Pathway to Japanese Literature

There was a man named Noro Tabito. Where was that guy? He was currently residing in my house. In other words, he was cohabiting with me. However, in such a case, whether the term "cohabitation" was accurate or not—I couldn't quite say for certain. As you well know, I was a mere poor painter naive about the ways of the world, and not particularly sensitive to linguistic usage. But from my perspective, cohabitation meant living together in a household with equal rights—residing without one party being subordinate to the other (if there were subordination, that should be called being a lodger or room renter)—or so I thought. Yet the actual relationship between us had become extremely complicated. First of all—whose property was this house in reality? Mine? Noro's? Or some third party's apart from us? That remained entirely unclear. It was a truly troublesome situation.

The man called Noro Tabito was indeed thirty-one years old. His height was at most five feet. His body was thin, and his weight was probably around eighty-two to ninety pounds. Yet I believed this man had the potential to grow far heavier. Somehow, I couldn’t help but feel that way. Yet despite that, he didn’t gain any weight—I’d concluded it was because he wasn’t getting enough nutrients. Admittedly, I didn’t have much right to boast on that point myself. Now, as I’d just mentioned, the man called Noro wasn’t much to look at, wasn’t particularly sharp-witted, and wasn’t what you’d call a striking figure—but he did have one distinctive physical feature. That was a wart. The dictionary defines a wart as "a protrusion on the skin formed by a congealed mass of muscle, about the size of a rice grain," but Noro’s were larger than rice grains. They were easily as big as boiled adzuki beans. If there had been just one, it would have been tolerable—but with meticulous care, three adorned his forehead and two his chin, a total of five warts scattered like inlaid jewels. So this Wart Man was living with me. Before I explained the circumstances and events that led to Noro and me living together, I wanted first to talk about the house itself.

Even if you called it a house, since it was just me living there, it wasn’t much of a house. It would’ve been more accurate to call it a ramshackle shack. There were three rooms. An eight-tatami Western-style room stood at the center, with four-and-a-half-tatami Japanese-style rooms attached on both sides. Those were all the rooms. Calling it a Western-style room might’ve sounded chic, but really, it was just rough wooden planking. The rest comprised a kitchen, toilet, bathroom, and such. And a garden of about fifty tsubo. That was everything. It was a very old house—by my estimation, at least thirty years must have passed since its construction. Rain leaked through gaps, wind whistled through cracks, pillars tilted at drunken angles while eaves hung in tatters—withered and gaunt like a stray dog from a house of mourning. If someone didn’t pour money into reinforcing its bones soon, collapse seemed inevitable. But with ownership still murky, no one dared lift a finger, leaving it to rot as the rainy season loomed closer—an utterly depressing state of affairs.

Under what circumstances did I end up living in such a dilapidated house? First of all, I would like to recount that matter.

There was a man named Fuse Kazuma. I became acquainted with this man last spring inside a city tram.

It might sound a bit strange that we met on a city tram, but the story is quite simple. One day, when I was riding a city tram, Fuse stood in front of me. It was fairly crowded; I had managed to get a seat, but Fuse had no choice but to hang from a strap since there were no vacancies left. Of course, at that time, I had no idea the man standing before me was someone named Fuse—nor did I care in the slightest. If I’d bothered paying attention to every passenger on the tram, it would’ve frayed my nerves to ribbons. I was tired and dazedly rocked by the train’s motion. But as we approached the terminal, something happened around Fuse that abruptly seized my full attention.

A young man was also standing next to Fuse. He wore glasses and such, giving him the appearance of an office worker at first glance. That guy was spreading out the evening paper and reading it. Now, whether he was actually reading it or merely spreading it out, I couldn’t quite tell, but from behind that evening paper, the man’s hand crept forward, occasionally testing Fuse’s coat pocket with a gentle press. I thought it might be due to the carriage’s swaying, but for that, the movement of his fingers was unnatural. I thought it might be a pickpocket, but I remained silent. The train roared onward. I half-closed my eyes, feigning drowsiness while keeping watch on the hand’s movements. The fingers moved with a woman-like suppleness, brushing against the pocket’s surface, yet never quite reaching the decisive act. My heart began to pound harder and harder. Even though this was someone else’s affair, there was a certain thrill to it. It was somewhat akin to the thrill of fishing. As I watched with bated breath—"Is this it? Is this it?"—the hand suddenly went limp and flat, then slithered smoothly into the pocket. The next instant, pinched between the index and middle fingers, the leather wallet was pulled out nonchalantly. My heart thudded so violently that—to put it rather indelicately—I even experienced a slight, involuntary physiological reaction in my lower regions. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had this cursed habit—whenever I become extremely tense, such phenomena would abruptly occur. Since it was twilight inside the train car and the view was blocked by the newspaper, I was likely the only one who saw it. Fuse himself was gazing out the window at the twilight scenery with a relaxed expression. And the owner of the hand that had extracted the wallet gradually shifted his body and seemed to be moving toward the exit. I reflexively gave Fuse’s kneecap a light jab.

Why, and with what intention, had I jabbed Fuse’s knee? To be honest, it didn’t seem to stem from any social sense of justice. Would you call it meddling? It would be more accurate to call it that kind of fervor. I was by nature quite the meddler, and without this, I could not have entered into relationships with others. But broadly speaking, what binds people together isn’t something as pretentious as love—isn’t it primarily this spirit of meddling and nosiness? In broad strokes, I had come to accept it as such. Meddling is precisely what guarantees that humans are alive, in that sense. And another thing—at that time, I also seemed to harbor a certain amount of jealousy. Of course, it was directed at the young pickpocket man. Let that guy have all the spoils? Not a chance. As if to say, How could they just ignore me, the witness?

Fuse looked at me with a bewildered expression. At that, I half-rose from my seat and leaned my face close to Fuse’s ear. Fuse’s earlobes were large, I noted. They’re what’s known as ‘lucky ears’—it’s said those blessed with such lobes rarely turn villainous. Into those generous earlobes, I quickly whispered the gist of what I had witnessed. Then Fuse’s face flushed crimson as he glared toward the exit. The train was nearing its final stop at Shinjuku Terminal.

At once, Fuse pushed through the crowd and charged toward the exit. Following him, I did the same. And at a point about twenty meters from the tram stop, we firmly seized the young man’s shoulder. Even hearing our pursuing footsteps behind him, he didn’t attempt to flee. He must have been an exceptionally cunning bastard. The moment his shoulder was seized, he turned around nimbly as if he’d anticipated it all along, held up the wallet with both hands, and snapped into a deep bow. It was as if he were performing one of those wartime salutes—"To ××, with utmost respect"—or something along those lines. Strangely enough, being subjected to that made our fighting spirit instantly deflate, and Fuse ended up vaguely accepting the wallet. Then the young man stepped back four or five steps while maintaining his deep bow, deliberately raised his head, executed a right-face turn, and calmly walked away into the distance. It was truly an admirable display of composure—we found ourselves utterly overwhelmed, left standing there in a daze as we could only watch him depart. By the time we thought to haul him off to the police, he’d already vanished into the crowd—so the whole notion was out of the question from the start.

Nevertheless, Fuse was overjoyed just to have his wallet returned and proposed treating me to a meal. I had no reason to refuse, and so I gladly accepted. The place Fuse took me to was the second floor of an eel restaurant in Hanazono-cho. Fuse tapped his leather wallet against his palm and, “Since I’d resigned myself to having it stolen anyway, let’s go all out tonight.” he said. And then he took out a business card from that wallet and gave it to me, which was printed with “Fuse Kazuma.” Flaring his nostrils, Fuse declared somewhat proudly that he was a direct descendant of Fuse Kazuemon. Indeed, he did have those auspiciously large ears, his facial features were gentle, and his claim of being from such an esteemed lineage wasn’t an outright lie—I thought to myself at the time. That he’d been pickpocketed wasn’t due to any inherent foolishness in his character, but rather his gentle disposition—of that I was certain. That’s what I thought. And we ate eel and began drinking sake. As befitting a descendant of Kazuemon, Fuse’s drinking style was gallant. Not delicate sips from a choko cup, but gulping straight from a glass. We had hit it off completely and were drinking heartily when we suddenly noticed it was already nearly midnight. I jumped to my feet in surprise. At the time, my house was in Hachioji, so I had to leave quickly or else the trains would stop running.

However, whether due to his gulping down drinks, Fuse Kazuma abruptly collapsed and sprawled out on the tatami mats. Even when the waitress brought the bill, he remained slumped and utterly out of it. Having no choice, I searched Fuse’s pockets, pulled out the stuffed leather wallet, and upon opening it found only ¥225 in cash. The bulge came from five or six old postcards folded up inside; when I unfolded one slightly, it appeared to be a Tokyo municipal tax notice or something similar. It was just a tax notice—nothing to be done about that. Reluctantly, I took out my own wallet and settled the bill. When I tried to leave alone, the maid stubbornly insisted I take this sprawled-out man with me, forcing me to hoist Fuse onto my shoulders and descend the ladder-like stairs. After descending and stepping outside, Fuse seemed to regain some composure and told me to stay at his house while seeing him home. Judging by the time, the last train to Hachioji had likely already departed; being somewhat drunk and carefree anyway, I promptly decided to stay at Fuse’s house and hailed a taxi. Fuse’s house was located near Daitabashi Station on the Keiō Line. The compact taxi carrying us hurtled down Koshu Kaido under pale moonlight, turned into a side street, went about a block, then stopped before the Fuse residence’s gate. I ended up paying that taxi fare too. This Fuse residence was the house where I currently lived—though at night under brilliant moonlight, it didn’t look like a dilapidated shack but rather quite an impressive mansion. When I knocked on the gate, Mrs. Fuse eventually emerged in her nightclothes with a clatter. Mrs. Fuse seemed older than Fuse—if we took him to be around forty, she appeared about forty-five. She ungraciously opened the gate, showed no surprise at seeing us, and promptly retreated inside. That night I slept in the eastern four-and-a-half-tatami room, sharing a futon with Fuse. Mrs. Fuse was in the western four-and-a-half-tatami room.

