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 living with me. However, in a situation like this, I wasn’t entirely sure whether the term “cohabitation” was accurate. As you well know, I was a naive, struggling painter with no worldly experience and not particularly sensitive to the nuances of language usage. But from my perspective, “cohabitation” should have meant living together in a household with equal rights—residing side by side without one party subordinating the other (if there were subordination, they ought to be called parasites or room renters)—yet the actual relationship between us had grown terribly complicated. First of all, whose property was this house anyway—mine, Noro’s, or a third party’s other than us? That remained completely unclear. It was truly a troublesome situation.

The man named Noro Tabito was thirty-one years old. His height stopped at just five feet. His body was lean, and his weight likely fell between eighty-eight to ninety-seven pounds. Yet I believed this man had the potential to grow much fatter. Somehow I sensed it. The reason he remained gaunt despite this, I suspected, stemmed from inadequate nutrition. Though on that count, I had little room to boast myself. Now, as I mentioned earlier, Noro wasn’t much to look at—neither sharp-witted nor remarkable—but he did possess one distinctive feature. Warts. If you consult the dictionary, it defines 'wart' as 'a protrusion on the skin forming a muscular conglomerate, roughly the size of a grain of rice,' but Noro’s outdid rice grains. They easily matched boiled adzuki beans in bulk. A single one might have been tolerable, but with fastidious precision, three adorned his forehead and two his chin—five warts in total—scattered like studded ornaments. Thus did this Wart-Faced Man come to live with me. Before recounting how Noro and I became unwilling cohabitants, I must first describe the house itself.

Though it might be called a house, given that someone like me lived there alone, it wasn't much of a dwelling. Skeletal shack would've been more accurate. There were three rooms total - an eight-tatami Western-style room at the center flanked by four-and-a-half-mat Japanese-style chambers on either side. That constituted all our living quarters. Calling it Western-style might sound fashionable, but really it just meant rough plank flooring instead of proper boards. The remaining amenities included a kitchenette, toilet stall and bath nook - plus about fifty tsubo of weedy garden space. That was everything. The structure stood ancient by my reckoning - thirty years minimum since construction. Rain seeped through cracked tiles while wind whistled through warped pillars; sagging eaves framed its gaunt silhouette like some stray dog from a bereaved household. At this rate only major renovations could save it - but with ownership still hotly disputed between Noro and me, neither dared invest yen nor effort into repairs they might never recoup. All remained frozen in decay even as June's rains loomed closer - truly soul-crushing circumstances.

How did I end up living in such a dilapidated house? First, I would like to explain that.

There was a man named Fusa Kazuma. I became acquainted with this man last spring aboard a Tokyo tram. The fact that we met on a Tokyo tram might sound a bit strange, but the story is simple. One day when I was riding a Tokyo tram, Fusa stood in front of me. It was fairly crowded; I was seated, but with no vacant seats available, Fusa hung from a strap. Of course, at that time, I didn't know the man standing before me was Fusa, nor did I have any interest in him. Taking an interest in each and every fellow passenger would only wear down my nerves. I was tired and being jostled by the train in a daze. However, as we neared the terminal, a phenomenon suddenly occurred around Fusa that seized my intense interest.

Next to Fusa stood a young man as well. He wore glasses and looked businessman-like at first glance. He was reading an evening newspaper spread open. Or rather—whether he was actually reading it or just holding it open wasn't clear—from behind that paper, his hand crept forward inch by inch, occasionally testing Fusa's coat pocket. At first I thought it might be the train's swaying, but those finger movements were too deliberate. Maybe a pickpocket? I thought, but stayed silent. The train clattered onward. I half-closed my eyes, feigning sleep while tracking every twitch of that hand. The fingers moved with feminine dexterity, grazing the pocket's surface without committing. My pulse quickened little by little. There's a thrill in such things, even when they're none of your business. It felt vaguely like fishing. As I watched breathlessly—now? now?—the hand suddenly went slack and slid into the pocket. The next instant, a leather wallet emerged pinched between two fingers. My heart lurched violently, and—this is embarrassing—I felt an involuntary... reaction below the belt. Since childhood, this cursed reflex hits me whenever tension peaks. In the dim evening carriage, shielded by newspapers, likely only I witnessed it. Fusa himself kept gazing serenely at twilight scenery beyond the window. Meanwhile, the thief's owner began sidling toward the exit. Before thinking, I rapped Fusa's kneecap.

Why, and with what intention, had I tapped Fusa’s knee? To be honest, it didn’t stem from anything resembling a sense of social justice. Would you call it meddling? It would be more accurate to call it that sort of impulse. I was born a consummate meddler—I couldn’t form relationships without this tendency. But broadly speaking, what binds people together isn’t some pretentious notion like love—isn’t it fundamentally this spirit of meddling and nosiness? I’ve come to broadly accept that. Meddling itself is what guarantees human existence—that’s how I see it. And there was another factor—I think I felt a twinge of jealousy at the time. Directed at that young pickpocket, of course. No way I’d let that guy get away with all the benefits himself. Something like, "How could I allow that when I was the witness here?"

Fusa looked at me with a bewildered expression. So I half-rose and brought my face close to Fusa’s ear. Fusa’s earlobe was large, I must say. They were what people call “lucky ears”—it’s said those blessed with such lobes rarely turn to villainy. Into that large earlobe, I quickly whispered the gist of what I had just witnessed. Then Fusa’s face flushed crimson, and he fixed his glare toward the exit. The train was coming to a stop at Shinjuku Terminal.

Instantly, Fusa pushed through the crowd and charged toward the exit. Then I did too. And at a point about twenty meters from the tram stop, we firmly grabbed that young man’s shoulder. Even upon hearing the sound of our pursuing footsteps, the young man made no attempt to flee, I must say. He must have been an extremely shrewd fellow. The moment his shoulder was grabbed, he spun around nimbly as if he’d anticipated it all along, cradled the wallet in both hands, and snapped into a deep bow. It was as if he were performing a wartime-style “deepest bow humbly offered to so-and-so.” Strangely enough, when confronted like that, our fighting spirit shriveled away abruptly, and Fusa ambiguously accepted the wallet. Then the young man retreated four or five steps while maintaining his deepest bow, deliberately raised his head, performed an about-face, and walked calmly away into the distance. It was truly an admirable maneuver, and we were completely overwhelmed, left simply staring blankly as we watched him go. The thought of hauling him off to the police box only occurred to us after he’d vanished into the crowd, so it wasn’t even worth considering.

However, even so, Fusa was overjoyed that his wallet had been returned and proposed treating me to a meal. I had no reason to refuse it and gladly accepted. The place Fusa took me to was the second floor of a certain eel restaurant in Hanazono-cho. Fusa patted the leather wallet against his palm while,

“Since I’d resigned myself to having it stolen anyway, let’s go all out tonight,” he said. And from that wallet, he took out a business card and gave it to me—it read “Fusa Kazuma.” Fusa flared his nostrils and declared with faint pride that he was a direct descendant of Fusa Saemon. Indeed, he had those auspicious “lucky ears,” his expression was gentle, and this noble lineage of his likely wasn’t entirely fabricated—or so I thought at the time. His being pickpocketed wasn’t due to simple foolishness, but rather his overly trusting nature—that much seemed certain. That’s what I thought. And so we ate eel and began drinking. True to his Saemon lineage, Fusa drank with unhesitating abandon— not delicate sips, but great gulps straight from the glass. We’d completely hit it off and were drinking heartily when I suddenly realized it was nearly midnight. I started and stood up— my home back then was in Hachiōji, and I needed to hurry before the last train departed.

However, whether from his gulping drinking style, Fusa Kazuma suddenly collapsed and sprawled across the tatami. Even when the waitress brought the bill, he remained limp and completely insensible. With no alternative, I searched Fusa's pockets, extracted a heavily bulging leather wallet, and upon opening it found merely 225 yen in cash. The bulk came from five or six old postcards folded and crammed inside; when I partially unfolded one, it resembled a metropolitan tax delinquency notice. A tax notice couldn't help matters. Reluctantly, I took out my own wallet and settled the account. When I tried leaving alone, the waitress obstinately demanded I take this prostrate man with me, forcing me to haul Fusa piggyback-style down the steep stairs. After descending outside, Fusa seemed to regain some sobriety and suggested I accompany him home to stay over. Given the hour suggesting the last Hachiōji train had departed, my own tipsy indifference to consequences, and this proposition, I promptly decided to accept his offer and flagged down a taxi. Fusa's house stood near Daitabashi Station on the Keiō Line. The compact taxi bearing us raced ceaselessly along the moonlit Kōshū Highway, veered into an alleyway for about a block's distance, then halted before the Fusas' gate. I paid this taxi fare too. This Fusa residence would become my current dwelling—though nighttime and brilliant moonlight prevented it appearing as the ramshackle structure it was, instead resembling a proper mansion of stature. Knocking on the gate soon produced Mrs. Fusa clattering out in nightwear. Evidently older than her husband—if estimating Fusa at forty, his wife appeared forty-five—she wordlessly unlatched the gate, displayed no surprise at our presence, and briskly withdrew inside.

That night I slept in the east four-and-a-half-tatami room, sharing the same futon with Fusa. Mrs. Fusa was in the west four-and-a-half-tatami room. Then dawn broke, and I was treated to breakfast. When morning came and I saw it properly, it was indeed a dilapidated house—what struck me most was how few furnishings there were. It stood completely empty. Only the bare essentials for living remained—futons, dishes—and nothing more. There wasn't even a low dining table. We placed our bowls directly on the tatami mats to eat breakfast. As I looked around and remarked with feigned admiration, "How remarkably bare it all is," Fusa smiled and explained he wasn't one to cling to material possessions. Mrs. Fusa maintained her stern expression throughout as she shoveled rice into her mouth. Being the morning after heavy drinking, the miso soup tasted particularly exquisite. Her method of preparation showed real skill too. They say women who make good miso soup manage households well—if that holds true, then Mrs. Fusa here must be quite adept at making ends meet despite that forbidding face. I went back for three helpings of that wakame miso soup.

