wakamatsu has arrived.”

Outside, the sound of a trumpet and the neighing of a horse could be heard.

Fate

Throughout the town, swarms of bicycles darted unrestrainedly in every direction. On each one rode a youth wearing a white headband and sash, a flag bearing a candidate’s name planted at the rear. Bundles of what resembled extra-edition bells were tied to the handlebars, creating a clamor of clink-clink, clang-clang. “Yazaki Shinbei-san’s election victory is all but assured now.” The townspeople frequently assessed the situation by observing the briskly running candidates’ messengers and their expressions.

“It’s not just Yazaki-san. The Minseitō Party’s got their pillows lined up for victory across the board.” “As expected—Emperor Yoshida’s turf makes the Minseitō’s fortress unbreakable. No point fighting it.” “The Seiyūkai’s old guard Ōgai Sentarō’s on shaky ground.” “Speaking of which—the Neutral Alliance’s commander Inoue and Tamai’s numbers look downright abysmal. What’s gone wrong?” “Poor Harada Kumoi’s lost again, mark my words. Nakamura Tsutomu’s sinking fast too.”

The town seethed with pre-election buzz. The Public Hall serving as the vote-counting venue was enveloped in a seething crucible of clamor. In the center of the second-floor auditorium, each vote was opened and read aloud, prompting applause and shouts to erupt every time. Around the red-brick Public Hall, dozens of desks stood positioned at their respective stations, awaiting notifications of votes gained. From the second-floor window, a wire stretched diagonally down to the desks. Each time votes were announced, that candidate’s vote-counting observer tied a paper noting the tally to a clipboard and smoothly lowered it down.

“There! Three votes.” “Go!” At that voice, gallant messengers pedaled their bicycles at full speed toward the election office. “How’s the situation looking?” Takano Teizō—a reporter for the Seiyūkai Party’s organ newspaper Kyūshū Mimpō—approached the desk labeled “Tamai Kingoro” and peered at it. He was a man around thirty with a dark complexion, his hairline receding into his scalp like Dokai Bay, bulging eyes darting about as he spoke in pure Kumamoto dialect.

“It’s just... something’s off.” Tamai Group’s top enforcer, Nakayama Yashima, answered with a grim expression. He was a laborer with a ruggedly intense face. The seven or eight campaigners and subordinates were all dejected and barely tried to speak. The messenger team in white headbands and sashes wore expressions of vexation rather than mere idleness as they sat dejectedly. They watched resentfully as votes poured in one after another and messengers from other candidates energetically dashed off, clicking their tongues. They pursed their lips and whispered to each other.

“That bastard Tomoda Kizō’s already gotten 240 votes.” “Who in the world would vote for a bastard like that?” “His campaigners exchanged three thousand yen in crisp one-yen bills at Hōtoku Bank, I hear.” “And yet, how could a devilish bastard like that rake in so many votes?” “Aokawa the brothel owner distributed vouchers for his brothel services, I hear.” “Nakayama-san, how many votes has Mr. Tamai received?”

And then Takano asked.

“Still ninety-two votes,” Nakayama Yashima answered grimly. “They came pouring in up to seventy or so, then stopped dead. This can’t be right, but…” He tilted his head slightly, muttering to himself.

The latter part became a mutter as he tilted his head slightly.

“This is a huge disaster! Mr. Inoue Angorō is still in the eighties, I tell you.” “Crush them all”—they’d fallen right into the enemy’s trap. “The Seiyūkai also lost big names like Ōgai and Kojima.” “Elections, you know—they’re just impossible to predict.”

Throughout the town, bulletin boards were hung, and vote counts were written out moment by moment.

At the corner of Meiji-machi, in front of the bulletin board, Harada Kumoi was giving a speech.

“This election must be redone! Can those elected through such corruption truly be called representatives of the people? Every Minseitō vote is invalid! Is there even one ballot here that doesn’t shame the gods? Citizens—Harada is pathetic. How long will you let this Wakamatsu, our beloved home, rot in darkness?”

“Don’t whine!” “How pathetic!” From within the crowd, someone shouted, and a roar of laughter erupted. “Harada isn’t talking about personal matters.” “Harada losing alone isn’t the issue.” “From the standpoint of social justice, I appeal to you all.” “Citizens—once again, you’ve dug your own graves with your own hands!” Harada Kumoi’s face, buried in his beard, twisted bitterly. Beneath his glasses, something glistened in his narrow eyes. From his left eye—marked by a faint star-like blemish—tears trickled down his cheek before being swallowed by the jungle of his beard.

“Mr. Harada.”

And then, parting through the crowd, "Cat Lady" appeared. She struck the screaming giant’s back with all her strength. It would be more accurate to say she hit him. Harada, startled, suddenly fell silent like a clock whose spring had snapped.

“Doteraba? “That’s shocking, isn’t it?”

“Wipe your tears.” Kawano Nobu wiped Harada’s cheeks and eyes with a soy-sauce-colored hand towel that looked boiled down, then said, “I’m frustrated too. Everyone I supported lost. Wakamatsu is such a place, I tell you. But, Mr. Harada—a defeated general does not speak of battle. Let’s not say another word and just go to Rokuzoro or somewhere to have a drink.” “That’s fine.” “That’s fine.”

Someone said that, and once again, the crowd roared with raucous laughter.

“Doteraba, the battle isn’t over yet. Drinking during an important battle isn’t something a warrior does. I’ll accept that I lost. I’m worried about the boss. Let’s go to Tamai-san’s place.” “In that case, I’ll come with you.”

At the sight of the two—an extraordinarily large man and woman—walking away shoulder-to-shoulder, the townspeople burst into renewed peals of laughter. They indeed made a comical pair. Yet among them were sympathizers who admonished the irresponsible crowd in measured tones: “You shouldn’t mock others so harshly. Spit at heaven, and you’ll soil your own faces.” When Harada and Nobu reached the corner of Sanpuku-yu Bathhouse, campaign workers emerged from Tamai’s house in scattered groups—some whispering conspiratorially, others slipping away in silence like fugitives. At the sight of Harada Kumoi, some even turned their faces aside and broke into a run.

In front of Norojin’s tofu shop, something like white snowballs was flying through the air. Jinshichi was throwing the shop’s tofu onto the road one after another.

“What’s the point of tofu now that Dad lost?” He discarded tofu like a madman, his face drunk and sobbing. “Hey hey, Jinshichi-san, the tofu hasn’t done anything wrong. Stop this nonsense.” “What the hell are you talking about? You’re the ones who made Dad lose! Here, eat this!” Jinshichi grabbed a piece of tofu and hurled it at Harada’s face. He dodged, so it hit the wall behind him and burst into a pure white splatter.

Upon entering the entrance, Ōishi Tsurumatsu’s shrill voice, trembling with indignation, could be heard.

“So I told you so, but…” “Now, wait.” “We gotta open every last vote before we’ll know.” Following that, Kingoro’s calm voice was heard. When Harada Kumoi and Ms. Cat entered, the office was deserted. From this morning’s vote counting onward—when about seventy votes had been tallied—the place had been so packed with people there was no room to stand. And yet, despite having been noisy and bustling, now only seven or eight people remained, all with lifeless faces, none speaking a word. Election campaign manager Ōishi sat formally before Kingoro, his face a mask of grief and indignation, merely kneeling close. When he saw Harada’s face, he seemed to gain even more momentum—

“Hey, Mr. Harada—Mr. Tamai still says it’s unclear, but with things looking like this…” Ōishi pointed at the scoreboard posted on the wall with his right hand. “Even if a mountain moved, you couldn’t turn this around, could you?” “Yeah… I guess so.”

Harada being in agreement answered as such and walked toward the wall. He planted himself there and glared at the chart.

Above the names of forty-five candidates, vote counts reported moment by moment were written in red ink. A single large character written in blue ink at the top—like a hat—marked those certain of victory. The highest tally was Yazaki Shinbei with 274 votes; nearly all Minseitō Party members wore crowns of “Confirmed.” The lowest went to Neutral Alliance’s Inoue Eiichi with twenty-five votes. Next came Harada Kumoi with forty-eight votes. Nakamura Tsutomu had sixty-three votes. Tamai Kingoro stood at ninety-nine votes. Inoue Yasugorō claimed one hundred and one votes.

With a grim face, Harada Kumoi, after scanning the room, turned to Ōkawa Tokijirō at the nearby desk and asked, “In total, how many votes have been cast?” Tokijirō, too, wore a face on the verge of tears. Despite having come all the way from the Nogata coal mine to lend support, his efforts had been in vain. Asked by Harada, he flipped through the scraps of paper on the desk with an annoyed look and said, “Six thousand nine hundred thirty… Probably around seven thousand.”

“Hmm, if that’s the case, then there’s only a little over a thousand votes left to count, but…” There was no hope. Crushing defeat—Harada glared and gnashed his teeth. In the adjacent room, Rokuzōro’s Genzū tore through large sheets of paper with all his might, each rip vicious and deliberate.

They were "Election Victory Thanks" posters. When vote counting began earlier that day, they had written about twenty sheets to put up around the city. Harada sank down limply.

“Harada, how ’bout we go for a round?”

Kingoro said with a laugh. “Go?” “Yeah.”

“Fine, let’s do it.”

In a fit of spite, Harada shouted.

The two men began playing Go. Kingoro held white, but both were playing sloppy Go. They placed stones in turn, almost without thinking, like machines. Man always laughed and called it "rice-pounding Go." Ōishi, who also liked it, approached with a stern face and peered in.

At the entrance, the sound of a bicycle bell rang out. They were ringing the bell as if announcing an extra edition.

Genzū went out. He returned with an unamused expression, clutching a piece of paper. “Boss, four more votes came in.” “I see.”

Kingoro did not turn around and kept his eyes on the Go board.

Man entered.

“Whew, what a relief. Everyone lost—now they’ve had enough of a scare to quit elections for good.”

She laughed while making tea.

By evening, after the sun had completely set, the vote counting ended. The Minseitō Party had all seventeen of its candidates elected, with the highest vote count being 358. The Seiyūkai Party had seven members. The Neutral Alliance had six members. The total came to thirty members. The Social Masses Party had both of their candidates defeated. At the bottom of the elected candidates was Kusuno Taichirō of the Seiyūkai Party, with 152 votes. Next was Tamai Kingoro with 160 votes. Inoue Yasugorō with 168 votes. Kuno Sōkichi of the Seiyūkai Party with 178 votes next in line. Though second and third from last, "Gorogoro" was elected after all.

“I can’t stand another disgusting election like this.” “I was on edge until the very last vote was counted—my life felt like it was shrinking away.” “We split votes here and there among our allies. Looking at the results, you could say it went according to plan—but it was truly a dangerous tightrope walk.”

While grumbling in apparent dissatisfaction, Ōishi Tsurumatsu was nonetheless smiling. Kingoro, however, looked disappointed. "My own inadequacy has caused capable individuals like Mr. Harada and Mr. Nakamura to lose their elections." "In the end, it's a crushing defeat." "The Minseitō Party has an absolute majority—I can't help but worry about what lies ahead."

Man, too, with a vexed look,

“It really was a dirty election.” “It’s not Mr. Harada’s fault, but we ought to dissolve and start over.” “How could people who became council members through such means possibly manage proper governance? Even if you dissolved [the assembly] a hundred times over, politicians would just keep repeating the same things—there’s no hope of it ever changing.” “The ones who end up suffering are always just the citizens.”

The day after the vote counting, Katsunori departed for Tokyo. “When will you be back?”

“When will you be back?” Man asked. “Please give me two or three months’ leave.”

“You can travel until you’re satisfied, but… don’t forget about home.”

“I’ll send letters from there. If something urgent comes up, I’ll return. I’ll use Mr. Yoshii Atsuo’s place at Waseda University as my contact address, so…” Seeing the lonely look on her son’s face as he set out on his journey—having resolved to part with Hikaru—Man felt a pang in her chest. Tears flowed. Tamai Kingoro, too, found his son so pitiful he could hardly bear it,

“Whether it’s two or three months or even half a year—go travel wherever you like.” “I’ll send you as much money as you need.” “Now, Hokkaido’s supposed to be real nice this time of year—you should tour the lakes like Akan, Tōya, Mashū, and Shikotsu.” “Daisetsuzan’s probably still got snow lingering too.” “The Ainu up there are something special to see, you know.”

About three years ago, he had gone on an inspection tour to Hokkaido with just the City Council members, and remembering that, he said such things.

June passed, and July arrived.

Man found it strange that there had been no word from Oha, who had said she would meet her husband once the election was over.

She went to Asuka and asked Kimika. “Well now, Oha’s mother’s illness turned real bad—she went back to Tokyo the day after they finished countin’ votes.” “Madam Man, I hear you met Miss Oha yourself now, didn’t you?”

“Yes… just briefly…”

Man did not hide the fact that she had met Oha in the precincts of Ebisu Shrine, but she kept the details of their conversation strictly confidential. She kept it to herself alone. And then, with a strange smile directed at Kingoro, she said: “If Okyo-san comes to Wakamatsu next time, you should definitely meet her.” It was Man’s small conspiracy. Kingoro was still convinced it was all about Okyo. Hearing Man’s words, he responded: “Whether I meet her or not makes no difference, ah.”

He became flustered and gave a muddled reply.

From the early morning of a clear day, Tamai Kingoro went hunting with Mori Shinnosuke. Shinnosuke’s daughter Yurika came along.

On a mountain separated from Takatozan by a single valley lay Koyasan Kyushu Betsuin "Tonan-in". In its surrounding dense forests, there had lately been rumors of pheasants appearing. Those were the hunters' quarry.

“Father, your aim’s so shaky—this is dangerous.” “Don’t you dare shoot me!”

Yurika teased Shinnosuke. "Lately I've attained full mastery," he said. "No need to worry... right, Kingo-san?" "Yeah, I'm impressed you've improved your aim," Kingoro replied. "But Yuri, even if I were terrible, I wouldn't mistake you for a pheasant. I know my target when I see it." "But Father, lately your head's been up in the clouds..." "You idiot! *You're* the one daydreaming!"

Shinnosuke said this jokingly, but suddenly lowered his eyes and lightly bit his lip. Yurika, now nearing thirty, wore a gray suit and had her hair cut short. The Western-style clothing suited her well. Beautiful. The Mori couple always wondered with bitter smiles, "How on earth did our daughter become a modern girl?"—but after graduating from women's college and living in Tokyo, she had transformed into a thoroughly modern young woman, worlds apart from her parents. She could speak English and French fluently as well. And yet, she could perform the dance, shamisen, koto, and other arts that Kimika had trained her in during her youth at a level beyond that of a full-fledged practitioner.

The three of them climbed the mountain and gradually made their way deeper into the dense forest. With hunting rifles slung on their backs, the two men resembled old soldiers. The sturdy hunting dog Bell led the way. Amidst the chorus of small birds singing in varied tones, they strained to discern the call of their quarry—the pheasant. Amidst a sea of green where cedars, pines, cypresses, and camphor trees thrived, here and there camellias’ vivid red peeked out with yellow stamens, dotted with an intensity that stung the eyes. While ascending and descending hills, glimpses of the deep blue Hibikinada Sea flickered through the trees.

“They’re not here!”

After wandering around for about two hours, Shinnosuke said in a disappointed voice.

“It’s still too early to give up,” said Tamai Kingoro. “Shintani Katsutarō’s been shooting ’em here—no doubt about it. He’d seen several more but claimed he missed every shot. Said there might be a nest somewhere too. You can tell by how fast them wisteria fruits’ve been disappearing. Pheasants stockpile those for winter stores—means they ain’t gone far. Let’s push on a bit longer.” Mori Shinnosuke wiped his brow. “Kingo-san, you’re the master of clinging on till the last vote gets counted—can’t argue with that. But damn if I ain’t worn out and starvin’. How ’bout we rest here and crack open our lunches?”

“Now that you mention it, I’m starving too.” “Me too.” With Yurika also chiming in, they decided to eat. They sat on cedar roots amid bear bamboo grass and unpacked their lunch. It was unclear whether this counted as breakfast or lunch.

“Yurika, sorry to ask, but could you go to Tonan-in and get us some tea?” “I’ll be back.” She answered lightly and descended the forest path. Cheerfully humming something like a Western song, she disappeared from view toward the roof with onion-shaped finials.

Shinnosuke, who had been watching her leave, turned to Kingoro.

“Kingo-san.”

He wore an intensely serious expression. “Huh?” “I’ll give this... to you.”

With that, he took out a black object from his inner pocket and placed it on Kingoro’s palm. It was a pistol. Kingoro made a strange face,

“What in the world is this?”

“If I keep carrying this, it’s dangerous—so I’m giving it to you.” “I’ve got no use for this thing either.” “Listen, Kingo-san.” Shinnosuke’s tone turned solemn, tinged with loneliness. “I got this pistol through Ōkawa Toki-yan.” “Back during your election campaign, when Toki-yan came worried about you—that’s when I asked him for it.” “They pulled strings through the coal mine connections and delivered it just recently.” “It’s called a Browning—new model six-shooter. Since it’s small, it won’t hit much from a distance, but up close, it’s just the thing.”

“Why’d you ask Toki-yan for this thing?” “I thought I’d settle Niwaka-za’s score, y’know.”

Kingoro did not respond. After a brief silence, Shinnosuke—even more forlornly, with a self-deprecating undertone— “But I’m no good.” “I can’t kill anymore.” “Like Yurika said earlier, ever since Niwaka-za burned down, my head’s been all scrambled.” “Every day I just drowned myself in drink, acting like a madman.” “If I’d had that pistol back then... driven to the edge again... I might’ve killed Tomoda Kizō or Kurita Gingo—same as when I took out ‘Mamushi Ichi.’” “But when Toki-yan brought the pistol and gave it to me, my head had cooled some.”

“I see.” “I’m different from how I used to be. That Yurika—she lost her husband ’bout three years back an’ been livin’ as a widow, but now she’s found herself a proper match from an unexpected quarter. For a remarriage, he’s someone worth kneelin’ to. For that engagement… no—the weddin’—she came back from Tokyo. She’s over the moon too. Then there’s my eldest at Kyoto University now, my second boy at Kagoshima’s Seventh Higher School—when I think on ’em, even if somethin’ gets me riled… I can’t go actin’ rash. ’Specially not killin’…”

“Got it.” “You held yourself back.” “No violence allowed.” “We’ll take our revenge another way.” “Right.” “I’ve come to realize that too.” “And thanks to you all, we’ve finally got the Niwaka-za reconstruction underway.” “The insurance payout saved us.” “Shimazaki Yūji didn’t just lend a hand—he stripped down to his undershirt helping us. Looks like we’ll get a theater three times grander than before.” “I’m throwing everything I’ve got into this project.”

“That’s fine.” “So I don’t need this pistol anymore. If I keep holdin’ onto it, there’s no tellin’ when I might get another reckless notion—so I’ll hand it over to you.”

“Alright. I don’t need this thing either, but if you’re set on it, I’ll hold onto it for you.”

Far below, hidden among the trees of the forest, Yurika could be seen climbing up. In her right hand, she carried a teapot.

Kingoro hurriedly stowed the pistol into an inner pocket. Yurika, like a Western flower, approached panting.

“When you climb up all at once, it really does take your breath away,” Yurika said, panting. “I had to wait at Tōnan-in for them to boil the water—that’s why I’m late.” She held out the teapot. “The Head Priest sends his deepest regards to both of you.”

“It’s a pheasant!”

Suddenly, Shinnosuke shouted. He removed the hunting rifle and slipped quietly into the depths of the forest. His figure vanished.

*Bang!* A gunshot rang out. An echo resounded throughout the forest.

“I got it!” At the same moment as his voice rang out, the hunting dog Bell silently dashed away.

The Gion Festival had come.

In the precincts of Hakusan Shrine, their tutelary deity, white banners inscribed with phrases like "Peace Across the Four Seas" and "Virtue Illuminates the World" fluttered noisily in the July wind. From the dim light of dawn, the sound of large drums reverberated far and wide, and the mikoshi was carried toward the coast by young men clad in matching festival attire, their spirits resolutely prepared. From the beach, they proceeded steadily into the shallow offshore. When they reached water up to their necks, they paraded around valiantly with splashing waves, chanting “Wasshoi, wasshoi!” Then, still dripping wet, they emerged into the town.

In each neighborhood, Yamakasa floats were crafted according to their own designs. In the 12th District, encompassing areas including Shōhōji Town and Shinnaka Town, a single Yamakasa float had been completed over the past week through round-the-clock efforts. "I'd love to show this Yamakasa to Okyo-san." Man told Kingoro with a mischievous smile.

“What’re you goin’ on about?” Kingoro grew flustered whenever talk turned to Okyo.

“Father”

“Huh?”

“Like we talked about before—when Okyo-san comes next time, you absolutely must meet her.” “Whether I meet her or not shouldn’t matter…” “*Giggle* Even though you’re dying to see her.”

On the Yamakasa float, a single giant dragon coiled around a central rock, glaring fiercely at the heavens. Its face alone measured three feet long, while the torso—adorned with bellows-like folds—also spanned three feet in circumference. Glass eyes glinted fiercely, palm-fiber hair bristled, brass horns curved menacingly, and scales crafted from thin metal plates completed craftsmanship so remarkable it defied description. And the rising dragon grasped a bouquet of chrysanthemums in its right limb and lilies in its left. Even if you called it the 12th District’s float, in reality, it could just as well be called the Tamai Group’s Yamakasa.

Kingoro and his wife were fond of helping others and loved lively events like festivals, so they threw themselves into it wholeheartedly. Donations were collected from the neighborhood, but that wasn't enough. The shortfall was borne by the Tamai household. The Yamakasa float's decorations too were not commissioned from merchants but created through the collective efforts of their subordinates. Matsumoto Shigeo's dining quarters were transformed into a workshop. Uebayashi, a local notions shop owner who had once been a dollmaker, took charge of guiding the work, and whenever he found time, Kingoro personally oversaw the operations. The children too would help out in large numbers when they returned from school.

“A dragon holding flowers—now that’s an amusing sight.” A man like Uebayashi had never seen the traditional tattoos on Kingoro’s arms. He might not even know they exist.

“A rising dragon would be good,” “to lift spirits.”

When the townspeople gathered and were devising the Yamakasa’s design, it was Man who suggested that. No one objected. And so, Man requested Uebayashi, the dollmaker, to have the dragon’s limb grasp chrysanthemum flowers in place of the sacred jewel. Then Kingoro, with a sheepish look, suggested that the other side should have lilies instead.

“A dragon with charm—really something.” When large bundles of chrysanthemums and lilies were added, the dragon Yamakasa grew even more resplendent. “So pretty!” And the children of the district who would pull this Yamakasa float were overjoyed. “District Six has Iwami Jūtarō, District Seven has Ama-no-Iwato, District Eleven has Rashōmon, and District Three has Chōchin-yama.” “Our district’s dragon’s the best!” The children would go see other districts’ Yamakasa floats and boast like this.

On the eve of the festival, they worked until deep into the night to finish it completely.

Kingoro said to Man.

“Maybe Katsunori will come back.” “Why?” “Since it’s the Gion Festival—if he joined the kids and made some noise, I figured it might take his mind off things—so I sent a letter to Tokyo.”

“Oh, I also sent word about him coming back a week ago, but…” “……But even if he doesn’t come back now… he mustn’t be planning to return at all.”

It was a sweltering day; the glaring, dizzying heat haze made the sea, mountains, and town shimmer. There was wind, and the white clouds racing across the unobstructed blue sky moved swiftly.

Many Yamakasa floats paraded through the town. To avoid being outdone by other districts, they poured effort into their unique designs, and the children pulling the floats all wore matching festival attire. As the big children—clad in hanten coats emblazoned with district names, twisted cotton towels, and red or white headbands—swarmed around the two tow ropes and marched forward, spirited and lively beats of gongs and drums resounded from within the float. The Yamakasa floats would occasionally raise their rallying cries of “Wasshoi! Wasshoi!” and break into a run. Each Yamakasa float was accompanied by about ten adults.

