Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Uokane stood on the riverbank of Kita Hatchōbori.
Occupying a corner facing the second block, it offered entrances from both east and south.
This rope-noren establishment served single-portion rice meals alongside drinks. Though modestly constructed, its thoughtful design and meticulous cleanliness created an air of understated elegance.
The kitchen fell under Kinsuke's charge while his daughter Oume managed the dining area with two young maids.

Kinsuke was forty-five.
He had formerly run a fish shop in Fukagawa, but when Oume turned eight, his wife died, and soon after he moved here and started this business.
He was a man of sturdy, thick-boned build with a ruddy, unapproachable face and an intensely taciturn manner—yet beneath it all lay a kind-hearted, sentimental nature.

"I consider profit secondary," Kinsuke would say.
The customers who came to eateries were mostly single people.
So they were starved for a homely atmosphere; while good food was preferable, they likely wanted to eat home-style meals made with care and desired that familial mood—this Uokane would be that kind of establishment.

It might be something anyone would think of.
Yet Kinsuke put it into practice and never forgot that resolve.

The daughter shared her father’s temperament, but having lost one parent at eight and thrust into this line of work—especially as a girl—she had been made to mature early.
Her features and build were both sharply defined.
Her height was around five shaku, certainly on the shorter side, but while her chest and waist still seemed somewhat unformed, they overflowed with both the suppleness of eighteen years and a subtle allure.
She had fair, fine-textured skin; a longish face with large eyes; and eyebrows that slanted slightly downward.
There was a mole beneath her left lip, and while pointing it out to customers, she would always say: "This here’s a glutton’s mole! Any man who takes me for his wife will be hounded by having to feed me forever—poor soul, I suppose!"

The earthen floor area of the shop had four dining tables that could seat five people each, and one small four-and-a-half tatami mat private room for sitting and drinking. On both walls hung no elegant calligraphies—one bore a landscape by Sakurai Akiyama, while the other displayed a hand-painted genre painting by Moronobu. Akiyama was a fashionable painter of the time, and Moronobu’s hand-painted work depicted a beauty after her bath; while neither piece was particularly valuable, they made for decorations ill-suited for such an establishment.

The two maids, Osome and Oyono, were both fifteen years old.
Osome had the better complexion.
Oyono’s real name was Chiyono, but disliking it, she had decided to call herself “Yono” instead—reasoning that it sounded more refined—and though customers called her a bluntnose shark behind her back, she herself always strove to behave as elegantly as possible.

Uokane was open from 5:00 AM until 10:00 PM.
Of course, customers only crowded in during mealtimes and from evening onward, so during other hours when business was slow, the maids could take breaks as needed.
Oume also only properly dressed herself starting in the evening; until then, her hair remained neatly combed down, and she served customers in deliberately simple attire.
That was because for customers coming solely to eat, being unadorned was proper.
This was because Kinsuke insisted on it.

The typhoon season had passed, and on a certain morning when autumn had suddenly taken hold—
After the customers had come and gone, a pale-faced young man abruptly entered.
He wore a striped hitoe with a sanshaku obi and had his hands tucked into his sleeves.

“Well, look who’s here! Mr. Naka, all by yourself?”
Oume grinned sharply. “Isn’t it awfully early? What about Mr. Roku?”

“—A bottle.”

The young man spoke.
He didn't even glance toward the girl.
Keeping his hands tucked in his sleeves, he propped an elbow on the dining table and sat there with a sulky expression.
Oume eyed him suspiciously—peering sideways at his face with a scrutinizing gaze—before speaking.

"You had another fight, didn't you? Coming straight for liquor first thing in the morning—how typical!"

"I said bring me the sake!"

The young man said while keeping his gaze averted.
The girl tried to say something back but—making a gesture with her right hand as if summoning someone (or perhaps signaling resignation)—headed from the curtained entrance into the kitchen.

The two maids were eating breakfast in the back; the shop had no other customers, and the light from outside reflected off the polished dining tables, shining coldly.
The young man twisted his face and clicked his tongue.
Then he muttered under his breath.

“Tch! So irritating—that stubborn bastard.”

The girl brought over a meal tray.

"There’s no side dish, but would you like me to prepare something?"

The young man remained silent.

"You used to like egg drop soup, didn’t you? Should I make some with nori flakes?"

"Don’t need that stuff."

The young man took the sake bottle from the meal tray.

"You don't have to shout," Oume said with sorrowful eyes. "You two can fight amongst yourselves without dragging me into it. I don't know anything about it anyway."

"I wasn't shouting."
The young man poured himself four or five cups in quick succession and gulped them down. "Just leave me alone!"

"Why do you two always fight like this? You might as well split up for good!"

The girl went into the kitchen.
Kinsuke had just gone out to buy groceries. Oume grated bonito flakes, toasted and crumbled nori, mixed the two together, and drizzled soy sauce over them.
Presumably what’s called nori flakes; then, while bringing dashi broth to a boil in a small pot, she chopped green onions, whisked an egg in a bowl, and prepared egg drop soup.
While diligently attending to all these tasks, Oume continued speaking to the young man.