In this empty, dilapidated house, only Fusa and Mrs. Fusa lived, just the two of them. What a waste. As for how the proposal to lend half to me came about, I can hardly remember anymore. Who had suggested it—I'd forgotten that too. However, at that time I was living in my father's house in Hachiōji—which was far from Tokyo—and that Hachiōji house was cramped and inconvenient for painting, so I did have the intention of eventually renting a place in Tokyo to become independent. The eight-tatami wooden-floored room in this house would serve perfectly as an atelier. Moreover, Fusa had a gentle, easygoing personality, and while Mrs. Fusa was brusque, she didn't seem ill-natured. Since everything was so conveniently arranged, the matter was settled in no time.

“Having you move in will help security-wise, and it’ll take a load off our shoulders too.” Fusa said this with an amiable chuckle. I would occupy the east four-and-a-half-tatami room, while the Fusas would remain in the west. The plank-floored room became common space. Those were the agreed terms.

“So...” I asked finally. “And how much would the rent be?” “Hmm. Maybe I should take five hundred yen a month.” Fusa said casually. He said it in a way that suggested things like money were no concern.

“And what about the key money?” “Hmm.” Fusa scratched vigorously at his jaw as if bothered. “Suppose I take about fifty thousand yen then.” I fell silent for a moment. While the rent was absurdly cheap, the key money seemed somewhat excessive by comparison. Then, perhaps sensing this reaction, Fusa abruptly turned toward me and said with a grin: “Well now, forty thousand would do if you prefer.”

“I see. Then I’ll leave it to you, please.” And so the matter was settled. That a pickpocket’s intervention should forge a bond between landlord and tenant struck me as delightfully whimsical—the sort of premise that could blossom into a novel, I mused. That day, I left the Fusa residence, returned to Hachiōji, and talked my father into handing over forty thousand yen. My father balked at the sum, but since I couldn’t remain a financial burden indefinitely, he finally relented on condition I achieve full independence henceforth. Of course, moving into the Fusa place wouldn’t magically make my paintings sell. But I’d hatched a scheme. Why not use that eight-tatami wooden room—or the garden on fine days—to host Sunday art classes for schoolchildren? Given the residential neighborhood surrounding the Fusa house, I estimated twenty or thirty pupils might enroll. At three hundred yen per student monthly, thirty would net nine thousand yen. With rent at five hundred yen, eight thousand five hundred should cover living expenses comfortably. A flawlessly cunning plan, if I did say so myself.

On the third day after becoming acquainted with Fusa, I loaded my household goods and full set of painting supplies onto an auto rickshaw and came clattering all the way from Hachiōji to Daitabashi to move in. As for household goods, following Fusa’s example, I kept them to the bare minimum of necessities. That night, Fusa and I drew up a simple contract, I handed over the 40,000 yen, then fetched moving-day soba from a nearby buckwheat noodle shop, and held a modest celebratory feast with the soba as our fare. Mrs. Fusa also came to join the celebration, but to my surprise—contrary to her stern appearance—she outdrank her husband, so much so that the two sho we had prepared proved insufficient and required us to purchase another sho. You might call them the very model of a swindler couple.

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

At the one-week mark, the couple had completely vanished—taking everything with them in what you might call a midnight flit or daylight dash—disappearing to who-knows-where. This was an entirely unexpected turn of events.

The night before their disappearance, Fusa Kazuma came to my room slightly drunk, criticized the paintings hanging on my wall, and spouted some dubious art theories. Then, fidgeting awkwardly, he broached wanting me to lend him about two thousand yen—even if framed as advance rent payment. He said they wanted to go to Akō as a couple to visit their ancestors' graves. Though I thought it slightly odd he'd ask for another two thousand yen when I'd just handed over forty thousand a week prior, I figured there might be circumstances I didn't know about—and never imagined he'd disappear—so I decided it would be acceptable if treated as advance rent. However, just to be safe, I asked.

“As for your ancestors’ graves—there’s no need to go all the way to Akō when they’re at Sengakuji, isn’t that right?” Then Fusa looked at me with a pitying laugh, “My ancestors aren’t limited to Saemon alone.” “Saemon’s son was one too, and his son after him as well—every generation has been my ancestor.”

Well, now that he mentioned it, that did make sense, so I reluctantly handed over two 1,000-yen bills from my meager wallet. According to Fusa, the trip to Akō wasn't just for grave visits—it also involved handling some mountain forest property over there, which might take a week or ten days. During that time as housesitters, he would have a distant relative named Noro stay here too, so I should get along with him. He mentioned that Noro should be arriving around the day after tomorrow. After all, being saddled with full housesitting responsibility alone would have been a burden, so I gladly accepted the proposal.

The next morning, I slept in until around eleven o'clock, and when I got up, the Fusa couple were already gone. It appeared they had made an early morning departure. When I went to the kitchen to cook rice, I found a sheet of stationery placed atop my rice cooker, written in remarkably elegant script: “I beg you to kindly get along with Mr. Noro.” “He is a truly good man.” That’s what was written. Of course, it was Fusa’s handwriting. He was oddly concerned about my relationship with this Noro fellow. I briefly wondered about that, then immediately folded the stationery and tucked it into my pocket.

Noro arrived around noon two or three days later. As I set up an easel in the wooden-floored room to sketch the garden, the sound of a handcart came from the front, followed by footsteps entering the garden. The man who had entered froze when he saw me, looking slightly startled. I laid down my brush and studied his face. What struck me first were the warts clinging to his sweat-drenched skin here and there.

“Are you Mr. Noro?” I asked. “I am indeed Noro—” Noro peered suspiciously into the wooden-floored room. “Is Mr. Fusa not here?” “Mr. Fusa departed for Hyogo Prefecture yesterday.” I found this suspicious. After all, if he was coming as a housesitter, 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.” “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m telling you, it’s a problem.” Then Noro looked me over from head to toe, and his words suddenly turned rude. “Just what are you on earth? Are you the housesitter?”

“I’m not the housesitter!” A bit irritated myself, I retorted. “You’re supposed to be the housesitter!” “I’m a resident here.” “Resident?” With a look that seemed to question my sanity, Noro stared at me. “What on earth are you talking about?” “This house is mine.” “I purchased it from Mr. Fusa.” “You get out right away.”

“You ‘purchased’ 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 belongings here on a handcart with all my might!”

“Th-that’s absurd!” “I paid the key money properly and signed a legitimate lease agreement!” I dashed into my room, hurriedly retrieved the receipt and contract, then ran back and thrust them in front of Noro. Noro received them and began examining them closely. Gradually, anxiety and confusion seemed to flood across his entire face like rising tidewater. “How peculiar.” He slumped down onto the wooden floorboards with a thud and sighed heavily through his warts. “There must be some misunderstanding here... It’s as if this whole rotten world’s built on nothing but crossed wires.”

“What circumstances led you to ‘purchase’ this?” I asked falteringly. “Did you properly buy it from Mr. Fusa 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 a house-for-sale advertisement in the newspaper classifieds and visited Fusa at this property. Fusa showed him around the house in detail, and since the land was leased and the house dilapidated, offered to let it go for 150,000 yen. Noro thought the price was generally reasonable, but since buying at the asking price would violate the Noro family code, he first tried to haggle it down by 10,000 yen (what a cheapskate), or so he claimed. Then Fusa readily agreed with a smile. There Noro put down 40,000 yen as a deposit, and they agreed that once he could arrange the remaining 100,000 yen, he would move in and have the deed transferred at that time.

“That’s why I hauled my moving cart all the way here,” Noro hung his head dejectedly. “What on earth will become of me? Have I been swindled?” “Maybe so.” I nodded anxiously in agreement. “But that doesn’t add up. Mr. Fusa still has a hundred thousand yen coming from you. There’s no way he’d run away. He’d be losing out if he ran away, right?”

“Yeah... “Then maybe he really did go visit a grave after all?”

“But even so—what was he thinking, promising to sell it to you while taking key money from me?” “Perhaps he intends to return after receiving the 100,000 yen.” “That’s an approach that tramples all over me!” I grew slightly angry. “Then doesn’t that make me just like some work clothes he used and tossed aside?”

“Well, it’s not like that’s set in stone.” Noro comforted me. “Anyway, once Mr. Fusa returns, we’ll question his intentions.”

“Anyway, we should move the luggage in.” “Leaving them out is dangerous, you know.” “Oh, right!”

Noro sprang up and hurriedly dashed toward the front. So I slipped into my sandals and chased after him. A handcart was stopped at the gate, piled high with luggage. I had no idea where he’d hauled it from, but for such a scrawny guy to drag this massive load here alone must have taken considerable strength—I marveled to myself as I busily helped him carry the luggage inside. Yet Noro showed no particular sign of gratitude for this, wearing an utterly matter-of-fact expression as he even went so far as to boss me around at times. Issuing commands like "Carry this chair" and "Handle this one carefully since it's fragile." Even though I was helping out of goodwill, I thought he shouldn’t be making such selfish demands, but I carried everything inside regardless. However, right then, a ruckus erupted. Because Noro had begun busily placing the wardrobes, desks, and such in the central wooden-floored area, I lodged a complaint.

“Don’t put too much in the wooden-floored area. Why don’t you put them in the west 4.5-mat room?” Noro raised his face and glared at me.

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

And I explained to Noro the agreement regarding shared use of the wooden-floored area that had been made between me and Fusa. Then Noro pursed his lips and said. “But that wasn’t written in the contract, was it?” “Even if it’s not written down，that’s how the verbal agreement works.” “That’s absurd. “That’s a lie. “Room renters are only supposed to have one room under normal circumstances. “You’re just taking advantage of Mr．Fusa’s absence to—”

“It’s not a lie, I tell you!” I raised my voice too. “You say the contract doesn’t mention shared use of the wooden-floored area, but it doesn’t state you get exclusive use of a single room either.” “Your argument lacks any factual basis!” “Let’s abandon this endless debate and be practical.” “If I may be blunt—from what I’ve observed—you scarcely own any proper tools.” “Practically none at all.” “But I’ve got plenty.” “Isn’t it perfectly natural for those with possessions to occupy more space?”