Beside the 12th District’s Yamakasa float stood Kingoro. The prank-loving Kingoro had fashioned himself after Musashibō Benkei, wearing a daishō pair of swords, a naginata halberd, and tall one-tooth geta clogs. Both children and adults wore matching white-and-black horizontally striped outfits with white headbands. On top of the float, to the clanging of gongs and drums, a giant dragon—drenched in reckless showers of gold and silver powder—swayed and undulated as it advanced, clutching bouquets of chrysanthemums and lilies as though alive.

“Boss”

As they passed through Meiji-machi, Nakayama Yashima of Bōshin called out from behind. Since work was suspended, Nakayama—also dressed in festival attire—had been following the Yamakasa. “Hmm?” “You’d best be careful—there’s talk that District Seven’s Yamakasa means to start a fight with ours.” “District Seven?… That’s odd…” “District Seven covers Matsugaemachi, Meiji-machi, Sannai-machi… No reason for bad blood there…” “I think so too, but everyone’s saying it.”

“Tomoda’s in District Four, Kurita’s in District Fifteen… Yoshida oyabun’s Furu-machi is different too… District Seven?… Who was there again?” “Well, they say where there’s no fire, there’s no smoke—but best we stay on guard.” “It’s the Ama-no-Iwato Kagura Yamakasa.” They passed that Yamakasa float several times. But there were no particularly ominous signs. Kingoro scanned the faces of the accompanying adults. Yet he saw no dangerous individuals among them.

“Oh, what lovely festival weather!”

“What a delightful affair this is!” They calmly exchanged greetings with acquaintances. “It’s nothing after all.” When he said to Nakayama,

“That’s odd…” “Could it be a hoax?” “I heard it’s definitely true… Boss, I got it.” “Night—it’s nighttime.” “It must be at night.” Kingoro stopped the Yamakasa float at various points and had the over two hundred children pulling the ropes drink ramune soda and such. He handed out sweets. The sun set.

When the town’s lights came on, the festival’s appearance transformed. The groups pulling the floats also had more adults than children, and with alcohol’s influence, every Yamakasa became rougher. District Twelve’s Yamakasa float was also known as the “Tamai Group’s Rowdy Yamakasa.” Though they absolutely did not fight—per Tamai Kingoro’s strict orders—the Yamakasa itself ran wild; his spirited underlings paraded in such a way they seemed about to tear the float apart. “Hey, Wasshoi! Wasshoi!”

"Boom, clang, boom, clang"

"Put your back into it! Flip it over!"

It careened wildly. It wound and twisted, filling the street’s width. It spun round and round. They jostled it violently back and forth until finally tipping it over sideways. Even inside the overturned float, the gongs and drums did not cease. When they righted it, they started running even more vigorously with a roar.

In the nighttime Yamakasa, Katsunori’s figure could be seen.

As they paraded down Nakagawa-dori, Nakayama shouted.

“Young Boss! District Seven’s Yamakasa has charged at us!”

At night, Kingoro was not there. Several giant ships loaded with vast quantities of scrap iron from America were soon to enter port at Yahata Steel Works. He had gone to Yahata to discuss the cargo handling matter with the company, including Tani Shunji, and was absent.

Katsunori, who had returned from Tokyo, wore the same black-and-white horizontally striped festival garment as everyone else and accompanied the Yamakasa in place of his father. In his hands, he held the District Twelve lantern.

Hearing Nakayama’s voice, he looked in the direction being pointed.

Amenouzume-no-Mikoto danced before the Ama-no-Iwato rock cave. A rooster opened its beak wide and crowed. Tajikarao-no-Mikoto placed his hands on the stone and pried it open, revealing the beautiful countenance of Amaterasu-ōmikami. Festooned with shimenawa ropes dangling countless gohei streamers—that Yamakasa swayed violently as it bore down on their own float with terrifying force.

“Charge! Charge!”

“Crash into them!” Such shouts. It seemed they had been lying in wait in a side street for District Twelve’s Yamakasa float to pass by. They charged from the side. Struck violently on its thick carrying pole, our Yamakasa float was nearly toppled sideways. If left alone, it would have fallen. Just as it was about to touch the ground, they finally managed to push it back. “What do you think you’re doing?!” At this, the underlings erupted in anger. “Don’t start a fight. Don’t lay a hand on them.”

Katsunori desperately tried to stop them.

However, it was no longer possible to calm the bloodthirsty mob. In an instant, a ferocious brawl erupted. Even so—

“Stop it! Stop it! Calm down!” Katsunori, who had been shouting, was struck hard on the back of the head from behind. His head spun. At the same time, he was slammed onto the ground. He sprang to his feet and grappled with the men from the opposing side who came charging at him. The police force arrived on the scene, and finally, the chaotic melee subsided. A tall police sergeant suddenly knocked Katsunori on the head. “Why are you starting a fight?”

Katsunori scowled, “Please look at this Yamakasa.” “District Seven’s Yamakasa charged at ours.” “They started the fight!” “You’re both equally guilty.” “Causing a commotion during the festival is inexcusable.” “Come to the station.”

“I won’t go.” “Won’t go?… Hey!” he called to the officers, then grabbed Katsunori’s arm himself. “Arrest this guy!” Three black-uniformed officers with fastened chin straps escorted Katsunori away in unison. Though rage churned within him, Katsunori clenched his teeth and complied quietly. Officers who recognized him were startled and quickly released him. The police sergeant appeared to have only recently transferred from Moji.

That night, Katsunori got dead drunk. The fact that District Seven had instigated the fight was immediately obvious from the Yamakasa floats' positions, so while District Twelve faced no reprimand, their pent-up frustration proved unavoidable. After storing the Yamakasa float, he hosted a venting feast at home with his equally agitated underlings. An indescribable mix of anger, sorrow, and wretchedness drove Katsunori to drown himself in alcohol more intensely than ever before. Desperate to get drunk quickly, he gulped down the liquor.

“Katsunori, you’re drinking so much…” Man was worried, but her words did not reach his ears.

And then, unaware of his surroundings, he lost consciousness...

How much time had passed? Katsunori suddenly opened his eyes and started. Beside him lay Hikaru. The surroundings were dimly, faintly bright. Though the electric lights were off, the white shoji screens caught faint rays that made the cramped room appear to float. Katsunori felt gripped by an unnatural stupor.

_Where on earth am I?_ _What on earth happened after that?_ At home, while drinking with his underlings, once his vision began to blur, he had no memory at all. His memories were fragmentary, scattered like images from a magic lantern—or perhaps it was quicker to call them a dream. He seemed to clap his hands and sing and dance with his underlings. He kept shouting something in a fit of frustrated rage. He swayed to his feet, and his mother—

“Don’t go outside anymore. Go to bed early.” It seemed she had said something like that. However, that too might have been a dream.

When he suddenly awoke, he felt as if he were still in a dream. The core of his head throbbed with a dull ache, and his face and entire body still burned feverishly, as though he remained drunk. At first, he had thought he passed out drunk and was lying somewhere in his own house.

Hikaru’s face came into view, and he was astonished.

“Where am I?”

he asked.

“You’ve woken up, haven’t you? It’s ‘Marukin.’”

“‘Marukin’?”

Once again, Katsunori looked around the room. Because he was lying on his back looking up, the room felt different, but there was no mistaking that this was the familiar four-and-a-half-tatami-mat detached annex room at Marukin he always visited. This was the same room where, about three months ago, he had met Hikaru and resolved to part ways. (Why did I end up here?) Katsunori felt a creeping unease. When he came to, he was lying on the tatami, still in his festival attire. He was still wearing a white headband.

The kimono had been torn and covered in mud during the fight, but that wretched garment now hung even more carelessly open. Beside the pillow sat a basin and water, likely placed there after he had vomited. When a quiet breeze brushed his body, he looked over in surprise to find Hikaru fanning him with a round uchiwa. Hikaru wore a yukata patterned with large grape leaves and clusters of fruit, sitting properly near Katsunori's midsection. Her hair lay freshly washed. In the dim light her face appeared pale and drawn, yet through the disheveled locks framing that beautiful face shone an unmistakably radiant expression that defied concealment.

“What on earth happened?” Katsunori, unable to grasp the situation’s nature, asked in such a disjointed manner. “You don’t remember?” “I don’t remember anything.”

“You don’t know?” “Is it morning already?”

“Yes, it’ll be dawn soon.”

“Did you stay up all night without sleeping?” “There were mosquitoes, so I spent the whole night like this chasing them with a fan.” “You could’ve hung a mosquito net…” “That sort of thing—” Hikaru giggled. “You really don’t remember anything, do you? When I suggested hanging a mosquito net—‘Don’t need it.’ When I tried laying out the futon—‘Don’t need it.’ Then after you threw up a little, you just fell right asleep... Grunting and snoring away...”

“Why are you here?” “Well...”

Hikaru made a slightly exasperated face, but this too seemed to amplify the swirling joy within her heart, leaving an undisguised, happy smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. No matter how she tried to suppress it, that self-satisfied grin kept itching to break free. Giving voice to her feelings with complete honesty, "I'm so happy!" she said. Katsunori couldn't tell whether he felt happy, sad, or irritated. He simply remained dumbfounded.

When he pieced it together, this was what had happened—late at night, a heavily drunk Katsunori had come to Marukin. They had been about to close up, but he forced his way into the annex. He ordered the head waitress Koyo to summon Hikaru. When Koyo suggested it might be better to stop, he erupted in fury—then moments later begged, "Please call her." In the end, Koyo had finally relented and called Hikaru—or so the account went.

Upon hearing that, Katsunori felt even more dazed. What had the things lurking in his subconscious done without his awareness? What had he been trying to find in those aimless actions? ―It must be said to be a terrifying thing. (I should break up with Hikaru.)

When he made this resolve with such sorrow, Katsunori had found no solution to the problem of human suffering and sacrifice. (If we tried to force through nothing but our own feelings—what would happen to everyone around us?)

Egoism was impermissible. Could love's freedom and sanctity truly exist if they plunged multitudes into misfortune by stirring needless turmoil and harm—trampling even immense sacrifices underfoot? That was unbearable to Katsunori. Thus he gritted his teeth and resolved to part with Hikaru.

But all those agonies and endeavors were shattered in an instant on this single night. (Were we, after all, meant to end up like this?) When he awoke from his dazed state, what gradually filled Katsunori’s heart was a firm nod of affirmation toward this final moment. It was fate, he thought.

“I have something I must apologize for.” “Yesterday’s fight—the seventh district’s Yamakasa float crashing into yours—all of that was Yōnosuke-san’s doing.” “He planned to hire ruffians in the evening to deliberately provoke your float… and have them beat you senseless.”

But now, none of that mattered to Katsunori. As he sat up,

“Hikaru.”

He called her name and embraced the woman. (No longer can anyone, no matter who they are, separate us two.)

In a frenzy bordering on madness, the young man and woman held each other tightly, sobbing violently yet raising their brows defiantly. Katsunori felt the woman’s belly—slightly swollen. She must have been about six months pregnant. (Inside here is our child.)

That bittersweet sentiment even evoked an indescribable ecstasy, making the two of them all the more heated.

The shoji gradually grew whiter. The sparrows’ chirping pierced the summer morning air like needles.

Several days later, Katsunori visited the restaurant "Take no Ie". Needless to say, this came after much deliberation and mustering his courage. He felt as if he were making an enemy beach landing.

He was shown into the tea room.

On the other side of the long brazier sat Tsujiki Sōhachi. His dark-complexioned, deeply wrinkled face—usually stern-looking—was now further contorted with displeasure. Even in smoking tobacco with a brass hatchet-shaped pipe, he did so irritably; even in the motion of violently striking it against the brazier to knock out the embers, his inner fury was laid bare, impossible to conceal.

Mrs. Tsujiki was a full size larger than Sōhachi. With her sumo wrestler-like body placed beside her husband, she glared down at the formally seated Katsunori with loathing.

In the adjacent room, Yōnosuke was present, and the unmistakable sense that he was observing how things unfolded here hung palpably in the air.

Katsunori, dressed in a kimono, placed both hands on his formally seated knees and quietly bowed his head.

“Would you please grant Hikaru to me?” “We can’t do that.” “That one has already been properly decided as our son’s bride, you see.”

“I’m sorry.” “But Hikaru is already carrying my child, and…” “We already knew that.” “It can’t be helped.” “We’ll take care of the child.” “Normally we’d sue for defiling her virtue, but letting her work as a geisha was our mistake.” “Give it up.” “A girl her age mixing with men—these things happen. I’m just stating facts.” “Besides, since you didn’t force yourself on her, we’re not accusing you of anything.” “What’s done is done. Just walk away quietly.”

“Is there truly no way?”

Beside him, his wife leaned forward. This one too tapped her long pipe against the brazier’s edge—kon kon—as she spoke in a hoarse, mannish voice: “You’re quite the odd one, aren’t you? Even if you don’t take some lowly geisha into your household—why, as heir to the Tamai Group, you could have the finest bride from any of the Three Kingdoms come knocking. I do believe I heard rumors about an engagement with Yawata’s Fujimoto Group being settled—or was that false?” “We’ve every right to air all our grievances here, but since that fool Hikaru won’t speak up, we’re holding our tongues. Yōnosuke’s such a meek boy—swallowing his tears and saying he’ll quietly wed soiled goods.” “How much more do you mean to make us endure? Young men and women will always have their little flings—wouldn’t it be best to forget this passing fancy?”

“No, I would never be so irresponsible as to…”

“No matter how much you plead,” Tsujiki growled hoarsely,“go home.” “Sitting there bowing a million times won’t change this—it’s impossible.”

“Maid,” Mrs. Tsujiki said to the servant, “align the guest’s geta.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There was no foothold left to argue. He left Take no Ie as if being driven out.

With powerless steps, he walked along the black-painted fence, and at the corner where the kitchen entrance was, his sister Mitsu stood. She had apparently gone ahead and been waiting.

“Katsunori, it seems it didn’t work out.” “Yeah.” “If you go head-on, it’s bound to fail. Moreover, Katsunori, there’s one thing I want to tell you. You’re still a sheltered young master, so you believe people right away, but our father and mother are ten times—no, a hundred times—more worldly-wise than you.” “Well, it’s not like I don’t know that, but…”

“It’s not like you don’t know”—what a joke! You don’t know a thing. “…Earlier, Father said—‘The child in her belly can’t be helped; we’ll raise it here.’” “…he said that, didn’t he?” “That’s a lie.” “Once it’s born, they plan to send it away immediately to some far-off, unknown place as a foster child.” “They’ve apparently even made arrangements.” “That’s not all.” “How much do you think they’ve tormented Ryo-chan over the child until now?”

“What do you mean by ‘tormented’?” “See? You don’t know anything, do you? They tried to make her abort the child. No matter how head over heels Mr.Yōnosuke is for Ryo-chan, she’d hardly feel good about giving birth to another man’s child. Father, Mother, Mr.Yōnosuke, and even Mr.Tomoda Kizō joined forces and forced her to have an abortion. Ryo-chan cried and absolutely refused to listen… so they resorted to methods they wouldn’t tell you about—still tried all sorts of things… Have you ever even imagined such a thing?”

It was beyond imagination. Hikaru did not say a single word about this.

(Their child would be disposed of through unnatural means, buried from darkness into darkness…) Katsunori felt indignation rise within him. This simultaneously stirred fierce anger and restless impatience, until— (No matter what happens, we will see this through.) His resolve hardened into ironclad determination. Mitsu lowered her voice further and spoke.

“Ryo-chan won’t be doing banquet work anymore—they’re keeping her under what amounts to house arrest.” “From now on, you definitely won’t be able to meet her freely.” “If you need to contact my sister, get in touch with me.” “I’ll relay anything you want to say.”

“Thank you.”

Katsunori parted with Mitsu.

Tamai Kingoro and Man shared a common unease about their son not returning home on the night of the Gion Festival.

(Could it be he went to Hikaru’s place?)

However, neither of them broached the subject. Eerily, a sense of inevitability made the impulse Tamai Kingoro and Man received so complex that they could not easily speak of it.

The couple had engraved in their hearts all too well the enormous power of fate that mocks human will and twists human paths askew with brutal force. "What in the world..." they both thought. If their son had gone to Hikaru's place, didn't that mean they themselves had practically driven him there? He had resolved to leave Hikaru and set out on a journey, but they—both Kingoro and Man—had each sent letters to recall him with meticulous courtesy.

However, their son was afraid of his parents. Though tormented by anguish, he could not bring himself to kneel before his parents as bravely as he had when visiting Take no Ie.

He knocked on Inoue Angorō’s door. He earnestly requested mediation. However, this thoughtful politician calmly denied the youth’s overblown hope. “Katsunori-kun, you are still young.” “Marriage is a lifelong matter.” “You mustn’t ruin your entire life over some fleeting passion.” “I know this well—nine out of ten men who marry geisha end up unhappy.” “I recommend you reconsider.”

Harada Kumoi also scratched his head, saying it was beyond his ability to handle.

Katsunori was at a loss.

After four or five days had passed, on a certain muggy late night, there was someone noisily banging on the front lattice of the Tamai household while loudly demanding to be let in. Baban went out.

“I’ll open it now.”

As he said this and was unlocking the latch from inside, the clock struck two.

Before long, there were voices arguing about something at the entrance, and Baban came to Man’s bedroom looking perplexed. From outside the mosquito net,

“Ms. Man.” “Yes.” For some reason unable to sleep, Man, who had been lying in the futon listening to the clock chiming, sat up.

“Go check the entrance.” “I don’t know.” “Is it a thief?” “No.” “A raid?”

“Well—it’s something along those lines.” “In a fierce rage—there’s a woman who looks like a sumo wrestler shouting something out here!” Man threw on a haori over nightclothes and went to the entrance.

It was dark. She turned the switch. Outside the lattice stood a large-framed woman who at first glance appeared to be a restaurant proprietress—a capable-looking woman standing there with a bloodthirsty expression and irritated demeanor. Outside was a rickshaw; she must have arrived in it.

“Are you Tamai’s wife?” A confrontational voice rang out. “Ah, I am Tamai’s wife, but… who might you be?” “It’s Tsujiki.” “May I ask—is Katsunori-san here?” “He should be here… What about Katsunori?” “Is he really here?” Mrs. Tsujiki peered into the depths of the house with narrow eyes filled with suspicion. “In the evening, he returned from the port, ate dinner, did some writing, and then earlier took a bath and went to bed, but…”

“Let me see him for a moment.”

Man climbed halfway up the staircase, “Katsunori,”

She called up toward the second floor.

“Coming!” A reply was heard immediately. It seemed he was still awake.

“Come down. There’s a visitor here.” “Right away.” Katsunori had apparently heard the commotion at the entrance and already knew who the visitor was. Wearing a yukata, he descended the stairs with a slightly pale face, sweeping back his long hair as he sat before Mrs. Tsujiki. “Did you need something from me?” “This isn’t about ‘something.’ Where exactly have you hidden Hikaru?”

“Hikaru?… Hikaru’s missing?” “Well, feigning ignorance like that—how detestable! I thought you two were together, but you hid just Hikaru, didn’t you? Confess!” “I don’t know anything at all.”

“She went out for her needlework lesson after noon and hasn’t come back—you must’ve instigated this and hidden her somewhere! Even if you try to trick me, the wholesalers won’t approve of that! What a cruel thing to do!” “I truly don’t know anything.” “Mrs. Tsujiki,” Man cut in from the side, “Katsunori isn’t a liar. He surely has no connection to Ms. Hikaru’s disappearance. Please look elsewhere.”

“There’s no way you don’t know…?”

With fox-like eyes, she glared at Katsunori but seemed to realize that no matter how much she pressed him, it would only lead to a pointless back-and-forth. "This won't do," she muttered as she climbed back into the rickshaw and departed.

Around the time the *pfft*, *pffft* of the horn faded away, Noro Jin appeared from the front entrance. Tofu shops are early risers. Despite the late hour, at Jinpachi’s shop, lights already blazed brightly while motors hummed and belts clattered with mechanical life.

“Madam, what brings you here at midnight?” He looked suspicious.

“It’s nothing.” “You’re working hard, Jin-san.” “You’ll build a storehouse.” “A flimsy tofu storehouse, you know.” “Even if you built a hundred of those, they’d be useless.” “Well then.”

Man smiled, closed the lattice door, and locked it. She led her son to the inner room. “Wait there for a moment.” Having said that, she stood in the kitchen. She boiled water in a small kettle with gas. She took out Shōkisen from the cupboard and put tea into the teapot. She placed two saucers on the tea tray and carried it to the tatami room. Two cats followed. When she sat down in front of her son, she offered one of them. “Have some tea.” Katsunori silently drank the steaming hot tea.

Man drank by reverently cradling the teacup in both hands, then addressed her son in a quiet tone. “Katsunori, you really don’t know?” Katsunori deeply hung his head. He bit his lip. Even without that, on this sweltering night, clammy oily sweat from his inner anguish oozed and trickled down Katsunori’s forehead. A brief silence passed. “Don’t hide it from Mom.”

At those words, as if recoiling, a pained voice escaped from Katsunori’s lips. “I’m sorry.” “You do know, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know.” “Where is Ms. Hikaru?”

“She should be in Hakata.”

“What do you mean by ‘should be’?” “Because she left home under that agreement.” “So she ran away to hide?” “Yes.”

By now, Katsunori’s resolve seemed firmly set, and he no longer hesitated in response to his mother’s questions. Moreover, the judge-like interrogative tone, while stern, had gradually begun to show a touch of consideration for the defendant’s emotions. “Did you have contact regarding Ms. Hikaru’s escape and hiding in Hakata?”

“We were the ones who helped her escape.” “We? …You mean ‘we’ as in multiple people?” “Because we all worked together to help her escape…” “Everyone?” “It wasn’t just you alone, was it?”

“Well…” “Who else?” “Tell me.”

Katsunori bit his lower lip slightly and deliberated, then raised his face as if resolved. He laid everything bare in his confession. This was apparently what had happened—Hikaru had been effectively confined. There was no formal prison cell, but her room had become something close to it. Yet they couldn’t keep Hikaru physically restrained. Once her pregnancy became noticeable, she had stopped dancing, but since hairdressing and sewing practice remained part of her daily routine, she still had to go out. On such occasions, a guard was assigned.

Meanwhile, preparations for the wedding with Yōnosuke were rapidly advancing.

It was judged that the situation had reached its final critical point. “To resolve this, there’s no choice but to take extreme measures.” The opinions of Katsunori’s friends aligned.

The matter of Hikaru and Katsunori was well known among their friends and affirmed by all. The friends regarded the pair's love as a pure embodiment of genuine youthful passion, with everyone praying for its fulfillment. This too may have been because it represented, in itself, an issue of their own youth. Before they knew it, something called the "Katsunori-Hikaru Marriage Promotion Alliance" had taken shape, with every one of them joining in.

“To accomplish a single undertaking, organized effort is absolutely necessary,” said Nakamura Tsutomu, their de facto chief of staff. Nakamura had lost the election, but through that experience, he had developed a romantic relationship with Hideko—Kingoro’s second daughter and Katsunori’s younger sister. They believed that once Katsunori’s situation was resolved, this youth organization would mobilize for their own sake. The Marriage Promotion Alliance carefully devised their strategic plan and then fiercely launched their campaign. Even if Hikaru was confined in a tatami room prison, she could establish any kind of contact. This was because her older sister Mitsu was their spy. Despite the Tsujiki couple’s all-seeing eyes and hellish ears, they didn’t notice that much. Not only that—Mitsu remained utterly convinced she was on their side. Since they had assigned her as the escort during outings, it could be said the operation’s first step had already succeeded.