“You’ve worked together four, five years now—sleeping and waking under the same roof, closer than real brothers most days—yet you still pick fights over the pettiest things. Though I suppose you’re just as much to blame.”
As she approached the shopfront, Oume said, “Basically, it’s Mr. Roku’s fault. Even though he knows your temperament, he doesn’t make the slightest allowance—he just can’t bring himself to yield.”

“Shut up! Don’t spout nonsense!”
The young man glared at Oume. “Rokusuke’s my friend! You planning to badmouth him or something?”

“I didn’t say anything bad—I was just…”

“Rokusuke’s a good person.”
The young man said while taking the bowl, “You don’t know a damn thing.”

Tears welled up in Oume’s eyes.
Oume left silently toward the kitchen.
That resembled the sorrowful, helpless figure of a girl who had been coldly rejected by someone she loved.
Such emotions were felt quite openly.
The young man drank two bottles of sake, ate a meal, and left.
Oume served him until the very end but didn’t utter a single word.
And when the young man had left, she slipped out into the street afterward and watched his retreating figure.
The young man walked with a deflated air, turning right just before Danjōbashi Bridge to follow the Echizenbori Moat.

When Oume returned to the shop, another young man entered as if on cue. With a rugged face covered in unkempt stubble, his frame was powerfully built and stocky. He wore a striped single-layer kimono secured with a flat sash, had one side of its hem tucked up, and draped a hand towel over his shoulder.

“Good morning,” he said to Oume. “Sorry to ask, but could you bring me some sake?”

“Welcome! Mr. Naka just left.”
Oume smiled with feigned cheerfulness. “You two quarreled again, didn’t you? Mr. Naka went and yelled at me out of nowhere—making me out to be the bad one when I snapped back. He’s become completely impossible now, nothing like he used to be. Just a little more and I—”

“I’m sorry, but could you stop that?”
He calmly interrupted.
“Nakatsugu is my friend. I’d like you to stop badmouthing him in front of me.”

Oume bit her lip tightly.
Then, clenching both hands tightly, she walked slowly toward the kitchen while muttering between her teeth.

“This always happens—what a farce.”

II

Rokusuke and Nakatsugu were palanquin bearers of the pole-carrying sort.
They lived in a back tenement housing called Yohee's Shop in Minami-Hatchōbori Nichōme.

Rokusuke was corpulent.
He was twenty-seven years old, but at a glance could pass for forty.
Stocky and hairy with oily skin, his thick eyebrows, large eyes, and the area around his nose always glistened with ointment.
His lips were thick yet neatly tapered at the corners—their shape surprisingly refined.
Oume of Uokane in Kita-Hatchōbori once claimed Mr. Roku’s lips made her want to kiss them.
Though her remark seemed calculated to fluster Rokusuke while needling Nakatsugu’s jealousy... his face remained buried in stubble.
The lower half lay shrouded in coarse black hair.
Yet he never shaved it.
Each morning he simply trimmed the growth to two bu—about a quarter inch—with scissors.

“Why don’t you use a razor?” Nakatsugu had asked him early on. “Why keep yourself so unkempt? Trying to put on some kind of act?”

Rokusuke smirked, then answered leisurely.

“There’s a reason for this—I can’t just shave it clean. Unless something truly extraordinary happens, this beard has to stay at this length.”

And then he stroked his chest hair. His chest hair was as thick as a bear’s. As for his shin hair, it was unbelievably dense. When summer came, two or three mosquitoes would always cry out within that thicket of shin hair. The insects would burrow in to suck blood, but the hairy undergrowth was so dense that they’d get tangled up and couldn’t escape. When in good spirits, Rokusuke enjoyed parting the hairs to let them free.

Nakatsugu was neither fat nor thin.
His complexion was dusky, with dashing features; though the same age as Rokusuke, he looked about two years younger.
He had a habit of slightly twisting one side of his lips and squinting his eyes as if through smoke.
When he did so, he took on a handsomely sardonic air.
Oume of Uokane had a crush on him—whenever she saw Nakatsugu make that expression, it felt as though a bird’s feather were brushing against her stomach, or so people said.
He was fastidious about cleanliness—using his razor meticulously every day, visiting the barber once every three days, and never wearing anything grime-stained.

Rokusuke’s movements were slow.
His manner of speaking was also unhurried.
Even when angry, there was no change in his movements or choice of words.
Even when truly enraged, he would only sulk and never raise his voice.

Nakatsugu was neither hasty nor ill-composed.
He was slightly high-strung, taciturn, and prone to anger.
When angry, he would shout vehemently.
Because he disliked resorting to violence, he would instead shout all the more fiercely.

The two lived in the seventh and eighth units of Yohee’s Shop, counting from the moat side. There were times when they both stayed in the seventh unit, and times when they stayed in the eighth. There were also times when they lived separately in the seventh and eighth units. When separated during quarrels, they wouldn’t speak to each other, wouldn’t work, and just idled around. However, this never lasted long. Neither had other friends or particular hobbies. They enjoyed shogi and fishing, but found these pastimes dull unless together. They usually reconciled within five or seven days—ten at most. Upon reconciling, one would move in with the other. Sometimes Rokusuke relocated to Nakatsugu’s unit, sometimes the reverse occurred. This required keeping one unit perpetually vacant. Landlord Yohee had initially been unaware of this arrangement until he once tried renting out a unit. Then the two stormed in angrily.