“That’s completely unreasonable!”

While we were arguing vehemently, a loud voice shouting "Hey!" came from the garden direction. When I looked, a sturdy-looking man and a fat man stood side by side, having slipped in unnoticed at some point. The sturdy man abruptly narrowed his eyes and demanded: "Is Fusa Kazuma here?" "He's away on a trip." "That bastard's done a runner."

The fat man, in a manner reminiscent of a jockey whipping a horse’s hindquarters, slapped his own rear with a sharp smack and spoke resentfully. The sturdy man stepped forward, pointing at the two of us with an intimidating voice,

“What are you supposed to be?” “More importantly, who exactly are you?” Noro retorted, squaring his shoulders defiantly. “I’m with the authorities.” When the sturdy man produced something like a police notebook from his pocket, Noro’s artificially inflated posture collapsed instantly—his shoulders drooping into submissive meekness. “Ah...” “I purchased this house from Mr. Fusa.” “And I rented half of it from Mr. Fusa,” I interjected before being upstaged. “Either way, come inside first.”

The two men took off their shoes and clambered up awkwardly. I went to the kitchen and boiled tea, and then the four of us sat in a circle on the wooden-floored area. The fat man presented a business card, which identified him not as a detective but as Chen Genwan, a third-country national. “I was born in Taiwan and currently run a Chinese restaurant in Shibuya,” Mr. Chen introduced himself with a vague smile. Though it was a smile, only his facial muscles and fat seemed to be engaged in the act; his eyes remained completely devoid of any mirth. “The truth is, I had a 180,000 yen loan with Mr. Fusa.” “Well, I suppose I’ve been had.” “Ha ha ha.”

“What were the circumstances of you buying or renting this house?”

The detective asked us. We instinctively exchanged glances. Things seemed to be progressing in an unpleasant direction. Noro wore the same uneasy expression. Then we began taking turns explaining the circumstances, presenting documents as we went. The detective nodded at each point with his angular jaw, listening in silence. Newspapers often use phrases like "police officers gathering information"—and indeed, "gathering" felt precisely apt. When we finished explaining, the detective tilted his head and crossed his arms. Noro asked worriedly.

“Was I truly deceived after all? Wouldn’t Mr. Fusa come back?” “He likely won’t be returning, I should think.” The detective’s tone grew somewhat courteous. They must have realized we were fellow victims too. “That man faces other fraud allegations. It appears he foresaw the authorities closing in and absconded.”

“Then what about my 40,000 yen?” Noro’s voice quavered anxiously. “And what becomes of this house?”

“As long as it remains under Fusa’s name, it would still be his property, I suppose. I don’t know much about that aspect of the law,” the detective replied dismissively. “Well, we’ll take our leave now. If Fusa should return or make any contact, please contact the station immediately.”

The detective stood up without touching the tea I’d served, briskly put on his shoes, and left. Chen Genwan followed. Left behind, the two of us stood dumbfounded, staring blankly at each other, when Mr. Chen came flustered back. I thought he might have forgotten something, but that wasn’t the case. He took off his shoes, thudded down to sit, and gave my shoulder a light tap. Given that Mr. Chen likely weighed over twenty kan, the floorboards creaked and groaned under his considerable bulk.

“So,” he began. “Don’t you both go stewing in misery. Getting swindled was our bad luck, but since I’ve handed things over to the detective, it’ll sort itself out somehow.” “Is that right?” I asked. “Are we still allowed to live here?” “Yeah. About that—as fellow victims, we ought to cook up some countermeasures together. How’s about you two come to my place tomorrow night? We’ll hash it out over dinner.”

Mr. Chen tore a page from his notebook, drew a map of the restaurant, and handed it to me. And then he hurried off again. Left behind, the two of us couldn’t remain dazed forever either, so we awkwardly stood up and began tidying the area. For the time being, it seemed we could at least live here, so while part of me felt displeased, there was also a sense of relief. The ongoing dispute over the eight-tatami wooden-floored room was left unresolved, and Noro voluntarily began moving his tools to the west room. This was likely because we were both fellow victims, and the convergence of our shared victimhood had softened each other’s hearts. I also helped Noro organize his belongings, and evening came. The two of us grew increasingly united in spirit, heading together to the public bath where Noro scrubbed my back and I scrubbed Noro’s back. Ah, friendship is truly a beautiful thing. Things like reconciliation and unity between people can be surprisingly easily achieved, can't they? When we returned from the bath, we decided at my suggestion to hold a modest housewarming celebration. It was zaru soba and synthetic sake, same as the other day. Noro also contributed his share without penny-pinching, and did so readily. Considering Noro’s later words and actions, I couldn’t help but feel increasingly moved that he had contributed his share without complaint.

However, this celebration grew increasingly gloomy the more we drank and ate. The topic turned to Fusa, and though I was being whiny, Noro seemed much the same, so naturally our conversation grew sodden. Looking back now, since both of us had paid 40,000 yen each and could likely reside here for the time being, there should have been no reason to grumble. But at the time, we felt like our 40,000 yen had been snatched away for free—it left us furious beyond measure. When I lamented that I’d been foolish enough to trust him just because he had those big, lucky-looking ears,

“Exactly! “Exactly! I was completely taken in by those wood ear-like ears too.”

Noro passionately echoed in agreement. In the end, with Noro breaking into sobs over how that swindler profited while honest folks like him suffered—was there no justice in this world?—even I found myself at a loss for how to handle the situation. After much cajoling, I finally got him to stop crying, and since we’d be cohabiting for the foreseeable future, we pledged to strive toward becoming ideal housemates before finally retiring to our respective east and west rooms. That night, I dreamed my hands were covered in warts.

The next day, Noro rose early and noisily gargled in the kitchen. The racket woke me. He then cooked rice, performed calisthenics in the garden, and made to leave clutching a lunchbox. When I asked where he was headed, he replied he was going to school. Upon pressing further, I learned Noro worked as a middle school Japanese teacher.

“Since we’re going to Mr. Chen’s Taroko Tei tonight, make sure you come back in time.” I pressed. After Noro left, I made about ten posters for my art school’s student recruitment that I’d been planning and went around posting them on nearby utility poles. While going around posting them, I found myself thinking—now who exactly would I be paying rent to from here on out? With Fusa having disappeared, maybe I wouldn’t have to pay anyone at all—and this notion made me feel somewhat cheerful.

We arrived at Taroko Tei around seven in the evening. Taroko Tei was a small Chinese restaurant at the alley's dead end, its display window dangling what appeared to be a whole roasted chicken and pig's trotters. When we entered, Mr. Chen emerged from the back kitchen with his bulky frame, greeted us with a boisterous "Come in, come in!", and ushered us to a second-floor private room. A Chinese-style painting of a gorge hung on the wall, which Mr. Chen indicated while explaining it depicted Taiwan's Taroko Gorge. He mentioned his family home had been near there. Though speaking as a painter myself, I didn't find the work particularly accomplished.

Seated around the table were me, Noro, Mr. Chen, and another 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 martial arts. Midway through the banquet, Sun—obliging our request—demonstrated his martial arts forms. When it came to the speed of his fists, they were like meteors; I thought to myself that if you ever got into a fight with this man, he’d kill you instantly. It somewhat resembled Okinawan karate. There was a large straight scar on Sun’s right cheek—probably an injury he had sustained in a fight or something.

The table was laden with lavish dishes. Baipianji chicken, stir-fried quail eggs, shrimp-stuffed tofu threads, and various other delicacies. They were all foods I had rarely tasted before. Thinking eating too voraciously would disgrace Japanese honor, I restrained myself—but Noro kept devouring everything single-mindedly. It was an utterly unselfconscious performance. The drink served was laojiu. This one I gulped down without reservation. According to Mr. Chen’s explanation, Fusa hadn’t been inherently wicked but rather financially careless, which led him to ruin through this incident. For a period after the war, Fusa had worked as editor-in-chief of a literary magazine called New Novel, where he’d first met Mr. Chen. Mr. Chen boasted while tilting his beer glass—he’d declined laojiu for health reasons, he explained.

"You might not think it to look at me, but I have a deep understanding of art." The fact that this portly owner 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 am something of an artist myself.”

“Oh! Oh!” Mr. Chen exclaimed in admiration, clapping his hands together lightly. “And what field of art would that be?” “Painting.” And I attempted a modest explanation regarding my affiliated organizations and professional achievements up to that point. Then Mr. Chen became thoroughly moved, poured more laojiu into our glasses while urging “Drink more! Drink more!”, and even suggested we should meet as friends from then on. Since the hospitality had completely shifted in tone, Noro must have found this unpleasant to witness.

He had been glaring sideways at our exchange for some time but seizing his moment gave an affected “ahem” of a cough and slowly— “I’ve studied novel writing too—even penned about ten stories so far—but they never quite turn out right you know.” “Ha ha ha!” and added an absurd laugh. Then Mr.Chen reacted partly with surprise and partly with a broad grin declaring it auspicious that artists could gather under one roof like this as he diligently poured laojiu into Noro’s glass too. Noro had completely regained his dignity and was beaming as he sipped his laojiu. In stark contrast to last night’s housewarming celebration the room now brimmed with boisterous energy and as we drank a faintly manic quality began surfacing among us. To be precise while we spoke of manic tendencies those applied only to Noro and myself—Sun Wufeng didn’t drink a drop of alcohol and Mr.Chen stuck to beer—so it seemed the root of our mania lay in that laojiu. Even though it was laojiu it seemed it wasn’t ordinary laojiu. Even now I still think there must have been laughing mushroom extract or something mixed into it—if that’s the case then we neatly fell right into Mr.Chen’s trap. The two of us thoroughly enlivened tried humming clumsy rōkyoku ballads stood up to mimic Sun Wufeng’s martial arts forms and amidst all our boisterous commotion Mr.Chen slowly pulled out some document-like thing from his pocket. “These are documents concerning Fusa” he said “but you should look through them and if you agree sign and affix your thumbprints.” We were completely carried away and since Mr.Chen was the biggest victim regarding Fusa—in other words he was like the representative of all victims—we left everything up to him signed and affixed our thumbprints to the documents without properly reading them immediately and obediently. This was entirely the work of that specially prepared laojiu. That’s truly something one should be cautious about indeed. Mr.Chen received the documents with satisfaction stowed them away in his inner pocket then patted his palms together. Then came the sound of footsteps from a server downstairs and what arrived was sweet-and-sour carp. This marked the final course of the meal which we devoured before concluding with a final toast preparing to take our leave. Even after stepping outside my heart remained buoyant and when I suggested we go somewhere like Pigeon Town Noro refused. Noro claimed that as someone nominally addressed as “teacher” he couldn’t possibly visit such den of iniquity—but I suspect he simply didn’t want to spend money.

