Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chapter 1-1

In the evening, with a drizzling rain shrouded in mist-like haze, Saburō was crossing Ryōgoku Bridge from west to east while crying. He wore a double-striped kimono with a narrow ogura-weave sash and a faded black apron, soaked from head to toe. Because he kept rubbing his face—drenched with rain and tears—with the back of his hand from time to time, dark smudges had formed around his eyes and on his cheeks. He had a stocky build with a round face and a head that tapered to a point.—When he had finished crossing the bridge, Eiji came chasing after him from behind. This one had a lean, agile build, with thick eyebrows on his long face and small, tightly drawn lips that made him look clever yet stubbornly headstrong.

As soon as Eiji caught up, he blocked Saburō’s path. Saburō kept his face down and tried to step around Eiji, but Eiji grabbed his shoulder. “Cut it out, Sabu,” Eiji said. “Let’s just go back.” Saburō wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sobbed. “We’re going back,” Eiji said. “Can’t you hear me?”

“I won’t—I’m going back to Kasai,” Saburō said. “The Mistress told me to get out. This makes three times now.”

“Walk,” Eiji said, jerking his chin to the left. “People are watching.” The two boys turned left at the base of the bridge. The rain continued in the same manner, shrouded almost soundlessly. “I really didn’t know,” Saburō said. “Last night when I was putting the flour bags into the storage cupboard, the Mistress told me to leave one out for kitchen use. So I left just one behind. But then that bag was left out in the open, and even though I returned it after she used it—she told me to put it away properly afterward—she’s saying I forgot to store it.”

“It’s a habit—just her habit, that’s all!” “The flour got damp—she called me a blundering kid who does nothing but mess up.” Saburō stopped and, while rubbing around his eyes with the back of his hand and crying, said, “I—I didn’t get it back. I really don’t remember that. I truly didn’t know.” “I told you, it’s just a habit! The Mistress doesn’t think anything of it.” “No good—I’m no good. Really just a blockhead, a slowpoke—I knew it myself. Can’t keep this up at all. Had enough.” Saburō choked out, “I’ve been thinking—maybe it’s better if I just go back to Kasai and become a farmer.”

The wide riverside street had samurai residences on the right and the Ōkawa River on the left; a little further ahead lay Yokomi. Two shabby-looking middle-aged men—unclear whether they were day laborers or porters—walked past, holding umbrellas full of holes and talking rapidly about something. The men’s bare shins protruding from beneath their workman’s jackets looked bitterly cold to Eiji. As he started walking again, Saburō spoke of the three years since coming to apprentice at Hōkodō in Kobune-chō—the relentless scoldings, mockeries, and slaps showered upon him without a moment’s rest. It lacked the force of a complaint; instead, it carried the weak, flat resonance of an infant’s prolonged wailing. The Ōkawa River’s waters occasionally struck the stone embankment as if suddenly remembering, making a low murmuring sound.

“Apprenticeships are tough no matter where you go—the Mistress’s sharp tongue is just a habit,” Eiji said haltingly. “And you—women are... they’re like carts from the get-go.”

Eiji touched Saburō’s arm, and the two stopped and moved aside toward the river. A man pulling an empty cart came from behind and overtook them. “Learning a trade is tough,” Eiji continued. “Think about it—even if you went back to Kasai, you wouldn’t be laughing from morning till night. Or do you think farming’s some kind of paradise?” “If it were my home in Kasai,” Saburō said, “I’d never be told to get out.”

“Is that really how it is?”

Saburō did not respond. Eiji hadn’t been expecting a response either. Saburō thought about his family home in Kasai. A grandfather with a bent back and asthma, a timid father and a mother more capable than any man and quick with her hands, a loudmouthed sister-in-law who quarreled endlessly with Mother from morning onward, three younger siblings, an alcoholic older brother, and five nieces and nephews. A dimly lit, soot-covered house—old and narrow, with the entire structure tilting to one side—and about five tanbu of barren fields.

Saburō was at a loss and, while sobbing, started walking again. “You’ve got a hometown,” Eiji said as they walked together. “It’s good you’ve got somewhere to go back to, no matter what home it is. But I’m all alone—no parents, no siblings, no one to turn to. This past spring, I did something that’d get me kicked out of the shop. Either get thrown out or leave on my own—ended up in a hell of a mess where I had to pick one or the other.”

Saburō slowly turned around and looked at Eiji’s face. Not out of curiosity, but with a bewildered gaze. Eiji confessed in a sullen, almost angry tone that he had stolen money from the cashier’s desk multiple times since last year, which had been discovered by Mistress O-Yu. “There’s an eel kabayaki stall that sets up by the moat near Ryōgoku Bridge,” Eiji continued. “Whenever I catch a whiff of that kabayaki, I just can’t help myself.”

Whenever he passed by and caught that smell, his stomach wouldn’t settle until he ate some. His mind wouldn’t settle, and he couldn’t focus on anything. It became like an illness, and at times even his hands and feet would begin to tremble. He would snatch coins from the cash box during those moments—since last autumn, perhaps twelve or thirteen times—but never thought he was doing wrong, driven solely by his craving to eat. It was this February that he was summoned to her room by Mistress O-Yu.