“You call yourself a landlord—is it right to go splitting a living tree like this?”

Yohee didn't understand the meaning.

"Think it through," they said. "We're together now, but if we quarrel again, we'll have to separate. If the neighboring unit isn't vacant then, one of us would have to go elsewhere—meaning you'd be splitting a living tree, wouldn't you?"

Yohee understood for the first time. However, from his position as landlord, he couldn’t leave even a single tenement unit vacant without payment. After discussion, the two men settled on paying rent for both units even when one remained empty.

The two lived simply and neatly. They took all three meals outside (mostly at Uokane) and did no cooking at home. There was no water jar in the kitchen, nor of course any pots or other cooking utensils. There was only a chest bought from a secondhand store, a small shogi board, and some cleaning supplies. Both were fastidious and never neglected cleaning. Since they didn’t use water, they polished surfaces with dry cloths instead—from the raised thresholds to the door tracks, pillars, and kitchen floorboards—all having acquired a fine luster from being diligently wiped down.

They waited at the crossroads on the north end of Kyōbashi.
Even on rainy days, if they went there, as long as the palanquin was available, the two would wait at that spot for customers.

The palanquin was rented from Kago Shō in Gorōbeichō.
The two had originally been employed by Kago Shō, but they did not take wealthy people or the nouveau riche as customers.
They did not take arrogant people or pretentious types as customers.
In short, their customer selection was far too strict—(on this point, the two were in perfect agreement)—so it became inconvenient for the shop, and they ended up having their boss act as guarantor to start a crossroads palanquin service.
The two were fastidious in their business as well.
Once they set a fare for a certain distance and amount, they wouldn’t take a single copper coin beyond that from customers.
When a customer tried to leave a tip, they would get angry.

“We’re decent working men—not like those highway vagrants. Don’t you go looking down on us.”

And true to their word, they still refused to carry wealthy patrons or social climbers.

They were indeed “honest folk” as they claimed.
They did not gamble, nor did they lose themselves to drink.
They very occasionally peeked into the pleasure quarters, but each time, they only succeeded in confirming their belief that they were not popular with women.
Among the women of the pleasure quarters, there were those who showed them genuine affection—there were often more than a few—yet the two men’s beliefs remained utterly unchanged.

There’s no way women would like us.

Nakatsugu and Rokusuke both believed this.
Therefore, no matter how much Oume of Uokane fell for Nakatsugu, he remained oblivious.
That Oume had feelings for him seemed to escape his notice entirely; he appeared oblivious down to the very tips of his nails.

III

“What in the world’s wrong with you? How long do you plan to keep lazing around?” Oume said. “It’s been nearly half a month already. You should just make up already.”

“I want to,” said Rokusuke. “I’ve had my fill of this. There’s nothing to do—I’m bored out of my mind.”

“Then why don’t you hurry up and make up?”

“Well...”
Rokusuke shook his head. “I do want to, but when I see his face, my tongue just freezes. And he’s bored stiff too—restless as all hell—but the moment he spots me, he sulks and turns away.”

“You’re both just being stubborn—how ridiculous!” Oume poured Rokusuke a drink. “What even started this fight? What was it this time?”

It was night.
Outside, it was raining; the rain that had begun in the morning continued to fall gloomily like a late autumn shower.
Uokane’s shop was quiet; aside from Rokusuke, there was only one other customer.
The customer, around forty years old, was drinking in the small private room.
He had Oyono pour his drinks, teased her while doing so, and was thoroughly drunk.

“I’m not just saying this to flatter you,”
“I’m not just flattering you,” the customer could be heard saying, “you’re the kind that men fall for—yes, being liked isn’t about looks, it’s all about the aura. Truly, I don’t deal in empty compliments—someone like Yono-chan here…”

“It’s a trivial matter.”
Rokusuke sipped his drink with a grimace. “Utterly foolish—too ridiculous to even let others hear.”

“That’s not entirely untrue.”

“Even so,” Rokusuke said, “grown men aren’t children—spouting nonsense about thunder beasts scratching people? Absurd.”

“Oh? Why?”
Oume said, “Thunder beasts fall with lightning strikes, don’t they? If that’s what they are, they’d scratch you good, Mr. Roku.”

“It doesn’t scratch.”

“But everyone says so! Even I went to see when lightning struck Ohime-sama’s mountain once—there was this huge sacred tree split open, covered all over with jagged, claw-like scratches!”

“It doesn’t scratch.”
Rokusuke said patiently, “It doesn’t even fall with the lightning. There’s no such thing as a thunder beast to begin with.”

“Why isn’t there one?”

“Why? Because there aren’t any—thunder beasts are obviously just made-up stories.”

“Oh, come on! Then who scratched Ohimesama’s sacred tree like that?”

“Who do you think?”
Rokusuke looked at Oume and made a deeply bitter face. “Why are you so fixated on scratching? Who in the world would scratch a sacred tree for what reason… Well, listen here—the truth is this.”