Then morning came, and I was treated to breakfast. When I looked around in daylight, the house proved truly dilapidated—what astonished me most was how devoid it was of furnishings. It stood completely empty. Just futons and tableware—the barest essentials for survival—and nothing more. Not even a low dining table. We set our rice bowls directly on the tatami mats and ate our morning meal. As I surveyed our surroundings and remarked how refreshingly uncluttered everything was, Fuse smiled and explained this reflected his philosophy of non-attachment to material things. Mrs. Fuse maintained her stony expression throughout as she mechanically shoveled food into her mouth. Coming after a night of heavy drinking, the miso soup tasted particularly divine. Her preparation showed real skill. They say women who make good miso soup run tight households—if that holds true, then Mrs. Fuse here must be a master of domestic economy beneath that impassive mask. I went back for three extra helpings of her wakame miso soup.

Fuse and his wife lived alone in this empty, dilapidated house. What a waste. As for how the idea of lending me half came about, I can barely remember now. Who first proposed it, I’ve forgotten that too. However, at the time I was living at my father’s house in Hachioji—far from Tokyo—and since the Hachioji house was cramped and inconvenient for painting, I had already been considering renting a place in Tokyo to become independent. The eight-tatami wooden-floored room in this house would make a perfectly adequate atelier. Moreover, Fuse had an easygoing and gentle personality, and though Mrs. Fuse was unfriendly, she did not seem like a malicious person. Since everything was so convenient, the matter was settled immediately.

“Having you come would really serve as a precaution and help us out too.”

Fuse would say such things in good spirits and with a laugh. I would live in the eastern four-and-a-half-tatami room, while the Fuse couple would reside in the western side. The wooden-floored room would be shared jointly by both parties. Those were the conditions. “And then—” I finally asked. “How much would the rent be?” “Hmm. Should I charge you ¥500 a month?” Fuse said offhandedly. He spoke as if money were no object. “And the key money?”

“Hmm,” Fuse scratched his chin roughly as if bothered. “Suppose I’ll take fifty thousand yen then.”

I fell silent for a moment. The rent was absurdly cheap, but I thought the key money seemed a bit too high for what it was worth. Perhaps sensing this hesitation, Fuse turned his face toward me and said with a grin.

"No? Then how about ¥40k instead?" "I see." "Well then - let's settle on that."

And so the matter was settled just like that. That a pickpocket-brokered connection would make us landlord and tenant was such an amusingly romantic notion—the very stuff of novels. And so that day, I took my leave of the Fuse residence, returned to Hachioji, and persuaded my old man to fork over ¥40,000. My old man seemed somewhat reluctant about parting with ¥40,000, but since I couldn’t very well remain dependent on my parents forever—and on the condition that I’d become financially independent from then on—I finally managed to get him to hand it over. Of course, even if I moved into the Fuse residence, it wasn’t as though my paintings would start selling immediately. But I had one scheme. What if I used that eight-tatami wooden-floored room at the Fuse residence—or on fine days, the garden area—to hold art lessons and practice sessions for elementary school students every Sunday? Fortunately, since the area around the Fuse residence was a residential neighborhood, my projection was that twenty or thirty people would gather. If I collected ¥300 in tuition per student, thirty students would amount to ¥9,000. The rent was ¥500, so with ¥8,500 left over, one person could easily support themselves. It was, I must say, a rather shrewd calculation on my part.

On the third day of knowing Fuse, I loaded my household goods and painting supplies onto a three-wheeled truck and came clattering all the way from Hachioji to Daitabashi to move in. As for household goods, following Fuse’s example, I limited myself to just the bare minimum of necessities. That night, Fuse and I drafted a simple contract, I handed over ¥40,000, then we got moving-day soba from a nearby shop and held a modest celebration with the soba as our fare. Mrs. Fuse also came to join the celebration, but to our surprise—contrary to her stern appearance—she outdrank her husband, so much so that the two sho we had prepared proved insufficient and we had to purchase another. They were what one might call your quintessential swindler couple.

However, my cohabitation with this swindler couple came to a fleeting end after just one week.

On the one-week mark—whether you’d call it a midnight flit or daylight dash—the Fuses disappeared somewhere, taking everything with them. This was an entirely unexpected turn of events. The evening before their disappearance, Fuse Kazuma came to my room slightly drunk, criticized the paintings on my walls, spouted dubious art theories, then fidgeted his way into requesting a ¥2,000 loan under the guise of prepaying rent. The couple wanted to visit ancestral graves in Akō, he claimed. Though I found it odd—having just handed over ¥40,000 a week prior—I reasoned there might be circumstances I didn’t grasp. Never imagining they’d vanish, I agreed to treat it as rent prepayment. Still, I decided to verify one thing.

“But your family graves—you don’t need to go all the way to Akō for them. They’re right there at Sengakuji, aren’t they?” Then Fuse looked at me with a pitying laugh, “My ancestors aren’t just Kazuemon alone. “Kazuemon’s son was one too, and his son after him as well—every generation has been my ancestor.” Well now that he put it that way—so I nodded in agreement and handed over two ¥1,000 bills from my scant wallet. According to Fuse，their trip to Akō wasn’t just for grave visits—they also had business settling some mountain forest property over there，so it might take a week or even ten days. He explained he’d have his distant relative Noro stay there as caretaker during his absence，and asked me to get along with him. Noro was supposed to arrive around the day after tomorrow，he added. For my part，being saddled with full responsibility for house-sitting was too much of a burden，so I gladly accepted his proposal.

The next morning, I slept in until around eleven o’clock, and when I finally got up, the Fuse couple were nowhere to be seen. Apparently, they had left at daybreak. When I went to the kitchen to cook rice, there was a sheet of stationery placed on my mess tin, in quite elegant handwriting,

“Be good to Noro-kun.” “He is a truly good person.”

That’s what was written. Of course, it was Fuse’s handwriting. He was oddly concerned about the relationship between me and this man Noro. After just briefly wondering about that, I immediately folded the letter and tucked it into my pocket.

Noro arrived around noon two or three days later. As I set up an easel on the wooden floor to sketch the garden, the sound of a cart came from the front gate, followed by footsteps entering the garden. The man who entered froze when he saw me, appearing momentarily startled. I laid down my paintbrush and studied his face. What struck me first were the warts clinging to his sweat-drenched skin—here a cluster, there a solitary outgrowth.

“Is that you, Noro-kun?”

I asked.

“Indeed, I am Noro, but—” Noro peered quizzically into the wooden-floored room. “Isn’t Mr. Fuse here?”

“Mr. Fuse left for Hyogo Prefecture yesterday.” I too found it suspicious. After all, if he was coming to house-sit, he should’ve at least known about the owner’s trip. “He said it would take about ten days.”

“Ten days?” Noro frowned. “That’s a problem.” “What’s there for you to worry about?” “It’s a problem.” Then Noro looked me up and down, his words suddenly turning brusque. “What exactly are you? “The house-sitter?”

“I’m not the house-sitter.” A bit irritated myself, I retorted. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be house-sitting! I’m a resident here.” “Resident?” With a gaze that seemed to question whether I was an idiot, Noro looked at me. “What on earth are you talking about? This house is mine. I bought it from Mr. Fuse. You get out right away.” “You bought it?”

This time, I was so startled that I stood stock-still. “That’s right. Hurry up and pack your things to get out.” “I hauled my own belongings here on a cart, straining every muscle.” “Th-that’s absurd!” “I’ve paid the key money properly and signed a legitimate lease agreement!”

I dashed into my room, hurriedly took out the receipt and contract, then rushed back and thrust them before Noro. Noro took them and began examining. Before long, a look of anxiety and confusion seemed to spread across his entire face.

"How strange." He slumped down onto the wooden floorboards and said with a sigh. "There must be some misunderstanding. "It’s as though misunderstandings overflow throughout this entire world."

“What’s this about you buying it?” I asked falteringly. “Did you properly buy it from Mr. Fuse Kazuma?”

“That’s right.”

Noro then took on the expression of a bullied child and began to speak. According to his account, about two weeks prior, he had seen an advertisement for a house sale in the newspaper classifieds and visited Fuse at this house. Then Fuse showed him around the house in detail, both inside and out, and explained that since the land was leased and the house was dilapidated, he would let it go for ¥150,000. Noro himself thought the price was generally reasonable; however, since paying the asking price outright would violate the Noro family’s household code, he first tried to haggle it down by ¥10,000 (what a cheapskate), he explained. Then Fuse cheerfully agreed with a smile. So Noro placed ¥40,000 as a deposit, and once the remaining ¥100,000 could be arranged, he would move in—with the understanding that they would handle the registration transfer at that time—or so he claimed.

“So I hauled a moving cart all the way here,” Noro said dejectedly, hanging his head. “What on earth will become of me? Could I have been deceived?” “Maybe so,” I agreed uneasily. “But that’s strange. Mr. Fuse still has a ¥100,000 share coming from you. He wouldn’t run away. If he ran off now, he’d be losing money.” “Hmm, that’s true... Then maybe he really did go visit a grave after all?”

“But even so—what was his intention? Making a promise to sell it to you while taking key money from me?”

“Perhaps he means to come back after getting the ¥100,000.” “That’s trampling all over me too brutally.” I grew somewhat angry. “Then doesn’t that mean I’ve just been used as some temporary stitching?”

“Well, it’s not like that’s been settled yet.” Noro comforted me. “In any case, once Mr. Fuse returns, we’ll question his intentions.” “Anyway, we should move in our belongings. Leaving them out in the open would be risky, you know.” “Ah, right!”

Noro sprang up and scurried off toward the front gate. So I slipped into my sandals and chased after him. A large cart stood parked at the entrance, piled high with luggage. Though I had no idea where he'd dragged it from, I marveled inwardly at his considerable strength—hauling such a massive load alone despite his scrawny build—as I diligently helped carry in the belongings. Yet Noro showed no particular gratitude, maintaining a perfectly matter-of-fact expression while occasionally barking orders at me. He'd command things like "Carry this chair" or "Handle this carefully—it's fragile." Though I thought *Don't get so pushy when I'm helping you out of goodwill*, I moved everything in regardless. But then trouble arose. When Noro started zealously arranging the wardrobe and desk in the central wooden-floored room, I voiced my objection.

“Don’t put too much in the wooden-floored room. Why don’t you put them in the western 4.5-tatami room?” Noro raised his face and looked sharply at me.

“Do you even have the right to give such orders?” “I do.”

And I explained to Noro the agreement that had been made between me and Fuse regarding shared use of the wooden-floored room. Then Noro pursed his lips and said.

"But that wasn't written in the contract, was it?" "Even if it's not on paper, that's how our verbal agreement stands."