Once preparations were complete, they carried it out. After noon, Mitsu accompanied Hikaru to the sewing practice hall. After staying about thirty minutes, she said she was going to the hairdresser and left. Hoshino Jun’ichi, the laundry shop owner, had prepared two rickshaws behind the cleaning factory. If they boarded from Wakamatsu Station or Wakato Ferry Terminal, they would be discovered immediately. The rickshaw carrying the two went to the railway inspection depot a little past the station, under Konpira Mountain. There, railway worker Kiyomitsu Iwashita had been waiting. After receiving Hikaru from Hoshino, Iwashita put her aboard a Chikuhō Line freight train bound for Iizuka. The covered freight car was loaded with pit props bound for the coal mine, hiding Hikaru from view. At Orio Station, they unloaded her. On the Kagoshima Main Line down train, Hamada Rikuichi—the baker from Kokura—had boarded and received her from Iwashita.

They disembarked at Hakata Station.

The painter Aoyagi Kihee was waiting to greet them. Aoyagi and his wife lived on the second floor at the back of Sekiryūkan, a judo dojo his father had managed. They assigned one of the three-tatami rooms there as Hikaru’s hideout…… “So that means Hikaru-san’s in that room right now, isn’t she?”

Man said with a slightly exasperated look.

“Yes.” Man took out her kiseru and filled it with kizami. She lit it, puffed out her chest, and took a deep drag. With a slightly bitter expression,

“How many months along is Hikaru-san now?” “About six months, I think.” “I once had to run away and wander around with the big belly you were in, but…” Suddenly, with a clatter and a sharp snap, the sliding door flew open with a tremendous noise.

Kingoro came out. “You fool!” With that voice, the fierce sound of a slap ringing across Katsunori’s left cheek pierced through and echoed sharply in the late-night air.

Kingoro strode purposefully toward the family altar. In the depths of the Buddhist altar, aligned between the tokonoma and the kurogaki main pillar, the brilliantly golden Amitabha Buddha sat utterly still, seated in meditation upon a golden lotus pedestal. Beneath it was a vermilion-lacquered cupboard. Kingoro opened it and took out a single sword wrapped in a brocade cloth from inside. He untied the cord and smoothly drew it out. It was a Sukesada blade he had acquired in his youth in the town of Dōgo and had cherished ever since. Because it was so well-maintained, the blade gleamed with a blue clarity that made one think water might drip from it.

Kingoro slipped off the collar of his yukata, baring his upper body. A vivid blue dragon tattoo stood out on his pale left arm. He planted himself in front of his son, blocking his path.

“Katsunori.”

With eyes blazing in anger, he glared at his son. “Yes.” “There are times my guts boil over! Even after all I told ya, you went and pulled this stunt—now everything’s a wreck. Master Ōba’s reputation, Mr. Fujimoto’s standing—hell, even my own face—all ruined! And you’ve smeared mud on Tomoda Kizō’s name to boot! All for your sake! Cut me down!” “I’m sorry.”

Katsunori deeply bowed his head.

Beside them, Man—oddly enough—found herself pulled back into memories of a distant day and sat there dazed. A vivid scene rose before her eyes, leaving her bewildered by a strange illusion. (Something just like this happened long ago.) Twenty-five or twenty-six years earlier, her husband had stood before her in an identical stance. It was when Ōkawa Tokijirō had visited. “I found your lover,” he’d declared. “Cut me down!” he’d bellowed, rolling his bulging eyes. The only differences now were the electric lights instead of oil lamps and Kingoro’s aged face.

Man contemplated anew the long flow of years, but at the same time found it no small struggle to stifle the laughter rising from the pit of her stomach.

(There goes Father with his theatrics again.)

From the moment he slid open the fusuma and burst out of the neighboring room, Man had sensed that fact.

(That time too, he did the same thing.) With a clatter and a sharp snap, the sliding door had been flung open with such force that the house creaked and shook—the exaggerated manner of it all was pure Kingoro, ever the jester.

“Katsunori.” And then, in an even more threatening tone, he called out.

“Yes.” “Soon night will break. Take the first train to Hakata immediately.”

Not understanding the meaning, the son appeared unable to respond. Still, he kept his head lowered and bit down hard on his lower lip.

“Alright then, you got that?” “Yes.” “The first train’s definitely at 5:17—it won’t be delayed. Make sure you get on it.” “Yes.” “Alright, go back upstairs now. I’ll deal out your punishment later.”

Katsunori stood up. He left the room. The sound of strengthless footsteps ascending to the second floor was heard.

Kingoro and Man exchanged glances. Simultaneously, they burst out laughing. “Wahahahaha…” “Ahahahaha…”

Like clockwork laughter machines that wouldn’t stop until their springs ran out, they clutched their stomachs and rolled laughing. In both their eyes glistened tears that streamed endlessly down their cheeks. When their laughter subsided, wiping away tears while,

“What should we do?”

Suddenly becoming serious, Kingoro spoke. “What’s your plan… Father?” “I don’t think there’s any way out anymore. The one who left on a journey meaning to part with Hikaru—we went out of our way to call him back, so it’s practically like we brought them together ourselves. What’ll happen now that we’ve come this far?”

“That’s right… bound to end up this way.” “Matters between men and women are difficult, aren’t they?”

“It’s both difficult and simple at once.” “Something’s bound to snap somewhere.” “Truth is—these past days—I’ve been all tangled up about Katsunori. Feeble-like.” “But now... somehow I feel clearer.” “Me too.” “Still—the anger boiled over. Couldn’t help it—slapped his cheek once. Settled my nerves.” “The rest was just my usual clumsy act to hide the shame.”

“But… what about Master Ōba and Mr. Fujimoto…?”

“It’ll work out somehow.” “No matter what—both sides trying to smooth things over... That won’t happen.” “I realized I’d been bitten by the poison of gangster honor before I knew it.” “Face—everything comes down to face.” “...I ruined their reputations.” “I can’t save face.” “I smeared mud on their faces.” “All for the sake of face.” “...Even with this marriage arrangement—if I ruin Master Ōba’s reputation, that won’t do.” “If it falls apart, my own face won’t hold up... I kept thinking like that and put Katsunori’s feelings second.” “The connection with the famous Fujimoto Group... Maybe there was some self-interest too.”

Kingoro drank the tea that was there. It had gone cold, but it went down smoothly.

Man picked up the kiseru.

The clock began to ring. The two of them unintentionally assumed expressions of listening to the sound. It struck four.

A rooster crowed.

“That clock is sturdy, isn’t it.” “After all, it was worth splurging and spending four yen and seventy sen to buy it, wasn’t it.”

“It’ll still last for decades more.”

In April 1906, they had purchased it to commemorate the Tamai Group’s business launch. This fact was inscribed on the clock’s back. At year’s end, Katsunori was born. On Kingoro and Man’s wrinkled faces appeared a shared serenity—an expression woven by time and history that contemplated humanity’s inevitable fate. “If we force Katsunori into an arranged marriage with Fujimoto, what happened when I was adopted into the Kuroishi family might repeat itself.”

As Kingoro brought it up,

“I too was in a situation where I hadda marry Kei-yan, Mr. Village Head’s second son, outta obligation, but…”

Man, too, spoke of it in comparison to her own circumstances.

By now, the couple had already aligned in their hearts to forgive their son.

“Tsujiki’s side will just have to give up, I tell ya. It’s practically like Yōnosuke pickin’ a fight at Yamakasa drove Katsunori straight to Hikaru’s side.”

“Well then, Father—why are you sending Katsunori to Hakata?”

“After the first train departs, I intend to send a telegram to Aoyagi-san straight away, I tell ya.” “If I send an urgent telegram, it’ll arrive quicker than the train.”

“What kind of telegram?”

“Katsunori and Mitsumaru—both of you stay hidden there until the problem’s resolved… that’s what it’ll say.” “Ohoho, Father’s playacting is so skillful.”

At the entrance, the sound of the morning paper being thrown in was heard.

Several days had passed. From the Tsujiki family, there had been repeated stern inquiries to the Tamai household regarding Hikaru’s whereabouts, but— “On our side too, Katsunori’s gone missing—we’re in the middle of searching for him…”

Having been told this, they withdrew fruitlessly.

The fact that Katsunori and Hikaru’s peculiar elopement had been carried out with Kingoro and his wife’s approval was something the Tsujiki family had no way of noticing. Of course, they remained entirely unaware of even the existence of the Kisei Alliance that Mitsumaru had joined forces with. The Tsujiki family had apparently filed a protective custody request with the police and asked them to conduct a search.

Several more days passed.

Kingoro visited the Fujimoto Group in Yahata. Before Fujimoto Kihachiro, he frankly explained the circumstances and placed his hands on the floor in a bow. He lowered his head.

“I’ve done something unforgivable.” “How should I possibly apologize?” “Please scold me as harshly as you wish.”

Fujimoto, who had been crossing his arms, took Kingoro’s hand from the tatami and raised it. “Tamai-san, you can’t win against the young ones. To tell the truth, I had been thinking of coming to you to apologize myself.”

“What do you mean?…” “Ah... this is deeply shameful.” “Though she’s my own child—my negligence shows how blind parents can be.” “When Mr. Ōba arranged the marriage with your family, I thought nothing could bring greater joy... yet the one who mattered most...” “Kinuko-san?” “She’d taken a lover long ago, and...” Kingoro sharply raised his eyes to study Fujimoto’s face—a swarthy, thick-browed countenance with keen features stretched long.

Fujimoto, looking embarrassed, scratched his head and said, “The one at fault was me.” “I had actually been thinking of going to Mr. Ōba’s place to apologize today or thereabouts.” “Goodness gracious...”

(He’s lying.)

Kingoro understood that immediately. And once again, he found himself drawn to Fujimoto Kihachiro. Even during their previous meetings, he had considered Fujimoto a trustworthy man, but now that impression grew stronger. An ordinary person would have undoubtedly flown into a rage. They would have berated Kingoro, kicked over the seat, and stormed out. There would have been nothing to do about it.

“I see.” “In that case, I suppose we’re even.”

Kingoro also turned pale and said.

“Mr. Tamai.” Fujimoto edged closer on his knees. “This matter of the children’s indiscretion—we may consider it unrelated to us.” “I have long desired to cultivate a close bond with you.” “Though I rejoiced at the prospect of becoming kin, it would be most regrettable to sever ties merely because the engagement dissolved.” “If you would put the children’s affair behind us and maintain our association, I would be deeply grateful.”

“I’m the one who wishes for that.” “I too have some connection to Tsujiki Sōhachi regarding a certain matter.” “There are things I cannot overlook.” “If Tsujiki continues opposing your son and Hikaru to the end, please inform me.” “I may be able to help.”

An ally emerged from an unexpected quarter. He had come prepared to face any reprimand or punishment, yet Fujimoto was trying to help Katsunori, who had betrayed him. Kingoro felt a tightness in his chest. Silently, he firmly shook hands with Fujimoto Kihachiro. Ōba Haruyoshi, though displeased, still gave a wry smile and said, “Well, it’s already come to this—what can you do?” without getting angry. The one Ōba had been concerned about was Fujimoto Kihachiro, but since Fujimoto sincerely accepted the situation, no conflict arose.

“Man was worried,” he laughed, “but kids’ll be kids—they never turn out how parents expect.” “Kingoro’s the man who ditched his folks and bolted from Shikoku backwaters; Man here did the same—ran from Hiroshima. So naturally, the brat we spawned gives us hell. That’s our family tradition for you.” He added this too.

Kingoro requested mediation from Inoue Yasugorō. Though Yasugorō had opposed when Katsunori first asked him, he readily agreed to put in some effort now that matters had reached this point. Yasugorō began visiting *Take no Ie* nearly every day to persuade the stubborn Tsujiki couple. At first, the couple coldly rebuffed every approach, but they finally relented. They agreed to let Hikaru go. Fujimoto Kihachiro’s influence working behind the scenes seemed to have been the catalyst. It appeared Fujimoto had made arranging a different bride for Yōnosuke a condition of the agreement.

It’s impossible to say just how much Tomoda Kizō’s absence during these developments worked in their favor. Tomoda Kizō was hospitalized at a certain hospital in Osaka for surgery on his chronic gastric ulcer.

July came to an end, and shortly thereafter, Katsunori and Hikaru returned to their respective homes from the Sekiryūkan dojo in Hakata where they had been in hiding.

On August 13th, a provisional wedding ceremony was held. It was a drizzling rainy day at noon.

In the depths of Rōmatsu-chō’s alleyway, there stood a rowhouse. The small house there had been rented beforehand, and it became the newlyweds’ new home.

When his subordinate Jōzaburō met Man on the ferry, he said they should throw a celebration for the Young Boss’s wedding that would rock the whole town. Both the subordinates and friends waited with eager anticipation. Yet in reality, the ceremony took place so quietly that none knew when or where it had been held. In Rōmatsu-chō’s six-tatami room lay dishes for seven. They had ordered meals at four yen per portion from nearby Tsuneki Shokudo. There was little sake to be had. Groom and bride alike wore everyday clothes. Katsunori dressed in unlined kimono and hakama, while Hikaru—her hair in a Shimada style without bridal hood or veil—could not hide her swollen belly.

The attendees were the matchmakers Inoue Yasugorō, Tsujiki Sōhachi, and Harada Kumoi; Tamai Kingoro; and, as the bride’s attendant, her elder sister Mitsu.

“Takasago ya, upon this harbor boat, hoist the sails,...” That was chanted by Harada Kumoi.

After everyone had left and they were alone, both of them felt a vague sense of dejection that left them dazed.

“We’ve finally become one, huh…” “Hee hee…” Unknowingly, the two of them were whispering the same words Kingoro and Man had exchanged when they first started their household on Hikoshima.

When September arrived, they moved to a new house. They found a slightly larger house in Yamate-dori 2-chome and moved there. From there, Katsunori commuted every morning to the offshore site in his happi coat.

At breakfast, when he tried to sip his miso soup, there was fu in it. Fu had already been in there for ten days straight. The new wife seemed intent on adding fu to the miso soup until the bag she’d bought from the neighborhood sundries store was empty. “You’re not mistaking me for a goldfish, are you?” When he said that, Yoshiko turned bright red.

The next morning, it was tofu. The next morning, it was daikon. Next came green onions. After that, it changed endlessly.

On September 24th, a boy was born. He was named Tōshi.

The fifth year of Showa (1929) came to an end.

Tamai Kingoro, 51 years old. Man, 47 years old.

Katsunori, 25 years old.

Yoshiko, 20 years old.

Violence

“Hey, Kin-san! Why don’t you come over here?”

At that voice, he came to a halt. Mori Shinnosuke, wearing only a shirt, stood amidst the wood shavings, grinning as he looked this way. In his right hand was a small mallet, and in his left, a chisel—it seemed he had been squatting there until then, carving something.

The reconstruction of Niwaka-za progressed steadily, and the construction site buzzed with activity. The strong June sun glinted off new lumber, while ceremonial arrows and banners nailed to the towering roof beams of the ridgepole ceremony shone beautifully. A black kite circled as if playing with the fluttering five-colored streamers. Walking with heavy footsteps and downcast eyes, Kingoro paused when called and approached the site. Over his vest, he wore a happi coat bearing the "Tamai Group" insignia.

“Shinnosuke—even you’re doin’ carpentry now?” “Nah, I ain’t doin’ carpentry work. Just messin’ around with the nameplate for the main entrance. Since I was born in the Year of the Dragon, I’m carvin’ a risin’ dragon here.”

Tamai Kingoro peered in and widened his eyes,

“Well, that’s quite skillful, isn’t it?” “When did you learn that sort of craft?” “Wouldn’t call it much of a craft.” “Long as it looks like a dragon, that’s good enough.” “…Doesn’t it look like one?”

“Looks plenty grand to me!” “Oh right, you were born in the same Year of the Dragon too, weren’t you? Actually, Kin-san—I modeled this dragon after your tattoo… Take a look. In its claws, it’s holding a flower.” “What kind of flower is this?” “It’s not yet taken shape. I’m still workin’ on it. It’s a camellia flower.” “Hmm.” Kingoro felt a strange ticklishness at the thought that Shinnosuke perceived his wife as a camellia. I regard Man as a chrysanthemum, Katsunori considers Yoshiko a lily, and Shinnosuke sees Kimika as a camellia. And to the fact that each of those flowers was connected to a dragon, Kingoro sensed something like a fate that could hardly be called coincidence.

“When d’you expect completion?”

“Still gonna take half a year, I reckon.” “I’m pushin’ full throttle to make sure it’s ready in time for the winter Ebisu Festival.” “What’re you plannin’ for the opening ceremony?” “I’ve been thinkin’ of various things, but I need you to lend me your wisdom.” “I don’t know a thing about theater business.” “How ’bout a Kita-Kyushu Amateur Jōruri Convention?”

“Hmm, maybe so…?” “What if we invited one of those major Kabuki troupes from Tokyo or Kansai?” “Some folks do that sort of thing, but I’d rather kick things off with something that’s got deep local roots.” “With an amateur Jōruri gathering, all our acquaintances could participate.” “I’ll join in too.” “Naturally, I’ll have you take part as well.” “Tamai Harushō Tayū and Mitsukatsu Hanshichi haven’t had a proper performance in ages, have they?”

“I can’t do it. But that might be a good idea.”

“I’ll discuss it with ya properly later—count on it.” “Shimazaki Yūji has also been fully supportive.” “Shimazaki’s also started learnin’ Jōruri lately, hasn’t he?” “By the way, Kin-san—when ya meet Shimazaki, make sure to thank ’im from your side too, will ya?” “You can’t measure how much Shimazaki contributed to building this Niwaka-za Theater.” “Of course, I don’t need to say how grateful I am for your support, but Shimazaki’s level of dedication has been exceptional.”

“I see. Then next time I meet ’im, I’ll give proper thanks.”

Kingoro reluctantly answered like that. However, in truth, he couldn’t bring himself to rejoice unreservedly over this matter as Shinnosuke did. On the contrary, an indescribable anxiety welled up within him at the connection between Shimazaki Yūji—the “Chīhā”—and Mori Shinnosuke. Shinnosuke paid no heed to Kingoro’s feelings and kept smiling throughout. The thought of the Niwaka-za’s completion day—now far grander than before its burning—seemed to fill him with utter delight. Yet Kingoro finally noticed that he himself hadn’t appeared particularly cheerful since earlier,

“Kin-san, you’ve been awful down lately… Ain’t the dispute goin’ well?” “Yeah, kinda...” “Tough one, ain’t it?” “Today’s meetin’ got scrapped again.” “The other side claims their boss is off travelin’—no way to negotiate.” “Ever since this dispute started, folks involved keep takin’ trips or catchin’ sick.” “Like wrestlin’ thin air… Got so sour I swung by Rokuzoro to toss one back with Genkō.”

“Even if we form a labor union, things don’t seem to go smoothly.” “Katsunori finally got the dockworkers’ union up and running—he’s been pushing through all sorts of plans—but capitalists… they’re a stubborn lot. And then there’s that Tomoda Kizō…” “Come to think of it, Katsunori mentioned the union wanting to invite some Tokyo theater troupe or other. But my theater won’t be finished in time for that.” “Mind telling him that?”

“You already know that.” “...Well then, later.”

Kingoro left there.

As he walked, biting his lip, (I don't have enough strength.) It was pathetic.

In the evening, as he entered the front door, Man rushed out upon hearing his footsteps, as if she had been lying in wait.

“How did it go?” “No luck again today.” “You’re really as stubborn as ever.”

Man spoke with a teeth-grinding tone. “What about Katsunori?” “He came home once, ate his meal, then went out again...” “It’s a union meeting, right? He’s been doing this every night... It’s dangerous after dark—I’ve told him to be careful—but...”

That night, before going to bed, he wrote in his daily journal as usual, but in even bolder characters,

“TRULY, TRULY FURIOUS.”

After writing that, he couldn’t muster the motivation to continue. (What on earth should I do?) The means of decisive action would not come to mind. Up until now, no matter what situation he had faced, if he made a considered judgment—with strong willpower and an indomitable ability to act—he had resolved everything. And yet, this time’s problem perplexed Kingoro. It plunged him into confusion.

(I'm an idiot) And he even began to lose confidence. Kingoro flipped through the previous pages of his diary. ――Mitsubishi Coal-Loading Machine Construction Issue. These words had been scattered throughout the diary entries from over a year ago. In April of the previous year, when he had gone to Tokyo, he visited the Mitsubishi headquarters. Even though he had gone four times, he was turned away at the entrance all four times. This problem suddenly surfaced after the turn of the year.

"In Dōkai Bay, thousands of coal dockworkers barely survive by loading coal." "Yet as cargo handling became mechanized one after another, the dockworkers' work dwindled." "Their livelihoods were driven into the depths of poverty." "And now if Mitsubishi Coal-Loading Machines are built here again, it will mean starvation and death for the dockworkers."

It was this clear logic, recorded in the petition calling for a halt to construction, that had sparked the opposition movement. That wasn’t progressing smoothly.

――Tomoda Kizō. Within the dark wall that stood blocking his path, Kingoro saw the steel-like face of this boss.

(The time had finally come for me to face Tomoda Kizō in a final showdown.) Yes, I thought. Naturally, I had been prepared for this. But then—what exactly did this “final showdown” actually mean? When Kingoro considered that, he was plunged into confusion and could not help but shudder.

Last year, when Kingoro went to Tokyo, he had spoken with Inoue Angoro at Chikushikan. "It might finally have come to a critical point," he thought. "He'd been a long-standing enemy, but this current problem might force a final showdown." "...I'm a man who died once... Might be interesting to try dying again." He had said that and laughed, but now, faced with reality, there was no room for laughter. It was a terror as though a chasm had opened beneath his feet, peering into hell.

Kingoro kept flipping through the diary's pages. His meticulous note-taking made the progression clear. Yet no page showed the dawn of resolution. Rather, nearly every day's entry was lined with expressions of fury, lamentation, self-mockery, and at times phrases of abandonment and bleak despair.

February 25th—Union sub-leader. Adjourned due to lack of attendance. Met alone with an executive. "Tamai-kun, don't push this issue too hard," he said.

March 1st—Met Tomoda on the street. “You created a foremen’s union long ago, but now your son’s forming a dockworkers’ union to stir up the whole port,” he said. “We don’t mean to stir things up—we aim to put a stop to them,” he said. “Both parent and child are meddling in Wakamatsu Port’s affairs.” Tomoda’s gastric ulcer surgery must have gone well—his complexion looked healthier than before. If only he’d stayed in the hospital a bit longer.

March 5th—Formation ceremony of the Wakamatsu Port Dockworkers’ Union at Gokurakuji Temple. After that, they immediately held the Mitsubishi Coal-Loading Machine Opposition Dockworkers’ Rally. Katsunori served as chairman. March 15th—A speech meeting at the Public Hall to inform citizens about the Mitsubishi issue. On their return journey, Katsunori and thirteen others were detained by police for raising the union flag and marching through town. How idiotic they were. They went to reclaim it. The flag had been confiscated, and they were released the following morning.

April 7th—Foremen’s Union General Meeting.

On this day, the Mitsubishi issue took a completely new turn. Kingoro, as union leader, made a sorrowful declaration.

“In the current state of affairs, we no longer need the current number of dockworkers and foremen.” “If they wish to escape starvation, most must bid farewell to the work they’ve known for years—changing occupations is their only path.” “All of this is for the sake of machines.” “But since this isn’t just about the Mitsubishi machines now, we’ve no choice but to seek relief from all cargo owners—the coal merchants’ association.”

For this reason, as the foremen’s union, a resolution was passed to demand a relief fund of 250,000 yen for occupational transition from the Wakamatsu Coal Merchants’ Association—which included Mitsubishi, Mitsui, Aso, Sumitomo, Kaishima, and others. The Wakamatsu Port Dockworkers’ Union also fully agreed with this. A petition was prepared. However, it was the contractors who relayed this to the cargo owners. Moreover, the one who took on that role was Tomoda Kizō. April 12th—Submitted the petition to Tomoda. Grinning foolishly, he said, “You’re making such an absurd demand.” “Are you people sane?” he said. “I’ll leave it to you.” “If you claim you’ve organized all foremen, I’ll pass it along—but with this kind of money at stake, if you bank on your reputation, you’ll be left stranded.”