“I’d rather you didn’t ask,” said the customer in the small private room to Oyono. “Once people know my shop’s name, they start calling me ‘master,’ you see. I detest nothing more than being treated like some lord—no, really, I’m not just flattering you. It’s precisely because I want to drink at ease with someone like Yono-chan here that I come to this place. Truly, no flattery—let’s stick with ‘Iso,’ the ‘Iso’ written with the character for ‘fifty.’ As for the shop’s name… well, let’s just say I’d prefer you didn’t inquire about that, eh?”

Osome heated the sake and brought it to Rokusuke.
Oume took it and said while pouring drinks for him.

"Hmm... I don't think so myself, but then... who said that?"

"My father said it. My father knew everything."
Rokusuke narrowed his eyes and spoke gravely: "His trade was stonemasonry—as a stonemason, they said he was the most skilled in the area—but he read all sorts of books... His handwriting was excellent too. Even Priest Tanba would bow his head—that's how knowledgeable and clever my father was. He kept saying he wanted to write a book before he died, insisted he *would* write it. Seemed like it filled his head day and night. Always flying into rages or drinking himself senseless he was. At thirty-five... his stomach burst open and he died..."

“So he didn’t write the book after all?”

“He didn’t write it.”

“What on earth kind of book was he going to write?”

“Well, you see…”
Rokusuke cupped his cup in both hands. “What he intended to write—no one ever knew. But whenever he got drunk, he’d always say this: ‘What I want to write is here—’ and he’d tap his forehead with a finger. ‘It’s all packed in here, bursting to get out. All I need is paper, a brush, and time!’ And if you asked what he’d write? ‘Hmph—none of your damn business!’ That’s what he’d say. Even Priest Tanba would come by sometimes to ask about old lore—he always admired Father’s knowledge. But there was one thing he’d never accept: that gods and Buddhas don’t exist.”

“Oh, so you’re saying there are no gods or Buddhas either?”

“That’s right—there’s no such thing as thunder beasts, no dragons or demons or evil spirits, no foxes or raccoon dogs shape-shifting, no ghosts or vengeful spirits, no gods or Buddhas either. They’re all just figments of foolish human imagination—nothing but made-up stories.”

“Well then, your father must’ve been a real dullard.”
Oume heaved a performative sigh of sympathy. “Now I see why he was always flying into rages or drowning himself in drink.”

“So you’re saying my father was dull?”

“That’s right—if you realize there’s nothing out there, the world would be so dull, wouldn’t it?” Oume said while pouring drinks, “That’s all well and good, but you and Mr. Naka fighting over something like that is even more ridiculous! Honestly, Mr. Roku, you’re being so childish—picking fights with that smirking, good-for-nothing fool!”

“Don’t be so blunt tonight—is that any way to talk?”

"But it's true!"
Oume said impatiently, “He always has that sullen, unreadable face—like some good-for-nothing woman! A smirking silver trader, that one!”

“Sorry, but check my bill.”

“Oh, you’re angry again?”

“I’m leaving—settle the bill.”

“If you’re going to get angry, then get angry!”
Oume stood and said, “You’ve been quarreling for two weeks straight, yet the moment someone says a word, you’re all ‘he’s my friend’! If you care so much about friends, don’t pick fights in the first place! I’ll tell you this much—Mr. Naka’s just a smirking, good-for-nothing silver trader! I can’t stand the man!”

And she went off toward the counter.

“It’s really true—I’m not just flattering you.”

The man in the small private room said, “I’m completely smitten with you, Oyono-chan—truly, no flattery—I’d honestly love to weather life’s hardships with you. Yes, really.”

Rokusuke made an intensely bitter face, gulped down the remaining sake, and wiped around his mouth with the back of his hand.
Then, his thick, growing beard rasped with a gritty sound.
Oume came over here.
“That girl says awful things.”

Rokusuke staggered slightly as he stepped outside.

"What an awful girl."
He muttered under his breath while opening his umbrella, "Her tongue keeps getting sharper. She wasn't like that before—last year she was much gentler, even more so the year before... How'd she turn out this way? I thought she liked Nakatsugu... Makes no damn sense."

四

“What kind of feelings are these?” Rokusuke shook his head. “What state of mind is this, silver trader…”

It was the evening of the following day.

At the seventh house in the tenement, Rokusuke was drinking sake alone.
Of course there were no dishes or anything—everything had been delivered from Uokane.
When the two took days off work and didn’t go to the shop at mealtimes, it had become customary for Uokane to deliver their meals.
Today he had ordered more sake from Osome when she came to deliver and had already drunk about five gō of it cold.
But he wasn’t dwelling on last night’s events because of that.
Nor was he drunk and picking on Oume alone.
The words spilled out naturally; with nothing else to fixate on, life had always been straightforwardly compartmentalized.
He had made it a habit never to leave behind anything that might later irritate him or linger in his mind.
If thinking about Nakatsugu became unbearable, he had no choice but to engage with Oume’s sharp tongue.

“—You there?”

A voice sounded outside.
And a shadow appeared on the shoji.
This tenement house had no entrance.
It lacked any proper entryway with an earthen floor.
The six-mat room had shoji facing the roadside through which all comings and goings passed.
The waist-high shoji on the right served as the kitchen entrance, but whichever way one entered, footwear would be left outside—only moved to the kitchen during rain or at bedtime.