“That’s absurd—a lie! Tenants normally only get one room, you know. You’re just exploiting Mr. Fuse’s absence to—”

“It’s not a lie!” I raised my voice. “You say the contract doesn’t stipulate shared use of the wooden-floored room, but it doesn’t state you get exclusive use of a single room either.” “Your argument isn’t grounded in facts.”

“Then let’s stop this endless debate and be practical.” “With all due disrespect—having inspected your belongings—you scarcely own any proper tools.” “You might as well have nothing at all.” “Yet I possess a veritable mountain.” “Isn’t it only natural that those with possessions claim more space?” “What preposterous reasoning is this?”

While we were in the midst of heated arguing, a loud voice calling "Excuse me!" came from the direction of the garden. When I looked, a sturdy-looking man and a fat man—who had somehow slipped in unnoticed—were standing side by side. The sturdy man suddenly sharpened his gaze and said.

“Is Fuse Kazuma here?”

“He’s gone on a trip.”

“He’s done a runner.” The fat man slapped his own buttocks with a motion like a jockey whipping a horse’s rump and said resentfully. The sturdy man took a step forward, pointed at the two of us, and in an intimidating voice, “What the hell are you?!”

“And who exactly are you?” Noro demanded, hunching his shoulders aggressively. “I’m with the authorities.” When the sturdy man pulled something like a police badge from his pocket, Noro’s artificially inflated posture deflated like a punctured tire—his shoulders drooping until they lay flat as ironed linen. “Ah… “I purchased this house from Mr. Fuse.” “And I rented half of it from Mr. Fuse,” I added quickly, refusing to let him monopolize the narrative.

“At any rate, please do come inside for now.”

The two men took off their shoes and clambered up clumsily. I went to the kitchen and boiled tea, and then the four of us sat in a circle on the wooden floor. The fat man presented a business card, but according to it, this was not a detective but a third-country national named Chen Genwan. “I was born in Taiwan and currently run a Chinese restaurant in Shibuya,” said Mr. Chen with a vague smile as he introduced himself. Even so, his smile seemed to involve only the muscles and fat of his face—his eyes didn’t smile at all. “Actually, I have a loan of 180,000 yen with Mr. Fuse.” “Well now, have I been had?” “Ha ha ha!”

“What are the circumstances under which you wanted to buy or rent this house?” The detective asked us. We involuntarily exchanged glances. Things seemed to be progressing in an unpleasant direction. Noro also wore such an expression. And we began explaining the circumstances, taking turns presenting documents and such. The detective nodded with his angular jaw at each point and listened in silence. Newspapers often use expressions like “conduct an interrogation” when referring to police officers, and I must say “interrogation” really does have such an apt ring to it. When we finished talking, the detective tilted his head and crossed his arms. Noro asked worriedly.

“Does that mean I’ve been swindled after all? Does that mean Mr. Fuse won’t be coming back?”

“He probably won’t be coming back.” The detective’s tone grew somewhat more polite. They must have realized we were victims too. “That guy’s suspected of other frauds too. He apparently fled after foreseeing the authorities were closing in.” “Then what about my forty thousand yen?” Noro’s voice quavered. “Then what about this house?”

“As long as it remains under Fuse’s name, it would be Fuse’s property.” “I’m not too familiar with his laws,” the detective answered brusquely. “No—thank you for your time. If Fuse should return or make contact again, please call the station immediately.” The detective stood up without touching the tea I’d served, briskly pulled on his shoes, and left. Chen Genwan followed right after. Left behind, we stared at each other in bewilderment—until Mr. Chen came scrambling back. We thought he’d forgotten something, but no. He kicked off his shoes, thudded down onto the floorboards, and gave my shoulder a brisk pat. Given that Mr. Chen must have weighed over twenty kan—nearly three hundred pounds—the floor groaned ominously beneath him.

“Now now,” he said. “Don’t dwell on it. Being deceived was our misfortune, but since I’ve entrusted that matter to the detective, things should work out somehow.” “Is that so?” asked Noro. “Can we continue living here?” “Yeah. About that—as fellow victims, I think we need to make all sorts of plans.” Mr. Chen leaned forward, his jowls quivering with faux camaraderie. “So—tomorrow night, why don’t you two come to my restaurant? Let’s discuss things over dinner.”

Mr. Chen tore a page from his notebook, drew a map of his restaurant, and handed it to me. And then he hurriedly left again.

Left behind, the two of us couldn’t remain dazed forever either, so we shiftily stood up and began tidying the area. At least we could live here for now, so while part of me felt disgruntled, another part was somewhat relieved. The ongoing dispute over the eight-tatami mat room was left unresolved, and Noro voluntarily began moving his belongings to the west room on his own initiative. This was likely because we were both fellow victims, and the mutual sympathy between us had soothed our hearts. I helped Noro organize his belongings, and evening came. The two of us grew increasingly united in spirit, going together to the public bath where Noro scrubbed my back and I scrubbed his. Truly beautiful is friendship. Things like reconciliation and unity between people—it’s surprising how easily they come about. When we returned from the bath, we decided on my proposal to have a simple housewarming celebration. Just like the other day, it was zaru soba and synthetic sake. Noro didn’t act stingily and willingly contributed his share. Considering Noro’s subsequent words and actions, I couldn’t help but feel deeply moved that he had contributed his share without complaint.

However, this celebration grew increasingly oppressive the more we drank and ate. The topic shifted to Fuse, and though I was being whiny myself, Noro seemed much the same—our conversation naturally grew damp and heavy. Looking back now, since we’d each paid forty thousand yen and seemed able to live there for the time being, we shouldn’t have had any reason to complain—but at that moment, feeling like our forty thousand yen had been snatched away from us, we were furious—absolutely furious. When I lamented that I’d trusted him because of those big, lucky ears and gotten burned,

“Exactly.” “Exactly.” “I was completely taken in by those mushroom-like ears too.” Noro fervently agreed. It reached the point where he began bawling like a man—“That swindler profits while an honest soul like me suffers! Is there no god or Buddha in this world?”—and even I found myself at a loss over how to handle him. After much cajoling, I finally got him to stop crying, and since we would be living together for the time being, we swore a mutual oath to strive toward being ideal housemates before splitting east and west and finally going to sleep.

That night, I had a dream that my hands became covered in warts.

The next day, Noro rose early and gargled with a clamorous racket in the kitchen. The noise roused me from sleep. Then he cooked rice, performed calisthenics in the garden, and prepared to depart clutching his lunchbox. When I inquired where he was headed, he declared he was going to school. Through persistent questioning, I learned Noro’s profession was that of a middle school Japanese teacher.

“Since we’re going to Mr. Chen’s Taroko Restaurant tonight, make sure you come back in time.”

"I made sure to emphasize," I said.

After Noro left, I made about ten posters for my art class recruitment that I’d been planning and went around putting them up on nearby utility poles. As I went around putting them up, I wondered who I’d be paying rent to from now on—and since Fuse had disappeared, maybe I wouldn’t have to pay anyone at all—these thoughts made me feel slightly pleased.

We arrived at Taroko Restaurant that night around seven in the evening. Taroko Restaurant was a small Chinese eatery at the end of a narrow alleyway, its display window hung with appetizing whole roasted chickens and pork legs. When we entered, Mr. Chen emerged from the back kitchen with his corpulent frame, greeted us with "Ah, ah, come in," and showed us to a small room upstairs. On the wall hung a Chinese-style painting of a gorge, which Mr. Chen pointed to as he explained this depicted Taiwan's Taroko Gorge. Mr. Chen's family home was said to be near there. However, from my perspective as a painter, I couldn't say the painting was particularly well executed.

Seated around the table were myself, Noro, Mr. Chen, and one more person—a young man named Sun Wufeng who worked under Mr. Chen. He was a rather agile-looking, muscular young man, and according to Mr. Chen’s introduction, he was a master of Shaolin kung fu. Midway through the banquet, Sun obliged by demonstrating his kung fu forms, but the speed of his fists was like meteors—so fast that I thought if I ever got into a fight with this man, I’d be killed instantly. It somewhat resembled Okinawan karate as well. On Sun’s right cheek was a single large scar from a slash—likely a wound he must have sustained in a fight or something of the sort.

Dish after dish was brought to the table. White sliced chicken, stir-fried quail eggs, shrimp with vermicelli, and various other dishes. They were all dishes we had rarely, if ever, eaten before. I, thinking that eating too voraciously would reflect poorly on Japanese honor, tried not to eat too much—but then there was Noro, who single-mindedly devoured everything without a glance elsewhere. It was a completely unselfconscious approach. The wine was Lao wine. As for this one, I too drank without restraint. According to Mr. Chen, Fuse wasn’t originally a bad man but was somewhat financially irresponsible, which led him to ruin himself through this recent incident. For some time after the war, Fuse had been the editor-in-chief of a pure literary magazine called New Novel, where he had met Mr. Chen. Mr. Chen tilted his glass of beer—having declined the Lao wine for health reasons, he claimed—and boasted.

“You may not think so looking at me, but I have a deep understanding of art, you know.”

That this portly proprietor of a Chinese restaurant had an understanding of art was both surprising and made me genuinely happy, so I declared with pride.

“To tell the truth, though I’m hardly worthy of the title, I too am something of an artist.” “Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Chen in admiration, lightly clapping his hands together. “And what field of art would that be?” “Painting.”

And I attempted a modest explanation about my affiliated groups and achievements up to that point. Then Mr. Chen, thoroughly impressed, kept urging "Drink more! Drink more!" as he poured Lao wine into our glasses, declaring he wanted to continue associating with us as friends going forward. This abrupt shift in hospitality must have displeased Noro when he saw it. He had been glaring sideways at our exchange for some time, but then chose his moment to give an exaggerated "Ahem" before slowly—

“I’ve studied novel writing and written about ten works so far—they never quite work out properly, I must say! Ha ha haa!”