“Since we’re both pure young artists, let’s just go straight home.”

So I too gave up on Pigeon Town, boarded a small taxi, and returned straight to Daitabashi. It seemed a shame to sleep through such a night, but we both ended up brushing our teeth in the kitchen, taking five liver pills each, splitting into the east and west rooms, and falling into loud, snoring slumber.

Now, the next morning, I woke at 6:30 a.m. There was no trace of a hangover; my head felt clear—or rather, emptily vacant—as if I’d been bewitched 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, morning.” “I feel so refreshed.” “Yeah. It’s like my brain’s turned into an idiot.”

“Last night was fun, huh.” “Mr. Chen’s such a good guy, huh.” “Yeah... right.” “And the food was delicious.” “It’d be great if we could eat that good every day.” “The laojiu was tasty too.” “But we got kinda weirdly drunk, didn’t we.”

“That’s right. I was just thinking the same thing felt off.” “After getting plastered, did we end up signing and stamping some documents or something?”

“Oh, that’s right. What were those documents anyway?”

“I’m trying to remember now too, but I just can’t recall.”

“That’s strange.” “Was it really because of the laojiu after all?” “Now that you mention it, that laojiu did have a slight myoga ginger scent.” And so the two of us turned over various possibilities, but we simply couldn’t recall. In the end, the two of us had no choice but to exchange glances and laugh together—ha ha ha!—but they say there’s a foreign proverb: he who laughs last laughs best. It seems the two of us had a tendency to laugh too soon.

This occurred on the evening three days later. With a *Konnichiwa*, a young man glided soundlessly into the garden. When I looked, it was that Sun Wufeng.

“Oh, welcome.” “Thank you for treating us the other day.” “Is there something you need?” “Came to collect this month’s rent.” “Huh.” “Rent?”

Since I had let out a surprised voice, Noro also furtively poked his head out from the west room. Sun said with a calm expression: “That’s right. It’s rent.” “Rent?” “Who exactly are we supposed to pay rent to?” “Who do you think? Master Chen, obviously.” “That’s absurd,” Noro interjected, leaning halfway out. “But this house belongs to Mr. Fusa, right? There’s no way we’d pay rent to Mr. Chen.”

“This house—Master Chen has taken over.” “You should pay the rent promptly.” “‘Taken over,’ Mr. Sun?” I chided him with a laugh. “Without our consent, such a thing can’t be done. Ah, I see—Mr. Chen must be misunderstanding something.” “Didn’t you agree?”

Sun Wufeng seemed somewhat annoyed, his eyes glinting sharply. When I looked, both of his hands were already about halfway formed into fists. Recalling Sun’s martial prowess from the other day, I felt somewhat daunted, but nevertheless mustered my courage, “When did we ever agree to such a thing?” “That night, you properly pressed your thumbprints, did you not?” “You’ve got some nerve.”

Noro and I simultaneously shouted “Ah!” and exchanged glances. “You will pay this month’s rent of 4,000 yen immediately.” “If you can’t pay, you’ll get out right away.” And Sun Wufeng snugly assumed a fist stance and inched closer across the wooden floor. His halting Japanese only added to the menace. “Are you going to pay or not? Which is it?!”

“I’ll pay. I’ll pay.”

Finally, I let out a cry that was almost a scream. Then I rushed into the room in a panic, pulled four 1,000-yen bills from my wallet, and thrust them at Sun. He gave a sly grin, produced the rental ledger from his pocket, stamped it with a decisive thud, and shoved it toward us. When I checked it, the tenants were listed jointly under Noro's name and mine. Noro too had gone slightly pale, perhaps cowed by Sun's intimidating presence. Sun left the garden exactly as he'd entered—gliding away without making a single footstep sound. Not leaving footprints must be part of his martial arts training.

“They’re making a damn fool of me.”

I muttered. Chen’s overbearing conduct was one thing, but my disgust toward my own idiotic self for carelessly stamping that document— And then there was that other fool Noro in this house—the sheer repulsiveness of it all made me feel like my insides had turned pitch black. Noro seemed to share the sentiment, biting his lip and glaring at me. To him I laid it out bluntly: “Look. Now we’ve clearly established we’re both certifiable fools, haven’t we? Your share’s two thousand yen for the rent. Pay up.”

“No way. You’re the one who went ahead and paid without consulting me!” Noro pursed his lips.

“What the—” “You won’t pay.” “Fine, don’t pay then.” “In that case, you’re no longer a tenant here!” “You’re my freeloader!”

“Freeloader?” “Fine by me if I’m a freeloader.” “Let me make this clear—the landlord has the right to evict a freeloader at any time! If you don’t leave, I’ll just bring the police. Then you’ll get hauled off for trespassing!” “How could such an outrageous thing happen?”

Did we really argue like that for thirty minutes? No matter how stubbornly he resisted, since Noro himself had stamped the document too, he gradually came to admit his fault and relented. In the end, Noro would pay 1,800 yen of the 4,000 yen total, leaving me with 2,200 yen. To explain how this happened—Noro’s room faced west, so the afternoon sun beat down relentlessly. He argued this inferior condition deserved a 400-yen discount, and I ultimately accepted his claim. This after he’d initially stubbornly demanded an eight-hundred-yen reduction, which I barely haggled down to half. With Noro, even the setting sun gets quantified into yen and sen. I’d have to keep living with this man going forward. Thinking that, I felt utterly wretched—on the very brink of tears.

And so that night too became one of drinking. It may seem like we’re constantly drowning in alcohol, but we the oppressed must dull our suffering with drink—or something like it—to endure. That night’s drinking session had been nominally about discussing countermeasures, yet concluded without any proper resolution. The idea of going to the police was raised, but given our careless stamping of documents and their likely completion of some seizure process—not to mention them being third-country nationals who’d retaliate fiercely if crossed—the notion was abandoned. Consulting a lawyer was also suggested, but Noro’s miserly nature rendered that utterly impossible. Soon enough Noro’s drunken weeping began anew, culminating in his customary lament about gods and buddhas abandoning us, until by nine o’clock this reckless carousing ended amidst great howls of despair.

And even when ten days had passed, then half a month, the Fusa couple never returned.

And thus began our strange cohabitation.

Noro would wake at six every morning, go to school, and return home promptly at four in the afternoon. Unlike me, he led quite a methodical life. I'm such a lazybones that I alternate between home cooking and eating out, but Noro sticks strictly to cooking for himself. He’s thinking of bringing his elderly mother from the countryside to live with him soon—I wonder how that’ll go. He had once broached this idea with me, and I’d agreed thinking nothing of it, but upon later reflection, it seemed he’d meant that even with an additional elderly mother, our shares of the rent would remain unchanged. In any case, he diligently saved, cut corners wherever possible, and seemed to be vigorously diverting those savings into his bank account. The same applied to meals. He took advantage of evenings and Sundays to arbitrarily uproot the garden trees, then diligently began cultivating a field in their place. At first I silently watched it, but when the field's area began rapidly expanding to engulf the entire garden, I hurriedly put a stop to it. Noro complained as per his custom about what right I had to stop him, but in the end it was settled that he would use only half of the garden. And then—where he got them from, I don’t know—he planted several strange shrubs by the hedge as cuttings. When I asked, “What kind of tree is that?” he replied, “Goji.” According to him, it’s a plant with such tremendous nutritional value that you could call it supreme. He uses it as a side dish, cooks it into his rice, dries it, and drinks it like tea. Once, I was treated to that goji tea, but it didn’t seem particularly tasty. All in all, Noro’s meals resembled those of Zen monks—utterly austere in their simplicity. It seemed his philosophy was that as long as he obtained the bare minimum of nutrition, that sufficed. At a certain late-night meal, because he was eating something so extremely frugal,

“Why don’t you try getting some more fat in your diet?” When I teased him like that, he indignantly declared that his current diet was a Japanese-style nutritional regimen he’d personally devised based on theories by that Dr. Gayelord Hauser. “I’m acting on conviction here!” “Someone like you wouldn’t understand—fat is humanity’s greatest enemy!” Yet this same Noro had wolfed down the Chinese food at Tarokotei that day while raving about how delicious it was—it was downright laughable. There was no conviction or any such nonsense—it was merely economical eating. In other words, it simply stemmed from pure stinginess.

The same went for his vegetable garden. Noro cultivated various vegetables in that twenty-tsubo field—a rather impressive yield for an amateur garden—and he picked and ate them daily. With this arrangement, it seemed he managed quite well without troubling the greengrocer. One morning, I decided to make miso soup but found no solid ingredients to put in it. So I called out to Noro and asked him to spare me a handful of greens from his garden. Noro readily agreed and immediately shared some with me. That much went smoothly, but that evening he came demanding payment for the greens. It was an exorbitant price—roughly three times the market rate. I sighed in utter dismay.

“That’s really expensive. No matter how you look at it, isn’t this a bit too steep?”