"—Are you there?"

Outside, the voice called again.
This time it was slightly louder, so Rokusuke answered, “Hey.”
After replying, he looked at the shadow cast on the shoji and called out in a loud voice as his expression relaxed.

“Open it and come in. I’m drinking here.”

The shoji slid open, revealing Nakatsugu’s face.

“You’re drinking?”

“As you see,” Rokusuke said buoyantly. “Come over here and join me.”

“I’m so pissed I can’t stand it!”

Nakatsugu stepped up, closed the shoji, came to Rokusuke’s side, and sat down.
He did appear drunk after all; his face was ashen, his eyes glazed.
With those eyes, he looked at Rokusuke; Rokusuke, in turn, stared back with a hungry intensity.
And, as if to prove their reconciliation had been achieved, the two laughed simultaneously—their eyes and lips curling in unison.

“Well, have one of these.”

“I’m pissed off.”
Nakatsugu said as he accepted the cup, “It’s so damn irritating.”

“What’re you so pissed about?”

“That damn Oume! That Uokane brat!”

“You hear what she said?”
Rokusuke pushed the cup forward. “Chug that one. C’mon—another... You heard her too, right?”

“That’s why I’m so pissed! She’s always playing the meek little kitten, but peel off that skin and she’s a hag-faced Yama!”

“Hag-faced Yama—she called me that?”

“You’re always growing that scraggly beard, you’re hairy all over from the chest down, and on top of that, you make such a scary face when we fight.”

“Wait a second.”
Rokusuke narrowed his eyes and said, “Surely… by any chance… that’s not supposed to be me, is it?”

“It’s about you.”
Nakatsugu tapped his knee with the hand holding his cup. “If it were someone else’s business, I wouldn’t be angry! It’s because she was talking about you that I got mad—because she said that stuff about you!”

“So Oume was talking about me, huh?”

“Hag-faced Yama,” she called you.

Rokusuke pouted.
He realized he had pouted.
Nakatsugu looked at his friend’s face and nodded—a nod that seemed to acknowledge the friend’s puffed-up expression of anger as entirely justified.

“What a ridiculous girl!”
Rokusuke said, “Since it’s come to this, I’ve got to say it—you badmouth me to her, then come complaining to me about her with that same mouth. Fine! I’ll go give her a proper talking-to right now!”

“So what if I badmouthed you?”

“You’re making a habit of it.”
Rokusuke wobbled to his feet. “I’m heading out to straighten her out.”

“What did she say about me?”

“Nothing worth repeating.”
Rokusuke averted his face and hauled Nakatsugu upright. “Women—they just blurt things out without thinking…… But this time I won’t let it slide.”

“That’s right—this one I can’t let slide.”

The two went out together.
Their staggering gait made clear how heavily drunk they were; outside, twilight had deepened into a tarnished purple.
Passing through kitchen smells and clatter from back entrances, past children clamoring in the streets, they reached Hatchōbori's riverbank edge where chilled evening wind rose from the lone stretch of bright water surface.
Uokane stood visible across the bank, but reaching it required circling three sides of a rectangular path.
With entangled steps they crossed Shofukuji Bridge, turned right to cross Shirauo Bridge, then immediately crossed Danjo Bridge.
In the blackening dusk where hanging lantern lights already bled orange hues, they entered Uokane's shop.
......Inside teemed with dinner patrons; no seating appeared available for two.
They wound between customers and ascended to the private room.
From their entrance moment, Osome and Oyono had been gaping and whispering.
Oume never looked their way.

“Your order is chicken and scallion skewers with salted grilled mackerel and rice, correct? Here you go.”

and so on—she was completely occupied with other customers.

“What will you have?”

Oyono came to take their order.
She wore an expression of suppressed laughter; when leaving after taking their order, she hastily covered her mouth with her apron.
The two men sulked and puffed out their shoulders even more.

The two drank in silence.
The sake had already become unpleasant, and they didn’t want to drink it anymore, but there was nothing else to do but keep drinking.
Customers were constantly coming and going.
In the meantime, a man who looked like a merchant, about forty-five or forty-six years old, came in.
The man tried to come to this private room but was told something by Oume and reluctantly sat down at the dining table.

“What’s that guy on about?”
Nakatsugu said, “He’s been coming here a lot lately—a strange bastard who spouts nothing but pretentious drivel.”

“Iso’s his name, they say.”
Rokusuke said, “He looked about forty last night, but tonight he seems five or six years older. Claimed to be some big-shot shop proprietor too.”

Nakatsugu snorted.
Rokusuke narrowed his eyes and brought the cup to his lips but frowned and set it down.
Before long, Oume brought sake over.
Oume quietly approached so as not to be noticed by the two men, placed a tray bearing a warmed sake flask and small dishes before them, gazed at them with mischievous eyes, and smiled as she spoke.

“Welcome. I’m glad it worked out.”

The two men flinched.
Then they looked at Oume, saw her smiling face, and both at once took on bashful expressions before nearly simultaneously bowing their heads lightly.

“Well, thanks,” Rokusuke said.

“Thanks for everything,” Nakatsugu said.
Because they had spoken in unison, Oume burst out laughing.
The two men also burst out laughing.