He added a sudden, absurd laugh. At this, Mr. Chen appeared both surprised and delighted, declaring it auspicious that artists could gather under one roof like this as he diligently poured Lao wine into Noro’s glass as well. Noro had completely regained his dignity and was grinning as he sipped the Lao wine. In stark contrast to last night’s housewarming celebration, the room now brimmed with mirth, and with each drink, a faintly manic edge began to surface. That said, even calling it manic tendencies, it was only Noro and me—since Sun Wufeng didn’t drink a drop of alcohol and Mr. Chen stuck to beer alone—so it seemed the root of our mania lay in that Lao wine. Even as Lao wine went, this didn’t seem to be the ordinary variety. Even now, I still think he must have mixed in laughing mushroom extract or something—and if that’s the case, then we fell neatly into Mr. Chen’s trap. Having become thoroughly cheerful, the two of us hummed amateurish ballads, stood up to mimic Sun Wufeng’s kung fu forms, and amidst raising a boisterous racket, Mr. Chen slowly took out something like documents from his pocket. “These are documents regarding Fuse—please look them over, and if you agree, sign and affix your thumbprints,” he said. Since we were thoroughly elated—and given that Mr. Chen was the primary victim regarding Fuse, acting as a sort of representative for all victims—we entrusted everything to him, signing and affixing our thumbprints to the documents without properly reading them and without a word of protest. This was entirely the work of that specially prepared Lao wine. That’s truly something one should be cautious about, I must say. Mr. Chen received the documents with evident satisfaction, tucked them into his inner pocket, then clapped his hands briskly. Then came the sound of a waiter’s footsteps from downstairs, and what ascended was sweet and sour carp. This marked the conclusion of the course of dishes, and we devoured it before offering a final toast and taking our leave. Even after stepping outside, my heart remained buoyant, and I suggested we head to Pigeon Street or somewhere, but Noro refused. Noro claimed that as someone who was, however nominally, addressed as a teacher, he couldn’t possibly venture into such a den of iniquity—but really, wasn’t he just reluctant to spend the money?

“Since we’re both young, pure-hearted artists, let’s head straight home.”

So I too gave up on Pigeon Street, got into a small taxi, and returned straight to Daitabashi. It felt like a shame to sleep through such a night just like that, but both of us brushed our teeth in the kitchen, took five liver pills each, then retired to our respective east and west rooms and snored soundly asleep.

Now, when I awoke the next morning, it was 6:30 a.m. There were no signs of a hangover; my head felt clear—or rather, blank and empty—leaving me with the sensation of having been tricked by a fox. When I went to the kitchen, Noro was already up, noisily splashing water on his face as he washed.

“Good morning.”

“Oh, good morning.”

“I feel refreshed.” “Yeah. Like my brain’s turned to mush.”

“Last night was fun, wasn’t it?” “Mr. Chen is such a good person, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he sure is.” “And the food was damn good.” “Wouldn’t mind eating like that every day.” “The Lao wine hit nice too.” “But we got kinda weirdly plastered, didn’t we?”

“That’s right. I was just thinking how strange that was myself.” “After getting plastered, didn’t we end up stamping and signing some documents or something?”

“Oh, right.” “What were those documents about?” “I’m trying to remember right now,” he said with forced casualness that couldn’t hide his growing unease. “But I just can’t recall.” A beat passed before I responded. “That’s strange.” The words hung between us like cobwebs. “It must’ve been the Lao wine after all.” Noro’s warts twitched as he considered this. “Speaking of which,” I added. The memory surfaced like oil on water. “That Lao wine did have a bit of a myoga aroma.”

And so they tried thinking through every angle but simply couldn't recall anything. At this point they had no choice but exchange glances and laugh together—ha ha haa!—though I must say there exists some foreign proverb about those who laugh last laughing loudest. It seems we'd shown an unfortunate tendency toward premature mirth.

Now, this brought us to the evening of the third day after that.

With a greeting of “Good afternoon,” a young man glided soundlessly into the garden. When I looked, it was that Sun Wufeng.

“Oh, welcome,” I said. “Thank you for treating us the other day. Is there something you need?” “I’ve come,” Sun Wufeng stated tersely, “to collect this month’s rent.” “Huh?” I blinked. “Rent?” My startled voice made Noro poke his head out from the west room with a rustling noise. Sun maintained his impassive expression.

“That’s right.” “The rent.” “Who pays this rent?”

“Who to? You, to Mr. Chen.”

“That’s absurd! Mr. Sun!” Noro interjected, leaning forward. “But this house belongs to Mr. Fuse, doesn’t it? There’s no way we’d pay rent to Mr. Chen!” “This house—Mr. Chen has seized it,” he said. “You’d better pay the rent quickly.” “Seized it, you say? Mr. Sun.” I laughed and admonished him. “You can’t do something like that without our consent. Seems Mr. Chen has gotten the wrong idea about something.” “Didn’t you agree?”

Sun Wufeng seemed somewhat irritated, his eyes glinting sharply. When I looked, both hands were already halfway clenched into fists. Remembering Sun’s martial prowess from the other day, I felt my resolve waver slightly, but nevertheless mustered my courage and

“When did we ever agree to that?” “Didn’t you press your thumbprints properly that night? You’ve got some nerve!” Noro and I simultaneously cried out in surprise and exchanged glances. “You will pay this month’s rent of 4,000 yen immediately. If you cannot pay, you will leave at once.” Sun Wufeng tightened his fists and inched closer across the wooden floor. His broken Japanese only heightened the menace. “Will you pay or not? Make up your mind!”

“I’ll pay! I’ll pay!”

At last, I let out a scream. Then I hurriedly rushed into the room, took out four 1,000-yen bills from my wallet, and handed them to Sun. Then Sun grinned slyly, took out the lease ledger from his pocket, stamped it with a thud, and handed it over to us. When I looked at it, the house’s lessees were listed under both my and Noro’s names. Noro too, perhaps overwhelmed by Sun’s intimidating aura, turned slightly pale. Sun left the garden just as he had entered—without making a single footstep, gliding smoothly away.

Not making any sound when moving must be part of his training. “Taking me for a damn fool.”

And I muttered. Chen’s tyranny was one thing, but my disgust was directed at my own foolish self for carelessly stamping that seal. And then there was another fool in this house—Noro—and the sheer repulsiveness of that fact made me feel like my insides had turned pitch black. Noro appeared to share the same sentiment, biting his lip and glaring at me. I told Noro point-blank. “Well. Now it’s clear we’re both utter fools, right? Your share of the rent—2,000 yen. Pay up now.”

“No way. You’re the one who paid without consulting me,” Noro retorted, pursing his lips.

“What.” “You won’t pay.” “Then it’s fine if you don’t pay.” “In exchange, you’ll no longer be a tenant of this house.” “You’re my freeloader!”

“A freeloader?” “Then a freeloader I’ll be.” “I’ll have you know—a landlord has the right to evict a freeloader at any time.” “If you don’t leave, I’ll just bring a detective.” “Then you’ll get arrested for trespassing!” “What outrageous nonsense is this?”

Did we really argue like that for thirty minutes? No matter how hard he tried to push his unreasonable demands, since Noro himself had stamped the seal too, he gradually began admitting his fault and backing down. In the end, it was settled that Noro would cover 1,800 yen of the 4,000 yen while I took on 2,200 yen. The reason things turned out this way was that Noro’s room faced west and caught the afternoon sun. Noro argued his room’s conditions were worth four hundred yen less, and I accepted that claim. He’d initially insisted it was eight hundred yen worse, but after much struggle, I managed to haggle it down to half. With Noro, even sunsets got translated into cash values. I would have to keep living with this man going forward. The thought made me feel utterly wretched—I could’ve cried right then.

And so that night too became another night of drinking. It may have seemed like we were constantly drinking, but we the oppressed had to dull our suffering with alcohol—otherwise, we couldn’t bear it. The drinking session that night was meant to be a discussion about future strategies, but it ended without reaching any solid conclusion. The idea of going to the police was raised, but since we’d carelessly stamped the seal, since the other party had likely already completed some kind of seizure process, and since he was a third-country national—antagonizing him could lead to serious trouble—the plan was abandoned. There was also talk of consulting a lawyer, but that was completely derailed by Noro’s stinginess. Before long, Noro’s drunken weeping began again, culminating in his usual wails about whether there was no god or Buddha to save him, until finally, around nine o’clock, this desperate drinking session ended in a cacophonous uproar.

And even after ten days passed, and then half a month passed, the Fuse couple never returned.

In this way, our strange life of cohabitation began.

Noro would wake up at six every morning, go to school, and return punctually at four in the afternoon. Unlike me, he maintained quite a methodical routine. Being something of a lazybones myself, I alternated between cooking at home and eating out, while Noro stuck solely to preparing his own meals. He once brought up the idea of summoning his elderly mother from the countryside to live with us soon, asking what I thought. I had agreed at the time thinking nothing of it, but later realized this likely meant our rent split would remain unchanged even with an additional occupant. In any case, he appeared dedicated to his frugality—trimming every possible expense and vigorously diverting those savings into his coffers. This extended to his meals. Using evenings and Sundays, he began arbitrarily uprooting garden shrubs to diligently cultivate a vegetable patch in their place. At first I watched silently, but when his plot threatened to engulf the entire garden, I hurriedly intervened. True to form, Noro protested—demanding by what right I stopped him—but we eventually settled on him using only half the garden. Then from some unknown source, he planted several strange shrub cuttings along the hedge. When I asked what they were, he declared them wolfberries. According to him, this plant possessed near-supreme nutritional value—he used it in ohitashi blanched greens, mixed it into rice, or dried it for tea. I once sampled this wolfberry tea but found it rather unpalatable. Noro’s meals overall resembled those of Zen monks in their extreme austerity. They followed the principle that bare-minimum nutrition sufficed. Then one night during supper, seeing him eat something astonishingly meager,

“Why don’t you try getting a bit more fat in your diet?” When I teased him about this, he indignantly snapped that his current diet was a Japanese-style nutritional plan he had devised himself, inspired by the theories of one Dr. Gayelord Hauser. “Even this is something I’m doing out of conviction!” “Someone like you wouldn’t know this, but fat is humanity’s greatest enemy!”

However, this Noro had devoured Taroko-tei’s Chinese food that day, muttering “delicious, delicious” all the while—it was downright comical. Conviction my ass—it was cheap eating, plain and simple. In other words, nothing more than pure penny-pinching mentality.

The same went for the vegetable garden. Noro cultivated various vegetables in that twenty-tsubo garden—an amateur plot yielding surprisingly well—and picked fresh produce daily. This apparently sufficed to keep him clear of greengrocers entirely. One morning I resolved to make miso soup but found nothing to put in it. I called out to Noro and asked him to spare me a handful of tsumami greens from his plot. He agreed readily enough and handed them over straightaway. That much went smoothly, but come evening he demanded payment for the greens. The price he quoted was exorbitant—three times the market rate. I sighed in utter disbelief.

“That’s truly expensive. By any measure, isn’t this a bit too steep?”