“The Mistress didn’t scold me,” Eiji said, grimacing as if chewing gravel. “—‘I saw what you did at the cashier’s desk on August fifth last year and yesterday. Stop that now. If you want something, I’ll give it to you—just come tell me,’ she said—and that was all.” Had Mistress O-Yu only witnessed it twice? Or had she known everything all along while feigning ignorance? Whichever it was, Eiji was mortified and felt he could no longer remain at the shop. He never considered himself a thief, but the sight of himself snatching coins from the cash box was so wretched and shameful that he couldn’t bear to remain at the shop any longer.

“But where would I go if I ran from the shop?” Eiji continued. “When I was eight, there was a summer fire in Ōgimachi—my parents and sister burned to death. Only I survived ’cause I’d gone fishing at Shirauo-gashi. Had no other relatives left. My old man said he came from Ise, but I don’t remember where in Ise—even if I did, couldn’t have relied on ’em. Back then, not havin’ a home didn’t even make me sad.”

“I didn’t know,” Saburō muttered. “I had no idea at all… So you endured it, huh, Eiji?” “I never stole money again.”

The two arrived at the Yokomi riverbank, where Saburō came to a stop, gazed at the ground, and scraped the earth left and right with the tips of his wet, heavy straw sandals.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said in an uncertain tone, “—when I was little, Mother hit me once. My kid brother did some mischief, but she thought I’d done it an’ whacked me. I cried an’ said it wasn’t me, an’ when she found out it was my brother, she just said all calm-like—‘So you’re sayin’ you never once did anythin’ worth hittin’ for till now?’”

“Women are all like that,” Eiji said. “They’ll pinch you with the same hand that just patted you, then stroke you with the hand that pinched—and forget both in a heartbeat. You calmed down a bit now, Saburō? We should head back from here.” Saburō uttered an indecisive “Uu.”

“Thanks,” Saburō said in a barely audible voice. “Sorry, Eiji.” “Don’t just run off without a word next time,” Eiji said. “From now on, talk to me about anything. I’ll back you up.” Saburō slowly nodded.

The two turned back. When they returned to Ryōgoku Bridge, a girl of twelve or thirteen came chasing after them from behind and called out while panting heavily.

“Take this umbrella,” the girl said, holding out the oil-paper umbrella toward them. “I’m supposed to take it to my sister’s place, so even though it’s the opposite direction—here, you both use it.” Eiji looked at the girl. The umbrella she held had holes in it. Her kimono was a patched old blue-striped garment; her obi frayed at the edges; the geta on her feet were worn-down adult-sized clogs whose stretched thongs left her mud-splattered toes exposed, patterned like a pit viper’s skin.

“Don’t need it,” Eiji said. “We’re headin’ back to Kobune-chō. Get movin’ already.” “How perfect!” the girl laughed cheerfully. “I’m heading to Horiechō—my sister works at a place called Sumiyoshi there. So I can walk you both all the way home!” “Shut it,” Eiji said. “Told ya we don’t need that damn umbrella!”

“But you’re both drenched through! Here now—take this umbrella already.” “Sabu,” Eiji said, “Let’s make a run for it.”

The two started running through the light rain.

“You idiots!” the girl shouted. “Fine then, both of you can stay soaked! Cowards!”

Eiji and Saburō were both fifteen years old at the time. The two soon forgot about the girl.

一の二

On February 15th of the year the two turned twenty. For the first time in their lives, they went out together to drink sake. This wasn’t their first time drinking sake; even before this, on celebratory days when alcohol was served at the shop, they had taken a sip or two from the cups. But going out and drinking on their own coin was something they’d never done. Half of it was terrifying, but it was also because Master Yoshibei had forbidden it. "If you drink before your body hardens, your bones will soften—don’t drink until you’re twenty," was his constant refrain.

Hōkodō was known for its high status and reliability in scroll mounting and sutra copying. Established clientele inherited from the previous generation, and five or six renowned calligraphers and artists of the current era. They limited their clientele to established antique shops, samurai families, and large merchant houses, refusing all low-paying work as a matter of policy. Consequently, the eight craftsmen were strictly disciplined, all raised from childhood there, taught not only reading and writing but also given thorough instruction in ikebana and tea ceremony, with even the discernment of quality in calligraphy and paintings imparted through real examples from a young age.—Currently at the shop were eight craftsmen: Wasuke, the head craftsman at twenty-nine; next Taichi at twenty-seven; then Jūshichi, Gorō, Eiji, and Saburō at twenty; below them Denroku at seventeen and Hanzō at fifteen. In addition, there were thirteen individuals who had left the shop to work on a regular basis or operate independent businesses of their own. When Hōkodō’s workload became overwhelming or special orders arose, suitable candidates from these thirteen would be summoned to assist.

Given that Hōkodō’s customs were structured this way, the craftsmen’s daily lives followed strict rules: aside from the fifteenth and first days of each month, nighttime outings were prohibited. Though those aged twenty and above were permitted one bottle of sake with their evening meal, not a drop more was allowed. It likely went without saying, but not everyone strictly adhered to this lifestyle. Work ended at five in the evening; no matter how much work had piled up, they would stop when five o'clock came, tidy up afterward, go to the public bath, have dinner, and then go to bed by nine—such were the established rules. The time before bed was theirs to spend as they liked—reading books, practicing calligraphy, playing go or shogi—but there were those among them who would sneak out of the shop to drink or visit pleasure quarters. Master Yoshibei knew of such things and usually said nothing, but when these escapades grew frequent enough to affect their work, he would finally issue reprimands; if their conduct still did not improve, he dismissed them outright. Within five years, there would be about two such craftsmen, and it was impermissible to even mention that they had once belonged to Hōkodō.