“We made you worry so much,” Rokusuke said in a lively, earnest voice. “I’m really sorry.”

Nakatsugu also said "I'm sorry," and the two bowed their heads once more. The moment they saw Oume's smiling face, they understood. Oume knew how to make the two reconcile. And so, the two played right into Oume's hands.

"Well, I guess it's not all bad after all."
Rokusuke muttered while shaking his head, "Even if they're women, you can't be sure they'll just spout nonsense without thinking ahead."

Five

The two grew cheerful.
The sake that had been cloying became palatable again, and they found they could drink it once more.
While enjoying the topics that had accumulated between them over the past half-month, they kept drinking even more.
Of course they were thoroughly drunk; though they normally preferred living with moderation and discipline, that night was one for casting restraint aside.

“I quite liked it—yes indeed! I heard from Miss Oume that friends ought to be just like that. No flattery now—it’s splendid! Truly splendid! Yes indeed!”

Rokusuke narrowed his eyes.
Before they knew how it had happened, that merchant-like customer called Iso had come and seated himself at their table.

“What’s going on here?”
Rokusuke looked at Nakatsugu and said, “When did this guy get here?”

“We’re going to Hakone.”
“It’s a direct palanquin to Hakone,” Nakatsugu answered with a slurred tongue. “With you and me—the fare’s five ryō.”
“What’s this about Hakone?”

“Now now—let’s have a good drink.”
“Everything’s settled,” said the man named Iso, “and I’ve grown quite fond of how close you two are. Been wanting to take a sightseeing trip myself anyway, so why not ride in your palanquin? No flattery—I mean it truly! Come now, let’s have a proper drink.”

“Makes no sense.”
Rokusuke shook his head. “Direct palanquin... five ryō... Hakone... Ugh.”

In truth, Rokusuke had become completely disoriented. The darkness, the lights of Hachiken, and flickering faces; the clatter of objects and voices talking and laughing seemed to grow distant then draw near again. And soon, they merged into a chaotic mass, soothing him like a lullaby as his consciousness faded.

The next day, Rokusuke suffered from a severe hangover all day long. His throat was parched beyond belief, his head throbbed as if splitting apart, and the slightest attempt to rise sent him reeling with vertigo that turned heaven and earth upside down.

Nakatsugu seemed to have gotten up early.
He would look after Rokusuke, go out somewhere, and no sooner had he returned than he would head out again.
During this time, Nakatsugu told Rokusuke various things.
Rokusuke couldn’t quite grasp it.
In his suffering, he couldn’t focus on anything else, but amidst it all, he managed to catch fragments of conversation—Hakone, five ryō, direct palanquin.

They say a hangover is cured when the lights are lit.
Whether it was true or not, Rokusuke’s hangover subsided when night fell.
It was only then that he first heard clearly about the trip to Hakone.

“He seems like a surprisingly decent gentleman after all,” Nakatsugu said. “Since he happened to be wanting to go take a hot spring cure anyway, he figured he’d let us earn some money as a reconciliation celebration for the two of us. He even said if we wanted, we could soak in the springs for two or three days afterward—that’s the deal.”

“Too good to be true.”
Rokusuke said with a sullen face, “It feels like receiving paulownia clogs for grime-covered feet.”

“But you were the one who agreed to it first, y’know.”

“Don’t joke around.”

“You agreed to it.”
Nakatsugu said, “We’ve been lazing around near twenty days and we’re flat broke—five ryō ain’t bad. It’s our first long haul, but let’s do it just us two without any relief bearers.”

Nakatsugu had already made the arrangements.
He had gone to the palanquin agency to have the travel permits made and borrowed some spending money.
Since they couldn’t ask for the fare upfront, they had borrowed two bu for expenses along the way.

“I was drunk and didn’t know nothin’. Even if you say that, I don’t remember a damn thing.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”
Nakatsugu sharpened his voice. “We’re supposed to meet at Danjōbashi Bridge tomorrow morning at five. I got the travel permits and borrowed funds from the boss. But if you’re saying you don’t want to do it, we can call the whole thing off.”

“Do not get angry—I am not saying no. If you are okay with it, then it is fine by me. I just thought the deal sounded too good, that is all.”

“I ain’t sayin’ we gotta force ourselves to go.”

“Got it.”
Rokusuke said exasperatedly, “I’ll apologize, so cheer up—and let’s head out tomorrow in high spirits.”

Nakatsugu said “Yeah,” but his mood showed no sign of lifting.
Seeing Rokusuke’s hesitation, he too felt reluctance creeping in.
This was work they’d normally refuse outright.
Truth be told, they disliked this Iso fellow, and five ryō seemed suspiciously generous.
Having squandered over half a month bickering—leaving them penniless—and lured by the rare chance to pocket such a sum, they’d taken the job on impulse. Now that they had, it only churned up fresh irritation and regret.

“This’ll be our first time beyond Rokugō.”
Rokusuke said encouragingly, “It’s like getting paid to go sightseeing—what you’d call a blessing of the trade.”
Nakatsugu merely said, “Yeah.”