“It’s not expensive.” “This is normal.” “That’s not how it is.” “At greengrocers they sell this for a third of the price.” “The greengrocer’s and mine are different,” Noro declared firmly. “Firstly, mine are far fresher than the greengrocer’s.” “Secondly, since ours don’t use human fertilizer, there’s no worry about roundworms.” “Thirdly, you’ve been spared the trouble of going to the greengrocer.” “With three reasons like this, isn’t it only natural the price triples?”

There was no way to counter Noro’s logic, so reluctantly I paid up. After that, I stopped buying any vegetables from Noro at all. The way he immediately sought exorbitant profits at every turn was truly sickening.

The same went for the art school. As I mentioned earlier, when I put up recruitment posters, it turned out to be quite a success, with about forty elementary school students gathering. I devoted Sunday mornings to that, handling both art lectures and instruction. The tuition fee was three hundred yen per student, which amounted to about twelve thousand yen in total. This was the substantial financial resource supporting my livelihood, but that Noro guy had set his sights on it.

Sundays meant Noro was also home, but throughout those mornings, students would spill over into the wooden-floored area or garden, each sketching independently with their drawing boards. Since they were elementary school students, they couldn’t draw quietly. They would chatter noisily and make a racket, and some would even start singing. If I scolded them too harshly, there was a risk they’d stop coming next time, so I ended up holding back. It was then that Noro seized upon this situation, declaring that Sunday mornings were crucial time for his novel-writing practice—with all that chattering and clamoring during such an important period, he couldn’t get anything done—and demanded to know what I intended to do about it. To this day, I still suspect that Noro might have spouted those nonsensical rants simply because he wasn’t popular at Taroko-tei and wasn’t actually practicing his novel-writing craft—but in any case, he stubbornly insists on his claim.

“Not only can I not study, but even when I want to go to the kitchen or bathroom, there are swarms of kids everywhere—I can’t even go properly, can I?”

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” I retorted defiantly. “Are you saying I should just shut down my art classes?” “Well, I won’t outright tell you to stop—” Noro showed a hint of compromise. “As compensation for the damages you’ve caused me, don’t you think handing over about twenty percent of your income would be reasonable?” “I’m completely wasting that time too.”

“Are you really putting a price on your own time now?”

“That’s right.” “There’s even a proverb that says time is money.” “This is what they call the modern rational spirit.” “You’re being far too self-centered!” “Even though we agreed the wooden-floored area was for shared use, aren’t you monopolizing it for your own profit while completely ignoring me?” “I’m truly appalled by your selfishness.”

I was furious about who was truly being selfish and wanted to yell, "Do whatever you want!"—but then he started threatening that if I didn’t pay up, he’d strip naked and parade around in front of the female students. His argument was that if one were to go completely naked in their own house, there’s no reason for anyone to take issue with it. A man like him would likely go through with it, and if he did, all the students would probably stop coming from the next session. My livelihood would dry up in an instant. There, I bit back my tears and accepted Noro’s terms. I managed to haggle the amount down to ten percent, but even so, it still came to twelve hundred yen. With resentment smoldering in my chest, I handed over twelve hundred yen at the end of each month.

But looking back now, these actions weren’t merely born of Noro’s penny-pinching nature—they seemed to contain ample spiteful harassment directed at me. That’s what I think.

In other words, Noro Tabito had put down a deposit to buy the house from Fuse Kazuma. Since he had put down a deposit, he believed all rights to this house lay with himself. Yet I had been a tenant from the very beginning. He simply could not—and stubbornly refused to—free himself from that mindset. Therefore, I concluded he must view me as some tenant or freeloader in his heart of hearts, attempting to drive me out through harassment—wasn’t that the case? That was certainly how it appeared. From my perspective, since we’d both paid ¥40,000 each, we should have equal rights regarding the house—but Noro seemed determined not to acknowledge this. Moreover, he’d shown abnormal enthusiasm for owning a standalone house, occasionally letting slip remarks about it. He wanted to make a house his own—to bring his elderly mother from the countryside and find a suitable partner to marry. Yet this petit-bourgeois ideal had been thwarted by both Fuse and Chen, leaving him stuck cohabiting with someone like me. That seemed to infuriate him beyond measure. The truth appeared to be that this resentment—which should have been directed at himself—was instead being hurled at me in the present.

But if I were to stay silent and back down under such circumstances, wouldn’t I have no ground left to stand on?

There was another incident like this.

One evening, as I was painting in the wooden-floored area, Noro—who had just returned from school—approached me with a cheerful smile and thrust a small bar of chocolate at me, saying, “I’ve got something good here.” This was quite unusual for Noro, but I decided to ask just to be safe.

“That chocolate looks delicious, but how much exactly is this going to cost me?”

“It’s not for sale.” Noro momentarily made a displeased face. “I received this today from a merchant affiliated with the school.” “If you want to eat it, I’ll give it to you.”

“Huh.” “That’s awfully generous coming from you.” “Well then—I’ll take it.”

“Here you go. You’ve been looking pale lately—you should eat something like this.”

I thought it was absurd to claim eating a chocolate bar would improve my complexion, but I gratefully accepted and ate it anyway. It turned out to be rather tasty chocolate. As I munched away, Noro watched me quietly with a philanthropist's smile. When Noro smiled so uncharacteristically like that, it felt utterly repulsive.

Now, the next day. Noro, having returned home from school, inquired of me with an overly serious expression.

“Well?” “Have they come out yet?”

“Huh? What do you mean?” I retorted. “So they haven’t come out yet,” Noro nodded sagely, as though weighing every detail. “Then I guess that’s fine.” “What in the world is wrong with you? Speaking in a way as if something were stuck between your back teeth—” “It’s fine. It’s nothing at all.”

And Noro grinned repulsively.

Then the next day arrived, and while I was using the toilet during the daytime, something felt off around my rear. I apologize for the unsavory topic, but when I tried using my hand, something macaroni-like was dangling limply from my rear. I was utterly shocked. I jumped up about ten centimeters while still squatting.

I’ll spare you the graphic details and put it simply: roundworms had emerged from my body. And not just one—several of them, mixed in size. Having finished expelling everything and emerging from the toilet half-disgusted yet half-relieved, I abruptly recalled Noro’s words from yesterday. That guy was saying something weird—he must have done something. Thereupon, I quietly slipped into Noro’s room and, upon looking at the desk, found a small, flat paper wrapper lying there. When I saw the printed words “Deworming Chocolate” on its surface, I immediately seethed and flew into a rage. Turning the box over, I found printed instructions stating: “This chocolate contains santonin (0.05 grams) from the Japanese Pharmacopoeia as its primary active ingredient, along with digenea simplex and pomegranate rind, supplemented with various nutritional supplements to enhance synergistic effects…” and so on. I bristled with rage and hurled the empty box against the wall with a sharp smack. When some pharmacist or peddler affiliated with the school came to pitch their product, he must have decided to use me as a guinea pig to test whether it worked or not. In my excessive anger, I could no longer focus on my painting and went out to the garden, where I spent the time mimicking Shaolin kung fu with shouts of “Ei! Ei!” until evening fell.

When Noro returned, I suddenly lashed out at him with angry shouts.

“The chocolate you fed me the day before yesterday—that was deworming chocolate, wasn’t it!” At my fierce demeanor, Noro was startled and seemed utterly overwhelmed.

“W-well, that’s exactly right.” “Do you honestly think it’s acceptable to do something like that? Don’t treat people like idiots!” “But—” Noro also desperately tried to explain. “The worms came out, didn’t they? If the worms came out, hasn’t it resulted in your happiness?”

“This has absolutely nothing to do with happiness or unhappiness—” I shouted. “You’re trampling on my will. It’s a matter of basic human rights.” “So are you saying you want to keep roundworms as pets in your body?”

“I don’t acknowledge any obligation to answer that kind of question. Just return me to how I was!” “But you looked pale and exhausted, so I was just trying to rid you of roundworms—” “If that excuse works, then I’ll shave off every last one of your warts with a safety razor blade while you’re asleep!”

Noro turned bright red and pressed his palm against the wart on his chin. Ah, so when his warts were mentioned, this man reacted. That’s what I thought. Noro’s voice suddenly sounded crushed.

“So what am I supposed to do?” “You want me to ‘return you to your original state’—”

After calming my anger and considering various options, I decided to forgive him on the condition that he provide me with one head of lettuce every day for the next month—and since the lettuce from Noro’s garden might contain insect eggs, he was to purchase it from a greengrocer. Noro persistently tried to haggle the one-month term down to half, but I stubbornly refused. Thus, while this matter was ostensibly settled in accordance with my demands, in reality I only ended up eating grocer’s lettuce for about ten days. Having realized the economic folly of purchasing lettuce day after day, Noro finally began using human waste on the lettuce in his garden. Of course, his scheme was to make me eat it. Moreover, this human waste was from our own household, and according to Noro’s claims, it undoubtedly contained a significant quantity of eggs. While they undoubtedly contained a significant quantity [of eggs], the prospect of eating lettuce contaminated by my own human waste proved too repulsive even for me, and in a parole-like gesture, I absolved him of further lettuce provision. However, from Noro’s perspective, while his obligation to compensate had been waived, since the lettuce from his own garden had become infested with eggs, it likely didn’t amount to much of a gain for him.

In this way, with each incident, our feelings toward each other became increasingly strained. Our pledge at the start of our cohabitation—to strive toward being ideal housemates for each other—now seemed like a dreamlike event. Just seeing Noro’s face now made something akin to a fighting spirit well up inside me. However, things like fighting spirit and hatred—in a certain sense, they invigorate and enliven human daily life. The same must be true for Noro. From around that time, I began to feel that my day-to-day life was, if anything, becoming increasingly packed with fulfillment.

The exhibition for my painting collective was steadily approaching. After agonizing over various subjects, I finally began creating a piece themed around Noro's face. Yet art rooted in hatred as its foundation seems ill-suited to take shape. Still, through persistent layers of repainting, Noro's visage on the canvas gradually dissolved into blurred contours, morphing into an intriguing form resembling some strange abstract entity. With this breakthrough fueling me, I threw myself into the work with renewed vigor and kept painting.

It was precisely around that time that a critical express letter arrived from Chen Genwan.