These documents had apparently been handed over to the coal merchants' association. However, it was met with complete silence.

April 18th—No reply. Executive absent.

April 24th—Went to the coal merchants’ association. Meeting refused.

April 28th—Held a foremen’s union council meeting at Marukin, but only two people came, so it was adjourned. Whether they truly had the resolve to tackle this problem—or not.

April 30th—Tomoda traveled.

May 1st—May Day. The Wakamatsu Port Dockworkers’ Union participated, but the Kyōdō Group did not attend. May 4th—Heard something strange from Kyōdō Group’s Bōshin. It seemed Tomoda had taken money from the coal merchants’ association and promised to have the foremen’s union’s 250,000-yen demand flatly rejected. True? Or a lie?

May 13th—Met with the coal merchants’ association’s directors. “We’re currently looking into it.” they said.

“What exactly are you researching?” “Various things.” “Is it about the amount?” “No—we haven’t gone that far yet.” “If we’re to accept it at all—we’ll accept it.” “We’re currently looking into it.” My guts were boiling. A slippery-murky sea-cucumber debate.

May 18th—“Midoriya” At Midoriya, when I had dinner with city council members, Mr. Inoue Yasugorō spoke. “Tamai-kun, I heard Tomoda was talking with Mitsubishi executives.” “If you let those vermin-like riffraff grumble, it’ll tarnish my own reputation.” “The likes of vermin forming a union—how impudent.” “Taking this matter as a good opportunity, I’ll crush both the foremen’s union and the labor union and show you.” “He was saying that.” I was truly, truly furious.

May 22nd—Meeting. Canceled.

As he flipped through his diary reviewing the labor dispute's progress in this way, Kingoro's face contorted bitterly. He clicked his tongue and bit his lower lip.

Then,

—Tomoda Kizō. Without fail, this image of his archenemy would ultimately loom before him—a livid face marked by sword scars, kite-like eyes gleaming through the darkness, smirking mockingly. “Tamai, this time I’ll silence you for good.” That shrill, womanish voice rang clear in his ears.

The woman-like shrill voice saying this could be heard clearly.

(How should I handle this?)

As he thought about it, Kingoro began to feel like crying.

Man watched Kingoro’s face every day. She seemed unbearably exasperated. Knowing that there was no progress at all,

“Father, just go on strike already!”

She would say things like that.

One day, after the sun had already set, Kingoro returned home in a strange state. As usual, he wore his Tamai Group haori over his vest, but he staggered as if he had lost his center of gravity. He seemed both drunk and sober. His face was pale, his eyes glazed over, and it was impossible to tell where he was looking. His slack lips hung open with a pale tongue protruding. The hat he had worn when leaving that morning appeared to have been dropped somewhere along the way.

“I’m home.”

As he stepped over the genkan threshold, he appeared to say it, but no one could make out his words.

“Father, what’s wrong?” Whether he had heard Man’s words or not, he turned his vacant eyes and glared, “Gotta shit.”

He muttered in a muffled voice and swayed unsteadily toward the toilet. Holding onto the corridor handrail, he opened the toilet door and went in.

“Something’s not right...”

Baban also had a suspicious look on her face.

A faint wind rustled the standing trees in the garden, while from the pond came frequent splashing sounds of what might have been carp or crucian carp leaping about. The only disturbance to the quiet night air came from these aquatic movements; the toilet area remained profoundly silent, without so much as a single clunk. Tamai Kingoro—who loved clownish antics—would sometimes deliberately release thunderous farts from the main toilet that reverberated through the whole house, but now not even a faint echo could be heard.

Man felt a sense of foreboding. “Hideko, go take a look.”

Hideko stood up and went. Soon, a shrill voice erupted from the direction of the toilet. “Mom, come quick! “Father... he’s dead...”

Man flew like a bullet. Baban followed right after her. In front of the toilet, Hideko was wailing. Inside the open door, Kingoro could be seen collapsed like a folded paper lantern.

“Father!” Man’s voice too seemed no longer audible. “Hideko, go call Dr. Takayama right away.” Hideko ran off to the doctor’s place.

With Baban’s help, they carried the heavy Kingoro out from inside the toilet. They dragged him roughly down the corridor and brought him to the tatami room. Kingoro groaned faintly and tried to pry open his eyes. However, his upper and lower eyelids remained stuck together as if glued and wouldn’t open. When Man saw those eerie, glazed eyes, she shuddered.

“What on earth happened?” Baban was already in a panic. “Someone might’ve poisoned him?… Damn it all.” Man, agitated, couldn’t shed a single tear. The frustration burned so fiercely she could’ve cracked her teeth—she ground them hard.

Dr. Takayama arrived. After briefly examining him, “It’s pufferfish poisoning,” he said.

“Pufferfish?”

Man was dumbfounded. She was stunned. Her mouth hung open, and wouldn’t close.

The doctor administered first aid. He inserted a rubber tube from his mouth down to his stomach and induced vomiting. He administered medicine and gave several injections. “Where’s Katsunori?”

Baban looked at Man’s face. Man lacked the energy to respond. “What if something happens when Katsunori isn’t here…?” “He should be fine now,” the doctor said with a laugh. “Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep. Once some time passes, he’ll return to normal. You should cool him down a bit. Let me know if anything changes.”

Having said that, he left.

About two hours later, Kingoro regained consciousness. With eyes that had regained their normal hue, he looked around restlessly as if rousing from a dream. He recognized Man’s face. “Man.”

He called out in a murmur. Man’s right hand suddenly flew to Kingoro’s left cheek. The fierce sound whooshed through the house. “Ow! What do you think you’re doing?” Kingoro, startled, pressed a hand to his cheek. “Don’t you ‘what do you think’ me.” “What were you thinking?” “Getting yourself poisoned by pufferfish and nearly dying.” “...Do you realize what moment this is?” “I don’t know where or who you ate it with—what if you’d died?” “At this of all times—”

Tears overflowed in Man’s eyes. “Haven’t I endured everything just for today’s sake?” “There have been so many unbearable things until now.” “What was the point of gritting my teeth through all that?” “I avoided petty conflicts all this time for the sake of thousands of workers’ big problems.” “You know these things a hundred times over without me saying them, yet you went and ate pufferfish.” “You always eat pufferfish and should know it doesn’t affect you! What kind did you eat, and why?” “Who eats pufferfish at this time of year?” “Or did the enemy force-feed it to you as part of some scheme?” “In the middle of this crucial matter—you, who bear the greatest responsibility—the thoughtless... Tamai Kingoro, dockworkers’ representative, dead from pufferfish poisoning... Would you be fine with that?” “Would you be fine becoming a joke?” “Oh, it’s terrifying!”

Man, who had been ranting as if in a frenzy, turned her eyes bloodshot red and began wailing at the top of her voice.

The color of Dōkai Bay’s water, after being soaked by the rainy season, eventually came to reflect summer clouds.

On the Tobata side of Shinkawa Quay, the Mitsubishi Coal-Loading Machine was steadily being constructed. At the port, as if nothing were happening, vessels came and went day and night.

Adjacent to the Rengō Group stood the office of the Wakamatsu Port Steamship Loading Foremen’s Union. At the second floor of the Tamai Group Office behind the foremen’s union—where a new placard labeled “Dispute Headquarters,” three times as large as that sign, had been hung alongside it—hung the sign of the Wakamatsu Port Dockworkers’ Labor Union. On a red field fluttered a union flag emblazoned with a stylized design combining a shovel, weeding claw, and oar. The office of the Coal Merchants’ Association, retaining remnants of Meiji-era architecture, stood no more than a block away. Between these buildings now surged crowds day after day—workers rushing about in confusion as an air thick with menace hung over all.

“What’s going to happen with this dispute?”

“The coal merchants are being stubborn—utterly impossible to negotiate with, I hear.” “The capitalists don’t give a damn even if us scum dry up like salted fish or drop dead in the gutters.” “They don’t feel pain or itch.” “They don’t even see us as human.” Near the coal-stained wharf where large baskets, woven carriers, ropes, and vises lay scattered, dockworkers gathered in twos and threes, constantly holding heated discussions. And in every crew, when talks reached their end, it was as if by some unspoken pact—

“It’s Tomoda Kizō.” “That guy’s our real enemy.”

As was always the case, their discussions settled into teeth-gnashing mutterings. At the labor union, Secretary-General Katsunori worked diligently alongside his comrades, churning out mimeographed “Union News” bulletins and leaflets one after another to stoke the dockworkers’ fighting spirit. However, their unity always crumbled from a corner of the Kyōdō Group. “Father, it seems the Kyōdō Group dockworkers—if they join the labor union, they’ll end up dead.” “...They’re being threatened by Tomoda’s underlings in that manner.” “They simply can’t unite.”

Katsunori wore a grim expression.

“They’ve stuck to the same methods since the old days.” The foremen’s coordination also began to falter. “...What should we do...?”

Kingoro crossed his arms, his face etched with despair. Though unshaken by most challenges, this problem made his head throb. (If only Tomoda Kizō were someone you could talk sense into…) The futility of negotiation had been seared into his bones through decades of bitter experience. No matter what agreements they reached, they never honored them—instead switching sides to crush their opponents. He’d lost count of how often he’d swallowed that bitter draught.

Man remained as restless as ever, frustration unbearable.

“Father, that’s it—strike! Just go ahead and call a strike!” “We gotta do it—or this’ll never end!”

She spoke in an impatient tone, as if she herself were brandishing a commander’s baton. “I’ve thought about that too.” “I’ve been talking with Katsunori too.” “...But that risks rousing a snake from the bushes.” “If the Kyōdō Group pulls out... No—they’ll betray us without fail.” “...Then this time, every last scrap of work in the port will be completely swept up by Tomoda’s faction.” “That’s exactly what Tomoda’s banking on, isn’t it?” “Tomoda’s devil spawn!” Man seethed with frustration as if Tomoda Kizō stood before her.

On June 16th， Kingoro wrote in his diary: “Today was another failure． Negotiations with the Coal Merchants’ Association are pointless． The enemy is Tomoda—if only Tomoda weren’t here…” After writing that， he glared eerily， his beady eyes glinting fiercely．

June 18th, an incident occurred.

In the name of the Wakamatsu Port Dockworkers’ Union, the theater troupe "Leftist Theater" was invited from Tokyo. It was decided that the performance would take place at 6:30 p.m. on the evening of June 19th, with Asahi-za as the venue. Additionally, the troupe was scheduled to perform in Kokura, Yawata, Moji, and other locations. The performance piece was “The Sunless Street”. (Four-Act Short Scene) and “Pro Trial” (One Act)—two pieces. At the labor union, they especially printed a "Union News Extra" using mimeograph stencils. They explained about the theater troupe and wrote, “Every last one of you must go see this play meant for workers.” The general admission fees were first class at 1 yen 50 sen, second class at 1 yen, and third class at 60 sen, but the union issued 30-sen "Worker’s Tickets."

Kingoro laughed,

“Since I’m a dockworker too, thirty sen’s fair, yeah?” Having said that to Katsunori, he and Man looked forward to the day together. At the end of the previous year, Katsunori and his wife had returned from their new home in Yamate-dōri to the house in Shōhōji-machi and were living together with his parents.

On the day before the performance, around forty troupe members came to Wakamatsu. They each lodged in three separate locations. Loading about ten actors onto the Tamai-gumi’s large cargo boat, Katsunori guided them around Dokai Bay. Katsunori, wearing a happi coat, rowed the scull while,

“That over there is the infamous Mitsubishi coal-loading machine.” Each time they arrived at a site, he explained and reported on the progress of the labor dispute in detail. “As expected of Japan’s number one coal port, isn’t it?”

One of the actresses muttered in admiration while letting bobbed hair be tousled by the sea breeze. At the Shin River Wharf on the Tobata side, alongside the Kaijima coal-loading machine, construction of the Mitsubishi coal-loading machine was steadily progressing. It resembled a gigantic steel insect. On the sea floated Mitsui’s "Loader," Mitsubishi’s "Pontoon," and other alluvial machinery. Over these, many seagulls flapped white wings as they soared leisurely; some of them, spotting prey, suddenly dove straight down toward the sea surface.

Those on board the boat were Sasaki Takamaru, Takizawa Osamu, Matsumoto Katsuhei, Saga Zenbei, Shima Kimiyasu, and others.

As the performance preparation office, they had rented an eight-tatami room on the second floor of Tamada Beauty Parlor in Uranaka-cho. In the past, it had borne a sign reading “Women’s Hairdressing Shop” and been O-Natsu’s establishment where she had styled Okyō’s and Somekichi’s hair, but now it had become a modern beauty parlor that also offered permanent waves.

At that moment, Kurita Gingo appeared.

“Is Tamai here?”

Having said that, he was already coming up the stairs to the second floor.

His pallid face grew even paler, and his entire body trembled convulsively. His razor-sharp eyes—their whites glaringly prominent—burned with murderous intensity, flickering violently. He wore a pale lightweight kasuri kimono with a white crepe obi tied around his waist. He sat before Katsunori in a half-kneeling position. The cane hat he clutched behind his back with both hands clattered noisily.

In the seats were seven or eight people—union members and troupe members. In this region, there were also Kawahara Shigemi and Nakamura Tsutomu, who had long been involved in the theater movement. “Do you have some business?”

Katsunori asked. “What do you mean by ‘business’?” “If you’re prepared for a rain of blood to fall on Asahi-za tomorrow,” he said, “then go ahead and put on this play.” “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re asking *me* for an explanation?” “Hmph. Thieves acting all high and mighty—that’s you lot, isn’t it?” “If you’re determined to perform a play that takes aim at Yoshida, the great boss, right here in Wakamatsu, then go ahead and try.” “That must be some kind of misunderstanding.” “Misunderstanding? “Eat shit.” “First of all—where in the world does a ‘City Without Sun’ even exist?” “Maybe they exist in foreign countries.” “Nah, maybe they exist somewhere in Japan too.” “I’m uneducated, so I don’t know about other places.” “However, right here in Wakamatsu, we’ve got our own sun shining bright and proper.” “Yoshida Isokichi, that great sun, blazes and shines whether it’s day or night.” “Don’t fuck with me.”

He found himself unable to respond and fell silent. “And another thing,” said Kurita, pulling a single printed sheet from his pocket, “take one look at this, and your lot’s schemes are plain as day.” It was a leaflet for the performance, printed with explanations and cast listings. “Hmph, your methods are crude... Hey, what’s this?—Yoshida, the company dog?” “Yoshida the dog’s cozying up to scabs?” “Scabs—ain’t that what you call traitors?” “...And that dog Yoshida ends up gettin’ mobbed by your dispute group?... Well ain’t that a sweet little scheme you’ve cooked up.”

Katsunori and the others were shocked. It was an unexpected pretext. The original work and script had been structured that way; they had never intended to connect the story's "Yoshida" with Yoshida Isokichi. It was pure coincidence. As they stood dumbfounded,

“All of this reeks of Tamai Kingoro’s meddling.” “As for Kingoro himself—I’ll pay my respects separately.” “Do whatever you want.” “Go ahead with your damn play tomorrow if you dare.” He stammered out these words and rose abruptly. Trembling hands clamped the cane hat onto his head before he marched out in stiff, rhythmic steps.

Katsunori got on his bicycle and raced to the "dispute headquarters" on Coast Road. He thought to report this to his father. However, Kingoro was not there.

“He’s at the city council today, you know.” Misaki Seijirō, foreman of the joint labor group, said this. After giving Misaki a brief account, he returned to Tamada Beauty Salon. A symposium had been scheduled to take place at the Shōwa Club hall in Rōmatsu-chō starting at 5:00 p.m. However, slightly before the appointed time, suspicious individuals began loitering around the venue. All appeared to be idlers, their numbers swelling as time passed. They struck peculiar poses, as though concealing daggers or Japanese swords beneath their clothes. When this situation was reported back to Tamada Beauty Salon, it was decided that canceling the symposium would be prudent. The actors who had gathered on the second floor and were preparing to depart abandoned their plans. Kawahara Shigemi, Nakamura Tsutomu, and others were also present.

Then, as the sun set and the front grew slightly dark, the area before Tamada Beauty Salon suddenly became tumultuous.

“Where’s the symposium?” “They moved it here?” “Upstairs! Get upstairs!”

Amidst the clamor and shouts, a crowd of gang members came storming up to the second floor without removing their shoes. With only a single eight-tatami room available, they couldn't escape. Two or three people leapt down from the roof. "Get over here!"

“Damn it!” “Who’s the bastard that called Boss Yoshida a dog?”

In unison, saying whatever they pleased, the thugs rampaged violently. Because the union and theater troupe offered no resistance, they could rampage unchecked. One of them threw a mimeograph machine. It hit the lamp shade and broke. The lights went out. Another person lifted the phonograph. He lifted it with both hands and swung it overhead. Until then, the record had been spinning, so from the thug's raised hands, the "May Day Song" continued to play.

“Drop dead!”

The giant man threw down the portable device. It didn't hit anyone. That they had deliberately aimed at an unoccupied spot was clear. Had they launched a serious assault, everyone might have been annihilated. Yet strangely enough, despite their grand display, the damage remained minimal. This was because their attack had been lackluster. None brandished deadly weapons. Yamamoto Yasue and the others sustained injuries gradually.

Katsunori slipped through the assailants and went to borrow the telephone at Nagao Clinic behind Tamada. Blood streamed from his forehead and the nape of his neck. He called the police. They didn’t pick up for a long time. Finally, the call connected.

“I see. We’ll come right away.” Despite their response, the police force did not arrive for a long time. By the time about ten officers finally arrived, the thugs had already fled. “What’s wrong with you all?” While issuing reprimands as if it were a game, they perfunctorily took two or three people into custody. At the police station, the gang members received extraordinary preferential treatment. They slept on futons spread out in the middle of a tatami-matted dojo—not a jail cell. There were lavish deliveries of sushi rolls, manju buns, cigarettes, sake, and the like.

However, Kurita Gingo’s top subordinate, Kaga Shinshichi, was dissatisfied. Though small in stature, this gambler—said to have guts throughout his entire body, witty and amusing—puckered his lips and said to the station chief: “We did what the police asked us to do—so why’re you arresting us now?” “Well, it’s a matter of public perception,” replied the station chief. “We’ll treat you as honored guests, so don’t say such things.” It later became clear that everything had been planned from the start...

A protest came from Yoshida Isokichi’s faction to the police chief: “Why are you permitting such plays?” As law enforcement, they couldn’t legally deny permission for properly licensed performances. The station chief then covertly asked Tomoda Kizō to “devise some method to render the performance unfeasible.” Tomoda gave orders to Kurita Gingo. Kurita mustered his underlings—thus setting the chain of events in motion. Consequently, the June 19th performance was canceled.

Upon learning this, a sinister phosphorescent glow burned in Kingoro’s eyes. He bit his lips until they might tear.

(Tomoda Kizō had revealed his true nature. He must have already resolved to stand against us—no, against all dockworkers—as the enemy in this dispute.) He could not doubt that. Even when July turned to August, the problem had not progressed one bit. Far from progressing, as it dragged on, a strange lethargy began to waft through them, their pace became disordered, giving rise to the danger of regression and worsening.

Man scolded Kingoro and Katsunori every morning during meals.

“What do you think you’ll accomplish like this?” “They’re looking down on all of you right now.” “Since you’re not doing anything substantial anyway, they’ve got you pegged as pushovers.” “Their plan is to drag this out until everything gets swept under the rug.” “You’re falling right into their trap.”

“It’s not that we don’t see that ourselves, but...” “Father—that’s it! The strike! It’s time for that decisive move.” “But...”

“Katsunori, why did you form the dockworkers’ union? What’s the use of a union if we don’t strike at a time like this?” “I’ve been considering that, but…” “How convenient for you. ……After enduring all manner of things precisely for moments like this…” Tears surfaced in Man’s bitter eyes.

Meetings and interviews were still held time and time again. All of it ended in futility. The editorial stance of nearly every newspaper supported the dockworkers’ demands as legitimate. Harada Kumoi’s Wakamatsu News denounced the wrongdoing of the coal merchants day after day. And it wrote things like, “Cunningly colluding with scabs among the contractors and a gang boss who could be called a vampire to suck the lifeblood of the pitiful dockworkers,” implicitly satirizing Tomoda Kizō. In the Kyushu Minpo, Takano Teizo vigorously laid out his arguments, striving to rally public opinion with statements like, “All citizens of Wakamatsu must rise to save the thousands of dockworkers on the brink of starvation, about to become seaweed in Dokai Bay.”

On August 17th, at the general meeting of the foremen's union held at the dispute headquarters, a work slowdown was finally resolved to be carried out.

“The success or failure of this dispute hinges entirely on how this strategy plays out. I expect every group to keep their ranks perfectly intact—not a single member out of step.”

Dispute leader Kingoro then addressed Takashi Seiichi, foreman of the Kyōdō Group who was present.

“Takashi-san, you understand, don’t you?”

“I understand perfectly well. Why would we break what the foremen’s union has decided as a whole? ...Right, everyone?”

Takashi Seiichi looked back at the seven or eight Kyōdō Group foremen who were there. “That’s right, that’s right.” “We won’t break our solidarity.” Kingoro bowed his head slightly. “Thank you. This is the final battle. If you all stand united, this dispute will be ours to win.” Starting on the following day, the 18th, the work slowdown was to be implemented. By restricting personnel and time, they were to halve work efficiency.

However, the result completely betrayed Kingoro’s expectations. Or rather, perhaps it should be said that it went exactly as expected. While the foremen and dockworkers of the Allied Group, Santō Transport, Yamakyū Group, Ōtaka Group, Kyōsei Group, and others all adhered to the resolution, only the Kyōdō Group continued working as before. As a natural result, the shippers began ignoring the agreement and brought work steadily to the Kyōdō Group, which refused to participate in the slowdown. Order descended into chaos, and an ominous air drifted over the sea.

Kingoro panicked. (This was Tomoda Kizō’s doing.) He knew it all too well.

In the evening, Kingoro returned home with Katsunori in tow. He was smiling. He handed the bamboo-wrapped package he had been carrying to Man, “I’ve bought plenty of top-grade beef.” “Tonight, the whole family’s having sukiyaki.” “It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper drink—heat up some sake, will you?”

With that, he entered the bath.

“Even though it’s hot, Father had to go and decide on sukiyaki...” Man laughed, but when the whole family gathered around the large round dining table with the sukiyaki pot at the center, it became lively and enjoyable.

There were thirteen people in total. ―Kingoro, Man, Katsunori, Yoshiko, Tōshi, Shigeko, Satomi, Chihiro, Masao―who had returned from Tokyo for summer vacation―and Hideko, who had married Nakamura Ben and had come holding Kyōko, born this June. To this were added Baban and the housemaid. “Hey, Mother, have a drink.”

Kingoro offered Man a cup. Man opened it and was about to return it when— “Give it to Katsunori. Katsunori, pass it around in order. Whether you can drink or not, everyone take a cup.” As he watched the sake cup circulate, he said, “Fascinating—from just the two of us, me and Mother, we’ve multiplied this much… It’s like maggots swarming.” He said such things and laughed oddly. The children poked at the pot, and those who drank alcohol exchanged cups.

“Alright, I’ll show you all a bit of the Gonzo dance,” he said. “Back when we were at Baban’s Nagata-gumi here, Mother and I used to work doing Gonzo together. …Mother, sing.” “What should I sing?” “You know the one. Just sing the Gonzo song—any lyrics’ll do.” Kingoro stood up, his face slightly flushed. He slipped off his yukata’s underlayer. The long-sleeved shirt he wore hid his tattoo.