Eiji and Saburō’s hearts were fluttering. “Turning twenty feels strange,” Saburō said in a drawn-out tone. “I mean, even stranger than when I shaved my samurai forelock at sixteen.” “Yeah,” Eiji said.

The two wore thousand-stripe handwoven cotton lined kimonos, twin-striped haori jackets, Ogura-style stiff obi sashes, and hemp-lined straw sandals. It was just dusk when they walked east along the bustling streets of Kobune-chō, aimlessly. They seemed to be thinking they might as well head over to Ryōgoku Hirokōji. “You’re lucky, Eiji,” Saburō said. “You get to work on screens now—you’re already first-rate at fusuma linings. But me? I’m still stuck mixing paste.”

“That’s still work.” “I’ve been thinkin’—when I’m kneadin’ those cloth bags in the water, sometimes I just can’t take it anymore. Twenty years old and still stuck like this…” “That’s still work, Sabu,” Eiji said. “In scroll mountin’ and sutra copyin’, whether the paste turns out good or bad determines how the job finishes up. You ain’t gettin’ that?” “I know that’s true...” “If you understand, then quit complainin’,” Eiji said. “If you become Japan’s best at mixin’ paste, that’s still bein’ a proper craftsman in its own right. You aim to be Japan’s number one paste maker.”

“That’s how it is, but…”

However, if he was a Hōkodō craftsman, he’d want to master scroll mounting, screens, mansion fusuma and such. He wanted to say that—but Sabu couldn’t bring himself to voice it.

“Hey,” said Eiji, stopping in his tracks. Between Horiechō and Shinzaimokuchō ran a canal. Along its bank stood five or six small restaurants scattered at intervals, and at the farthest one stood a woman hanging a half-curtain from the eaves—navy cloth with “Sumiyoshi” rendered stark white in kana script. Her petite frame was slender; her upper arms bared by work sashes looked lithe; even the white shins glimpsed beneath the yellow Hachijō kimono with its tucked-up hem appeared delicate and supple.

“What is it, Eiji?”

“Sumiyoshi,” Eiji muttered under his breath. “Feels like I’ve heard that before.” “It’s a restaurant in Yanagibashi—Sumiyoshi. Ain’t that one o’ your regular spots?” “Nah, ain’t Yanagibashi. Heard that name somewhere else before.”

The woman who had finished hanging the noren stepped around the mound of salt at her feet and went inside the house. Eiji narrowed his eyes as if trying to summon a memory and pondered for a while, but finding himself unable to recall it no matter what, he clicked his tongue softly and said, “Ah, whatever—let’s go in,” then urged Sabu forward as they walked in that direction.

When they entered the shop, a man around forty was hanging a lit paper lantern from the ceiling beam. In an earthen-floored space measuring about three by five ken, two meal tables stood on either side, each flanked by built-in benches with rush-woven round cushions placed at intervals of roughly two shaku. The layout appeared designed to let patrons drink comfortably without overcrowding, even when busy. To the right stood a kitchen area with bamboo latticework, while at the far end hung another noren curtain—this one pale blue with navy characters spelling "Sumiyoshi."

“Was I too early?” Eiji, who had entered the shop, asked the man hanging the paper lantern, “Haven’t you opened yet?” “Welcome,” the man answered briskly, “Please come in.”

And facing toward the back, he shouted loudly, "Customers!" Eiji pushed Saburō’s shoulder, chose one of the meal tables, and sat down at the far end. Two women promptly emerged, touching their hair as they came out, and courteously greeted them while taking their order. They weren’t the woman who had hung the curtain earlier—one looked eighteen or nineteen, the other twenty-two or twenty-three, both slightly plump and giving off a strong scent of white powder and perfumed oil. Eiji ordered two bottles of sake with vinegared dishes and savory stew, turning red as he spoke.

“I know you,” the older woman said to Sabu. “You’re an apprentice at Hōkodō in Kobune-chō, right?”

Saburō looked at Eiji in bewilderment. One of the women went to relay the order, and the older woman sat down. "That’s not it," Saburō said, then hurriedly corrected himself: "No—actually, it’s true. Today Master and Mistress gave us permission to come. This here’s Eiji, and I’m Saburō. We’ve both just turned twenty this year." "Cut it out," Eiji said. "Don’t blabber unnecessary things." "Oh, there’s no harm in that," the woman said. "Sabu-chan and Eiji-chan—I’m O-Kame. Not a nickname but my real name. Pleased to meet you."

Saburō started laughing, and Eiji glared. “We wanna drink just the two of us,” Eiji said to the woman. “We don’t need pourin’—can’t you leave us alone?” “Then why don’t you move to the back?” the woman said without taking offense. “This place’ll be packed soon—you won’t be able to chat leisurely here. It’s cramped over there, but quieter. How’s that sound?”

“Yeah,” Eiji said, reaching into his pocket. “We ain’t got much.” The woman laughed and said there was no need for such concern, then stood the two of them up and guided them to the back. Beyond the noren curtain were three small tatami rooms, each about four-and-a-half-mat in size. The right side was the neighboring fence, with bamboo planted to hide it—though their sparse leaves had all shriveled brown, likely meant to take root—while the moss on stones placed here and there had dried out, parched and brittle.