One Saturday afternoon, as I was agonizing over the effect of lemon yellow before my canvas, a voice called out “Express mail!” and a letter fluttered in. Turning it over, it read “Shibuya, Chen Genwan.” The address bore both Noro’s and my names. When I hurriedly opened it and looked inside, this turned out to be an elegantly written document in classical Japanese. That a Taiwanese could write classical Japanese was impressive enough—though such skilled individuals do exist—but the content shocked me even more. He stated that he wanted to sell this house.

Written in classical Japanese, the letter didn’t overtly express emotions through its formulaic phrasing, but its essence boiled down to this: Chen wished to sell the house; given circumstances, he set the price at ¥100,000; payment was required within thirty days; failure to pay would result in eviction demands; however, eviction compensation of roughly ¥10,000 per person would be offered. That was the gist. I stood aghast and began wandering dazedly around the room. This meant yet another calamity had befallen us. The letter’s closing stated that either both of us or just one could purchase the house. Circling the room endlessly, I thought: That Noro bastard must be reeling from this too. Tonight he’d likely start howling about gods and buddhas abandoning us.

However, that evening when I showed the express mail to Noro after he returned, contrary to my expectations, he neither screamed nor tore at his hair. He finished reading it with fairly composed calm and spoke.

“I see.” “That’s all?” “Then I’ll buy it.”

That single remark grated deeply on my nerves.

“Then I’ll buy it’? This letter wasn’t addressed to you alone, you know.” “Well, that’s true. But you’ve been a tenant from the start, so you don’t intend to buy the house, right?”

“The tenant agreement was with Fuse Kazuma.” “I don’t remember renting any room from you.” “And anyway—the moment you read that letter, declaring ‘I’ll buy it’ yourself—isn’t that the height of selfishness?” “Listen.” “The letter came addressed to both of us.” “We ought to discuss this properly together.” “What’s there to discuss?” “First off, the letter’s contents.” “This is downright insulting, don’t you think?” “Making unilateral sale declarations like this—” “Is that so.” “I don’t see it that way.”

“If we don’t buy it, he says we’ll get ¥10,000 per person as eviction compensation. Don’t you think he’s mocking us?” “No.” “Because we’re not vacating—we’re buying it.”

“You truly are a greedy, selfish, and yet utterly ignorant man.” “That’s why people make a fool of you.” “Who’s making a fool of me?”

“Chen’s doing it too. And Fuse too—” “What? When did Fuse ever mock me?”

“He’s making a fool of you. Isn’t that obvious? Should I show you Fuse’s left-behind letter?” I took out Fuse Kazuma’s left-behind letter that I’d stored in my desk and thrust it at him. The note Fuse had placed atop his lunchbox on the morning of his disappearance read: “Please be kind to Noro-kun. He is a true good person”—a scrap of paper with these words. Noro finished reading it and looked at me with a blank face. “How exactly is this mocking me?”

“Don’t you get it? You’re impossible! It’s that ‘good person’ part.” “Isn’t this praising me?” Noro said, his cheeks twitching as they relaxed into a beaming smile. “Since it says ‘good person,’ that must mean I’m an excellent human being. In other words, he’s praising me as an outstanding human being. Well. You’re just jealous of me over that, aren’t you?” “No way.” I was too dumbfounded to respond. That such an insensitive oaf aspired to be a novelist—truly, the world must be ending.

“Moreover, this letter says you should get along with me, but you’re constantly picking fights with me. “Why don’t you do some self-reflection for once?”

“It’s not like I want to pick fights either. Since we’re both victims here, we need to stick together and handle this properly. I mean that. I mean that—but you’re just too damn selfish and unreasonable, so—”

“What? Are you calling me unreasonable?” Noro’s expression shifted slightly. “What part of me is unreasonable? It’s only because Mr. Chen wants to sell that I’m suggesting we buy it. The logic holds perfectly!”

“What are you saying? Then I’ve got just as much right to buy it!”

“Well, you do have the right, I suppose. But even if you have the right, that doesn’t mean you can buy it.” Noro smirked slyly and formed a circle with his index finger and thumb. “You need upfront funds.” That repulsive smile sent me into a rage. Hell if I’d let Noro have sole ownership of this house! I’d spare no effort to obstruct him. That such seething resolve took root in my heart was only natural. I snapped.

“I can come up with as much money as I need! What’s the big deal? It’s just a measly 100,000 yen.”

At this, Noro seemed slightly flustered. He must have realized in that instant that provoking me would be unwise. He abruptly adopted a conciliatory attitude and began suggesting that if I would relinquish my purchase rights to him, he’d offer ample eviction compensation. But I was already being obstinate and refused to budge. At this, Noro seemed utterly at a loss and even began pleading.

“Look. “I say this with a feeling like jumping off the Eiffel Tower, but I’ll offer up to 40,000 yen in eviction compensation.” “That’s 40,000 yen!” “No.” “With 40,000 yen, you’d break even, wouldn’t you? “Moreover, with that money, you could move to a better room elsewhere.” “Right?” “Why don’t you try thinking about the gains and losses for once?”

“No.”

If I took the 40,000 yen and left, I wouldn’t have to keep living with this selfish, unreasonable oaf. Thinking this, I nearly nodded in agreement—but no—this was the moment to stand firm, I told myself, and held my ground. Human stubbornness is such a strange thing, isn’t it? It became clear that forty thousand yen marked the limit of Noro’s willingness to compromise, and he abruptly changed his demeanor, casting aside all pretense of conciliation.

“Then what the hell do you propose we do?”

“Let me make this clear—as far as this house is concerned, we currently hold equal shares of the rights.” “So if we buy it, we’ll split the cost half and half.” “If that’s unacceptable, then you get out.” “I refuse to consider any other arrangement!” Noro’s face instantly paled. Hatred surged into his eyes as he fixed me with a razor-sharp glare.

“Well, fine,” Noro said. “Tomorrow’s Sunday and the post office is closed. On Monday night, I’m going to see Mr. Chen. If you want to come along, get ¥50,000 ready by then. If you can’t manage it, I’ll consider it you forfeiting all rights. Agreed?” “Agreed!” I snapped.

I too, caught in the irreversible momentum of riding a tiger, agreed in porter’s coarse language. And mutually fuming with anger, we each retreated to our respective western and eastern rooms.

Now, the next day was Sunday. I woke up early in the morning, hurriedly ate breakfast, then rushed all over Tokyo visiting every senior and acquaintance I knew to borrow as much money as I could. Skipping lunch as I raced about town, I counted the money I’d scraped together while eating at a meal-ticket cafeteria in Shinjuku that evening—it came to roughly forty thousand yen. I was still ten thousand yen short. After wolfing down my meal, I immediately boarded the Chūō Line and rushed to Hachioji—my last remaining hope being my old man. Luckily, he was home. I knelt before him with both hands on the floor, apologized for my usual lack of filial devotion, and begged him to lend me ten thousand yen. Tears streaming down my face, I pleaded that if I didn’t scrape together ¥10,000 by day’s end, my honor as a man would be forfeit—so startled was he that he pulled ten crisp ¥1,000 bills from his strongbox and thrust them into my hands. All this pointless stubbornness had even made me trouble my own father. And so I finally managed to procure the fifty thousand yen.

On Monday evening, Noro, returning from school, peered into my room and said in a cold voice.

“Will you come with me to Taroko H.?” “I’m coming.”

I too sat up abruptly and answered curtly. I hurriedly prepared myself, and we stepped out side by side. Both of us remained completely silent throughout, not exchanging a single word until we reached Taroko H.

The conflict had already begun taking on the contours of a cold war. Chen Genwan sat smoking tobacco on a chair in the kitchen corner, but upon spotting us, he rose with a smile and ushered us upstairs as before. The moment we took our seats, Noro declared bluntly, "We’ve brought the money—sell us the house." For an instant, Chen looked genuinely startled. I suspected he hadn’t expected us to procure the funds so readily—he’d likely braced for resistance. Yet Chen swiftly recovered his ingratiating smile and,

“I see. “That must have been quite an effort.”

After offering such pleasantries and clapping his hands, he summoned Sun Wufeng and had him bring documents, writing brushes, and such materials. Deliberately taking up the brush, “Then let’s draw up the bill of sale.” “Are you two the buyers?” “We are.”

we answered in unison. Then Chen glared sharply at the two of us and briskly moved his brush. The contents of the bill of sale are as follows. Bill of Sale

1. Address: Tokyo Metropolis, Setagaya Ward, Ohara Town ×××

2. House Details: Wooden single-story house, 12 tsubo 7 go 5 shaku (approximately 40.0 square meters)

However, as the title deed for the aforementioned house is currently in Fuse Kazuma’s custody, all future matters pertaining to said deed shall be resolved between Fuse Kazuma and Chen Genwan.

1. The sum of 100,000 yen. Year  Month  Day Tokyo Metropolis, Shibuya Ward, Owada Town ×××

Chen Genwan (seal)

And the recipient was listed in both our names jointly. Since Noro had taken possession of the bill of sale, I hurriedly asked Chen.

“Mr. Chen. Please prepare another copy of this one for my portion.” After having him prepare another copy and examining the text, I realized—the title deed was still in Fuse Kazuma’s custody, wasn’t it? At that point, when I tried to speak up about that issue, Chen fluttered his palm to stop me, “Don’t worry about Fuse. If he ever shows his face in Tokyo again, that bastard’ll be collared in no time. Just leave everything to me.”

And then he pounded his chest. So we each took out ¥50,000 from our pockets and placed it before Chen. Chen stowed it away with a smile and briskly clapped his hands together. Then Sun Wufeng came up the stairs carrying two bowls. He placed them one by one before us, and when we looked, it was just plain ramen. It contained nothing but bamboo shoots and small pieces of nori—the cheapest kind, costing thirty or forty yen. Compared to the deluxe version from last time, what a decline in our treatment this was. When we involuntarily exchanged glances, Chen said in a honeyed voice.

“Come on. Eat it while it’s hot.” We picked up our chopsticks, recklessly shook table pepper over them, and began munching away. Noro shook on so much pepper that some apparently went up his nose, causing him to let out five or six big sneezes in rapid succession. Chen Genwan leaned back in his chair and watched us eat with narrowed eyes and a shrewd expression. I kept moving my chopsticks, feeling as miserable as a dog begging for leftover dinner.