Man had already sensed her husband’s unusual demeanor. (He’s definitely thinking about something serious.) Though she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, Kingoro’s raucous clowning filled Man with an uncanny unease—a premonition that churned in her chest. There was no reason for things to be this joyful. The progress of the labor dispute had been nothing but one thing after another going against Kingoro’s intentions, and lately, there hadn’t been a single day where he had shown a cheerful face. Especially these past few days, due to the failure of the work slowdown, he must be in a dire predicament nearing the brink. To Man, who knew this all too well, Kingoro’s sudden cheerfulness tonight was terrifying.

(What kind of act is he putting on?) Her husband would put on an act when distressed, but Man couldn’t grasp the meaning behind tonight’s performance. “Come on, sing.” Holding a vermilion-lacquered tray likened to Baisuke, Kingoro pressed. Man began to sing wholeheartedly. “I’m a dockworker, Raised in a workman’s jacket, Long kimonos, No connection...” In a comical getup, Kingoro mimicked a tengu and cargo handling. The spectators rejoiced and gave a rousing cheer.

Man sang as tears flowed.

The madness-tinged family revelry continued late into the night.

After retreating to the bedroom, Kingoro had been writing something incessantly until nearly dawn. When he finished, he quietly opened the hand safe. He took out the Browning pistol he had received from Mori Shinnosuke.

“Father, are you still awake?” From the adjacent room came Man’s voice. It seemed that Man, troubled by her husband’s behavior since evening, had been unable to sleep all this time.

“Yeah.”

When he gave a vague reply, Kingoro hurriedly hid the pistol in the breast of his nightclothes.

“It’s already morning. Lack of sleep is the worst thing for your body. Good night.” “Well,” said Kingoro with a teasing laugh, “this cheek you slapped the other day’s been aching—can’t sleep.”

“What are you saying?” She replied in exasperation but suddenly let mischief color her voice. “Well then—Father—shall I teach you a proper pain-banishing charm?”

“Tell me.” “Rub the tattoo on your arm against the cheek that hurts—Okyo, Okyo, Okyo.” “Go on and say it three times.” “The pain will stop soon.” “Don’t talk nonsense. ……Let’s sleep.”

Kingoro turned off the electric light. He placed the pistol under his pillow and burrowed into the futon.

(So the wife’s finally figured out that Okyo was the one who did the tattoo…?) As for what had happened when Man met Okyo during last year’s election, he’d never heard a word about it. Kingoro himself had felt uneasy about asking. Man hadn’t hidden that they’d met, but she hadn’t uttered a syllable about what had transpired. All she’d said was, “Father, when Okyo-san comes next time, you really must meet her.” She must have heard about the tattoo from Okyo back then. But for Kingoro now—having made his momentous decision—none of that mattered anymore. Among the many wills he’d written since earlier, there was one addressed to Okyo too.

Generally, Kingoro—being in good health—was one who fell asleep remarkably easily, having a habit of beginning to snore almost immediately after lying down. Yet this time too, before long, a thunderous snore welled up, vibrating the near-dawn air.

The next morning, as usual, he cheerfully had breakfast with the children.

“Father’s ‘Gonzo Dance’ last night was interesting.” “Show me again, okay?” While eating her meal, the schoolgirl Shigeko said. Satomi, seeming to share the same opinion, looked at their father’s face together with her sister. Kingoro grinned,

“Alright, alright—I’ll show you anytime. Next time—an even more interesting ‘Danburo Dance’. I’ll show you the ‘Chūnon’ dance.” “Danburo” was dockworker jargon for a steamship’s cargo hatch—there existed a group responsible for cleaning the hatches during coal loading, which was formally called “Anakuriguchi” but colloquially termed “Danburo-guchi.” Man stared intently at Kingoro’s face. She endeavored to discern what extraordinary resolve resided in her husband’s heart. However, just looking at his complexion wasn’t enough to tell.

“Katsunori.” Kingoro called his son. “Yes.” “Here,” he said, handing over a cloth-wrapped bundle of documents. “Keep this safe.” “Today at ten, there’s a council meeting of the foremen’s union at dispute headquarters.” “You go too.” “I’ll be there myself, but if I don’t make it—open those documents and handle everything.” “Got it?”

“Understood.”

A little before eight o'clock, Kingoro put on his small foremen’s union workman’s coat and left the house. It seemed like another hot, clear day today. Already, a cumulonimbus cloud showed only its pure white head behind Kōtōzan. However, the morning was chilly. No matter when one looked, the pine forest at the summit—which always resembled a warship run aground on the mountain—was struck by a strong wind, resounding like waves.

From Shōhōji Town, he emerged onto Asahi Avenue and stopped by Anyōji Temple. The large ginkgo tree beside the bell tower rustled in the wind; otherwise, the temple grounds were quiet. He went to the cemetery. Lanterns and offerings from the Obon Festival remained at various graves in large numbers. He stood before the granite grave marker inscribed "Tamai Family Ancestral Grave." He pressed his hands together in prayer. (I, too, will eventually turn to bones and enter here, but...)

Already, he thought of the children who had been buried—Kuniko, Kazue, the stillborn child, and others.

Behind him, the sound of wooden clogs rang out.

“You’re not Tamai-san, are you?” he was called out to. The tall temple priest stood holding prayer beads, smiling gently. “Ah, Abbot—good morning.” “You’re here early for prayers.” “What brings you here?” “No, it’s nothing…” he said, but upon realizing why the priest had come out, added, “Abbot, are you here to ring the bell?” “Yes, I was just about to ring eight o’clock…” “Would you let me ring it?”

“I see,” he said, laughing at the head parishioner’s meddlesome nature. “If you wish, go ahead.”

“Eight strikes—was that right?” “Five strikes will suffice.”

Kingoro climbed the bell tower. Because it was on high ground, the city of Wakamatsu spread out below in full view. Kingoro gazed deeply at the familiar scenery of the town he had always lived in and seen every day, filled with an emotion entirely different from his usual feelings. The flickering light seemed to sting his eyes. This might be his last time seeing this. He took hold of the hanging bell striker. After taking a slight recoil, he struck the temple bell with all his strength.

Goooon... A roar loud enough to burst eardrums came reverberating back. Afterward, Wong, Wong—the lingering reverberations—the clear bell sound rippled through the morning air and spread across the entire city. With a feeling as though his chest were opening up, Kingoro struck the bell two, then three times. “That’s quite something.”

The temple priest laughed as he watched. He struck it five times, then descended from the bell tower.

“Tamai-san, will you hold the union’s River Segaki Ceremony again this year?” “We will.” “Since we’re in the middle of a labor dispute, I wondered if it might be unwise…?” “We’ll hold it independently of the dispute. Well, I’m sure the dispute will be settled by then.” “Today’s the 22nd, so there’s only four or five days left.” “It’ll work out.”

When he descended the stone steps, below the cliff stood two stone monuments, enclosed. The first was the “Grave of Ōba Okimi Moritane”—a monument to the lord of Wakamatsu who had built a castle atop Mount Kōtō during the Keichō era (1596–1615). On the front of the other round natural stone was inscribed “All Souls of the Three Realms,” and on both sides were carved “Death by Starvation” and “Violent Death.” Although no date was inscribed, it appeared to be quite old. (Gonzo died of starvation—and I’ll meet a violent end?)

Muttering such irony to himself, he passed by.

At a slow pace, he came before Tomoda Kizō’s residence in Yasemachi. It was a grand residence surrounded by tall, egg-colored walls. The lower part was reinforced with massive boulders, reminiscent of Oeyama’s Demon Cave. There was a spacious garden where trees grew densely and lushly, like a forest. (There might be wild beasts or poisonous snakes lurking.) In Kingoro’s mind, this thought emerged unbidden.

(But humans are far more terrifying than wild beasts or poisonous snakes.) He glared at the large painted sign reading “Tomoda-gumi.” Kingoro paused momentarily at the gate, recalling Okabe Teizō’s residence he had passed earlier on his way here. In both the cooperative labor group and contractors’ union, Okabe held the official leadership position, but Tomoda controlled actual authority and exercised complete tyranny. This imbalance of power seemed reflected in their homes too—Tomoda’s estate stood ten times larger than Boss Okabe’s.

If we could negotiate with Mr. Okabe, the labor dispute wouldn’t have become so tangled, but…

He couldn’t help thinking about things that were futile to think about now. Alright. With that, Kingoro nodded. It was a meaningless mutter to spur himself into action. After pressing down on the pistol tucked into his belly band beneath his vest to confirm it was there, he passed through the iron lattice gate. He proceeded along the long stone-paved path between the shrubbery. A dog started barking. A magnificent Shepherd, from beside the Ken’inji-style fence, bared its teeth and tongue at Kingoro.

He stood at the entrance. “Pardon me.”

Immediately, an attendant came out. He was a man around forty years old with a pale complexion and a crew cut, wearing a short coat with “Tomoda” embroidered on the collar over his kimono.

The attendant knew Kingoro’s face well. “Well, well, Boss Tamai-san… You’re here early…” The way he spoke was mocking.

“I need to speak to Boss Tomoda…”

“He’s still asleep, sir.” “Please wake him up—Tamai Kingoro has come to discuss something urgent,” he said, “so...” “In that case, this way...”

Kingoro was shown to the reception room. He had already confirmed beforehand that Tomoda was at home. Tomoda, for his part when present, never pretended to be out or turned visitors away at the entrance. He was different from the Kingoro of old.

It was a room that epitomized extravagance. On top of the carpet embroidered with a dragon lay a tiger skin. The furnishings, wall hangings, and the like were all expensive, yet they were merely cluttered about haphazardly—no consideration whatsoever given to arrangement or harmony—laying bare a vulgar display of poor taste. The side of the reception room appeared to be an office. While waiting, Kingoro sensed a rapid gathering of people there.

About twenty minutes had passed. The sound of slippers could be heard in the hallway.

The door opened.

“Well, good morning.”

Tomoda Kizō appeared in a dansen robe with a black collar. He narrowed his kite-like eyes and smiled. Tomoda closed the door and settled nonchalantly into the armchair. Outside the door, subordinates crowded. “Good morning.” After greeting him, Kingoro moved close enough to share breath with Tomoda. “Tomoda-san, I’ve been indebted to you regarding the labor dispute these past days.” “Well, things just aren’t going smoothly—I truly feel sorry for you all.”

Tomoda scratched his head affectedly. “Tomoda-san.” Kingoro lowered his voice. “Huh?” “I dislike raising my voice—let’s speak quietly.” “Your underlings outside seem to be trying to eavesdrop.” “At this volume, they won’t catch what we’re saying.” “Let’s speak frankly and keep it brief... Tomoda-san—I’ve come today for our final discussion.”

“Hmm, this ‘final’ thing?” “I’ve realized this dispute will absolutely not go smoothly.” “Well now, and why’s that?” “Because you are here.” Tomoda’s kite-like eyes glinted sharply. He looked at Kingoro mockingly. He snorted through his nose and did not respond.

“Tomoda-san.”

When he called out in a pressing tone, Kingoro took out a pistol from his waistband. He held it low at his waist and aimed the muzzle straight at Tomoda’s chest. Startled, Tomoda recoiled. The soft velvet armchair with cushions deeply enveloped his emaciated frame. He couldn’t move. “I’m an expert marksman.” “There’s absolutely no chance I’ll miss.” “With that in mind, please listen.”

Kingoro’s tone was calm.

Tomoda remained frozen, not uttering a word. His reddish-black face gradually took on a bluish tinge. “Tomoda-san, as you know, I dislike fights—I’ve never brandished a lethal weapon against anyone before. This will be the one and only time in my life—and the last. I will kill you. If you don’t disappear, this labor dispute will not be resolved. You are not someone who can be reasoned with. That is something I have clearly engraved in my soul through twenty years of experience dealing with you. I have resolved myself.”

Tamai Kingoro, who rose from nothing as a dockworker, was destined to live his entire life as a dockworker and end it as one. To end my own life now by killing you—the enemy of thousands of dockworkers—would fulfill my true desire. For you too—having tormented countless people and now trying to push these dockworkers gasping on starvation’s brink to their deaths—surely attaining Buddhahood while bearing their collective hatred would fulfill your true desire. You may call dockworkers insects, but they too are splendid people. No—dockworkers who grind their very bodies to dust laboring are far more pure-hearted than any of your moneyed elites. In this life-or-death dispute for those dockworkers, since you’re trying to kill them, I—a dockworker—will kill you." Tamai Kingoro had lived by justice. He had lived his entire life with integrity. "Now through that justice and integrity, I will kill you and here close my life’s curtain."

“Wait, Tamai.” Tomoda Kizō moaned. Tomoda perceived the depth of Kingoro’s resolve. He had long known that Kingoro was not a man who would threaten others as mere theatrics. (He’s come here in earnest to kill.) He had clearly realized that. “I won’t wait. Even if I wait—if I let you live—the problem will absolutely never be resolved.”

“Wait.” Tomoda tried to stand up.

“Don’t move. Even if you try to trick me and run, I won’t fall for it.” “I won’t trick you. I won’t run.”

“Then, please sit there.”

Tomoda slumped limply back into the armchair, all strength gone. “Tamai—don’t kill me.” “I will kill you. If you’re gone, this dispute will resolve itself immediately.”

“To move things forward, to settle this—I’ll work on it.” “I don’t trust that.” “Then what’s gotta be done?” “I’ll do whatever’ll satisfy you.”

Kingoro briefly made a show of considering. He immediately took out several pieces of paper from his vest pocket. “Then, here’s what we’ll do.” “Please sign and seal the documents I’ve brought here.” “This is the strike resolution and its directive.” “To resolve this labor dispute in one stroke, there is no other way but a strike.” “I didn’t want to resort to such extreme measures, but all other options have been exhausted.” “If a strike is to be carried out, it will not succeed unless the Contractors’ Union, Foremen’s Union, and Labor Union move in unison.” “Every single thing we’ve attempted has ended in failure because your cooperative group always withdraws.” “In fact, the majority of the foremen in your cooperative group and the dockworkers want to align with us—yet you threaten them and force their betrayal.” “But the past doesn’t matter anymore.” “In this labor dispute, I would like you to act in unison.”

“Alright, I get it.” “I won’t say more. If you value your life, read these documents, write your name, and stamp them.” Keeping his right hand poised as if holding a pistol, Kingoro used his left to push the several papers on the desk toward Tomoda. He placed a fountain pen and inkpad beside them.

Resigned, Tomoda signed with trembling hands and pressed his thumbprint. Kingoro took them in hand.

“That will suffice.” “Thank you.” “This establishes a foundation for resolving the labor dispute.” “Of course, even if we strike, we can’t predict how the coal merchants’ association will respond.” “But since the shippers’ stubbornness largely stemmed from having you as an ally, the situation should now shift.” “In the post-strike negotiations, I must ask for your cooperation.” “I’ll handle it.” Tomoda answered with resignation.

“I’ll leave these copies with you.” He placed two of the four sheets on the desk and put the remaining ones into his pocket. “Additionally, I should mention—before coming here, I left wills with my family, subordinates, acquaintances, friends, and others.” “Because I meant to kill you and die myself.” “My subordinates—about ten of them—have formed a suicide squad.” “If you treat this as mere evasion—if you betray the labor dispute or harm me—know that those ten subordinates will stop at nothing to ensure you don’t remain alive.” “…My apologies.”

Kingoro tucked the pistol into his belly band, pushed open the door, and stepped outside.

In the hallway outside and the office, a large number of subordinates gathered, looking tense. However, they appeared to know nothing about the events inside the reception room. No one pressed their ears to the door or peeked through the keyhole to spy on what was happening inside. If they had done so, no matter how much Kingoro had lowered his voice and acted covertly, they would undoubtedly have exposed him.

(That was close.) he thought. At that moment, terror seized him.

Not a single person noticed that Kingoro had come to kill Tomoda Kizō with a pistol. Kingoro’s aversion to conflict—his gentle and mild disposition—had long been well known. Put another way, he was underestimated by the yakuza. This worked to his advantage. They had simply assumed he came either to communicate about or plead regarding the labor dispute, and thus paid little attention to scrutinizing Kingoro’s words and actions. The men with sinister faces glared at Kingoro as he emerged, their menace palpable. Yet with no orders coming from their boss in the reception room, they refrained from acting.

“Pardon the intrusion.”

Kingoro calmly made his way through the crowd of subordinates and headed to the entrance. He put on his shoes, walked along the long stone pavement, and stepped outside the iron gate—when suddenly, *Huuuh*—a massive sigh, as if his entire body had swollen and deflated like a balloon, escaped of its own accord. "What have I done?"

With a face on the verge of tears, he muttered and started walking toward the coast. His legs felt heavy. The always-familiar town appeared before his eyes with the starkness of an unknown foreign country. The faces of the townspeople also felt foreign to him. Countless gazes all seemed to turn into arrows of ridicule, piercing his entire body.

Kingoro lowered his eyes, hung his head low, and walked. (My life has ended)

He bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

At the Dispute Headquarters, the council members were waiting. It was slightly past ten o'clock.

“Katsunori.”

And he called his son out into the corridor. "What is it?" “Give me the documents I entrusted to you this morning. If I hadn’t been able to attend today’s meeting, I was going to have you open them, but since I could make it, they’re no longer needed.” “I see.” Katsunori briefly glanced at his father’s face before retrieving the cloth-wrapped bundle and silently handing it over.

“Katsunori.”

“Huh?” “I met with Tomoda Kizō.” The son wordlessly looked at his father’s face. They were sharp eyes attempting to read what lay beyond their depths.

Kingoro said in a casual tone, “We sat knee-to-knee, and when I laid bare my deepest thoughts, he understood perfectly.” “He agreed that the only way to resolve this issue now was a strike… Look, he signed and stamped this.”

He took out two documents from his inner pocket and showed them.

Noticing the doubtful expression on Katsunori’s face as he took and read them, “This time, there’s absolutely no way they’ll betray us. The sooner the better—let’s start the strike tomorrow at dawn.” “You start preparing the labor union side immediately.”

Kingoro said just that in a flustered, hurried manner, then entered the conference room as if fleeing.

The council meeting was convened. It was decided that "a general strike would be carried out at 3:00 AM on August 23rd." Secret instructions were immediately dispatched to all groups. The two unions prepared their arrangements meticulously to avoid oversights. (If this time the joint labor group—no, rather, if Tomoda Kizō were to betray us—it would surely become the greatest upheaval in Dokai Bay's history.) This matter had been a shared anxiety lurking in the hearts of Kingoro, Katsunori, and the union executives. It was closer to terror—the kind that brought trembling—than mere anxiety.

(I will await the hour of judgment.)

Even if he thought about it, until that time came, there was nothing to be done.

When night fell, Kingoro went out alone to Benzaiten-hama. He boarded the small boat of the Tamai Group moored at the quay.

From the brightly lit office of the Joint Labor Group, the tall Shintani Kakutarō emerged.

“Old man. Casting nets?”

"Yeah." "A hero has days of leisure—or so they say." "Alone tonight?" "Yeah."

He began rowing. He passed by Nakano Island and steadily made his way out of the harbor.

It was a dark night. The lighthouse of Keto came into view. (You idiot, Tamai Kingoro.) The intense self-derision swirling within him—so fierce it could breach fortress walls—drove Kingoro to despair. (No good. You’re worthless. —Utter fool, idiot, defective, blockhead, simpleton, imbecile…) He reviled himself with every conceivable insult. (Having suffered through nearly thirty years… and in the end, it’s come to *this*?)

The salt-laden night wind struck Kingoro’s face as he fought back tears. Though his hands felt numb, he pushed the oar with all his might, driven by desperate urgency as if fleeing some unseen force. When he rounded Keto Point, the waves grew rough. The wind strengthened. Pitch-black swells surged with terrifying power. The sea’s depths roared.

Kingoro took out a pistol from his pocket. He hurled it toward the open sea with all his strength. The pistol traced a black streak through the dark night before vanishing into the sea with a short plop. (People call others yakuza - but aren't you just yakuza yourself?)

He had threatened Tomoda Kizō with a pistol. It had been a momentous decision, a measure taken at the risk of his life, but there was no denying it was an act of violence. Having sacrificed everything and undertaken this action sincerely for the sake of many people without regret, Kingoro was nonetheless overwhelmed by the crudeness and stupidity of the actions that manifested outwardly. Had he been so determined… was *this* what his final showdown with Tomoda Kizō had been?

Was there no other way? If I couldn't conceive of a single method besides violence, then I was nothing but a contemptible yakuza deserving scorn. I am nothing more than this. I am a petty man. Here, Tamai Kingoro's life had come to an end. With feeble hands gripping the oar, scalding tears gushed from Kingoro's eyes. Streaming ceaselessly like a waterfall, they flowed down his cheeks. He wanted to wail.

Kingoro stood at the bow. He turned his back to the port, faced the dark, raging open sea, and puffed out his chest. “You… idiot…”

He screamed each syllable separately, pausing between them with all his voice. The voice was swallowed by the dark sea, returning no echo. “Maybe I’ll catch some fish or something.” Muttering this, he cast his net here and there with apparent disinterest. Though he threw it halfheartedly, strangely, fish kept entering without end. It was an abundant catch. He looked at his wristwatch. 3:00 AM. He startled. His eyes blazed. Again he began rowing toward the harbor with all his strength.

When he came alongside Nakano Island, he saw a single steamship busily engaged in night work. Several lanterns marked with “Tomoda” were lit. The ship’s name “Sumimaru,” illuminated by bright lights for nighttime cargo operations, was clearly visible in white on the bow. (As I thought...)

Kingoro felt his entire body stiffen. They had investigated and known from the start that loading 2,700 tons of cargo coal onto the Sumimaru would require working through the night. Moreover, they had also known it would be handled by the joint labor group. When Kingoro went out to cast his net, he had had the Sumimaru in mind from the very beginning. He looked at his watch. ――3:40 AM. The time set for the general strike’s commencement had already passed by forty minutes. By this hour, all offshore cargo operations throughout the harbor were supposed to have ceased and withdrawn. With extraordinary resolve etched between his brows, Kingoro rowed the small boat closer to the Sumimaru.

The barge was moored alongside the No. 3 hatch. The dockworkers were working inside the barge. With shovels and clawed tools in hand, they scooped coal into one-ton bamboo baskets. They were hoisted by the winch machinery on the deck. An empty basket descended. They filled it again. There were three large baskets that rotated one after another. The primitive cargo handling that Kingoro and his peers had performed in their youth - involving the distribution of small baskets to both sides and the raising and lowering of gangplanks - had completely transformed since around 1918 into this mechanized process of hoisting large baskets with winches.

Kingoro jumped onto the barge. “Who’s in charge here?” With a tense expression, he asked the dockworkers. “Takashi-san.” “Where is he?”

“It seems he was on the deck, but…” “Wait,” Kingoro said, stopping the large basket that was about to be hoisted up. He jumped onto the fully loaded coal. He gripped the basket’s rope with his left hand, raised his right hand toward the deck above, and signaled. With a clank clank clank of the winch, the large basket carrying Kingoro floated into the air. Swaying gently, it was hoisted high. “Lower me to the deck.”

He instructed the signal-handling dockworker. The large basket was set down on the deck. When Kingoro jumped down, the large basket was hoisted up again and lowered deep into No. 3 Hatch. The dockworkers inside the Danburo hooked the wire’s end to the chain on the basket’s underside and overturned the coal. The crash of coal. The empty basket was hoisted up as it was and lowered back down to the barge alongside the ship. “Isn’t Takashi-kun here?”

The giant dockworker who had been signaling to the winch operator with both hands gave him a suspicious look but said, “I don’t know.” Kingoro surveyed the ship’s deck. The numerous “Tomoda” lanterns hung everywhere dazzled his eyes. The flickering candlelight seemed to mock him. He spotted Bossin’s figure. “Where might Takashi-san’s old man be?” “He was up on the bridge with the captain earlier, I think…” “…Ah, he’s here, he’s here.” “Just as I thought—on the bridge.”

Kingoro climbed the narrow gangplank.

As he climbed, he gazed left and right at the midnight expanse of Dokai Bay.