“This one will do,” the woman said, ushering them into the endmost four-and-a-half-mat room. “I’ll bring the lantern now.” Though modest in size, the four-and-a-half-mat room held a hanging scroll in its half-ken alcove. A two-panel folding screen stood positioned to conceal the fusuma leading to the adjacent room, while glowing embers filled the square paulownia brazier. Since she herself had declared it her real name, there could be no doubt. Soon O-Kame brought in an andon lantern with its flame lit, followed by another woman carrying two butterfly-legged trays. “Is this really okay?” Saburō whispered anxiously. “What if we don’t have enough to settle the bill?” Saburō whispered apprehensively.

“Shut up.” Eiji said while hiding the pounding in his chest, “They know the shop’s name—even if they didn’t, it’s not like they’d skin us alive over it. Quit your worrying.” Before long, O-Kame brought the ordered sake and dishes, divided them between their trays, then said, “Just clap if you need anything,” before leaving. “Let’s do it simple,” Eiji said. “No passin’ cups around—too damn fussy. We’ll pour our own. Got it?”

“It’s fine,” Saburō said, gazing intently at the tray, “but I feel sort of... a little uneasy.” “What’s so scary?” said the third woman as she slid open the shoji, poking only her face through with a grin. “Oh dear—I thought you were the master from the riverbank! My apologies.” It was the woman who had been hanging the noren at the entrance. Her sharply defined, slender face tightened, and when she smiled, a double tooth peeked out from between her lips. Eiji suddenly turned away coldly.

1-3 “It’s not gloomy,” the woman said. “There’s no one here?” “It’s fine,” Eiji said, still turned away. “We don’t need pouring.” “It’s like a wake,” the woman said. “Or are you discussing something so bad you can’t let others hear?” Eiji turned around and said, “Shut up.” The woman started to smile slightly, but when she met Eiji’s gaze, her face tightened. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice and closed the shoji. When the woman laughed, her double tooth peeked out again, and it lingered in Eiji’s eyes.

On March 1st, Eiji could not take a day off. At Momen, a large exchange merchant in Nihonbashi Honchō, he had gone out together with his senior apprentice Taichi for paper matching and a preliminary inspection to replace the fusuma in the guest rooms. Momen was also an old point of pride for Hōkodō, where they would replace the fusuma once a year. Eiji had been going every year since he was thirteen as a junior assistant to Taichi and Jūshichi, becoming familiar with both the family and the servants. The master Tokubei was corpulent and large-framed, always reeking of alcohol-laden breath. He hardly ever appeared in the shop, engrossed instead in tinkering with antiques and composing haikai poetry. His wife was named O-Miyo—slender and petite in frame, with delicate features that gave her more the air of a back-alley proprietress than the mistress of a grand establishment. They had no sons—just two daughters named Okimi and Osono, two years apart in age. Both were renowned for their beauty, but the elder sister took after her father in her ample build and easygoing nature. The younger sister had a slender build with a narrow face, spoke with precocious wit, and moved with nimble efficiency.

Momen was a corner establishment, with two storehouses standing in front. Separate from the two-story shop, across the courtyard, there stood a single-story residence. The residence had a gate to the side, with the entrance at the front. Following the thick fireproof earthen wall to the right, there stood a roofed well with a pulley ahead, and on the left side before it lay the service entrance. It was not a kitchen but a place where family members, close guests, various merchants, and craftsmen came and went. Being a household with many visitors, there was a single young apprentice who also served as the footwear attendant. In the six-tatami space at the entranceway, he was beating hemp bags filled with small gold coins and koban against a wooden board. It was a monotonous, mindless motion—lifting the bag only to drop it onto the board—but by doing so, minuscule amounts of gold would adhere to the hemp. After a set period, burning the bags would yield the accumulated gold dust, or so they said. They probably didn’t do this at the shop to avoid being caught by officials, but since exchange merchants everywhere engaged in such practices, when Eiji heard about it, he had felt intense contempt—that such a grand establishment would stoop to such penny-pinching ways.

Carrying the sample paper bundle when ushered into the tatami room alongside Taichi was Osue—a mid-ranking maid of about fifteen or sixteen—who brought tea and sweets. Eiji had not come to this house either last year or the year before that but until three years prior had visited annually; he had grown close with both daughters and known Osue well. “It’s been some time,” Osue greeted him before turning her gaze toward Eiji. “My—haven’t you grown so much? At first glance I nearly didn’t recognize you.”

“Cut it out,” Taichi said with a laugh. “Poor guy’s actually turned twenty already.” “I’m sorry.” Osue flushed red. “I meant to say I’d grown up proper-like, but my tongue just slipped.” Eiji too turned red, yet kept his eyes from looking toward Osue. “How old are you now, Osue?” “Sixteen,” Osue answered Taichi. “But being so small-like, folks say I look twelve or thirteen—they tease me something awful about it. It’s mortifying.”