From that day onward, the two of us lived in the same house yet hardly exchanged a word. We exchanged only the bare minimum of conversation necessary for daily life. In other words, conversation was strictly limited to matters of necessity, with even basic greetings like “good morning” or “good night” entirely omitted. Noro attended school every day, and I was swamped with part-time jobs to pay off debts. Although we had bought the house in practice, we still felt no sense that it was our own home. The only difference from before was that we no longer had to pay rent; otherwise, almost nothing else had changed. To be fair, Noro had started keeping a dog and a cat—one of each. I hadn’t asked him about it, but given that this was Noro, he wouldn’t keep pets without some practical purpose. The dog was likely meant to guard the house, and the cat had undoubtedly been assigned the task of catching mice. If that were the case, then unlike me, Noro must have developed a clear sense that this was now his own home. Come to think of it, his demeanor had grown more weighty compared to before, as if he’d taken on a householder-like dignity.

As for the rent, I paid ¥2,200 while Noro paid ¥1,800—the ¥400 difference being what we called the “evening sun fee.” So according to Noro’s logic, even after its abolition, he should have been able to demand that ¥400 from me. Yet he hadn’t said a word about it. Yet despite that, since he was still diligently collecting his 10 percent noise compensation from my Sunday tuition fees, he must have forgotten about it. That was unusual for such a cheapskate. Of course, since it wasn’t yet summer, calling it an “evening sun fee” at this point was rather odd.

And then there was another change that came with our house becoming ours: demand notices began arriving from the Property Tax Division of the Tax Office, and tax collectors started showing up.

Since tax collectors usually came on weekday afternoons, Noro was never home, so naturally I ended up being the one to deal with them. The tax collector was a red-nosed man in his mid-forties, and according to his explanation, three terms’ worth from the Fuse era had accumulated while Chen Genwan hadn’t paid a single yen—so he demanded we settle all of it—but of course, the house was still registered under Fuse Kazuma’s name. Since it felt odd for us to pay under Fuse’s name, I told this to the tax collector. The amiable-looking man wore a troubled expression, muttered, “Well, that’s a fair point,” and hurried off. His composed and dutiful nature made him an exceptional figure among postwar tax officials—someone you’d almost want to commend. However, every time a demand came, I made sure to relay that information to Noro as a matter of duty. Then Noro would simply say, “I see,” and nothing more. Since he was the type of man who balked at sticking out his tongue even when required, he must have considered something like property taxes utterly out of the question.

Since jointly owning this single house together, we largely stopped speaking to one another—but if you thought this meant we’d grown indifferent, far from it; it was precisely the opposite. On the surface, we maintained an attitude of silent dismissal toward one another and seemed to avoid all interference in each other’s lives, but inwardly, we remained on edge, our nerves sharpened to every move the other made. Of course that would be the case. The weight of the house bearing down on us had increased substantially compared to before. Noro had certainly not abandoned his desire to monopolize this house, and he was likely waiting for any opportunity to exploit my weaknesses. In response to such a Noro, I too had no choice but to exercise meticulous caution. Our daily lives were fraught with prickling tension, to the extent that this very state paradoxically gave us a sense of purpose. Having a rival you can’t afford to neglect under the same roof truly gives one a sense of purpose, doesn’t it?

The same psychological state likely held true for Noro as well. He who had little interest in art had quietly gone to see the exhibition where I'd displayed my work—this too must have been part of that dynamic. He must have been unable to leave alone the question of what sort of painting that guy had made. Had he kept silent, I might never have known—but Noro found himself unable to maintain that silence. One day when he returned home, Noro suddenly yelled at me with biting intensity as I weeded the garden.

“You’ve insulted me!”

“I didn’t insult you or anything,” I retorted, bracing myself without understanding why. “There’s no way I’d insult you.”

“You insulted me!” Noro snapped to his feet on the wooden floor. “You submitted a piece called *Landscape with a Wart* to the exhibition, didn’t you? That’s my face, isn’t it?” “That’s ridiculous,” I retorted. “How could that possibly be your face? That’s nothing more than a Surrealist landscape painting.” “No, don’t lie. By my gut feeling, that’s unmistakably my face.”

“Huh.” “Since when does a rationalist like you believe in something like intuition?” “How ridiculous!” “That’s a painting I did.” “Since I’m the one who painted it, I know it best.” “First of all, the motif of that painting—”

I began explaining at length with various technical terms—"the motif being such-and-such"—which forced Noro into a resentful silence. Since painting fell outside Noro’s expertise, he must have been unable to find definitive proof that it depicted his face.

It was about two months after we had received the house transfer from Chen—or put another way, a day roughly one month prior to the present. After finishing lunch, I peered into the entryway mailbox (which Noro had installed after the house became ours) and found a single letter inside. When I picked it up and examined it, there was a label stating "Addressee's Residence Unknown"—meaning it was a letter returned to sender—and upon seeing the name written there, I gasped aloud. To my shock, the addressee was "Fuse Kazuma," and when I flipped it over, the sender was Noro Tabito. He’s plotting something, I thought as I carried it back to my room. What exactly Noro had schemed would become clear if I opened and inspected the contents—but knowing him, he’d surely seize upon the mail tampering as grounds for complaint and might even use it as an eviction pretext. Yet leaving it untouched wasn’t feasible either. After wavering back and forth, curiosity ultimately triumphed. Recalling Police College techniques, I conceived the idea of gently opening it using steam. I promptly boiled water and held the envelope over the vapor. Soon enough, the adhesive loosened, allowing me to open it effortlessly. With my pulse quickening, I extracted the contents—a single flimsy sheet of red-ruled paper meant specifically for certified mail documents. Characters filled every inch of space. I began reading feverishly. The text ran as follows:

“Dear Sir, I shall come straight to the matter at hand. I trust you can surmise the circumstances necessitating this letter. Regarding the house under your name at ××× Ōhara-chō, Setagaya Ward, through recent negotiations with Mr. Chen Genwan, I have paid ¥100,000 to Mr. Chen and am to assume its ownership rights. At that time, Mr. Chen stated: ‘Mr. Fuse Kazuma owes me approximately ¥180,000, and due to his current disappearance, I find myself unable to transfer the house’s registration into my name.’ However, Mr. Chen provided a written pledge that ‘all matters pertaining to this house have been resolved between Mr. Fuse and myself.’ Having thus paid ¥100,000 to Mr. Chen and being compelled by property tax obligations to urgently register the property under my name, I humbly request your understanding of this intent and beg you to send your seal registration certificate immediately upon receipt of this letter for the registration application. I would add that Mr. Chen verbally mentioned his intention to let bygones be bygones entirely should you send the seal registration certificate. As your current address could not be ascertained, I must beg your forgiveness for the impropriety of having sent this letter to your registered domicile.

Showa 29, × Month × Day Noro Tabito ㊞ And in its margin, “This postal item certifies that it was submitted on Showa 29, × Month × Day as certified mail with content proof no. ××.” Postmaster of Setagaya Post Office” A black stamp bearing “Postmaster of Setagaya Post Office” had been firmly pressed on it. I let out an involuntary groan. I’d known he was up to something, but I hadn’t realized he’d been plotting something this audacious. Had he devised this himself, or had someone planted this wicked scheme in his head? He must have made some under-the-table deal with Fuse—the nominal owner—gotten the property registered under his own name, and now planned to use that as grounds to kick me out. For typically bumbling Noro, this was a surprisingly polished scheme—I’d nearly been cornered—but heaven refused to side with injustice, and at the final moment, this plot had been uncovered. I wanted to shout “Serves you right!”—but with no telling what new schemes he might unleash next, I couldn’t afford to lower my guard. He might yet discover Fuse’s current address through other means and attempt direct negotiations. It would be disastrous if Noro learned I’d opened this letter—better to feign ignorance about its return. Having resolved this, I resealed the letter, tossed it back into the mailbox with feigned nonchalance, and immediately began preparing to go out. I’d make it seem I hadn’t seen the returned letter because I’d been away.

But as I wandered around the area after going out, I found myself growing concerned about Fuse, and so it occurred to me to head to the police station. I thought I would ask the detective who had come with Chen the other day about the situation. When I inquired at the reception desk, that detective happened to be there. He was playing shogi with a man who appeared to be his colleague in a dim waiting room. He seemed to have forgotten me, eyeing me suspiciously, but when I brought up the matter of Fuse Kazuma, he spoke as if finally recalling.

“Ah, right,” said the detective. “It was you. Had any contact from Fuse?” At this, I explained that no, there hadn’t been any contact, but I’d come to ask if there was any information about Fuse. The detective tilted his head slightly and replied: “There’s no information at present, but it seems he fled Akō again and is now in Amami Ōshima or somewhere.”

was his response. I was quite surprised he’d fled as far as Amami Ōshima. If he had been somewhere near Tokyo, I’d considered going directly to meet Fuse myself, getting him to transfer the deed, and pulling the rug out from under Noro—but with him in Amami Ōshima, there was nothing to be done. After greeting the detective and stepping out of the police station’s entrance, I unexpectedly ran into that property tax collector right there.

“Hello there,” I called out amiably. “How’s the collection work going?”

“Nothing much to speak of.” The tax collector took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “With deflation, everyone’s struggling, huh.” “The state of tax payments is just atrocious.” “Going around collecting must be quite a task.” “Well, how about we grab a beer somewhere around here?” When I tried inviting him like that, the red-nosed tax collector didn’t seem entirely opposed and trailed along after me. So I guided him to a nearby diner, took our seats, and ordered some broad beans and beer. Since it was around three in the afternoon, the diner’s customers were just us, and the rest of the place stood completely empty. When I finished one beer and was about to order a second, he quietly tugged at my sleeve and said.

“Actually, I’d rather have shochu than beer.”

When being treated by others, it’s only human nature to wish for something even slightly more expensive, yet here he was desiring the cheaper option—what an unassuming and noble-hearted character this was! He was truly an exemplary tax official, rarely seen in this age. Moved by this, I promptly ordered two glasses of shochu and two omelets. He licked his shochu glass and asked me: “You looked like you just came out of the police station earlier—did you get some kind of summons?”

“No. Well, you know about it—the Fuse Kazuma matter.” “Ah, he’s the registered owner of your house.” “So what did you do?” “Have you determined his whereabouts?”

He pressed down on his briefcase and leaned forward intently. Even as he drank his shochu, I was deeply impressed by his dedication to his duties, but at that moment, I suddenly felt compelled to confide everything to this tax collector and consult him. This was partly due to a slight intoxication but also stemmed from a sense of trust in this man.