(Wakamatsu Port—my lifeline.) Emotion suddenly surged through his chest. “Takashi.” he called out. Takashi Seiichi—Tomoda’s direct subordinate with a dark complexion and ruggedly handsome features—turned around. “Well now, Tamai-san—what brings you here?” “Takashi, what time do you think it is now?” “Well—isn’t it nearly three o’clock already? Thinking that, I was just discussing it with the captain...” As he spoke, he pulled out his pocket watch. “Just as I thought—it is. It’ll be three in about ten minutes.” He turned to the captain. “...Then proceed as we discussed when the time comes.”

“Understood.” The regular captains at this port had long been familiar with Kingoro’s face. One approached and said: “Tamai-san, this is quite a situation. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I just heard from Takashi-san.” “We’ve long held deep concern about the dockworkers’ dispute and closely followed its developments, but it seems they’ll finally commence a general strike at three o’clock this morning.” “To be honest, it would be problematic if the steamship side were to abandon cargo handling and withdraw like this. Only about 700 tons of the 2,700 tons of coal have been loaded so far.” “But there’s nothing to be done. It’s the same for all of us. The Seamen’s Union cannot become scabs for the dockworkers’ strike.” “When it’s three o’clock, we’ll strike the gong. Please use that as your signal to withdraw.”

Kingoro felt the tension drain from him. He had been absolutely convinced that the Kyodokumiai had betrayed them again under Tomoda’s orders，so for a while，he felt dazed. Kingoro’s watch seemed to be exactly one hour fast. He must have carelessly set it wrong when adjusting the time. “Tamai-san，you don't need to worry—it's all right．From Boss Tomoda—withdraw without fail at three o'clock… Such an order has come through．”

Upon hearing Takashi Seiichi’s words, Kingoro finally felt relieved. Joy welled up uncontrollably, “Maybe I’ll try operating the winch for old times’ sake. Takashi, that’s fine with you, right?” “You’ve shown your true colors, Gonzo.” He said this without malice, laughing as he agreed.

Kingoro came to the winch machinery and relieved the dockworkers. "Huh! You're doing winch duty as the foreman union leader?" The dockworkers also laughed. A new fighting spirit emerged.

Kingoro grasped the handle and skillfully operated the winch. With a clank, clank sound, thick pure white steam billowed up. With precise handling, the large basket loaded with coal ascended and descended safely. (This is when I'm happiest - working like this at the job site.)

Kingoro stood amidst the white steam，savoring a feeling as if his chest were opening up. From the bridge，the captain，pipe clenched between his teeth，was watching with a smile.

Clang, clang, clang, clang... The gong began to sound. “Quit working!” Takashi Seiichi shouted. Then, a few minutes later, the large barge loaded with dockworkers who had orderly abandoned the work site departed from the Sumimaru Maru’s side. Cutting through the black waves of midnight, it rowed onward toward the Wakamatsu-side wharf. Surrounded by lanterns marked “Tomoda,” Kingoro stood gloomily at the bow. The small barge that Kingoro had boarded was being towed at the stern.

By the general strike of dockworkers carried out at 3:00 a.m. on August 23rd, all cargo handling within Dokai Bay was halted. The port lay dead. At the dispute headquarters, rice bales were piled up, and a cookout was conducted by the hands of female dockworkers.

Man was the cookout leader.

A day passed.

Two days passed. Man took charge of the dispute group’s kitchen and bustled about eagerly. Since she had been vigorously advocating for the strike from the start, she seemed thoroughly satisfied.

“Come on now – whether it’s days or tens of days, we’ll keep at it!”

Looking up at the mountain of rice bales, she wore a beaming smile. In the lined-up five-shō pots, the rice bubbled and boiled. While watching this, Man—

(Long ago, I had experienced something very similar to this, but...)

Suddenly, she found herself immersed in a distant memory.

(That’s right. That was the night Eizaki Mitsuyoshi came attacking.) Having been told by Kingoro not to interfere, she had been boiling paste in a large pot in the kitchen. If ruffians had broken in, she would have splashed them with it using a ladle.

(Nearly thirty years had passed since then.) It was the relentless flow of years that seeped into her heart.

When she saw Kingoro's face,

“Don’t you worry about provisions.” “Long as I’m here, we’re fine.” “You just focus on pushing those negotiations forward.”

She encouraged him with a pat on his shoulder. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Kingoro said with a stern face. Man couldn’t make sense of Kingoro’s gloomy demeanor persisting even after the strike had begun. _What’s gotten into him?_

She tilted her head but couldn’t figure it out. The labor dispute was abruptly resolved through the unprecedented incident of all port operations coming to a halt. The general strike of dockworkers caused widespread impacts—extending beyond Dokai Bay to coal mines extracting fuel, railways, piers, steamships, sailing vessels, coastal factories, and from the Kanmon region all the way to the Hanshin area—thereby escalating the issue into a grave crisis. The Water Police Station intervened to mediate.

The Coal Merchants' Association had stated they couldn’t pay more than twenty thousand yen, but by the 26th, they had upped it to forty thousand. However, after various complicated turns of events, matters were settled at 11:00 a.m. on the 27th. Against their demand for two hundred fifty thousand yen came sixty thousand yen plus three thousand in dispute costs - sixty-three thousand total. When this sum became the mediation proposal,

“Tamai, what’re you gonna do?”

When Tamai Kingoro was told this by Tomoda Kizō, “Then let’s settle it.” “Thank you for your various considerations.”

With that, he bowed his head before Tomoda.

The strike was immediately lifted. The port came back to life. “Congratulations.” Daiba Harukichi, Mori Shinnosuke, Inoue Yasugorō, Harada Kumoi, Fujimoto Kihachirō, and others offered their congratulations, but Kingoro’s grim expression did not soften.

(How could I feel happy about results achieved by threatening Tomoda Kizō with a pistol?)

The melancholy only deepened.

Of course, it was not only Kingoro who worked on this dispute. Contractors, foremen, and many dockworkers struggled and cooperated. However, at the center of it all was always Kingoro. To address the aftermath, meetings were held several times. With this sixty thousand yen, a mass restructuring was carried out. Many foremen and dockworkers parted from the port work they had grown accustomed to and changed occupations. The Tamai Group, which had Groups 1, 2, and 3, reduced Group 3.

“Well now, we’ve fairly won this one, haven’t we?”

Man was smiling cheerfully. “How can you tell if we’ve won or lost?”

As before, Kingoro was in a foul mood.

(We may have won the dispute, but I—as a man—have suffered a crushing defeat.)

It was a regret that would never fade for the rest of his life.

On August 28th, the River Segaki Ceremony was held. This annual event honored those who had died as martyrs in Dokai Bay. Shortly after the foremen's union formed, Kingoro proposed the ceremony. Since its union-sponsored inception, it had become one of Wakamatsu's notable local traditions. The Anyōji Temple priest had worried whether they could hold it during the dispute, but ultimately the strike delayed it by two days from its usual schedule. When the River Segaki Ceremony arrived, Kingoro and Man maintained their annual custom of reviewing the old foremen's roster together.

“Since you started the Tamai Group, so many people have changed.”

When Man said with deep emotion, “I’ve killed quite a few young men.” Kingoro reminisced about his dead subordinates with tears welling in his eyes.

Coal loading offshore was dangerous work. Especially after small basket carrying became winch-operated work, casualties rapidly increased. Many died crushed beneath large baskets that fell when ropes snapped. Even those who survived became disabled or maimed beyond count. Kingoro extracted dozens of dead subordinates' names from the roster and had Anyōji Temple's priest make memorial stupa tablets. When evening fell, fireworks were launched. At Benzaiten-hama, townspeople gathered. Ceremonial lanterns hung from many people's hands. About ten river boats were moored at the wharf. On each boat, bamboo oar frames stood along the gunwales with rows of beautiful lanterns suspended. As these were Obon festival lanterns, each bore a posthumous Buddhist name and family crest.

“Come now, everyone, please board.”

Wearing a haori and hakama, Kingoro tended to the attendees together with the union members. Each river boat had a clean rush mat spread out. The townspeople—men and women, young and old—followed the instructions, holding their footwear in their hands, and boarded the boats. They sat on the bottom of the boats. The lead ship was larger and taller. As it was a water supply vessel, the deck was flat. At its bow, a large altar had been erected, and various offerings were displayed. Rising incense smoke. On this ship rode the bereaved families of first Obon mourners, guests, and organizers, while over a dozen monks lined up to chant sutras. The sound of copper coins, the clang of a metal gong, the rhythmic knock of a wooden fish.

“Departure!”

Kingoro stood on the bow of the lead ship and signaled to the small steam tug towing the fleet.

With a single blast of the steam whistle, the line of boats began to move toward the center of the harbor. They began to advance. “How beautiful.”

Kingoro looked back at Man beside him. “Truly.”

Truly, it was beautiful. The procession of ships advancing through the night-darkened Dokai Bay at a gentle speed had every vessel brimming with the resplendent light of ceremonial lanterns, their glow reflecting on the waves. Eventually, they circled the entire bay, passed alongside Nakanoshima Island, and proceeded out to where Kirito Lighthouse came into view. By that time, lanterns with their candles still lit were released one by one into the sea by the hands of the people. The upper and lower parts are shaped like round boats, so the lanterns do not sink. Hundreds of illuminated lanterns floated buoyantly upon the sea, swaying as if engaged in a joyous dance of will-o'-the-wisps.

"Come again next year." Having said that, Kingoro and Man released their dead subordinates' memorial tablets into the sea. (They too would one day be released into the sea like this.) It was a shared sentiment as husband and wife. Amidst the chanting of sutras, the ship continued to cruise across the sea. For the purpose of "offering to the hungry ghosts," offerings and various other things were cast into the sea.

Epilogue

Urban Warfare

Through the thickly falling peony snowflakes, Harada Kumoi came making his way with brisk steps.

“Morning, Tamai-san.”

“That was quick.” “Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say—minds ain’t quick to change, but when I got your message, I came right over.” “Now, please come through to the back.”

He guided him to the room facing the garden. The ten-mat room was so crammed with Japanese swords lined up in rows that it felt cramped. Long ones, short ones; black, white, vermilion, mother-of-pearl inlay—scabbards of every variety, along with hilt wrappings and guards—some two hundred forty or fifty in all, perhaps? Harada stood rigidly, his narrow eyes opened so wide they seemed to make a sound, “Well now, you’ve gathered up quite a collection here, haven’t you?”

“I thought I was just gathering them bit by bit, but over time they pile up all on their own.” “To tell the truth, when I pulled them all out like this for the first time in ages, even I was stunned.” “Are you giving all of these to me?” “Yeah, I’m thinking of donating them...” “Quite the display. Much obliged.” “Fighting with the landlord all the time isn’t bad, but just pay them off properly, once and for all.” “And then, if you put it toward the newspaper, wouldn’t that help some?”

“Nah, though you went to the trouble—I ain’t payin’ the landlord.” “If bad landlords ain’t thoroughly punished, the common folk’ll keep sufferin’.” “We stripped off them roof tiles and slapped tin over it—ain’t gotta worry ’bout the house.” “……Tamai-san, thanks.” “With this, Harada can make his mark.” “Clear up the Wakamatsu Shimbun’s deficit and make it a four-page daily.” “Even if I can’t get into the city council, I’ll create a city council for the streets through my newspaper—and tear into municipal politics till there’s nothin’ left.” “Now that the Minseitō’s been branded as heretics but they’ve grabbed an absolute majority, looks like they’re up to nothin’ but underhanded plots again.”

“Well, once you’ve donated them, I suppose I must leave their disposition to your discretion.” “Just ensure this sword isn’t sold in Wakamatsu.” “Understood.” “If these many weapons were scattered through this gang-infested town, it’d mean serious trouble. But since I know an antique dealer in Kokura, I’ll have them converted to cash immediately—today if possible.”

“In that case,” Harada had brought along the caretaker from the newspaper sales office. A cart was waiting outside. They loaded all the swords onto the cart. Covered the top with a canvas cover,

“Once I’ve disposed of them, I’ll come to thank you and report.”

Not minding getting covered in snow, he pushed the back of the cart and headed home. Kingoro went out to the engawa. He smoothly drew the Sukehiro, the sole one he had kept. The garden snow and falling snow reflected on the blade’s pristine surface, beautiful. It was as though it were alive and breathing.

Man had come to his side at some point. "You kept that one."

“This one, I can’t let go of.” “So you’re really gonna do it after all?” “I’ll do it for sure.” “Seems there’s no way ’round havin’ one proper head-on clash.” “Troublesome business.” “Father—don’t let ’em drag you in.”

“Since that’s what I was thinkin’, I went and gave the sword to Harada-kun.” “But… what’ll become of Shinkō…?”

Thinking back, it had become a strange twist of fate. Long ago, when ambushed by Ezaki Mitsuyoshi, he had escaped the crisis through two Japanese swords borrowed from Mori Shinnosuke. During last year’s labor dispute, Shinnosuke’s pistol—casually left in his care—had unlocked the resolution. Two enormous debts now weighed upon him. Thus when Shinnosuke came asking to borrow a sword, refusal lay beyond possibility.

Indeed, their apprehensions materialized.

A few days later, Shinnosuke visited, accompanied by Shimazaki Yūji. “Ah, Tamai-san, it’s quite cold out...” Shimazaki Yūji forced a smile and greeted him with feigned nonchalance.

However, Kingoro was on guard. Anyone could see this was no ordinary matter just by looking at the eerie goosebumps rising on the sharp-featured gambler's naturally pallid skin—unhealthy and tinged blue from lung disease—and his teeth clattering intermittently. He had no doubt the man had resolved himself to some desperate course of action.

“What brings you both here?”

He posed the question, though he already understood their business. (They’re planning to duel.) Recently, the "Chi-ha" gambling operations had been raided multiple times. Cockfighting arenas and gambling dens were ambushed every time they opened. The territory Shimazaki had been trying to sell off now teetered on annihilation. Since the Niwaka-za incident, the Tomoda faction’s offensives and oppression had turned blatant. Shimazaki’s "honor as a man" was crumbling.

About ten days prior, late at night, a corpse had been delivered by rickshaw to Shimazaki Yūji’s house. It was one of Shimazaki’s favored subordinates—his entire body chopped into countless pieces like minced meat. The rickshaw puller had simply been accosted behind Ebisu Shrine by four or five ruffian-like men brandishing drawn swords: “Take this man to the Chi-ha boss’s house.” “If you don’t go, you’re dead!” Threatened with blades, the trembling puller had done nothing more than deliver his grisly cargo. The rickshaw’s footboard had become a sea of blood.

“Tamai-san, we’ve come ’bout somethin’ urgent need discussin’.” “Speak your piece.”

“To tell the truth,” Shinnosuke lowered his voice, “Kin-san, you’ve collected a heap o’ daggers, ain’t ya? Yū-san wants to borrow ’em from you—nay, wants you to hand ’em over, he’s sayin’…”

“Ah, that’s a shame.” “There’s not a single one left—no, wait—I only kept that Sukehiro blade and… gave it to Harada Kumoi-kun.” “Just two or three days ago, ’twas.” “Did you really give them away?” “Harada-kun’s ‘Wakamatsu Newspaper’ was on the verge of collapsing, you see.” “That man would be like a crab with its claws torn off without a newspaper.” “I don’t have any money—go sell even your swords.” “So... everyone donated them all.”

“Hmm…?” Shinnosuke responded through his nose, but a suspicious glint flickered in his eyes.

“Shin-san, it’s the truth,” Man said from the side. “Kin-san, what about that?” “What?” “The pistol.” “Ah—he threw it away.” “He threw it away?” “You don’t need it, and even if I kept it, it wouldn’t do any good—so I went and tossed it into the sea.” “It’s true,” Man said again.

Shinnosuke crossed his arms and bit his lip. His taut, dusky face was filled with bitter anguish. Shimazaki Yūji, too, wore an openly sullen expression, his face betraying surprise.

In the garden, large fluffy snowflakes fell soundlessly, piling up. The stepping stones, the gourd-shaped pond, the stone lanterns—everything was so profoundly white that they were nearly indistinguishable. The snow resting on the pine branches was beautiful.

“Kin-san.” “What?” “You’re actin’ all carefree, but this ain’t someone else’s problem. The Tomoda faction seems to have decided that while silencing Yū-san amid the chaos, this time they’ll finish you off for good. If you let your guard down, it’ll turn into a real disaster, I’m tellin’ ya.”

The two left looking thoroughly displeased.

On the day of Niwaka-za’s inaugural performance—the “Kitakyushu Amateur Jōruri Competition”—snow had been falling since morning. The newly constructed theater was adorned with numerous beautiful floral wreaths. Among them stood an especially conspicuous giant wreath labeled “To Niwaka-za Theater · Yoshida Isokichi.” Yet not a single subordinate’s name appeared. Surrounding Yoshida’s wreath were those from Inoue Angoro, Harada Kumoi, Ōba Harukichi, Fujimoto Kihachirō, Tamai Kingoro, Shimazaki Yūji, Matsukawa Genshū, and “Cat Granny”—in short, nothing but wreaths from the anti-Yoshida faction.

Kingoro was told the reason by Shinnosuke. “The Tomoda faction’s all withdrawn from this grand event, I tell ya.” “Even for such artistic events, they didn’t need to go out of their way—after the organizers gathered and the Komaba staff set the two-day performance order, right when it was time to raise the curtain, they suddenly refused to participate.” “We knew from the start they’d planned to pick a fight.” “So at the last moment, they caused a huge commotion about changing the program slots again.”

“So my slot got moved up to the afternoon of the second day, then?” “Tsujiki Sōhachi—as you know, he goes by Kashuku on stage—was rarin’ to perform as one of Wakamatsu’s top storytellers. But Tomoda gave orders to stop him.” “Then why’s only Boss Yoshida’s wreath here?” “Mr. Yoshida’s laid up at Kyushu University Hospital now.” “Same place where he had stomach cancer surgery twenty years back. This time it’s pleurisy—bad case, from what I hear.” “That Yoshida saw the Niwaka-za opening in the papers and sent a wreath himself. Building a new theater’s good for all Wakamatsu—no room for factions there.” “...Lying in his sickbed talkin’ like that... But his underlings? Can’t see past their own noses.”

Unsettling rumors had been circulating through the town, but the first day ended without incident.

The self-proclaimed virtuosos of the tengu troupe performed their signature pieces one after another according to the program.

Tamai Kingoro listened in rapture to Yano Tsunoko’s performance of *Double Butterflies Brothel Diary: The Hachiman Drawn Curtain Chapter*, delivered in his capacity as a master storyteller. He was still a young man of twenty-five or twenty-six, but the ingenuity of his storytelling seemed almost divine. The one playing the shamisen was the woman Toyosawa Tamaki. The widow of Toyosawa Dansuke, who had been the teacher of Kingoro and Shinnosuke—the sharpness of her plectrum work was equally striking. “Shinnosuke, where’s that one from?”

“Ah—you’re the real deal,” Shinnosuke said. “He’s from Kokura—what they’d call a genius or prodigy, I reckon. When he was twelve, Takemoto Tsutayu himself scouted him, took him to Osaka’s Bunraku theater once, gave him the stage name Tsunoko, even had him inherit the lineage. A proper veteran.” He scratched his chin. “Though seems he had some spat with his master and ran off...” Kingoro snorted. “Compared to that, ours doesn’t even qualify as proper gidayū.”

“That’s right. We’re just makin’ noise and groanin’, that’s all.” With that, they laughed together.

On the second day, twice as much snow fell as the previous day. The audience had also doubled in number, making it a grand event. The program progressed, and it became Kingoro’s turn.

“This’ll be my final performance on the grand stage.” Wearing a light blue kamishimo shoulder garment and hakama trousers, fan in hand, Kingoro laughed and said this in the greenroom.

He had tried doing it with enthusiasm because he enjoyed it, but since he seemed to lack talent and wasn’t improving, Kingoro had resolved not to participate in such events anymore. Precisely because it was a celebration for his close friend, he had decided to participate. The stage was entirely covered with a navy blue curtain emblazoned with "To Tamai Harunori-san." It was something his subordinates had given him long ago. The shamisen was played by Toyosawa Tamaki. The performance piece was the only one he had memorized: *The Alluring Dancer’s Robe: The Mimasaka and Hanshichi Sake Shop Act*.

With the shamisen’s *twang, plink, twang* resonating, Kingoro— “……Afterward, the garden’s fleeting thoughts—even if one were to write them—the crow jewels…” Just as he had spoken that far, a single gunshot suddenly rang out. Tamai Kingoro collapsed face down onto the lectern. Onto the jōruri script, blood dripped down.

Until that moment, Kingoro had been thinking about Okyo. Long ago, at a reconciliation meeting with Eizaki Mankichi, he had performed this piece on the stage of *Asuka*, accompanied by Okyo’s shamisen. The memory of that time had always pricked the depths of Kingoro’s chest like a needle whenever he performed *The Mimasaka and Hanshichi Sake Shop Act*, and today too, with his eyes narrowed and a contented groan, he envisioned Okyo’s phantom within his heart.

(I wonder what Okyo’s up to now?) However, that distant sentiment was instantly blown away by the gunshot. At the same time he felt a searing heat in his right ear—the moment he saw crimson blood flowing from it— (In the countryside of Shikoku, something similar had happened, but...) The memory vividly surfaced—of when, after becoming an adopted son of the Kuroishi family but despising the simple-minded woman Yas and getting divorced immediately afterward, he had been shot by someone with live ammunition loaded into a gun meant to chase crows swarming around fruit. At that time too, he had been injured in the same right ear.

The hall erupted in murmurs. But before even a few seconds had passed, Kingoro lifted his face from the lectern. Pressing his right ear with the square-folded hand towel clutched in his left hand, he kept his composure, "...The bleakness of the world—bound to this solitary form, a single thread that won't dissolve..." His face flushing crimson, he raised his voice further and continued narrating. Toyosawa Tamaki—who had frozen mid-strum in shock—regained her poise following Kingoro's calmness and resumed plucking her shamisen: *Ya*, *O*, *Bin*, *Bibin*, *Biin*.

The hall, which had begun to grow chaotic, gradually quieted.

However, as if this single gunshot had been a signal, a ferocious duel was already unfolding outside the Niwaka-za Theater.

Japanese swords, bamboo spears, hunting rifles, pistols, sickles—yakuza armed with all manner of weapons dashed through the streets, eyes gleaming, as deadly duels unfolded in every corner. The town’s shops hurriedly lowered their shutters and closed their glass windows. Everywhere, with each gunshot came the sound of bullets hitting doors and glass shattering. A salt-and-pepper-haired gambler in his fifties—likely the man who had shot Kingoro—dashed out of the theater. The young man with the blue headband chased after him. When he closed in, he swung a long sword down from behind. The salt-and-pepper-haired man tumbled onto the snow but kept fleeing while wildly firing his pistol.

The man with the blue headband thrust the dagger in his right hand into the torso of a snowman standing by the roadside with a forceful plunge, as though washing away blood. He twisted it two or three times. After pulling it out, “Graah!” He let out a meaningless scream and broke into a full sprint.

The snow kept falling. On the pure white road, bloodstains dotted the surface like scattered camellia or rose petals. They multiplied like scattering petals, and at one street corner clustered like a discarded bouquet of crimson flowers.

The number of Tomoda’s forces and Shimazaki’s forces was unknown. At the very least, close to a hundred gang members from both sides combined appeared to be engaged in combat. The blue headbands alone made it possible to discern they were Shimazaki’s forces. Tomoda Kizō’s residence seemed to have been fortified. A machine gun was rumored to be mounted on its roof.

Kurita Gingo’s house stood deep within the alleyway. A hunting rifle had been lashed to an inner pillar, its muzzle trained on the entrance. All that was needed was to pull the trigger. Several of Shimazaki’s men who’d forced their way in took the full brunt of the scatter shot from this rifle.

“…If only I’d died from last autumn’s ailment…” Meanwhile, while Kingoro had been speaking, Mori Shinnosuke had drawn his sword and rushed out from the Niwaka-za Theater’s back entrance into the snow-covered streets.