A person stood in the hallway and peered this way. It was the older sister of this household, but then another person—the younger sister—happened to pass by, poking only her head out from behind her sister to peek, and said, “Oh, it’s Eiji-chan!” The elder sister remained still, but the younger sister Osono came bounding into the tatami room, sat down with a thud in front of Eiji, and fixed her large eyes intently on him. Osue nodded politely and left; Eiji glimpsed her retreating figure out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh my goodness—it’s you, Eiji!” Osono said with a glowing face. “You’ve gotten so big! I was shocked!” Taichi smirked with only his lips moving. “I was just told the same thing.” “Eiji,” Osono said, ignoring Taichi and keeping her eyes fixed on his, “do you know who I am?” “It’s Osono-san,” Eiji replied. “It’s not like we haven’t met for years—I just haven’t come here for two years, that’s all.”

“I’ve grown up too, haven’t I?” “Hello,” Eiji called out to Okimi in the hallway. “It’s been a while.”

Okimi nodded gently and said slowly, “Welcome.”

1-4 Just then, Master Tokubei entered, and Taichi spread out the paper samples. Tokubei still had alcohol-laden breath.

“Come here, Eiji,” Osono said. “There’s something I want to show you.” “Sono-chan,” Okimi called from the hallway. “Hey Papa, it’s fine right?” Osono said in a nasal voice to her father. “There’s something I want to show Eiji. You don’t mind him coming over there?” Her sister admonished her again with “Sono-chan,” while Tokubei waved his hand dismissively. “Quit nagging. Do what you want,” he said. Eiji looked to Taichi for rescue, but Taichi—without even smiling—jerked his chin in a go-on gesture.

“Come on, Eiji,” Osono said, taking his hand. “Hey, hurry up.” It’s just like back then, Eiji thought. Whenever he came there for work with his senior apprentices, he would inevitably get caught by these sisters and be made to play with them. Since replacing the fusuma was an annual December task—with its trivial pastimes like karuta cards, battledore and shuttlecock, beanbag juggling, and marbles—having to play with girls even felt humiliating back then. However, since this involved an important client, and because his senior apprentices told him to do it, he couldn’t refuse. While reluctantly going along with it, he became the best at every game, and the competitive Osono would often get frustrated and cry.

The place he was taken to was the sisters' room, where two chests each stood alongside display shelves holding dolls and such, a koto, a shamisen, a tea utensil chest containing tea ceremony implements, and a vermilion-lacquered clothing rack—all bathed in the vibrant colors befitting young women's quarters, the air thick with perfumed incense.

“I turned sixteen, you know,” Osono said, kneeling before her chest of drawers. “So I had another yuzen furisode made—isn’t it pretty?” Then she opened one of the drawers, took out the garment from within, and handed it to Eiji with both hands as though presenting something precious. “Unfold it and see,” Osono said. “It’s a pattern called ‘A Thousand Grasses of the Four Seasons.’ I had it dyed at Kyoto’s Tamaruya.” “Mine has a hem pattern,” her elder sister Okimi said from beside them. “I’ll show you mine too.”

“Later,” Osono snapped. “You’re always copying me, Sis. Don’t interfere.” Eiji spread out the kimono and said it was beautiful. Given that they were daughters of such a prominent wealthy family, something like Kyoto-dyed yuzen should have been nothing special, yet in their very act of going out of their way to call someone over to show it off, the sisters’ unpretentious nature—so typical of downtown kids—was clearly evident. Okimi, the elder sister who had been rebuked by her younger sister, opened her own chest of drawers calmly without showing displeasure. She had likely intended to show her hem pattern, but Osono moved faster—“I’ll show you my obi this time!” she declared—and the moment she opened the lower drawer, she screamed, leapt up, and clung to Eiji with both arms.

“It’s scary!” Osono clung to Eiji and shouted, “A mouse! There’s a mouse here!”

Okimi stepped back in surprise as Eiji tried to free himself from Osono’s grip. But Osono clung with astonishing strength, making it impossible to shake her off immediately. “You need to let go,” Eiji insisted. “I can’t chase the mouse like this.” “No! I’m terrified!” Osono tightened her hold further. “I can’t breathe!” “I have to drive it out.” Eiji finally wrenched himself free and pushed Osono aside. “You too, Okimi-san—step back.”

He peered into the drawer but found no trace of a mouse. Sliding his hand inside, he lifted each stacked obi one by one and felt all the way to the bottom, yet discovered neither rodent nor even a single insect. Eiji rearranged the drawer’s contents, stood up, and fixed Osono with a glare. Okimi hugged her chest with both hands, gazing up at him with fearful eyes. “It’s true—I’m not lying,” Osono said, squinting away from Eiji’s stare. “When I tried to take the obi, it was right there crouching! It tried to bite me!”

Eiji was about to say something when his name was called from the hallway; turning around, he saw Osue there. “Taichi-san is calling for you,” Osue said without looking his way. “He says to come take the measurements.” Eiji nodded at this, then turned to Osono and pointed at the drawer crammed with obi sashes. There wasn’t space for even the tiniest mouse to crouch there—he must have meant to demonstrate that. Osono gave a light shrug and said:

“But it was there, really! Crouching like this, trying to bite me, baring its teeth like that!” Osono struck such a pose, but Eiji left without saying a word.

1-5

Having finished his task, Eiji exited through the kitchen entrance first. Carrying a bundle containing sample papers and the measurement notebook, he stepped through the lattice door and saw Osue. She had been standing by the well; now she ran toward him as if she'd been waiting, smiling while gazing into his eyes. Her eyes held a desperate, anguished light, and her smile twisted as if holding back tears.