The next morning at five o'clock, the two met the client named Iso at Danjōbashi Bridge and departed toward Hakone. Their mood was heavy, and when they had an early lunch in Ōmori, the two whispered to each other about how the client seemed to be carrying a considerable amount of money. They say you can tell by how it feels on your shoulder—fifty ryō or more is unmistakable. Though some claim even ten ryō gives a "thud," by the feel of it then, it seemed a considerable sum.

—About this much? Rokusuke asked with his eyes, holding up two fingers.
Nakatsugu shook his head thoughtfully and quietly held up three fingers.
And the two of them were assailed by an ominous premonition.

That day, they lodged in Kanagawa.
It was supposedly because it was the first day, but upon arriving at the inn, the client immediately entrusted the money to the two men.

“I’m not just flattering you, but there aren’t any thieves watching you folks,”
Iso said. “When I went to Kusatsu, I was carrying around two hundred ryō myself, but it was all stolen. Yes, that’s why I thought I’d ask you to take me to Hakone this time.”

And they were entrusted with the money belt.
Upon taking custody of it, they counted it just to be safe and found four hundred ryō in large gold coins and fifty ryō in small ones.
Of course they didn’t break the seal, but Rokusuke and Nakatsugu found themselves exchanging glances all the same.
The large sum of money not only dispelled the two’s ominous premonitions but also freed them from their gloomy moods.
He claimed two hundred ryō had been stolen from him in Kusatsu, yet here he was entrusting such a large sum of money without a second thought.
Who but a reputable merchant could do such a thing? Could any villain or shady individual possibly make such a grand gesture?

“People aren’t what they appear.”
Rokusuke said later, “Judging people by appearances alone isn’t right.”

Nakatsugu nodded and let out a satisfied sigh.

The journey became a pleasant one.
The client was—like a different person from when he had been at Uokane—quiet and hardly said anything unnecessary.
For the two men, nothing could have been more welcome.
They gazed at mountain and field vistas they were seeing for the first time, took interest in rows of houses and people’s unfamiliar customs, and were able to enjoy what Rokusuke had aptly called “a blessing of the trade.”
Though lingering summer heat still clung to the daytime air, it bore no comparison to Edo’s city center, and the wind that swept across them carried autumn’s full essence.

On the second day, they stayed at Nanko, a post town west of Fujisawa.

“Fujisawa’s where you take the path up Mount Oyama.”

On the night they stayed at the inn, the two men had such a conversation.

“Yeah.”
Rokusuke said, “There’s a famous red-light district there. It seems those who make pilgrimages to Mount Oyama look forward to enjoying themselves there.”

“That’s what comes after the pilgrimage,” Nakatsugu said. “Lord Dōryō’s a wild deity—if pleasure-seekers climb there, terrible things’ll happen.”

“Either way’s fine, but Lord Dōryō’s in Odawara, you know. Mount Oyama’s definitely got the Afuri Shrine.”

“Is that so? Huh.”
Nakatsugu retorted curtly, “So it’s the Aburi Shrine, huh? Aburi Shrine… What, do they sell roasted starters there or something?”

Rokusuke fell silent.
As with the thunder beast incident, Nakatsugu would immediately get angry whenever corrected about his mistakes or taught something new, despite his ignorance.
Though Rokusuke meant no harm, Nakatsugi's pride seemed wounded by such exchanges.
Ninety percent of their quarrels began with these debates; Rokusuke would end the conversation there, turn over, and go to sleep.

On the third day, they had planned to cross the Banyū River and proceed from Hiratsuka and Ōiso toward Odawara, but at a place called Hanamizu Bridge, an unpleasant incident occurred. Subordinate officials from the magistrate’s office were stationed on the road, and the client underwent interrogation.

“Where are you from and who are you? What is your occupation? Where are you going and for what purpose?”

They persistently inquired in a strangely accented manner, and Rokusuke and Nakatsugu too had their permits inspected.
The interrogation proved so relentless that the two men seethed inwardly, but Iso—ever the merchant—continued answering meekly and politely without cease.
......Thus they whiled away the hours, lodging in Ōiso that day though dusk had yet to fall.

The next morning, they left the inn at five o'clock and were approaching a place called Shigitatsusawa when...
There was a lush pine grove toward the sea, and a hall called Saigyō-dō stood there.
“Even a heartless being can know sorrow…” —it was said to be the very place where the monk Saigyō had composed that poem long ago. Just there, two palanquins overtook them from behind and halted, and from within emerged two men,

“Put down that palanquin!”

they shouted as they approached.
The shouters appeared to be officials; they wore hakama trousers, were neatly dressed, and carried swords.
The first was likely in his early thirties and had the bearing of a town official—his piercing eyes tinged with a bitter edge yet still quite handsome.
The other seemed to be a shop manager—a portly man around forty-five or forty-six with eyes crimson as if consumed by rage.

“You inside, come out!”

The official came to their palanquin and said, “Come out here!”

“What’s this all about?”
Nakatsugu snapped, “This client’s an acquaintance of ours, on his way from Edo to Hakone.”

“Shut your mouth! We’ve business with the one inside,” the official barked back, pulling a jitte with a red tassel from his robe. “There’s no escaping now, Tsumugiya Tōkichi. Step out without any fuss.”