“Yū-san… Yū-san…”

Mori Shinnosuke darted back and forth through the chaotic battle, searching for Shimazaki. "Cat Granny," a short dagger clenched between her teeth and a red scarf draped around her neck, paraded through the streets while hurling hanafuda cards—*whizz, whizz*—like blinding stones slicing through the wind. It went without saying that her targets were Tomoda’s forces. If one of those hit, it would be like being slashed with a straight razor. Over a dozen cats followed behind Kawano Nobu.

“Turn this way if you want to lose your eyes!” Chrysanthemums, peonies, bush clover, irises, cherries, plums—hanafuda cards flew through the snow and fell upon it. “Cat Granny, you’re in danger, I’m tellin’ ya!” Kotochoya Mamehachi called out from behind a utility pole. “You’re the one playin’ with fire! Go home and crawl into your kotatsu!” Nobu, wearing a dotera, scanned her surroundings with darting eyes. At the corner of Meiji-cho and Sannai-cho: “Bring it on!” “Bring it on!”

With their sword tips pressed together, the two gamblers glared at each other in a deadlock. Beads of sweat streamed down both their foreheads, but for nearly twenty minutes now, they had done nothing but keep their swords crossed, panting heavily as they exchanged the same words. Those words had now turned into muffled groans. The two men gradually lowered their hips and sank down onto the snowy ground. Even so, they still kept their sword tips pressed together, still—

“Bring it!” “Bring it!” Heaving their shoulders mightily, they muttered.

At the stone pillar marked “Rengamachi Yūkaku,” a strange warrior paced back and forth. Clad in armor and helmet with military boots, he gripped a Japanese sword in his right hand, a spear in his left, carried a hunting rifle on his back, and thrust a pistol into his belly band—a fearsome sight. He scanned the area, and finding no one in sight, bellowed: “Come on, any of you! Try me!” Puffing out his chest, he roared at the empty streets. His eyes swept across all directions—pure bravado for the onlookers. When actual fighters drew near, he nonchalantly retreated behind the pillar. The black mask beneath his helmet made his allegiance impossible to discern.

The situation was chaotic. Kurita Gingo was injured, and a rumor spread that his top subordinate Kaga Shinshichi had carried his boss on his back and fled over the rooftops.

“Since Shimazaki’s fightin’ like a man possessed, they say Tomoda’s hidin’ in his house, shakin’ like a leaf.” Where these reports came from became the talk of the town. “What’re the police even doin’?” “The police can’t handle this.” “They say the military’s been called in.”

“How many dead were there?”

“Who knows…”

In the operating room of Takayama Hospital, Mori Shinnosuke lay on the verge of death. The bullet lodged in his back was being extracted. From the entrance came five or six members of the drawn-sword squad, stomping in with snow-covered outdoor shoes. They were the White Hachimaki Group. “Hey, Doctor! Hand over Mori Shinnosuke. You must have carried him in here earlier.”

“We won’t hand him over.” “He’s Shimazaki Yūji’s sworn brother—we gotta finish him off.” “No sense saving someone already halfway to the grave.” “We will save him.” “I don’t know who’s right or wrong here.” “But protecting lives is a doctor’s duty.” “We won’t let patients die.” “Keep talkin’ like that and you’re dead too.” “Even if you kill me—the patients get saved.”

The drawn-sword squad had been searching for the operating room but, unable to find it, left.

The news that a massive brawl had broken out instantly spread throughout the narrow town of Wakamatsu.

Man, suffering from a cold, had shut herself in at home, settled into the kotatsu, and was picking fleas off her cat. Although she wasn't bedridden, she had a slight fever, so she had refrained from attending both the opening of the Niwaka-za Theater, to which she'd been invited, and her husband's grand stage appearance.

Four or five cats were purring contentedly, sleeping warmly atop the futon. The calico cat having fleas removed kept its eyes closed, seeming perfectly at ease.

“Sis, there’s been a huge incident!”

It was Norojin, the tofu seller, who had come to inform her with those words. Huffing and puffing, he was out of breath.

Katsunori had gone to Tokyo and was away. All the subordinates—from Bōshin Matsumoto Shigeo on down—were out working at the offshore site, and there was no one left. “The urban warfare’s started, and our old man might’ve gotten caught up in it.” Man’s complexion changed. She exited the kotatsu. Careful not to wake the sleeping cats, she quietly slipped out of the futon and hurriedly removed her kimono. She put on Kingoro’s work pants and wore the Tamai Group work coat.

She thrust her feet into rubber boots and went outside.

Snow was falling fiercely.

She ran along the side of Kogata Nagaya. Immediately there was Taniguchi Masakichi’s house. Man knew that on such heavy snow days, work was called off.

Man went straight to the stable. She saddled the chestnut nag and led it out. Perhaps alerted by the noise, Masakichi came. He likely thought her a horse thief. “Masa, I need to borrow your horse.” With that, Man sprang up and mounted. She galloped off. Dumbstruck, Masakichi stood agape, watching his aunt vanish into the blizzard until long after she disappeared.

It had been thirty years since she had ridden a horse. Back when she lived in her rural hometown, she had ridden nearly every day. Gripping the reins, Man spurred the horse into a gallop toward town. Flower cards and dice went flying as snow was kicked up in their wake. “Father…! …Father…!” She ignored the brawling gamblers altogether, searching only for her husband’s figure. He was nowhere to be found. Clusters of fighters were scattered about, yet none resembled the dramatic sword clashes seen in films. These gamblers—utter strangers to kendo—merely flailed their weapons wildly, blades never crossing more than two or three times. It was a contest of guts.

The townspeople watched in astonishment at the sight of Man spurring her horse onward. There were many familiar faces, and Man, each time she encountered them, "Have you seen my husband?" she asked. There were people saying all manner of things—some that they’d seen him in Sannai-cho, others that he’d collapsed in the snow, still others that he was surrounded by Tomoda’s underlings and being cut down—and Man was nearly beside herself.

Desperately, she raced through the town. At the corner of Meiji-cho, she finally found him. Kingoro was staggering through the snow, stumbling as he walked. He seemed half out of his senses—like that time he’d returned home drunk on pufferfish. He had removed his joruri shoulder garment but still wore his hakama. Barefoot, four or five men in white headbands encircled him at a distance, their swords drawn, shifting position whenever he moved.

Man plunged her horse into their midst. “Father!” As she shouted from horseback, she bent down and seized Kingoro’s arm. Where had such strength come from? Kingoro’s body was lifted effortlessly onto the horse. All the strength that had been tempered and stored throughout Man’s life might have existed solely for this instant.

The carriage horse carrying the couple was struck by a sword thrown at its hindquarters and, neighing, plunged headlong through the snow. In Man’s eyes as she clutched her husband appeared the figures of soldiers carrying bayonets. The sound of a trumpet rang out.

They returned home. Baban, along with Noro Jin and neighbors, gathered. A few subordinates who had taken off work also rushed over. Everyone's faces were clouded with gloom. Kingoro was carried inside and laid on the futon, yet he remained unconscious. A subordinate ran to call Dr. Takayama, but he still hadn’t arrived. The pale face was like paper. Blood was seeping lightly from the forehead and neck.

Man took water from the iron kettle into her mouth. With two puffs—pfft, pffft—she blew onto her husband’s face. Even so, Kingoro did not revive. Man gave a nod. She inserted her right hand into her husband’s crotch. With that, she focused her thoughts and strength into it. "Ugh... Nngh..."

Kingoro groaned. Eventually, he opened his eyes.

Death and Dreams

Even though there was no plum tree, a bush warbler came to sing in the garden. Did it mistake them for quince blossoms? A clear voice set the cold morning air aquiver. Perhaps this too was some miscalculation—a single green frog that should not yet have awakened from hibernation remained motionless like a figurine on the shore of Hyōtan Pond, where carps, crucian carps, and goldfish swam in abundance, its hands planted on the ground.

“They say ‘plum and warbler’—but with no plum tree, what a clueless warbler!”

On the veranda, while repairing the casting net, Kingoro laughed.

“It’s a bush warbler. Don’t be picky—it’ll sing anywhere with me.” Man, who was savoring her kizami tobacco, laughed as she said this, then suddenly adopted a mischievously earnest expression, “Father, there was this stubborn female warbler who wouldn’t sing without a plum tree—do you remember?”

“I dunno.” “There’s no way you don’t know…” (She’s talking about Okyo.) Kingoro, too, understood Man’s sarcasm. But he feigned ignorance, “Now, who could that be?”

“She should be in the direction of Edo… wouldn’t you say?”

“I dunno.” “Okyōkikoku ‘Sugu Oidekou’ Gorō” — Such a telegram arrived just as Kingoro and Man were exchanging their usual clueless banter face-to-face in rare, peaceful repose. “Father, you should go.” Having obtained Man’s permission, Kingoro boarded the night express to Tokyo that evening.

Several days passed.

Kimika came visiting with a gift.

“Man, I’ve come to say goodbye for a while.” “A farewell?” “Oh, just a short while—one or two months—with my husband, to Beppu Hot Springs.” “The bullet in his back’s out, but the aftermath is crucial—Dr. Takayama says he needs restin’ up.” “Plus, I figured we’d let things cool after all that ruckus.” “This scrap was started by them lot, you see.” “Even if they say there’s no blame on our side, well…” “Truth told, Wakamatsu’s a right noisy place.”

“You can say that again.” “What about Kin-san?”

“He went to Tokyo.”

“What for?” “For a rendezvous.” “A rendezvous? What a strange thing to say!” “Okyo-san is on the verge of death, they said.” “A telegram came.” “And so, I sent him to visit her.” “You fool!” “You’re such a reckless person!” “I’m used to your impulsiveness, but that’s just no good.” “Man-san, you have no idea how much Okyo-san was in love with Kin-san.” “I know.” “If you knew, then it’s even more reckless.” “There’s a saying about playing with fire around a burnt stump, you know.” “And whether Okyo-san’s really on her deathbed or it’s all a lie—there’s no way to know.” “Without even confirming whether it’s true or not, sending him off to some woman who’s desperately in love with him—you’re playing with fire, you know.”

“If he’s taken, I’ll let him go.”

“You’re always so carefree about things like that…” Then, for about ten more minutes, she talked about Yurika’s seemingly happy state since remarrying and her plans to host a Tokyo Grand Kabuki performance at the Niwaka-za Theater—both to celebrate her recovery and as a welcome-back event after returning from Beppu—before leaving.

As for work and union matters, even if Kingoro wasn’t there, Katsunori handled them as his substitute without delay. Katsunori was busy as both secretary of the foremen’s union and secretary-general of the labor union.

On a night when the rain was falling fiercely, Ōkawa Tokijirō came visiting.

“Where’s Boss?”

“He went to Tokyo.” “Hmm...” Tokijirō’s expression briefly deflated. “Truth is, I got asked ’bout salvagin’ sunken coal at Takashima Mine in Nagasaki. Ain’t work I can handle alone—came to ask Boss for help. Rushed here through this downpour... but... yeah, he’s in Tokyo.” Man heated sake and served it. They poured for each other as she said,

“Toki-yan, thanks to you teaching me horseback riding back in the countryside, I was able to save my husband.” In a somber tone, Man said. “We even went on long rides all the way to Taishaku Gorge together.” Tokijirō’s eyes grew distant with memory. The same Tokijirō who had once cherished intense feelings for Man was now father to four children. Man suggested he stay the night,

“Again—found another lover.” “He’d cut me down.” “…Sayin’ somethin’ like that—if Boss comes chargin’ out, it’ll be trouble. Best head back.”

Saying such things, laughing, he left through the driving rain.

Another four or five days passed. There appeared to be some crucial political matter at hand, as Inoue Yasugorō and Harada Kumoi came visiting several times. They seemed pressed for time, saying they couldn't manage without Kingoro there, and requested, "Please send a telegram urging him to return to Wakamatsu immediately." However, Man did not send the telegram. Kingoro returned about half a month after going to Tokyo. He wasn't alone—he had brought Hannya no Gorō with him.

“What about Okyo-san?” “Dead.”

Kingoro curtly uttered just a single word, as if tossing it aside. He kept a grim face and wouldn’t speak a word about Tokyo. “I’ve decided to take Gorō-san into our home. I’m askin’ this of you.” Even Man couldn’t grasp the meaning behind those words. (Was there something he hadn’t told me?)

Suspicion, tinged with faint jealousy, welled up in Man's heart. Man was a woman too. When she began dwelling on it, her husband's inexplicable silence became an unbearable impatience that disturbed her heart. Suddenly, Kimika's words resurfaced, (Could it be?)

she thought.

“Alright.” Man muttered.

When late night arrived, Man began a mysterious activity.

When she confirmed Kingoro was sound asleep, she turned off the switch of the light fixture attached to the hallway wall. At one o'clock, all the lights in the house went out, and darkness fell.

Groping through the dark, she went to the toilet. She entered the stall and squatted backwards from her usual position, hands behind her back as if carrying someone. Closing her eyes and waiting, she soon felt weight press against her shoulders. Something seemed to have climbed onto her back.

She stood maintaining that posture and went to the kitchen. Only light footsteps broke the midnight stillness. Feeling her way through pitch darkness with her feet, she descended to the wellside. She sat on the edge of the well. Her back grew lighter. The toilet deity seemed to have gone to the well deity.

Man waited. In the dead silence of the darkness somewhere, a cat squirmed. A cold wind seeped into her spine. The toilet god who had gone for a secret rendezvous did not return for quite some time. Her entire body felt as if freezing from terror. Clenching her teeth and keeping still, she felt her back grow heavy again. Man moved both hands behind her back and stood up. She returned to the toilet. When she squatted down as before, her back became light with a whoosh.

Man took one straw toilet sandal. She stealthily entered Kingoro’s bedroom.

It was pitch black, and nothing could be seen. Only Kingoro’s thunderous snoring rumbled through the midnight air. Man, who had inched closer on her knees, groped for her husband’s body and gently placed the straw toilet sandal on his chest.

And, holding her breath, she waited for something to begin. Man was devout and often worshipped deities while also being skilled in performing various curses. The bizarre actions Man had just performed were also one of these curses. What had the man done in secret? —It was an eerie method to discover that. If, late at night, one could endure the terror of darkness and monsters and manage to bring together the toilet god and the well god, then as thanks, the two gods would draw out the man’s secrets. When a toilet sandal was placed on his chest, it was said that the man would unconsciously blurt out everything.

Man waited. It seemed a cat had come and sat beside her.

The clock struck two.

Kingoro’s snoring stopped. A faint groan was heard. With her whole body stiffening and her breath held,

"Okyo is dead." A drawn-out, slurred voice arose. The face remained utterly invisible. His voice trailed off, "What a pitiful woman she was."

From those next words, his monologue began to spill out in a drawn-out manner. "When I met Okyo after a long time, I was shocked." "She was so young and beautiful, not having aged a single bit, that I thought she was an immortal woman." "Then I realized—that wasn't Okyo at all, but her daughter Oha." "Well I’ll be—they’re spitting images of each other." “She’s not a bit different from when Okyo was young.”

The sick Okyo said to me.

“Mr. Kingoro... Now that it’s come to this, I don’t want you to see me like this.” “But still, I’m glad I got to see you once before I die.” And then she wept. I rubbed my eyes. Was this... that Okyo from long ago? She’d become like a shrivelled cucumber—her bones withered to the core, unbearable to look upon twice. But it was unmistakably Okyo. And so I said: “Okyo-san... I was happy to meet you too.”

Then, Okyo said. “Mr. Kingoro—show me your dragon tattoo one more time.”

I exposed my left arm. “It’s beautiful.” “It hasn’t changed a bit from when I carved it twenty-five years ago.” “I never tattooed another soul after making this one.” “But I lost to O-Man-san.” “This chrysanthemum flower the dragon’s clutching—it’s O-Man-san, isn’t it?”

After saying such things, Okyo then commanded Oha, who was beside her, to bring a brush and needles.

I was shocked, thinking Okyo might actually carve a descending dragon on my right arm as promised in her final moments. I was on edge.

Then, it wasn't what I'd thought. "With trembling hands, Okyo erased her own name—‘京’—that she'd carved into the dragon scales on my left arm."

At that point, his words trailed off momentarily. Silence fell. That was true darkness—not a single thing could be discerned. Only the sound of the clock ticking off seconds, and now and then, the creaking of some part of the house.

Kingoro’s voice arose again in the darkness. His voice sounded suffocating.

Man listened with her entire body.

"I was called by Oha and went to a separate room." Okyo's house stood in Senzoku-cho, Asakusa—an old two-story building with deep hedges and black plank fences that hid whatever went on inside. Seeing the practice room, I figured Oha must've been working as a dance instructor there. She wore light makeup with her hair in a ginkgo-leaf chignon. That Genroku-period kimono she had on—I recognized it right away as one Okyo used to wear back then. How could a mother and daughter look so damn alike? It wasn't just resemblance... Standing there was Okyo herself from her youth, making my heart pound like some lovesick fool. I thought to myself:

(I’ve always had a theatrical streak, always putting on these useless acts, but Oha’s got quite the dramatic flair herself.) However, it wasn’t play-acting. Oha became serious and tried to seduce me. “I am not Oha.” “I am Okyo.” “I will become Mother’s substitute and fulfill her wishes.” “Last year, at my mother’s bidding, I journeyed all the way to Wakamatsu, but with the election turmoil, my wish went unfulfilled.” “Just when I thought the election was over, a telegram came saying my mother was ill, so I hurried back to Tokyo, and things kept getting postponed until today.” “But today, if we can meet like this, I can fulfill the wish.”

Oha, with an uncanny gleam in her eyes, exhaled hot breath like a volcano and grasped my hand.

“Mr. Kingoro—when I went to Wakamatsu last year, I met your wife.” “That was what I heard from Man.” “I’ve told you everything—how Mother first met you, how your relationship began, the tattoo, what became of Mother afterward… everything.” “Did you tell her about the dragon?” “I didn’t know about you—until today, I’d only ever thought it was Okyo-san who came to Wakamatsu.”

“But there was one thing I didn’t tell.” “How could something like that ever be spoken of?” “The fact that by my mother’s orders, I was to seduce you and bear your child.” “When I saw you, I understood why my mother risked her life loving you.” “I too fell in love with you from the depths of my heart.” “Mother has possessed me.” “Please, Mr. Kingoro… my—no, Mother’s—no, grant these pitiful wishes of two women—Okyo and me.”

Oha, having said that, clung to me. Oha’s body was as hot as a charcoal brazier. Her eyes were filled with tears.

I was troubled and remained silent.

“Kingoro-san, Mother is on the verge of death. Until her dying moment, she has been picturing in her dreams the day when she could fulfill her longing with you at least once. If you don’t listen to what I say, Mother won’t be able to die even in death. I have an obligation to report to Mother. You ruined Mother’s life, and now you’re going to let her die and ruin mine too? Are you even a man? Are you even human? Do you even have blood running through your veins? Do you even have a heart?”

Strangely enough, at such a time, I started thinking about the blacksmith Seishichi. Seishichi was a slow-witted fool who'd get hit on the head in the morning and only say "Ouch" by evening—such a sluggish man—but I was far slower on the uptake. It took me twenty-five years to say "Ouch." Okyo once told me, "You're just a spineless coward scared of your wife," but at this moment, I thought.

(Is staying loyal to my wife only to destroy Okyo and Oha—these two women—truly what it means to be human? Is this the way of a man?)……”

Man gulped down her saliva. As if poised like a wild beast ready to pounce at the slightest movement of its opponent, she remained frozen in the darkness.

There was a sense that Kingoro also swallowed dry saliva.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a cat chasing a mouse through the ceiling. Man flinched as the sound reverberated like thunder. Her body trembled, and her heart pounded.

An eerie silence lasted for a brief moment.

“However,” Kingoro continued in a low voice. “I’ve reconsidered.” And then he told Oha: “Alright… I understand now. I’m human too. A man. Blood flows through these veins—there’s a heart beating here too. I want to grant your wishes—both yours and hers. But not yet. I’ll go back to Kyushu and get my wife’s permission first. Wait until then.”

“Would your wife ever give permission for something like that?” “No, Man’s an understanding woman. She’ll surely permit it. As women, she’ll surely understand both your feelings.”

“No, no—now, now.”

Still, Oha became like a blazing fire and tried desperately to persuade me. However, in any case, we reached an agreement that once I returned to Kyushu. Even so, the next morning, through Oha’s mouth to Okyo—that her mother’s long-cherished wish had finally been fulfilled—it was reported in that way. It was me who made her say it like that. Then, Okyo on her sickbed smiled gently and, “Now, I’ve finally beaten Man-san.”

Okyo said. (How utterly lonely.) Thinking this, tears welled up in my eyes. I've been a damn fool my whole life, bungling everything I've ever done—and once again, I told a terrible lie to that poor woman. Even so, if that lie could let Okyo rest in peace, then perhaps it wasn't such a bad lie—or so I tried to console myself.

Okyo died. Her face in death appeared to be smiling, and was beautiful. On the verge of dying, Hannya no Gorō-san had said that leaving her in Tokyo after his death wouldn't do any good, so he asked to have her placed with me—that's why I brought her back. “……Okyo has passed away.” Kingoro’s words stopped. A hush fell.

Man, who had been holding her breath, could no longer bear the oppressive silence and spoke in a thin voice.

“Is there nothing more to say?”

“My throat’s dry.” “Give me Ramune.”

Man was startled. A shrill laugh erupted in the darkness. The cat that leaped up dashed away at full speed. Kingoro rolled about and appeared to be laughing. Man wondered if her husband had gone mad.

“Father… you.” She shook her husband’s body. Even so, the laughter wouldn’t stop.

However, Kingoro had known everything from the very beginning. He had heard about Man’s curse methods many times before. In his own country too there existed similar sorcery. As they say—place a toilet sandal on a man’s chest, throw down a loincloth, roll it up accordingly, and he’d start babbling away. But Kingoro didn’t believe in such things. Still, humoring Man’s fondness for curses while stifling his laughter, he had put on his usual performance.

(But it was for the best.) And I thought. It wasn't something that could be spoken of properly.

The midnight's bizarre confrontation had indeed caused something to vanish like clouds and mist by turning tragedy into comedy.

A few days later, a telegram addressed to Kingoro arrived from Tokyo.

“OYŌTO HAS BECOME HUSBAND AND WIFE.” “THE PROMISE BETWEEN OYŌTO AND REI HAS BEEN FULFILLED.” KARASHISHI NO JŪRŌ

Hannya no Gorō read this, "That kid’s better at this than I am."

Hannya no Gorō laughed.

Gorō became something like the Tamai family’s gardener.

Several years had passed.

In January 1936, Yoshida Isokichi passed away. The great boss Yoshida Isokichi, who had been called "Emperor Yoshida," had retired as a member of the House of Representatives in 1932. However, in January 1936, after undergoing surgery for appendicitis with unfavorable results, his condition suddenly worsened in mid-January.

Kingoro went to visit the Yoshida residence. This time, he wasn't turned away at the entrance. "Tamai, you came."

Utterly weakened, Yoshida Isokichi, lying on his sickbed, looked at Kingoro as if speaking from the heart. “I’ve truly been in your care for so long, in so many ways.”

“That sounds exactly like a farewell from someone who’s about to die.” “No—this time I’m prepared too.” “Tamai-kun, I remember well when we first met.” “In Shimonoseki’s Hikoshima… That’s right—it’s been over thirty years now.” “It was during the Shanghai cholera outbreak.” “Back then, I thought you were a young man with some backbone—but you ended up opposing me your whole life.” “If I die, you’ll feel lonesome.”

“Boss, that’s not true.” “As for you—I respected you—but the men…” “What’s wrong with my men?”

“There were some rather unsavory people among them, and you suffered greatly because of it.”