“Actually, the circumstances under which I became acquainted with a man named Fuse Kazuma were like this.” And so I confided everything to the tax collector—from the initial pickpocket incident on the streetcar, to the ¥40,000 key money for subletting, Noro’s forceful occupation of the house, Chen Genwan and Sun Wufeng’s involvement, and all subsequent developments—laying it all out as accurately and exhaustively as I could. He would occasionally nod along, interject with questions, or bring his glass to his lips, all while listening intently to my account. Since I had explained everything in exhaustive detail, it took a considerable amount of time—indeed, by the time I finished speaking completely, the tax collector was already sipping from his fourth glass.

"So, what do you think we should do?" “Let me see…” The tax collector’s entire face had now turned the same color as his nose, but he declared firmly, “There’s one effective method.” “No other way besides this one, I’d say.”

“Is there a method?” “What sort is it?” “Well now,” he said, tilting his glass. “Suppose Mr. Fuse Kazuma transfers the rights to Mr. Noro or some other third party.” “Then those rights would provisionally belong to whoever received them.” “But here’s the catch.” “There’s delinquent property tax here.” “Which means until that’s paid, the tax office retains the right to seize the house.” “Seizure for tax delinquency, followed straightaway by auction—that’s how it would go.”

“Ah, I see.”

“That’s where the method lies.” “Once it’s confirmed that Fuse has indeed transferred the deed, you must contact me immediately.” “Then we’ll immediately initiate seizure procedures.” “If it’s seized, that person’s ownership rights will be invalidated, you see.” “Then, if you just pay the entire amount in arrears, the house will end up being yours.” “Well, that’s the gist of it.” “I’ll arrange it that way for you.”

“Thank you very much for that,” I said with my heart pounding, uttering words of gratitude. "But do government offices really work that swiftly and smoothly?" "That’s the problem," he said, tilting his head slightly. “It might be a good idea to provide a little money as an expediting fee.”

“Hmm. How much would that be?”

“Well, ¥2,000 for the manager and ¥3,000 for the section chief—if you pay ¥5,000 total, things should move smoothly.” “I could even deliver it for you if you’d like.” “Really?” “That’s incredibly kind.” “What a relief,” I said with an audible exhale. “And your share?”

“Me? I don’t need anything,” said this noble tax collector with a cheerful smile, waving his hand. “I’m just doing this for you out of sympathy.”

“I see. “Then I’ll come to the tax office tomorrow with the ¥5,000.” “No, no, that’s out of the question. “Since you must be busy, I’ll come by tomorrow around noon instead.”

“I see. “Truly, your repeated kindness—” I expressed my deep gratitude and picked up the receipt. The time was already 5:30 in the afternoon.

When I returned home afterward, Noro was doing laundry in the kitchen with loud splashing sounds, but the moment he saw me, he said— “Oh, you’re back.” It was an uncharacteristically cheerful tone, but his voice sounded somehow forced. “Where have you been?” “I went to see my old man in Hachioji,” I lied.

“Around what time did you leave the house?” Noro inquired nonchalantly. I thought with a smug hmph. “Let me see… Since about an hour had passed since you left, it must’ve been a little before eight, I guess.” “I see.” Noro let out a relieved-sounding noise and fell completely silent. He must have been trying to sound me out indirectly about whether I’d seen that letter. I had smoothly lied and dodged the bullet. After that, I returned to my room and spent a while doubled over in silent laughter. The moment that bastard Noro gets the rights transferred from Fuse, the seizure would slam into place, and the house would end up mine. Even if he panicked now, he wouldn’t catch up. The sheer mechanics of it struck me as unbearably comical. Moreover, I alone knew about this scheme, while Noro remained completely oblivious. Intending to drive me out, he himself was moving toward being driven out. I couldn’t help but laugh, now could I?

The following afternoon, the tax collector paid a discreet visit. Of course, Noro was at school and away from home. I withdrew ¥5,000 from the money I had saved up to return to my senior acquaintance and handed it to the tax collector. The tax collector twitched his red nose, gave a smug smile as he pocketed the ¥5,000, and then trotted off back the way he came.

About a month had passed from that day to now, yet there remained no decisive turn in our stalemate—the cold war dragged on with only sporadic skirmishes flaring up. Noro still hadn’t managed to track down Fuse’s current address. There were signs he’d been making inquiries through resident registration records, but so far nothing had come of it. Since Noro attended school with clockwork diligence and only pursued this matter in his spare time, his progress was naturally sluggish.

Speaking of minor skirmishes, during the recent major cleaning I was completely outmaneuvered by Noro. The ward office had notified us that the neighborhood’s major cleaning day was the 25th of last month, and on that day Noro and I each carried out the tatami mats from our rooms and pounded them in the yard. Not in cooperation with each other, but working separately in isolation. But since it was a four-and-a-half-mat room, it wasn’t a major task. After lifting up the tatami mats, I spread newspaper over the floor, sprinkled DDT, and left the mats to dry in the yard—then carelessly went out for lunch. When I returned from the diner, Noro had already moved the tatami into his room and was puffing on a cigarette with a composed face. So I too hoisted the tatami into my room with effort, but they wouldn’t settle properly into the floor. Assuming they’d swollen slightly from sun exposure, I stamped and kicked them until they finally slotted into place. Then, imitating Noro, I sat cross-legged in the room’s center puffing a cigarette, but something felt distinctly off. The tatami’s color had clouded with an odd reddish-brown tinge. It hit me then: While I was out for lunch, Noro must have moved all my tatami into his room and propped up his own in their place afterward. Since Noro’s room faced west—owing to afternoon sun exposure—his mats had developed a more reddish-brown tint than mine. My guts boiled with rage, and I thought about confronting Noro as he smoked in the distance, but I endured silently. There was no physical evidence he’d swapped the mats. Had I caught him red-handed, that would be one thing—but with only discoloration as proof against Noro the sophistry master, it would devolve into futile debate. So I settled back from my half-risen position and fixed Noro with a glare, whereupon he turned away and smirked. The sheer gall of him defied belief.

And then, there was Cat. The Cat in question was one kept by Noro, and the name given to it was Cat. It was a naming style utterly typical of Noro. This Cat would come shambling into my room, displaying an irritating tendency to sink its claws into my canvases at every opportunity. I had thought this was simply Cat’s innate disposition, but upon closer observation, it appeared this wasn’t the case at all. It appeared Noro had been secretly training Cat to reflexively sink its claws into canvases whenever it saw them. He certainly kept thinking up all sorts of tricks. Noro had a canvas backpack, but the other day when I returned from the bath and casually peeked into his room, he was stuffing Cat inside and cinching it tightly. Cat cried out in distress as it frantically dug its claws into the canvas from inside. When Noro noticed me peeking, he turned to Cat and—

“Catch more mice,” “Not enough effort!” “You gangster Cat!” he barked. This was all a ruse—pretending to discipline Cat for not catching mice. That canvas backpack was one I’d painted with oil paints back when Noro and I still got along. Telling Cat to catch more mice—since when could cats understand words? This was purely about making Cat memorize the texture of canvas and smell of oil paints—rigorous training to sink claws on command. So whenever Cat slunk into my room and saw paint-smeared canvases, it became obsessed with clawing them. What vile harassment.

Compelled by self-defense, I went under the Shinjuku railway viaduct and bought three bamboo backscratchers from an eccentric old man sporting a topknot. I had absolutely no desire to mistreat the poor little creature, but being subjected to its canvas-clawing left me no alternative. Whenever Cat slunk into my room, I would instantly seize the nearest backscratcher and strike its head with a thwack. The animal would yowl and scamper away. After persisting with this routine for ten days, Cat began bolting at the mere sight of a backscratcher. Even when going out, hanging a row of these implements from the doorframe kept the creature at bay—it seemed too intimidated to enter my room.

I had rambled on at length, but truly, the countless hard-fought struggles from last spring to now—as described above—could not be recounted without tears. At present, it was utterly impossible to predict whether the final catastrophe would strike tomorrow, arrive a week later, or if our current stalemate would continue interminably—there was simply no way to tell. It was truly absurd, wasn’t it? We two were fellow victims who even now faced the same threat in a sense—yet our efforts were not directed toward eliminating that threat and restoring peace, but instead poured entirely into wounding each other. For instance, should Fuse Kazuma resell the deed to a third party in Amami Oshima, or should our arrangements for the seizure fall through, we two would be swept from this house like dust before a gale—utterly at the mercy of outsiders. We stubbornly persisted against each other out of sheer spite, yet being fundamentally self-absorbed and naive about the world, we remained defenseless—practically powerless—against others. After all, given our track record of being manipulated by Fuse, Chen Genwan, and Sun Wufeng as easily as twisting a baby’s arm, whatever happened next would likely follow the same course.

Now, as for what would happen if the current state continued indefinitely—there was one person who strongly desired precisely that. That was the landlord of our house. The neighborhood around our house shared the same landlord—a farmer-like man in his forties with bulging eyes. This man came to collect the land rent at set intervals, but every time he visited, he demanded an increase. This went without consulting Noro—I had been refusing each demand—but this man wanted our stalemate to continue. The reason he desired this was that, as I had mentioned earlier, this house was a crumbling wreck, and unless we promptly carried out reinforcement work, sooner or later an earthquake or typhoon would render it uninhabitable. As long as the two of us remained locked in our stalemate, any fundamental reinforcement work on the house would remain impossible. At best, roof leaks in our respective rooms would only get fixed—nothing beyond that. If that happened, the time of the house’s collapse would come sooner. This landlord was fervently hoping for that moment of collapse to arrive as soon as possible. Once it collapsed, he wouldn’t permit us to rebuild. He’d either sell the land to someone else at a high price or, even if he permitted new construction, he was certain to demand an exorbitant key money. The landlord had apparently spoken of such things at a neighboring house, and one day the lady there indirectly advised me—hinting that I’d be worse off if I didn’t hurry with reinforcement work. I also thought that would be better—but then again, my partner *was* Noro we were talking about here. Suggesting we reconciled and banded together to tackle things—given how far things had gone, I couldn’t bring myself to propose it, and even if I had, Noro would have surely scoffed at the idea and dismissed it outright. Our mutual hatred and harassment had already reached the realm of karmic retribution, far beyond the stage where another’s words could reach our ears. It was all a matter of karmic inevitability—there was nothing to be done about it now.

Let those meant to depart depart, and let those meant to perish perish. It is with this tragic resolve that we live each day amidst the sharp tensions of our daily existence. I beg your compassionate laughter.