“Please forgive me for earlier.” “What’re you on about?” Eiji shot back. “About what I said—about you growing up,” Osue said without averting her gaze, “I truly meant to say you’ve become splendid.” “Forget it.” Eiji shifted his bundle’s weight as he added, “Ain’t mad about that.” “Really?” Osue whispered, tears spilling over. “I’m glad.” “What’s with you? That’s nothing worth fussing over.”

“I was thirteen when I first met Eiji-san, but I remember thinking he was a short-tempered, scary person.” Eiji started to say something and flushed red, then spoke in a gruff tone: “I remembered you too.”

Osue said “Thank you” in a whisper, then turned on her heel and hurried away. Eiji did not look that way. His face remained red, and his chest heaved visibly as he took deep breaths.

“Eiji,” a voice called. “Hey.”

Taichi was peering out from inside the lattice door. Eiji, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong, went over there in a fluster. “Go on back ahead of me,” Taichi said. “Gotta keep the master company drinking—it’s a drag, but what can you do? Tell the boss I said so.” In the six-mat space at the upper end, the apprentice was still laboriously pounding hemp sacks against the boards. Eiji nodded to Taichi and left there.

“Grown up, huh?” As he walked along the road, Eiji murmured softly and smiled. “You’ve gone and grown up too—but your build and face haven’t changed a bit since back then. You’re exactly like when you were thirteen.” He wondered if girls truly became young women in both face and body once they turned thirteen—what a strange thing—and smiled again. When he returned to Kobune-chō, the shop was closed for the holiday. Eiji entered through the side gate. There in the narrow vacant lot at the rear, Saburō was preparing paste. He had tucked up his hem and donned a work sash. Seated on a small stool before a barrel roughly the size of a five-shō cask, he thrust both hands into the barrel and began kneading. He kneaded wheat flour thoroughly with water until white liquid seeped out when pressed through cloth. After letting it settle, he stored it in jars buried halfway in shaded soil. For scroll mounting and folding screen backings, only paste made this way could be used—a process requiring two to three years of maturation in those jars.

“Sabu, what’s wrong?” Eiji called out as he approached, “Ain’t today supposed to be a day off? What’re you doing? And comin’ out to some back lot like this? Huh?”

Saburō neither answered nor turned around. Eiji noticed his profile was wet. “What’s wrong?” Eiji lowered his voice. “Did something happen?” “Ain’t nothin’.” Saburō shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ at all.” “You’re cryin’, ain’t ya?”

“I ain’t cryin’,” Saburō said, rubbing his eyes with his arm. “The flour got in my eyes when I was kneadin’.”

Eiji continued staring at Saburō’s profile, but Saburō did not turn around. “I thought we could go somewhere together,” Eiji said, “so I rushed back. But if you’ve started that already, it’s no good.” Once the kneading began, you couldn’t let go until it was stored in jars. Eiji wanted to go drinking with Saburō and talk about Osue. He didn’t even know what exactly he wanted to say—he just felt he wouldn’t settle down unless he said something.

“It’s fine—go on without me.” Saburō said while kneading the bag with flour-whitened hands, “You don’t have to worry about me.” “Don’t talk nonsense—you think I can just leave you to handle this alone?” Eiji said. “If you’re working, I’ll work too. I brought the measurements from the cotton-patterned fusuma, so I might as well start aligning the paper. Why don’t you come work in the workshop instead of staying out here?” “I’m fine right here.” Saburō said in a choked voice, “Just leave me alone.”

And suddenly, thrusting both hands into the bucket and crouching forward, he began to cry, stifling his voice. “What in the world’s wrong with you, Sabu?” Eiji said, crouching down close. “Can’t even tell me?”

“Leave me alone,” Saburō sobbed, turning his face away, “There’s really nothin’ wrong—please just let me be.”

“Is that really okay?”

Saburō nodded vigorously. The way his stocky frame hunched forward and his round head gave a firm nod seemed guilelessly earnest and childlike, and Eiji thought to himself what a pitiable fellow he was.

二の一

The two went to "Sumiyoshi" in Horie-chō on April 15th, two months later. Since they had gone out after dinner, the shop already had its lights on with five or six customers present. The woman named Okame whom they had met before likely forgot about Eiji and Saburō upon seeing them; she said "Welcome" but stayed put, continuing to tend to customers. Eiji hesitated momentarily. The customers were all middle-aged regulars of the establishment; feeling out of place, they couldn't determine where to sit. Then from beyond the noren curtain at the earthen floor's far end emerged the same young woman who had peeked into the private room before—spotting Eiji and Saburō, she widened her eyes in surprise, clapped her hands sharply, and came darting over.

“Welcome,” the woman said. “I knew you two! The private room from last time would be best, right? Come on in.” With those words, she spun around and disappeared back through the noren curtain. Eiji exchanged a glance with Saburō and followed after the woman. The woman entered the usual small private room, arranging zabuton cushions, bringing out a tobacco tray, and setting up a small folding screen. “Don’t rush around so much,” Eiji said as he stepped up into the room. “It’s too damn dizzying to handle.”