“It’s not expensive.” “This is the normal price.” “That’s not true. At the greengrocer’s they sell these for one-third this price!” “Mine are different from the greengrocer’s.” Noro said firmly. “First, mine are far fresher than theirs. Second, mine don’t use human fertilizer, so there’s no risk of roundworms. Thirdly, you’ve saved yourself the trip to the greengrocer’s, haven’t you? With three solid reasons, shouldn’t the price naturally triple?”

There was no way to counter Noro’s logic like this, so I reluctantly paid the fee. After that incident, I never bought another vegetable from Noro. He’s always out to gouge me at every turn—it’s utterly exhausting.

The same went for the art school. As I mentioned before, when I put up recruitment posters, it turned out quite successful, with about forty elementary school students gathering. I allocated Sunday mornings to this and took charge of conducting art lessons and providing instruction. The monthly fee was three hundred yen per student, totaling around twelve thousand yen. This formed a crucial financial foundation supporting my livelihood, but Noro had set his sights on it. On Sundays—meaning Noro was home on his day off too—throughout the entire morning, students would spill into the wooden-floored room or garden, each clutching drawing boards to sketch. Being elementary schoolers, they couldn’t draw quietly. They chattered noisily, some even bursting into song. If I scolded them too harshly, they might stop coming altogether, so I inevitably held back. It was then that Noro pounced, declaring Sunday mornings as vital time for his novel-writing practice—how could he get anything done with all that racket during such precious hours? He demanded to know what I planned to do about it. To this day I suspect Noro wasn’t actually writing at all—that he invented this excuse because nobody paid him attention at Tarokotei—but regardless, he stubbornly stuck to his story.

“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 get through properly!” “Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” I retorted. “Are you telling me to shut down the art school?” “Well, I won’t say you should shut it down outright—” 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 the earnings would be appropriate?” “My time’s being completely wasted too, you know.”

“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 you call modern rationalism.” “You’re being way too selfish.” “We agreed the wooden-floored room was for shared use, yet you’re monopolizing it for your moneymaking schemes and completely ignoring me!” “I’m truly appalled by your selfishness.” I was furious at his selfishness and wanted to yell “Do whatever you want!”—but then he started threatening that if I didn’t pay up, he’d strip stark naked and loiter in front of the female students. His argument was that no one had any grounds to reprimand him for going fully nude in his own house. This man would absolutely do something like that, and if he did, all the students would surely stop coming from next time onward. My livelihood would immediately dry up. So I swallowed my tears and accepted Noro’s terms. I managed to bargain the amount down by ten percent, but it still came to twelve hundred yen. Harboring resentment in my chest, I handed over twelve hundred yen every month’s end.

However, looking back now, these actions weren’t merely born from Noro’s stingy nature—they seemed to have been fully laced with spiteful harassment toward me. That’s what I thought indeed. In other words, Noro had put down a deposit to buy the house from Fusa. Once he had placed a deposit, the rights to this house were his. However, I had been a tenant from the very start. Trapped by such psychology, he could not escape it no matter what, nor did he make any attempt to break free. Therefore, deep down, I couldn’t help but wonder if he viewed me as a tenant or freeloader and was attempting to drive me out through harassment. I couldn’t help but think that was how it seemed. From my perspective, since both of us paid 40,000 yen each, I thought we should have equal rights regarding the house, but Noro seemed unwilling to consider that. Moreover, he had shown an abnormal enthusiasm for owning a detached house and had occasionally let such remarks slip to me. He wanted to make a house his own, bring his elderly mother from the countryside, and find a suitable partner to marry. That was his petit bourgeois ideal, yet he had been swindled by both Fusa and Chen and ended up having to live with a man like me. It seemed he found this utterly infuriating. The truth appeared to be that this resentment, which should rightfully have been directed at himself, was instead colliding with me for the time being. However, if I were to retreat silently under those circumstances, there’d be no place left for me to stand, wouldn’t there?

There was another incident like this. One evening as I was painting in the wooden-floored room, Noro, who had just returned from school, smiled and thrust a small bar of chocolate at me, saying, “I’ve got something good here.” This was unusual for Noro, but I decided to ask just to be safe. “That chocolate looks tasty, but how much exactly does it cost?”

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

“Huh.” “That’s unusually generous coming from you.” “Well then, I’ll take it.” “Here you go.” “You’ve been looking pale lately—you should at least eat something like this.”

I thought it was absurd to claim eating a chocolate bar would improve one's complexion, but I gratefully accepted and ate it anyway. The chocolate was surprisingly tasty. As I munched away, Noro watched me quietly with a philanthropist’s smile. When Noro wore such an uncharacteristic smile, it felt utterly repulsive.

The next day. Noro, having returned home from school, asked me with a feigned-serious expression.

“Well? Has it come out yet?” “Huh? What?” I retorted.

“So, it hasn’t come out yet,” Noro nodded repeatedly with meticulous satisfaction, as though confirming every detail.

“Then that’s just fine.” “What’s wrong with you? You’re talking like you’ve got something stuck in your back teeth—”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing at all.” And then Noro grinned disgustingly.

Then came the next day, and when I was using the toilet during daylight hours, the sensation around my rear felt strange. I apologize for the unsavory topic, but when I reached back to check, there was something macaroni-shaped dangling limply from my rear end. I was shocked, I tell you. I jumped up about ten centimeters while remaining in a squatting position. I’ll spare you the graphic details, but to put it simply, roundworms had emerged from my body. Not just one, but several of varying sizes. Having finished expelling everything and emerging from the toilet half-disgusted and half-relieved, I abruptly recalled Noro’s words from yesterday. That guy said something strange—he must have done something. Thereupon, I stealthily entered Noro’s room, and upon looking at the desk, I found a small, flat paper wrapper lying there. The moment I saw the printed text reading "Worming Chocolate" on its surface, a surge of rage boiled up within me. When I turned the box over, there was printed an efficacy statement: "This chocolate contains santonin 0.05 grams from the Japanese Pharmacopoeia as its main components—digenea simplex and pomegranate peel—combined with various nutrients through synergistic effects," and so on. I bristled with rage and slammed the empty box against the wall. He must have taken advantage of a pharmacist who does business with the school coming to make a sales pitch, using me as a guinea pig to test whether it worked or not. In my excessive anger, I could no longer focus on my painting work; I went out to the garden and spent time mimicking Shaolin kung fu moves with shouts of "Hai! Hai!" until evening fell. When Noro returned, I suddenly hurled angry shouts at him.

“The day before yesterday, you fed me deworming chocolate!” At my furious outburst, Noro appeared completely overwhelmed, as if swallowed whole by shock.

“R-right, that’s exactly it.”

“Do you actually think it’s acceptable to do something like that?” “Don’t look down on people so much!”

“But—” Noro desperately attempted to explain. “The worms came out, right?” “If they came out, then hasn’t it worked out for your own good in the end?” “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 you’re saying you want to keep roundworms in your body?”

“I don’t acknowledge any obligation to answer that question! Anyway, restore me to my original condition!” “But your complexion looked terrible—you seemed exhausted—so I thought eliminating the roundworms—” “If that excuse actually held water, I’d shave off every one of your warts with a safety razor blade while you slept!” Noro instantly flushed crimson and clamped his palm over the wart on his chin. Ah—so mentioning warts triggers this man. That’s what crossed my mind.

Noro's voice suddenly became stifled. “Then what am I supposed to do? “You’re telling me to restore you to your original condition—” Thereupon, I calmed my anger and—after considering various options—settled on these terms: he would provide me with one head of lettuce every day for the coming month. And since *the lettuce from Noro’s vegetable garden* contained no insect eggs*, he was to purchase it from a greengrocer. Noro persistently tried to haggle the duration down to half a month, but I adamantly refused. And so this matter was settled with my terms formally accepted—though in reality, I only ended up eating greengrocer-bought lettuce for about ten days. Realizing the economic folly of daily lettuce purchases, Noro finally began using human waste fertilizer on his garden lettuce. Of course, this was done with the ulterior motive of making me eat it. Moreover, this human waste came from our own household, and according to Noro’s claims, it undoubtedly contained a large quantity of eggs. While they certainly did contain eggs, even I couldn't stomach eating lettuce contaminated by his own excrement. Under the pretense of parole, I exempted him from further lettuce provisions. However, from Noro’s perspective too—though freed from compensation duties—since his garden lettuce had become egg-infested, he likely gained little advantage either.

And so in this manner, our feelings became increasingly strained with each incident. Our pledge during those initial days of cohabitation—where we vowed to strive toward being ideal housemates—now seemed like something from a dream. Just seeing Noro’s face now made me feel something like a fighting spirit welling up inside. However, things like fighting spirit and hatred—in a way, they make human daily life refreshing and vibrant, you know. The same must have been true for Noro. From that time onward, I began to feel that each of my days was becoming increasingly packed with fulfillment.

And the exhibition of my painting group was drawing near. After agonizing over various subjects, I finally began creating a work centered on Noro's face. Yet art, it seems, cannot easily take root in hatred. Still, as I doggedly repainted layer upon layer, Noro's visage on the canvas gradually blurred into a strangely abstract form. Once that transformation clicked into place, I threw myself into the work with fierce determination.

It was exactly around that time that a grave express letter arrived from Chen Genwan.

One Saturday afternoon, as I was toiling over the lemon yellow pigment's effect before my canvas, a voice announced "Express delivery!" and a letter drifted in. Turning it over, it bore the inscription "Shibuya, Chen Genwan." The addressee line showed both Noro's name and mine jointly. When I hastily opened and examined it, I found an expertly penned classical Japanese letter. That a Taiwanese man could write in classical Japanese was impressive enough, but what truly astonished me was its content: he intended to sell this house.

Being classical prose, it avoided overt emotion through formulaic phrasing, but the gist was as follows: Chen held the intention to sell this house; the sale price would be 100,000 yen given the circumstances; payment was desired within thirty days; if payment capability was lacking, eviction would be demanded; however, as relocation expenses, approximately 10,000 yen per person would be paid—such were the stated terms.