“What nonsense are you saying? All my men are good folks! If you’re going to say such things, then get out!” On January 17th, when he entered the register of the dead, he was seventy years old. On February 19th of the same year, a banquet was held to commemorate the 30th anniversary of the Tamai Group’s founding. Kingoro disliked extravagant displays and held a private celebration at his home, inviting only close associates. Even so, there were nearly a hundred guests. The subordinates had handled things separately. Ōba Harukichi served as the emcee, discussed with Kingoro, and seated the reluctant Baban in the place of honor. Nagata Yone was startled and shrank back, but as if being urged on, she sat with her back against the main pillar. She shrank in on herself.

“The foundation of the Tamai Group is the Nagata Group—for that Baban, we strike!”

Under Ōba’s direction, the “Ebisu-uchi” ceremony was performed. “Hey, sha-sha! Hey, sha-sha! Hey!” An indispensable part of auspicious occasions, this was Wakamatsu’s unique ceremonial striking. Tears swiftly welled up in Baban’s eyes, and covering her face, she began to cry tears of joy. From Kingoro’s eyes and from Man’s eyes, tears gushed out as if erupting. A lively and relaxed banquet began. Inoue Yasugorō, who had been elected to the Fukuoka Prefectural Assembly and become its chairman, also attended. Next, it had been decided to push him to become a Diet member. Harada Kumoi chanted “Takasago.”

Thirty years prior, when they first hung the "Tamai Group" signboard, the eight subordinates who had been lodging on the second floor of Kingoro's house and idling about were all still alive and well. And they were gradually rising in status. —Matsumoto Shigeo, chief deputy of the Tamai Group; Ōkawa Tokujirō, small coal mine owner; Matsukawa Genshū of the "Rokuzoro" restaurant; Tani Shunji, operations supervisor at Yahata Steelworks; Jō Sanji, foreman of the Yamakyu Group; Shintani Katsutarō, deck watchman of the Union Group; Okano Seishichi, ship chandler; Yamamoto Jinpachi, tofu shop owner.

―The Chinese mainland.

―The land of Brazil. The grand dream of youth shared by Kingoro and Man—a dream that had been buried in the small world of Wakamatsu, which they had once avoided as "a jungle teeming with wild beasts"—now held no lingering regrets.

Mori Shinnosuke, who had shared the same dream, had settled into his role as manager of both Asuka and Hiwakaza.

One week after the celebratory banquet, on February 26th, a military rebellion occurred in Tokyo. Many government officials were attacked. There was heavy snow. Martial law was declared in the capital, but this incident caused anxiety among the people through some terrifying portent.

July 7, 1937: The Sino-Japanese Incident broke out.

From this moment on, the era began to unfold an entirely new chapter of history. Within it, what dreams would take form or crumble—such matters remained, of course, beyond knowing.

Tamai Kingoro, 58 years old.

Tamai Man, 54 years old.

Afterword

"Flower and Dragon" is a novel that was serialized in the Yomiuri Shimbun in 324 installments from June 20th of last year to May 11th of this year.

When I wrote the final line of the last installment and set down my pen, tears I couldn't restrain fell. After the war ended, the only times tears came upon finishing a novel were with Flower and Dragon and Youth and Mire. Though the meaning behind those tears differed, it was an emotion—neither quite joy nor sadness yet tinged with loneliness—that made me weep, me who had always been a hopeless crybaby by nature; this feeling born from finally writing what I absolutely had to write. To be sure, this work brims with flaws and dissatisfactions, but when people later ask about my representative works, being able to count this among them fulfills my deepest aspiration as a writer.

This novel tells my parents' story. Tamai Kingoro was my father, Man my mother, and Katsunori myself. For years I had longed to chronicle my father's life as an ordinary man. Now I had finally fulfilled this wish, but by then Father had already left this world. On September 9, 1950, he collapsed from a cerebral hemorrhage and joined the realm of spirits. He was seventy-two years old when he died. I had wanted to write Flower and Dragon while Father still lived - wanted this work to atone for my lifelong filial failures - but that chance had slipped beyond recall. Though truthfully, I cannot say whether Father would have approved of this novel had he lived.

My mother Man was still alive and well, already seventy years old. Due to the body she had trained in her youth, she was sometimes more energetic than we were—but what must she have felt while reading this Flower and Dragon? While savoring her favorite shredded tobacco, she reportedly remarked to her daughter-in-law Yoshiko with a wry smile, "Katsunori’s gone and put tails and fins on everything he wrote." Nevertheless, she reportedly told others with apparent delight things like, "Ever since the Tamai Group disbanded and Father passed away, Katsunori’s been promoting it all over Japan."

Flower and Dragon is a work of fiction—though it has some embellishments, as my mother puts it—but its core is entirely based on fact. However, while it is not what one would call a biographical novel, I pressed forward writing it purely as a work of fiction and strove always to keep literature in mind. However, because I wrote using real names, the difficulty was beyond description. Because many relatives and descendants of the characters appearing in the work are still alive, it was inevitable that certain sensitive areas would be touched upon. The matter of novels and their models is inherently contentious, but even in Flower and Dragon, there may have been people who were not too pleased. However, that was unavoidable—it being a story of the past and something done from the standpoint of literary expression untainted by personal feelings—and I wish to beg your forgiveness. During serialization, I received what could be called threatening warnings, but I pressed on with my pen according to my convictions.

The name of Boss Yoshida Isokichi remained known among old-timers and political circles. Father Tamai Kingoro had spent his life clashing with street bosses called the “Yoshida faction,” yet he would always repeat his stock phrase: “Yoshida-san rose from being a riverboat helmsman to his position—he was truly someone remarkable.” He had often muttered remarks implying that “Yoshida-san suffers losses because he keeps bad subordinates around.” Sharing this view, I took care when writing about Mr. Yoshida Isokichi in the novel not to reduce him to a mere yakuza boss or mastermind of villains. The current mayor of Wakamatsu, Mr. Yoshida Keitarō, is Boss Isokichi’s legitimate son. Mr. Yoshida Keitarō—an intellectual gentleman who graduated from Hitotsubashi University and studied abroad—carries himself in a manner diametrically opposed to his stern father’s. The former mayor of Wakamatsu had been my father’s ally Mr. Inoue Yasugorō, but two years prior he had fought against the Yoshida candidate in the mayoral election and lost. There are intriguing stories from this electoral battle that could form a “Flower and Dragon: Supplementary Accounts,” though I plan to write them when the time is right. Mr. Inoue Yasugorō recently contracted cheek cancer—a troublesome ailment—and underwent multiple surgeries at Tokyo University Hospital. He now receives treatment at Kokura Dental University’s affiliated hospital ward, where I hear his recovery progresses well and discharge nears. There remains a sprightly vigor about him in old age. Mr. Okabe Teizō’s son Kōsuke had been my classmate at Tamachi Elementary School and now serves energetically as president of Wakamatsu Port Transport Company. His younger brother Tokuzō—who previously served in the House of Representatives—was elected this April as a candidate from Fukuoka Prefecture’s second district. Hideo, son of Hanada Junzō and his wife, had also been my classmate at Kokura Middle School and now works at a Nagasaki City hospital; his younger brother Takehito serves on Wakamatsu’s city council while managing both the Hanada Group and Inari-za Theater. Many other relatives and associates of characters appearing in this work still remain.

There were many more things I wanted to write about in Flower and Dragon, but as it would have been problematic if it turned into an overly long-winded and poorly executed digression, I omitted a great deal of material. Because I skipped the Taisho era, it naturally took the form of two parts: the Meiji Part and the Showa Part. I intend to write about the Taisho era on another occasion. The novel concluded with July 7, 1937—the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese Incident. On September 10th of that year, I received my conscription notice and departed for war. From the Hangzhou Bay amphibious assault onward until August 15, 1945—the day of our nation’s defeat—I wandered various battlefronts, during which time I wrote many war chronicles including the trilogy Earth and Soldiers, Flower and Soldiers, and Wheat and Soldiers. But in 1942, something unprecedented occurred. The Tamai Group had ceased to exist. The Tamai Group, which my father had devoted his life to, was forcibly dissolved as an individual enterprise under the enterprise reorganization based on the National Mobilization Law. There was no refusing such immense power backed by lives itself. However, Father clenched his teeth, swallowed his tears, and said, “If that’s what it takes for the country to win, then so be it,” never uttering a word of complaint. Yet we clearly saw how Father had since lost all vigor and begun rapidly declining. In his later years, he withdrew from politics entirely, becoming a kindly old man who enjoyed looking after others while confining himself to his own narrow world. His youthful splendor now seemed like a dream from some distant era. Still, I want to someday write about this lonely figure of my father in his twilight years.

During the serialization of this novel, I received countless letters from readers. I wrote with reckless abandon, disregarding both praise and criticism, yet something about how Tamai Kingoro and Man lived as ordinary people seemed to strike a chord with readers. Though limited by my own lack of talent and ability, perhaps Kingoro and Man's earnest way of living had preserved some essential truth about human existence. For me as the author, this brought both joy and profound gratitude. That it continued through 324 installments owed entirely to our readers' encouragement and support. Nor can I adequately express my thanks to the Yomiuri Shimbun for generously devoting their precious pages to this work for so long.

Furthermore, since Flower and Dragon remains fundamentally the story of Kingoro and Man, I took care to write Katsunori as modestly as possible and not let him appear except in absolutely necessary places. The period surrounding the Wakamatsu Port general strike was an important time for Katsunori, so I had the intention to make it into a separate full-length novel.

Not only had the Tamai Group been lost to the war, but on June 25, 1945, our beloved childhood home in Shōhōji Town was also torn down through forced evacuation. We now live in a house on Yamate-dori where that octagonal clock hangs weathered on a pillar. Yet wind its spring, and it still keeps proper time. Meiji 39 (1906) was the year I was born, the year the Tamai Group began, and the year this four-yen-and-seventy-sen pillar clock was bought in commemoration. Each day, listening to its ticks while drinking her beloved shredded tobacco as ever, my elderly mother Man would sit with eyes longing for distant days, her face gathering more wrinkles.

When I was set to leave Wakamatsu for Europe to attend both the British Coronation and World PEN Congress, Mother said, "If Father were alive, how overjoyed he would be," tears pooling in her eyes. Tears welled up in my eyes as well. That night, I would depart from Haneda on the eight-thirty Air France flight. By the morning of the day after tomorrow, I would already be in Paris. I had been seen off by my parents multiple times when departing for the front lines, but this time, there was no worry for my life. Carrying neither guns nor swords, I was empty-handed in a light suit. And then, I thought about what souvenir to get for my mother. She was a mother who needed neither lipstick nor perfume. And so, including memories of my father, I decided to buy a "pocket lamp" in Paris to bring back.

Since my European trip would last about two months, by the time I returned to Japan, the two volumes of Flower and Dragon would have been made into beautiful books. I want to show Mother soon.—No—I can’t. Tears welled up again. I’m such a crybaby; there’s no helping it. Father and Mother were both crybabies—it must be hereditary. I shall lay down my pen now.

May 27, 1953. In Tokyo.

Commentary

Hino Ashihei

Since *Dung and Urine Story*, I wrote many novels set in my hometown of Wakamatsu, but among them, *Flower and Dragon* is not only the longest work but also one into which I poured my utmost effort. It had long been my cherished wish to write about the lives of my father Tamai Kingoro and my mother Man, but it was only when the Yomiuri Shimbun requested a serialization that I was finally able to fulfill this desire. This novel was serialized in 324 installments from June 20, 1952, to May 11, 1953.

However, when considering the circumstances that led to this novel being written, I must express my gratitude to Mr. Tadao Hosokawa, then Cultural Department Chief of the Yomiuri Shimbun. Immediately after the purge was lifted, Mr. Hosokawa visited my house in Ikegami Tokumochi Town—from the time I lived with Hase Ken—and asked me to write a serialization for Yomiuri as well, but I already had a plan in mind.

On September 9, 1950, Father passed away at the age of seventy due to a cerebral hemorrhage. I wrote about my father in various newspapers and magazines. Among these pieces, "The Life of an Ordinary Citizen" in *Shincho* and "Blood Wind Wakamatsu Port" in *Omoshiro Club* were somewhat lengthy works, though it seemed Mr. Hosokawa had read the latter. At *Omoshiro Club*, there was Torashichi Fujikake, and I would occasionally be asked to write novels. However, since my father's reminiscences were not fiction but more memoir-like in style, I had given them the modest title *A Father's Longing*—but when the magazine was published, I was shocked to find it titled *Blood Wind Wakamatsu Port*. It looked exactly like some fierce gangster novel—a cheap imitation of *Blood Smoke Mount Kōjin*. To be sure, during Father's time Wakamatsu had been a world of violence surpassing Westerns—bloody winds truly did rage there—but when writing about it, I wanted to maintain a calm, critical eye. Unless one writes from the perspective of resisting feudal pre-modernity rather than affirming it, both human integrity and literary purity will be compromised. Indeed, bound by fate's thick chains and dragged relentlessly into valleys of human emotion—cast into this violent world—Father had tenaciously battled barbarism while living as a common craftsman, ending his life with a simple yet unyielding sense of justice that bowed neither to wealth nor power. Though not glorious, I believe it was a manly life. Moreover, he constantly engaged in self-reflection and at times even sank into self-loathing.

I strove not to lose sight of my father's sincere human qualities and refused to portray him—addressed as oyabun—as either a yakuza boss or heroic figure. This was because he differed fundamentally from concepts like chivalric codes, honor-bound obligations, or performative masculinity. Yet Father truly possessed both generosity and daring. That said, he never engaged in brutish behavior—one might better describe him as cultivated. Moreover, his sensitive disposition made him quick to tears, while showing us children nothing but gentle devotion. Though lacking formal education, he brimmed with cleverness, often regaling us youngsters with whimsical folktales. Ghost stories particularly showcased his storytelling gifts.

Looking back now, he seems to have been a natural storyteller, and there are times when I think that my own qualities—my love for poetry and romance—might have been inherited from him. He also loved painting and would draw warrior pictures himself; there was even a time he made a large kite about two tatami mats in size for me. The sight of it tied to the clothesline pole and raised high into the sky, howling in the wind, still lingers before my eyes and ears. Once, when the string snapped and it fell a ri away, someone who found it—seeing my name written there—came to return it. "Even if it flew all the way to America, it'd come back safe!" Father would laugh. That was no yakuza boss at all—just a doting old man who doted on his children.

Mr. Tadao Hosokawa may have sympathized with this kind of father as well. He had suggested that I might as well title it "The Biography of Tamai Kingoro" and write about Father’s life. I also felt grateful and rejoiced that my long-cherished wish would be fulfilled, so I settled on that—but as the title felt too embarrassing, I changed it to Flower and Dragon. I came up with the idea from the design of the traditional Japanese tattoo on Father’s left arm and thus symbolized Father and Mother as the dragon and the flower.

I am called a Kyushu man, but I do not have Kyushu blood in my veins. As written in this novel, my father was from Shikoku and my mother from Hiroshima—I am their mixed-blood child. However, having been born in Wakamatsu, Kitakyushu, raised there, and still living there now, it seems I have acquired a Kyushu-like character.

While Wakamatsu was Japan's number one coal-exporting port, there was indeed an era when—as Mr. Soichi Oya wrote in *Along Japan's Back Alleys*—it was said to be "if not Japan's number one zone of violence, at least among its Big Three." In such a rough-and-tumble world, my father—despite his aversion to fighting—lived as the leader of the Tamai Group, while I grew into a romantic boy who loved literature and painting. However, I too dropped out of Waseda University’s English Literature Department and, after being discharged from the Fukuoka 24th Regiment, donned the Tamai Group’s hanten coat and lived among the coal dockworkers at Wakamatsu Port. It was because I was drawn to Marxism and engaged in labor movements—a part of this being written in *Flower and Dragon* as the strike chapter. However, because it was a newspaper serialization, the ideological aspects were concealed, leaving only the surface-level narrative written.

Since Tamai Kingoro is the protagonist of *Flower and Dragon*, I made every effort to keep myself out of sight. However, since the issue of this strike and Marxism was the most significant theme of my youth, I decided to make it into a separate full-length work and am currently serializing it under the title "Crossroads of Youth" in *Sekai* starting from this year's January issue. I had once abandoned literature after being steeped in red ideology, but upon realizing the error of those ideas, I underwent an ideological conversion and returned to literature, writing works such as "Mountain Potatoes," "Blowfish," and "Dung and Urine Story." In "Crossroads of Youth," I tackle that period of wandering and seek to explore the issues of humanity and ideology from another perspective.

A work undergoes various constraints depending on its form of publication. Especially when dealing with a major newspaper with a circulation of several million, one cannot simply write whatever they please.

I wrote three times for the Asahi Shimbun (*Flower and Soldiers*, *A Beautiful Map*, *The Army*), twice for the Mainichi Shimbun (*The Sea and Soldiers*, *Equator Festival*), and this was my first time writing for the Yomiuri Shimbun—but through this, I came to recognize that each of Japan’s three major newspapers has its own distinct characteristics. Yomiuri was an exceedingly down-to-earth newspaper, and in that sense, Flower and Dragon might have been an ideally suited subject matter. Since it was my parents' story that I had long wanted to write someday, I poured my entire being into writing it, but the response from readers was intense, and I received numerous letters. Because of this, what I began writing with an initial commitment of about half a year gradually stretched until it neared a full year. Even so, there remained much I wished to write, but as it risked becoming overly protracted, I reluctantly abbreviated the Taisho era and divided it into two parts: the Meiji Part and the Showa Part. I still hold the intention to write a Taisho Part someday.

All characters in this work bear their real names. That very fact made it difficult to write. Of course, it was neither a documentary nor a biographical novel—though heavily woven with fictional elements as a story, its framework being rooted in facts caused complications everywhere. The well-portrayed models kept silent, while those cast as enemies were naturally displeased. Even without emotionally depicting allies and foes, the Yoshida Isokichi faction—opposed by Tamai Kingoro—must have found it disagreeable.

Yoshida Ōyabun passed away in Showa 11 (1936), but his successor Mr. Keitarō is currently the mayor of Wakamatsu. None of those once called the Four Heavenly Kings of the Yoshida family remain alive today, but their second-generation descendants all work on the front lines in Wakamatsu. Okabe Kosuke—son of Mr. Okabe Teizō—was my classmate at Tamachi Elementary School and now holds multiple key positions including President of Daiichi Port Transport Company and Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry. Mr. Hanada Hideo—son of Mr. Hanada Junzō—was my classmate at Kokura Middle School and now works at Nagasaki City Hospital, while his younger brother Hanada Takehito manages both the Hanada Group and a market while serving as a city council member. Thankfully, these individuals showed understanding toward Flower and Dragon, willingly cooperating and assisting when Toei adapted it into a film and conducted extended location shooting in Wakamatsu.

I had wanted to write this work while Father was still alive, though perhaps he might not have approved of it had he lived to see it. Mother would tell people with a bitter smile, "Katsunori went and wrote everything down with all sorts of embellishments. Ever since the Tamai Group disappeared, he's been advertising it across Japan." My father—who had built the Tamai Group from nothing and devoted his life to it—saw his personal enterprise forcibly dissolved in 1942 under the National Mobilization Law's corporate restructuring measures following the outbreak of the Pacific War. Against such overwhelming authority and decrees, there could be no resistance. Father gritted his teeth, swallowed his tears, and declared, "If it's necessary for our nation's victory," never once voicing complaint—yet from that moment onward, we clearly saw his vitality diminish and his health rapidly decline. Then in late June 1945, under the pretext of preparing for enemy air raids, the great house in Shōhōji-chō that embodied Father's life's work was forcibly evacuated and demolished within two days, leaving not a trace behind. Even then Father repeated, "If it's for our country's victory," but the desolation in his expression proved unbearable to witness.

Shortly after handing over the 324th manuscript of Flower and Dragon, I departed for Europe. I attended the 25th World PEN Congress held in Dublin, Ireland, observed Queen Elizabeth’s coronation in Britain, then spent about three months traveling through Spain, Morocco, France, Italy, and other countries before returning home. At the Yomiuri branch office in Paris, when I looked through the Yomiuri Shimbun sent from Japan, I read Mr. Yoshimi Usui’s critique of Flower and Dragon in his literary column. It stated that when comparing three newspaper serials—Mr. Tatsuzo Ishikawa’s Blue Revolution, Mr. Fumio Niwa’s Love Letter, and Flower and Dragon—Flower and Dragon was the most successful and would undoubtedly stand alongside Mr. Shiro Ozaki’s Theater of Life as a representative work in this genre. I was happy. Flower and Dragon had been published by Shinchosha as a hardcover book, and when it was later included in the Shincho Bunko collection, Mr. Katsushiro Kamei wrote in his commentary: “There may be no work that manifests so clearly the wild, enduring breath that could be called a hallmark of Hino’s literature.” “The importance of this work lies in the fact that it was something of a nature that Mr. Hino absolutely had to write at least once.” “Throughout Hino’s literary works,” he added with kind understanding, “Flower and Dragon stands as a landmark in this sense.” Many other critiques appeared too, and in any case, Flower and Dragon became one of my representative works. Of course, there were many shortcomings—and there were those who pointed them out—but since I too recognized these deficiencies, I intended to fill in the gaps and refine them in a different form, as with Crossroads of Youth. Along with ideology, romantic issues were also one of the themes I wanted to rewrite as an important coming-of-age story.

Father Kingoro had been dead for eight years. Mother Man was seventy-five years old and still going strong. Her work consisted of smoking her favorite tobacco, looking after her grandchildren, and winding the spring of an old octagonal wall clock. This clock appeared in Flower and Dragon, and on its back was Father’s handwriting: Shin-Nakamachi Tamai Group Meiji 39, April 2nd: Sought

This product is to commemorate the opening of the contracting business.

Acquired from Aichi Clock Shop Total sum: 4 yen and 70 sen Business commencement: February 19 It is written here, though barely legible now. In that year, I was born. Thus, the Tamai Group, myself, and this clock shared the same birth year—yet while the group has vanished, Mother, I, and the clock still remain. This clock was made by Seikosha, yet I marvel at its durability. Even now, it steadily marks each second and chimes with resonant clarity. Yet according to Mother’s accounts, it endured many trials—frequently seized as collateral for rice debts or impounded against unpaid taxes. That single paper label still clings to its back.

Apart from this clock, Father left us no property. Yet Father's way of life and his habitual saying—"The righteous will triumph in the end"—left a distinct imprint upon my spirit. This might be considered an immense legacy beyond monetary value. Of course, Father had his flaws, and I exhausted every means of being an unfilial son, yet some connection must have existed between our souls; through writing *Flower and Dragon*, I discharged a portion of that debt, and dedicating this work to Father's spirit brings me solace. In completing a work I truly could not help but write, I am satisfied.

When I wrote the final line and set down my pen, tears came forth.

In the work, Katsunori and Yoshiko had already been married for twenty-eight years since their wedding, with their seven children—boy, girl, boy, boy, boy, girl, boy—all alive and well. Their sons and daughters had already married, and in March of last year, their daughter had borne a grandchild. I would dearly like to hear what thoughts my children and grandchildren might harbor when reading Flower and Dragon.

Wakamatsu had changed. The war had been its greatest cause—but now they had to shed that disgraceful label of being one of Japan’s “Big Three” violent districts. Though traces of premodernity lingered unscrubbed from its streets—the old rivalries between bosses and their grand feuds had vanished without trace. One could safely say it had become a peaceful port. Kōtōzan transformed into a park while brick by brick—the town donned modernity’s mask through gradual beautification. Soon—they said—construction would begin on an iron colossus bridging Wakamatsu and Tobata. Spanning Dokai Bay’s mouth—this suspension bridge touted as Asia’s largest—promised at dawn’s completion—to rewrite the port’s face with its magnificence. Coal dockworkers—now minimum-wage stevedores—shed their rough-edged ways. Few remained who remembered my work’s “Gonzo song.” The fox-crying valley village from Flower and Dragon’s prologue—my mother’s homeland—merged into Shōbara City two years prior. Thus—Flower and Dragon stands perhaps as history’s witness—a novel chronicling time’s passage.

(January 25, 1958)