“Everyone says that,” the woman said with a shrug. “Sake and side dishes—what would you like for sides?” “We’ve already eaten—just bring two or three light things.” “Exactly like back then,” she looked at Eiji, then Saburō. “I might not have recognized you separately, but together it clicked right away. Wait—no—after you left last time is when I realized. ‘Ah—those were them,’ I thought.”

“Shut it,” Eiji frowned. “Just hurry up and put in our order already.” “That ‘Shut it’,” the woman said, thrusting her face toward Eiji. “—You don’t remember me?” “I know you look alike.” “When you say ‘alike,’ it’s not me—” Eiji recalled the comment about resembling Osono and a mouse about to bite, nearly laughing. “Oh my, how cold!” she said, going to place the order.

“The side dishes will be right out,” said the woman who had returned with only the sake. She placed a single tray between the two men, took up the heated sake flask, and while pouring for Saburō, looked at Eiji. “—Still don’t remember me?” As Eiji held his sake cup and said, “Shut up,” the woman clapped her hands together sharply again. “That’s it—that ‘Shut up’!” the woman pressed urgently. “At Ryōgoku Bridge—you said it to me, didn’t you? ‘Shut up.’”

“Ah,” Saburō said in a drawn-out tone, nodding while still holding his sake cup, “—It’s the umbrella.” “The umbrella,” the woman said. “Five years ago,” Saburō said. “Right—it was rainin’, an’ you had that umbrella full o’ holes.” “That’s right—exactly.” “What’s this about?” Eiji asked. “Look, five years back I—” Saburō began, then trailed off. “We walked from Higashi-Ryōgoku clear to Yokozuna, didn’t we? Soakin’ wet all the way.”

Eiji turned toward the woman there with eyes like someone just waking from sleep. "Ah right," he said. "There was some brat back then naggin' us to take an umbrella—that was you?" "The name's O-Nobu." The woman grinned—showing double teeth—and bowed. "Pleased t'make your acquaintance."

“I’m Eiji, and this here’s Sabu,” he said. “Back then you were such a shrimp I couldn’t place you—grown some, though.” Eiji smirked with a vindictive sort of feeling all his own. “—I remember those snaggletooth.” “Oh my, you’re being mean!” O-Nobu covered her mouth with one hand while glaring at Eiji, then poured sake for Sabu. “They say these double teeth’ll fall out—I’m eighteen now, right? They say they’ll drop when I turn twenty.”

“Eighteen, huh—still a shrimp for your age.”

“Pretty,” Saburō said in a conciliatory tone. “Really pretty.” “I’ll go bring the side dishes, then,” said O-Nobu.

When O-Nobu left, Saburō tried to pour sake for Eiji. Eiji refused it and took a sip himself.

“Still can’t get it outta my head,” Eiji said in a low voice, eyes fixed on the wall’s edge. “—What really went down on the first of last month?” Sabu jolted like he’d been burned, shielding his eyes from some unseen glare as his head sank low.

“You can tell me now, can’t you?”

“I was wrong back then,” Saburō muttered under his breath. “I think I was wrong to make you worry, Eiji—and so I’ve been thinking…”

“Cut it out.” Eiji cut him off. “Every time you get to thinkin’, you just backtrack. Spit out what’s important.”

“Yeah,” Saburō nodded, took a sip of sake, and said, “That day, Miss Mitsu came by.”

Part 2-2

Omitsu was the daughter of Hōkodō. She was nineteen this year and had married into Sawamura, a comb shop in Nihonbashi Hikawamachi, last spring. Yoshibei and his wife had two children. Their younger son Yoshijirō was now fifteen years old, but due to his frail constitution, he had been placed with a farm family in the Tamagawa area. The farm family called Heizaemon owned considerable farmland and was related by marriage to his wife O-Yu, with whom they would visit each other once a month. Omitsu was not particularly good-looking and had strong personal likes and dislikes even while living at home; she would nitpick the craftsmen’s work and tattle to her parents about things that never happened. Yoshibei and his wife knew this disposition of hers well, so they generally dismissed Omitsu’s tattling. Yet this very dismissal likely fueled her obstinate nature instead—even after marrying out, she remained full of grievances, frequently returning to her parents’ home to vent at everyone.

“As soon as she came back, she looked at me and said, ‘You shouldn’t be idling just because it’s a day off.’” Saburō gave a bitter smile. “—‘You’re learning a trade while eating another’s rice. If you felt any gratitude at all, you’d know there ought to be work even when the shop’s closed. Not one grain comes free,’ she said.” “Don’t go on,” Eiji cut him off. “You know Miss Mitsu’s temper—she likely fought someone in Hikawamachi again and took it out on you. Quit dwelling on it.”

“You might be fine with that,” Saburō said, “but I was born a bungler. When someone tells me not a single grain of rice comes free—me, still stuck mixing paste after all this time…” “Don’t talk nonsense—we’re not freeloading off free meals here,” Eiji said in a tone of forced anger. “Sure, we’re getting trained in a trade, but it’s not like we’ve been idling around. Since we were kids, we’ve cracked our hands and feet raw, sweating buckets while being worked to the bone. Hōkodō only keeps running because of us craftsmen! Get a grip, Sabu aniki.”

O-Nobu brought the side dishes, said she wanted to pour drinks, entered the tatami room, and sat down between the two men while removing her work sash. “Just now I remembered,” Eiji said, looking at O-Nobu. “—Didn’t you say back then that your sister was here?” “Yes, I was just about to deliver an umbrella to my sister.”