As the guest named Iso tried to step out, Rokusuke arranged the straw sandals for him.
Then, the man behind the official pointed and let out a cry the moment he saw the emerging client.

“It’s him! This man! Yes, there’s absolutely no mistake—it’s this man here!”

“What do you mean by ‘I’?”
The client retorted suspiciously, “I am Yamashiroya Isohachi, who operates a Kyoto silk fabrics store in Edo’s Nihonbashi Makichō district.”

“Enough of this feigned ignorance.”

“No need for concern.”
The official restrained the man. “I am well aware that this wretch is Tsumugiya Tōkichi. We’ll take him to the station first. …Tōkichi, you’re under arrest.”

The official held the jitte up to his own forehead.
In other words, it signified the enactment of the law—a far more dignified procedure than presenting a warrant in modern times.
The client named Iso meekly bowed his head.

“Very well, I shall go wherever you say.”
He said calmly, “I believe there must be some mistake. If you would kindly investigate, the matter will surely become clear.”

“Stay compliant. Move.”

The official indicated the road ahead with his jitte.

“Wait a moment, please.”
Rokusuke said in a fluster, “We’ve been carrying this person nonstop from Edo—a direct palanquin to Hakone with a fare of five ryō.”

“Resign yourselves.”
The official started walking as he said, “This guy’s called Tsumugiya Tōkichi—not exactly bright, but unbelievably smooth-tongued. Makes him one hell of a swindler.”

“Swindler.”
Rokusuke widened his eyes. “No way... But... Is that true?”

“This here’s Yonemura, a clerk from the cloth wholesaler in Koedemachi—one of the victims this guy swindled out of a large sum.”
The official glanced over while walking, “You lot seem to be caught up in this too. Did you say the fare was five ryō?”

“However, there’s a bit of a reason for that, uh—it’s meant as a reconciliation celebration between us.”

“It’s unbecoming even for Edo palanquin bearers.”
The official smirked with sarcasm, “Whatever your reasons might be, five ryō to Hakone is an outrageous fare. For you lot to actually swallow that—now that’s what’s truly unhinged.”

Rokusuke wanted to splutter.
The official’s tone practically demanded such a response, and Rokusuke himself was indeed in just the mood to say it.

“What’s gonna happen then?”
Nakatsugu said angrily, “We haven’t received a single mon yet! We came all this way paying our own way, and now we’re stuck without even pocket money to get back to Edo!”

“Resign yourselves.”
“The punishment for falling to greed,” the official laughed. “You’d better be careful from now on.”

Rokusuke and Nakatsugu stood blankly, rooted to the spot.

The official and the clerk from Komenura left for Ōiso with Iso in tow (the two palanquins following behind).
It seemed there was a magistrate’s office over there; ……the two men here remained standing in a daze for a long time, their palanquin left on the road.

“Can’t be helped.”
At length, Rokusuke said, “Shall we head back?”

Nakatsugu nodded and went to the front pole, but there he turned back toward Rokusuke.
Rokusuke was also looking that way, but suddenly they both spoke together.

“You think badly of me.”

They spoke in unison.
Had Oume been there, she would have laughed, but between the two of them, it only bred irritation.
Both made faces and sluggishly lifted the palanquin.
Of course it was an empty palanquin, but the moment they lifted it, they felt a solid weight settle on their shoulders.

“Hey, isn’t this weird?”

Nakatsugu said.
Rokusuke also thought it was strange and said, "Yeah."
But at that moment, he let out a loud yelp.

“It’s the money! Right here—that customer’s money!”

Nakatsugi also cried out and frantically checked inside the palanquin.
Then from beneath the mat emerged that swollen money belt containing four hundred fifty ryō—solid and weighty.
The two men stared at each other in shock.

“Let’s go after him,”
Rokusuke said.

“But,” Nakatsugi retorted, “there ain’t no way we’d get tangled up in swindling!”

“Even if it curses us—hurry!”

They hoisted the palanquin and broke into a run.
Four hundred fifty ryō in pure gold—they could’ve slipped away with it all.
Though they’d come from Edo to Ōiso at their own expense and lacked even return fare, not once did “running off with it” cross their minds. Instead, obsessed with returning the money, they gave chase in a frantic rush.

About half an hour later.

The two men were walking toward the Hiratsuka post town, carrying the empty palanquin.
Both wore grins so wide their faces might split, their moods buoyant.

“This must be what they mean by turning calamity into blessing.”
Rokusuke said, “That clerk from Komenura must have been overjoyed.”

“The money was returned in full, wasn’t it?”
Nakatsugu said with deliberate coldness, “The money we’d given up on came back in full. This much is just a stroke of luck.”

“But you’ve got ten ryō now! Five ryō to Hakone, and it doubled! Steal that, and it’s a sum that’d cost your head!”

“No call to be shocked.”
Nakatsugu said, “Five ryō turning into ten’s just dumb luck too. And it all started ’cause you’re Ōiso, ain’t ya?”

“If it’s Ōiso, why’s that dumb luck?”

“Ōiso’s the land tied to the Soga brothers, ain’t it? Then that makes you five ryō turning into ten!”

“You bastard!” Rokusuke bellowed.

“Serves you right!” Nakatsugu laughed.
The horse bells on the highway rang out peacefully.