I was stunned, and in a daze, paced around the room in circles. Thus, a new calamity befell us. The letter’s conclusion stated that either both of us or just one of us could be the buyer of the house. As I paced around in circles, I thought. That Noro bastard would be shocked by this too. That bastard would probably start wailing tonight about how there’s no god or Buddha to save him.

However, when I showed the express letter to Noro after he returned that evening, contrary to my expectations, he neither screamed nor tore at his hair. He finished reading it with relative composure and said. “I see. “That’s it?” “Then I’ll buy it.” That single remark grated harshly against my instincts. “You say you’ll buy it, but this letter wasn’t addressed to you alone!” “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 Fusa Kazuma.” “I never rented this room from you.” “And declaring you’ll buy it the moment you read that letter—isn’t that the height of selfishness?” “Listen.” “This letter came addressed to both of us.” “We should discuss this properly together.” “Discuss what?” “First, the letter’s contents.” “This is downright insulting treatment.” “Unilaterally declaring a sale like this—”

“Is that so?” “I don’t think so, though.” “If we don’t buy it, they say the eviction fee’s just ten thousand yen.” “Don’t you think they’re making fools of us?”

“I don’t see it that way.” “Because I’m not moving out—I’m buying it.” “You really are a greedy, selfish yet oblivious man.” “That’s why people mock you.” “Who mocks me?” “Chen does.” “And Fusa too—” “What?” “When did Fusa mock me?” “He’s mocking you.” “Don’t you get it?” “Want me to show you Fusa’s note?” I pulled out the note from Fusa Kazuma that I’d kept in my desk and shoved it at him. On the morning he vanished, there’d been a scrap of paper left on his lunchbox: ‘Please kindly get along with Mr. Noro. He is a genuinely good person at heart.’ Noro finished reading it and stared at me blankly.

“Where in this is there any mockery?” “Don’t you get it? How exasperating! That ‘good person’ part.” “Isn’t this praising me?” Noro said, his cheeks twitching as his face broke into a grin. “Since it says ‘good person,’ that means a decent human being, right? In other words, he’s praising me as an outstanding individual. Well now—so you’re jealous of that, aren’t you?”

“No way.” I was rendered speechless in exasperation. If a man this dense fancies himself a novelist, then truly the world is coming to an end. “And even though this says to get along with me, you’re always picking fights with me, aren’t you? Why don’t you try some self-reflection for once?” “It’s not like I want to pick fights either. Since we’re both victims here, we ought to cooperate and tackle this together properly.” That’s what I think. “That’s what I think, but you’re just too damn selfish and clueless—”

“What. ‘Clueless,’ you say?” Noro’s complexion changed slightly. “What part of me is ‘clueless’? It’s only because Mr. Chen wants to sell that I’m proposing we buy it—isn’t that all? It’s perfectly logical!” “What are you talking about. Then I have just as much right to buy it!”

“Well, you do have the right.” “But having the right doesn’t mean you can buy it.” Noro smirked slyly, forming a circle with his index finger and thumb. “You need upfront money first.”

That disgusting smile of his sent me into a rage. Damn it all—like hell I’d let Noro have sole ownership of this house! I’d do everything in my power to obstruct him. It was only natural that such resolve seethed into solid form within me. I snapped.

“If it’s money you need, I can manage any amount. “What’s this? A mere 100,000 yen?”

Then Noro seemed slightly flustered. He must have instantly realized that provoking me would be unwise. Immediately adopting a compromising attitude, he started saying things like how he’d pay a sufficient eviction fee if I transferred the purchase rights to him. However, I had become too stubborn and flatly refused to agree. Then Noro seemed utterly at a loss and even began pleading.

“Hey.” “With a feeling like jumping off the Eiffel Tower，I’ll offer up to 40，000 yen as your eviction fee.” “Forty thousand.”

“No way.” “With 40,000, you’d recoup your initial investment, wouldn’t you?” “Moreover, with that money you could move to a better room.” “Right?” “Why don’t you try considering the costs and benefits for once?”

“No way.”

If I took the 40,000 yen and moved out, I wouldn’t have to live with this selfish clueless bastard. Thinking this, I nearly nodded in agreement, but I steeled myself, thinking, "No—this is where I must hold firm." Human stubbornness is such a strange thing, isn’t it. It appeared that forty thousand yen marked the limit of Noro’s willingness to compromise, for he abruptly transformed, casting aside all pretense of cooperation.

“Then what the hell do you propose we do?” “Let me make this clear—as far as this house is concerned, we currently hold half rights each.” “So even if we buy it, we’ll have to split the cost fifty-fifty.” “If you don’t like that, then get out.” “I refuse any other method!” Noro’s complexion changed instantly. The color of hatred rapidly filled his eyes as he fixed me with a sharp glare.

“Alright then. “Tomorrow’s Sunday so the post office is closed—on Monday night, the day after tomorrow—I’ll go meet Mr. Chen. “If you want to come along, procure fifty thousand yen by then. “If you can’t procure it, I’ll consider that you’ve abandoned all rights—is that acceptable?”

“Fine!” I too, caught in the tiger’s momentum, gave my consent in the coarse lingo of a palanquin bearer. And fuming at each other, we withdrew to our respective rooms in the west and east.

Now, the next day was Sunday. I got up early in the morning, hurriedly ate breakfast, then rushed all over Tokyo to visit every senior and acquaintance I knew, borrowing as much money as I could. Skipping lunch as I rushed around, I sat in a meal ticket cafeteria in Shinjuku that evening with a sinking heart, eating my dinner while counting the money I’d managed to borrow—it came to about forty thousand yen. I was still ten thousand yen short. After finishing my meal, I immediately boarded the Chuo Line and bolted to Hachioji—my only remaining hope was the old man. Fortunately, the old man was home. I prostrated myself before him, apologized for my usual lack of filial piety, and begged him to lend me ten thousand yen. I explained that if I didn't come up with ten thousand yen by day's end, my honor as a man would be ruined—tears streaming down my face as I spoke—which so startled the old man that he took ten thousand-yen bills from his portable safe and handed them to me. All because of my meaningless stubbornness, I ended up causing trouble even to my own father. In this way, I was finally able to procure the fifty thousand yen.

On Monday evening, Noro, having returned from school, peeked into my room and said in a cold voice.

“Shall we go to Tarokō together?”

“I’ll go.”

I sat up abruptly and answered curtly. We hurriedly got ready and walked out side by side. Both of us remained completely silent throughout, not exchanging a single word until we reached Tarokō Restaurant. Already, the conflict was beginning to take on the appearance of a cold war. Chen Genwan was sitting in a chair in a corner of the kitchen smoking tobacco, but when he saw us, he stood up with a smile and ushered us upstairs just as he had done the other day. No sooner had we taken our seats than Noro declared, "We’ve brought the money, so sell us the house." At that, Chen momentarily showed a slightly surprised expression. In my estimation, Chen hadn’t expected us to bring the money so easily and had likely anticipated some trouble over this matter. However, Chen immediately reverted to a beaming smile,

“I see. That must have been quite an effort.” After exchanging such greetings, he clapped his hands, summoned Sun Wufeng, and had him bring documents, writing brushes, paper, and other materials. Slowly taking up the brush, “Well then, let’s prepare the bill of sale.” “Are you two the buyers?” “Yes.” we replied in unison. Then Chen sized us up with a penetrating look and began moving his brush in swift strokes.

The contents of the bill of sale were as follows.

Bill of Sale 1. Address: ××× Ōhara-chō, Setagaya Ward, Tokyo 2. Property Details: Wooden single-story house – 12 tsubo 7 go 5 shaku (approx. 42.08 m²) Provided, however, that as the deed for the aforementioned house is currently in the custody of Fusa Kazuma, all future matters pertaining to said deed shall be resolved between Fusa Kazuma and Chen Genwan. 1. The sum of one hundred thousand yen Year Month Day ××× Ōwada-chō, Shibuya Ward, Tokyo Chen Genwan (Seal) And the recipient’s name was listed under both our names jointly. Because Noro had received the bill of sale, I hurriedly asked Chen.

“Mr. Chen, please prepare another copy of this for my portion.” After having another copy made and looking over the document, I realized—the deed was still in Fusa Kazuma’s custody, wasn’t it? When I tried to speak up about that point, Chen fluttered his palm to stop me, “Don’t worry about Fusa. If he ever shows his face in Tokyo, he’ll be collared on the spot. Just leave everything to me.” And then Chen thumped his chest. At that point, we each took out 50,000 yen from our pockets and placed it in front of Chen. Chen put it away with a smile and clapped his hands together briskly. Then Sun Wufeng came up the stairs carrying two bowls. When he placed them one by one before us, we saw they were just plain ramen—the cheapest kind at thirty or forty yen a bowl, containing only bamboo shoots and small pieces of nori. What a decline in treatment compared to the previous deluxe version! When we inadvertently exchanged glances, Chen said in a honeyed voice.

“Go on, eat it while it’s hot.” We grabbed our chopsticks, recklessly dumped ground pepper from the table shaker over our bowls, and began munching away. Noro had piled on so much pepper that some must have gotten up his nose—he let loose five or six massive sneezes in quick succession. Chen Genwan leaned back in his chair, squinting at us through narrowed eyes with that crafty old fox expression of his. I kept working my chopsticks, feeling like some mangy mutt begging for table scraps.

From that day onward, we lived in the same house yet hardly exchanged a word. We kept our conversations to the bare minimum required for daily life. In other words, we spoke only when necessary, omitting all greetings like “Good morning” or “Good night.” Noro went to school every day, while I worked frantically at part-time jobs to pay off debts. Though we had bought the house, I still felt no sense that it was truly my own. Not paying rent was about the only difference from before—everything else remained largely unchanged. However, Noro had begun keeping one dog and one cat. I hadn’t asked him directly, but knowing Noro, he wouldn’t keep them without practical reason. He likely intended the dog to guard the house and had undoubtedly assigned the cat mouse-catching duties. If so, unlike me, Noro must have developed a clear sense that this was his home. Now that I thought of it, his demeanor had grown more imposing lately, taking on an air befitting a landlord.

As for the rent, I paid 2,200 yen while Noro paid 1,800 yen - that 400 yen difference being what we called the "west-facing sun premium." By Noro-style logic, he should still have been able to demand those 400 yen from me even after its abolition, yet he hadn't said a word about it. Yet he still diligently collected his teracoin fee - one-tenth of my Sunday art class tuition - so he must have simply forgotten. That was quite uncharacteristic of such a shrewd operator. Though to be fair, since it wasn't even summer yet, calling it a "west-facing sun premium" at this point was rather nonsensical anyway.

Then there was another change since the house became ours—payment demands began arriving from the property tax division of the tax office, and collectors started appearing. As tax collectors generally came on weekday afternoons when Noro was away, it naturally fell to me alone to deal with them. The collector was a red-nosed man around forty who explained that three terms' worth from Fusa's era had accumulated, Chen Genwan hadn't paid a single yen, and therefore we should cover it all—though of course the house remained registered under Fusa Kazuma's name. Since paying under Fusa's name felt odd, when I told this to the tax collector, the amiable-looking man wore a troubled expression, muttered "Ah, that does have some merit," and hurried back the way he'd come. His serene and dutiful public servant demeanor was exceptional among postwar tax officials—someone you'd want to commend. Yet every time a demand arrived, I dutifully relayed it to Noro. Noro would just say "Is that so?" and leave it at that. Being the sort who balks at even sticking out his tongue when asked for something, he likely considered property tax utterly out of the question.

Since we began co-owning this house together, we hardly spoke to each other—but if you thought this meant we had grown indifferent, far from it; it was precisely the opposite. On the surface we adopted an attitude of silent dismissal toward each other and appeared to avoid all interference in daily life, but inwardly remained tense, our nerves razor-sharp to every move. That stood to reason. The weight of the house hanging over us had grown substantially heavier than before. Noro undoubtedly still had not abandoned his desire to monopolize this house and was likely lying in wait to exploit any weakness of mine at the first opportunity. Against such a Noro I too had no choice but to exercise meticulous caution. Our daily life crackled with such tension that it paradoxically gave us a reason to live. Having an opponent you couldn’t ignore under the same roof actually added a certain vigor to life.

The same psychological state likely held true for Noro during this period. He, who had little interest in art, had apparently slipped away to see an exhibition I contributed to—no doubt driven by such impulses. He must have been unable to leave it alone—wondering what sort of painting that guy had done. Had he stayed silent, I might never have noticed—but Noro had circumstances that made silence untenable. One day, Noro returned home and suddenly snapped at me with biting intensity as I was weeding the garden.

“You insulted me!”

“I didn’t insult you,” I retorted defensively, still not grasping the situation. “There’s no reason I’d insult you.”

“You insulted me!” Noro sprang up from the wooden floorboards. “You submitted that thing called *Landscape with Warts* to the exhibition, didn’t you? That’s my face, isn’t it?” “That’s absurd,” I countered. “How could it possibly be your face? It’s merely a Surrealist landscape painting.” “No—stop lying! My gut tells me that’s unmistakably my face.”

“Well, well,” I said. “A rationalist like you putting stock in intuition? How absurd. That’s my painting we’re talking about. Since I painted it, I’d know best. To begin with, the motif of that work—” As I launched into an explanation peppered with technical jargon, Noro lapsed into resentful silence. Art being outside his expertise, he likely couldn’t produce definitive evidence that it depicted his own face.

About two months after receiving the house sale transfer from Chen—that is, one day roughly a month prior— After finishing lunch, I peered into the entrance mailbox (which Noro had installed after we took ownership of the house) and found a sealed letter inside. When I picked it up and examined it, there was an address unknown sticker attached—meaning it was a return-to-sender letter—but upon seeing the addressee’s name, I gasped aloud. To my shock, the name written was “Fusa Kazuma,” and flipping it over revealed Noro Tabito as the sender. He’s scheming something, I thought as I carried it back to my room. What exactly Noro had plotted would become clear immediately if I opened the envelope and inspected its contents—but knowing him, he’d surely use the mail tampering as pretext for complaints, perhaps even manufacturing grounds to evict me. Yet leaving it untouched wasn’t feasible either. Torn between options, curiosity ultimately triumphed. Recalling Police Academy techniques, I devised a method to gently steam open the seal. I quickly boiled water and held the envelope over the rising vapor until the adhesive softened, allowing effortless opening. With my pulse quickening, I extracted the contents—a single flimsy sheet of red-ruled paper designed specifically for certified documents. Characters filled every inch of space. I began reading urgently. The text ran as follows.

“To whom it may concern: I shall come straight to the matter at hand. I presume you can infer the circumstances necessitating this correspondence; regarding the house registered under your name at ××× Ohara-machi, Setagaya Ward, through recent consultations with Mr. Chen Genwan, I have delivered ¥100,000 to Mr. Chen and am now to assume its rights. At that juncture, Mr. Chen disclosed: ‘Mr. Fusa Kazuma currently owes me approximately ¥180,000, and given his present disappearance, I find myself unable to transfer this house’s registration under my own name.’ However, Mr. Chen did furnish a written pledge stating, ‘All matters pertaining to this house shall be settled between Mr. Fusa and myself.’ Having accordingly remitted ¥100,000 to Mr. Chen, and being urgently compelled by property tax payment obligations to register the premises under my name without delay, I humbly beseech your understanding of my position and request that you forward your seal registration certificate immediately upon receipt of this document to facilitate the registration process. I must further note that Mr. Chen let slip in conversation that should you provide said seal registration certificate, he intends to let all prior matters be washed away by that single act. As your current residence remains unknown to me, I must apologize for the discourtesy of addressing this letter to your registered domicile.

“Showa 29 (1954), Month X, Day X Noro Tabito ㊞” And in the margin of that document, “This certifies that the present mail item was dispatched as Certified Content Mail No. XX on X/X/Showa 29 (1954).”

“Setagaya Post Office Director.” There was a black stamp firmly applied. I involuntarily groaned. I’d been certain he was up to something, but I never imagined he’d be scheming something this grandiose. Did he devise this himself, or had someone fed him this crooked scheme? Either way, his plan must have been to make an under-the-table deal with Fusa, the registered owner, get the property under his own name, and then use that as grounds to kick me out. For a fool like Noro, it was quite a well-executed scheme—I’d nearly been driven into a corner—but heaven refused to side with injustice, and at the final moment, this plot had been exposed. I wanted to crow Serves you right! and revel in his downfall, but with him still capable of unleashing who-knew-what schemes one after another, letting my guard down wasn’t an option. He might track down Fusa’s current address through some other method and initiate direct negotiations. As for that matter too, it would be disastrous if Noro were to find out I’d opened this letter, and it seemed best to feign ignorance about its return altogether. With that thought, I resealed the letter, tossed it back into the mailbox with an innocent face, and immediately began preparing to go out. I was out and made it appear as though I hadn’t seen the returned letter.

However, as I wandered aimlessly around outside, I began to feel uneasy about Fusa, and so—on a sudden impulse—I headed to the police station. I thought I would ask the detective who had come around with Chen the other day how things were going. When I inquired at the reception, that detective happened to be there. He was in a gloomy waiting room playing shogi with a man who appeared to be a colleague. He seemed to have forgotten me and was looking at me suspiciously, but when I brought up the matter of Fusa Kazuma, he finally spoke as if remembering.

“Ah, right. “It was you.” “Have you had any contact from Fusa?” When I explained that no, there hadn’t been any contact, but I’d come to see if there was any new information about Fusa, the detective tilted his head slightly and— “We don’t have any new information at the moment, but it seems he’s fled Akō again and is now in Amami Oshima or somewhere.”

That was his response. To flee all the way to Amami Oshima—that was unexpected! If he were somewhere near Tokyo, I thought I might go meet Fusa directly, get him to transfer the deed to me, and really stick it to Noro—but with him in Amami Oshima, there was nothing to be done. After greeting the detective and exiting the police station entrance, there I unexpectedly ran into that property tax collector.

“Hello,” I called out amiably. “How’s the collection going?” “Nothing to speak of.” The tax collector took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “With deflation crushing everyone. The payment situation’s downright pitiful.” “Must be grueling work, making your rounds.” “Well then—how about we grab a beer somewhere?” When I made this offer, the red-nosed collector didn’t seem entirely opposed and dutifully trailed after me. I led him to a nearby diner where we took seats and ordered broad beans with beer. At three in the afternoon, we were the only customers—the place stood hollow and empty. As I finished my first beer and moved to order another, he gave my sleeve a discreet tug.

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

It’s only human nature to want something at least slightly expensive when being treated by others, yet here he was wishing for the cheaper option—what an unassuming and noble character he was. Truly, he was a tax official of rare and admirable nobility for our times. So, moved by this, I promptly ordered two glasses of shochu and two omelets. He licked his shochu cup and asked me: “It looked like you just came out of the police station—did you get some kind of summons or something?”

“Well,” I said. “You must know about it—the Fusa Kazuma matter.” “Ah,” he replied. “The registered owner of your house. So what happened? Have you found his whereabouts?” He pressed down on his briefcase and leaned halfway across the table with sudden intensity. Though he’d been drinking shochu, I marveled at his undiminished professional zeal—and found myself abruptly wanting to confide everything to this tax collector and seek his counsel. This impulse stemmed partly from mild intoxication, but equally from a burgeoning trust in the man.

“This is actually how I came to know a man named Fusa Kazuma.” I proceeded to confide everything to the tax collector—starting from the initial pickpocket incident on the streetcar, through the ¥40,000 key money for subletting, Noro’s occupation of the house, Chen Genwan and Sun Wufeng’s involvement, and all subsequent developments—recounting each detail as accurately and exhaustively as possible. He nodded occasionally, interjected with questions, and brought his cup to his lips as he listened intently. Having explained everything so thoroughly in such detail, it took considerable time—so much so that when I finally finished speaking, the tax collector was already sipping from his fourth cup.

“So, what on earth should I do?” “Let me see...” The tax collector’s entire face had now turned the same shade as his nose, but he soon declared firmly, “There’s one effective method.” “There’s probably no other way besides this one.” “Is there really a way? What exactly is it?” “What exactly is it?” “Well, you see…” he said, tilting his glass. “Suppose Mr. Fusa Kazuma transfers the rights to Mr. Noro or some other third party.” “In that case, the rights will temporarily belong to whoever received them.” “But here’s the catch.” “There’s property tax delinquency here.” “As long as they don’t pay that, the tax office has the right to seize that house.” “Seizure due to tax delinquency, followed immediately by auction.”

“Ah.” “Therefore, there lies the method.” “Once it’s confirmed that Fusa has indeed transferred the deed, you must contact me immediately.” “When that happens, I’ll promptly initiate seizure procedures.” “Once seized, that person’s ownership rights become invalid.” “Then all you need to do is pay the full delinquent amount, and the house becomes yours.” “Well, that’s the gist of it.” “I’ll make arrangements accordingly for you.”

“Thank you very much for that,” I said, my heart pounding as I expressed my gratitude. “But do you really think government work moves along so quickly and smoothly?”

“That’s the issue,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “It might help if you provided some funds as expediting fees.” “Hmm. How much would that be?” “Well—say 2,000 yen for the section chief and 3,000 yen for the subsection chief. A total of 5,000 yen should make things proceed smoothly.” “If you prefer, I could even deliver it for you.”

“Is that true?” “That’s truly most kind of you.” “This saves me,” I said with a sigh of relief. “And what about you?”

“Me? “I don’t need any,” said this noble tax collector with a cheerful smile, waving his palm. “I’m merely speaking up for you out of sympathy.”

“I see. In that case, I’ll come to the tax office tomorrow with five thousand yen.”

“No, no—that’s quite unnecessary. Since you must be busy, I’ll come to you tomorrow around noon.” “I see. Your repeated kindness—” I expressed my deep gratitude and picked up the bill. The time was already 5:30 in the afternoon.

Then when I returned home, Noro was doing laundry in the kitchen with noisy splashing sounds, but upon seeing me, he spoke.

“Oh, you’re back.” His tone was uncharacteristically cheerful, but his voice sounded forced. “Where have you been?” “I went to see the old man in Hachioji,” I lied. “Around what time did you leave the house?” Noro inquired casually. Hmph, I thought to myself.

“Well... Since about an hour had passed after you left, I’d say it was a little before eight.” “Is that so?” Noro let out a relieved-sounding voice and then fell completely silent. He was trying to sound me out indirectly about whether that letter had been seen. I had smoothly told my lies and evaded him. Then I returned to my room and spent some time doubled over, stifling my laughter. When that bastard Noro receives the rights from Fusa, the seizure will come crashing down immediately, and the house will become mine. Even if he panicked now, it’d be too late to catch up. The mechanics of it were absurdly comical. Moreover, I was the only one privy to that mechanism, while Noro remained completely oblivious. Intending to drive me out, he himself is moving toward being driven out. I couldn’t help but laugh, now could I?

The following afternoon, the tax collector came by quietly. Of course, Noro had gone to school and was out. From the money I had set aside to repay my senior acquaintances, I withdrew five thousand yen and handed it to the tax collector. The tax collector wriggled his red nose repeatedly, grinned slyly as he pocketed the five thousand yen, then clomped back the way he had come. Approximately one month has passed from that day to now, yet there remains no clear development in the situation; the state of cold war persisted as ever, maintaining a state of affairs where only occasional minor skirmishes occurred. Noro still didn't seem to have tracked down Fusa's current address. There were indications he'd been making inquiries through resident registrations, but at present he apparently hadn't succeeded yet. Since Noro attended school fastidiously every day and handled matters only during his spare time, his efficiency naturally didn't improve much.

Speaking of skirmishes, I was thoroughly bested by Noro during the recent major cleaning. The ward office had notified us that this neighborhood's cleaning day fell on the 25th of last month, so on that day Noro and I each hauled out our respective tatami mats from our rooms and whacked them in the garden—not through cooperation, but in isolated efforts. With it being just a four-and-a-half mat room though, it wasn't particularly taxing work. After removing the mats, we laid newspaper over the floorboards and sprayed DDT before leaving the mats to dry outside—at which point I carelessly went out for lunch. When I returned from the diner, Noro had already carried his mats back into his room and sat puffing on his tobacco with an air of nonchalance. Following suit, I hefted my own mats into my room only to find they wouldn't settle properly into the floorframe. Assuming they'd swollen from sun exposure, I stomped and kicked them into place before sitting cross-legged in the room's center like Noro, smoking tobacco myself—yet something felt off. The mats had developed an odd murky reddish-brown tint. It hit me then—while I'd been out eating, Noro must have swapped all my mats with his own sun-bleached ones from his west-facing room. My insides boiled with rage at the sight of him calmly smoking across the way, but I bit my tongue. Without physical proof of the swap—and facing Noro's mastery of sophistry—any accusation would only lead to fruitless bickering over mere tatami discoloration. Lowering my half-risen hips back down, I fixed him with a glare—whereupon he turned away with a smirk. The sheer gall of the man defied description.

Then, there was the matter of the cat. The cat in question was one kept by Noro, and its name was simply Cat. Such a naming style was quintessentially Noro. This Cat would shamble into my room with an irksome tendency to sink its claws into my canvases. I had initially thought this to be the creature’s innate disposition, but upon closer scrutiny, that didn’t seem to be the case at all. It appeared Noro had secretly conditioned the cat to reflexively claw at any canvas it encountered. The man truly had a knack for devising underhanded schemes. Noro owned a canvas backpack, and one day when I returned from the bath and casually peered into his room, I found him cramming the cat inside and squeezing it tightly. The creature wailed in distress as it raked its claws against the canvas lining from within. When Noro noticed me watching, he turned to the cat and—

“Catch more mice. You’re not putting in enough effort! You thug of a cat!” he barked. This was a ruse designed to pass off punishment for not catching mice. That canvas backpack was the one I had painted a design on using oil paints back when Noro and I were still on good terms. How on earth could a cat possibly understand a command like “Catch more mice”? This must have been solely to make the cat remember the texture of canvas and the smell of oil paint—a rigorous training regimen he’d undoubtedly been conducting so it would immediately sink its claws in under those conditions. That’s why the cat would come into my room and, upon seeing an oil-painted canvas, become utterly absorbed in clawing at it. What a despicable form of harassment!

Therefore, compelled by self-defense, I too went out under the railway overpass in Shinjuku and purchased three bamboo backscratchers from a strange old man with a topknot. I had absolutely no desire to abuse an adorable little creature, but I simply couldn’t tolerate having my canvases clawed up. And whenever Cat entered my room, I would immediately grab the nearest backscratcher and bonk it on the head. Cat yowled and fled. After continuing this ritual for about ten days, Cat began darting away at the mere sight of a backscratcher. Even when going out, if I lined up the backscratchers and hung them from the lintel, Cat seemed to fear them and wouldn’t enter my room.

I had chattered on at great length, but truly, the numerous hard-fought battles from last spring to the present—as described above—could not be recounted without tears. At present, it remained utterly impossible to predict whether the final catastrophe would come tomorrow, a week from then, or whether the current standoff would drag on interminably. It was truly absurd. We two were fellow victims—indeed, even then we remained exposed to the same threat in a sense—yet our efforts were directed not at eliminating that threat and restoring peace, but solely at wounding each other. For instance, were Fusa Kazuma to sell the deed to a third party on Amami Oshima, or were our seizure arrangements to fall through by some chance, we two would likely have been driven out of that house by a third party, like dust before the wind. The two of us dug in our heels and persisted tenaciously against each other, but since we were both inherently self-centered and naive about the world, we were practically defenseless—weak to the point of offering no resistance—when it came to others. After all, given our history of being effortlessly outmaneuvered by Fusa, Chen Genwan, and Sun Wufeng—as easily as twisting a baby’s hand—whatever happened next would likely follow the same course.

Now, as for what would happen if this current state were to drag on indefinitely—there was one person who strongly desired precisely that. That was the landlord of our house. The area around our house was under a single landlord—a farmer-type man in his forties with bulging eyes. This man came at fixed times to collect the land rent, but every time he came, he demanded an increase. There was no need to consult Noro about this—I refused each time he demanded an increase—but this man wanted our standoff to continue. The reason he desired this was because, as I mentioned earlier, this house was a crumbling wreck—unless we promptly reinforced it, sooner or later an earthquake or typhoon would render it uninhabitable. As long as we remained locked in a standoff, any fundamental reinforcement of the house would remain impossible. At best, we’d only fix the leaks in our respective rooms and wouldn’t do anything beyond that. If that happened, the house’s collapse would come sooner. This landlord was fervently waiting for that time of collapse to draw even a moment nearer. Once it collapsed, he would surely not allow us to rebuild. He would either sell the land to others at a high price or, even if he permitted new construction, would undoubtedly demand an exorbitant key money. It seemed this landlord had spoken in such terms at a certain house in the neighborhood, and one day, the wife there obliquely advised me, hinting that if I didn’t hurry with reinforcement work, I’d be at a disadvantage. I too thought that would be better, but then again, my partner in this was Noro. Given how things had gone between us, I couldn’t bring myself to suggest something like restoring our friendship and uniting to tackle this together—and even if I had, Noro would have undoubtedly scoffed at the proposal and dismissed it outright. Our mutual hatred and harassment had already reached the realm of karma, having long passed the stage where others' words could reach our ears. It was all karma, but there was nothing to be done now. Let what must go go; let what must perish perish. With such tragic resolve, amidst the razor-sharp tensions of daily life, we lived each day.

Please have a good laugh at our expense.