“Is she still here?” “She died,” said O-Nobu, shaking her head. “Don’t ask about my sister—she died in such a pitiful way. If I talk about it now, I’ll start crying. Here—have another.”

“Your place is in Honjo, right?” Saburō asked.

“Yes, Koizumi-chō.” O-Nobu poured sake for Eiji, then for Saburō. “Don’t let me talk about my family either—it’s such a miserable life I can’t even let people hear about it. Honestly, there’s not a day I don’t think about running away from home and becoming a beggar or something.” “Cut it out with that talk,” Eiji said. “You’re the one who said not to ask about yourself.” “You’re right.” O-Nobu shrugged small shoulders. “I’m sorry—here, let me pour.”

“Those double teeth are cute.” After taking a sip of sake, Saburō gazed at O-Nobu’s lips with a dazzled look. “I think you should leave those double teeth as they are,” he said. “I’m not pulling them out—they fall out naturally.” “How come?” “Oh, you don’t know?” O-Nobu’s eyes widened. “They say double teeth are extra ones that grew out of order. So they get pushed aside naturally and fall out someday.”

“If they don’t come out, you’ll end up with a hole in your lip. Drink up, Sabu,” Eiji said hurriedly.

“Did I say something wrong?” O-Nobu looked at Eiji. “It’s fine—nothing like that happened,” Saburō said with a good-natured smile. “Eiji was just worried I might take it to heart. I’m used to it—no matter what anyone says, I don’t let it bother me. If my lip’s going to get a hole anyway, better those double teeth fall out.”

“I don’t understand any of this—it feels like I’m being mocked,” said O-Nobu. “My bad, let’s change the subject,” said Eiji as he held out a cup to her. “Why don’t you have one too?”

“I’m strong with drink.” “Fine then, go bring another cup.”

“I’ll bring it right now.” Returning the offered cup, O-Nobu stood up. “But it’s still early—don’t let us drink too much, okay?” “Our pockets can’t keep up,” Eiji said to O-Nobu’s retreating figure. “Same goes for stuffing your own belly.”

O-Nobu stepped down to the earthen floor, then turned back and said while staring intently at Eiji’s face, “Thank you, I’ll take it.”

Part 2-3

In May, Wasuke left Hōkodō, opened his own shop called Kōwadō in Asakusa Higashinakachō, and took along Hanzō, the fifteen-year-old apprentice. Before that, two apprentices named Ushichi and Sadamu had already joined, and since the shop wasn’t busy until autumn, they sent Hanzō along with him.

Eiji and Saburō began frequenting "Sumiyoshi" on their days off. Saburō seemed to have developed feelings for O-Nobu, for he kept finding pretexts to bring her small gifts, though lacking the courage to deliver them himself—it had become customary for him to ask Eiji to hand them over instead. As the cold began to set in around the fifteenth day of October, the two went to “Sumiyoshi” for drinks again after their evening meal. That night too, he had bought an embroidered collar for O-Nobu and had Eiji hold onto it as they went, but when they entered the usual small tatami room at Sumiyoshi, Eiji handed the package back to Saburō.

“That’s enough,” Eiji said with deliberate coldness. “You’re not some seventeen- or eighteen-year-old apprentice anymore. From now on, do it yourself.” “You know that already.” Saburō looked at him with clinging desperation. “I can’t do it.” “O-Nobu knows,” Eiji said. “I didn’t tell her—she figured it out herself. ‘You’re not the type to do something like this,’ she told me straight to my face. Called me a damn liar.”

“When was that?” “The last time, after you went to wash your hands.” Saburō placed the package beside him and hung his head low in embarrassment. Soon O-Nobu came, and after taking their order, she first returned with just the sake. And so they began drinking as usual, but Saburō had become completely despondent. Though they kept refilling their cups uncharacteristically, there was no sign of intoxication, and with their spirits not lifting in the slightest, the two soon left Sumiyoshi.

“Why didn’t you hand it over?” Walking along the dark canal bank toward Kobune-chō, Eiji said, “O-Nobu saw that package.”

Saburō suddenly stopped at the corner of the canal.

“I must’ve gotten drunk.” Saburō staggered slightly but squatted down there. “—I had something to talk to you about tonight, Eiji.”

“What are you doing out here on this canal bank? You’re gonna catch a cold.” “Brother Wasuke has his own shop now,” Saburō mumbled haltingly. “Eiji’ll probably get one someday too... but not me.”

“Save that talk for when we get back.” “I’ve been thinkin’,” Saburō’s voice was pathetically feeble. “If there ain’t nothin’ to hope for down the road… maybe it’d be better to change jobs now while I still can.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. There ain’t no one else as good at preparin’ paste as you—you’ve heard the Master say so yourself plenty of times, ain’t ya?” After a brief silence, Saburō said, “—You told me once, Eiji—if I ever became Japan’s best at preparin’ paste, that’d make me a proper craftsman. And you’re right—wasn’t just empty comfort. But makin’ paste alone ain’t enough to have my own shop. At best… I’ll just be Hōkodō’s kept mule till I drop dead.”

“So that’s what this is about?” As if searching for an answer, Eiji parroted back the question. Then, perhaps finding no reply forthcoming, he nodded to himself and said quietly, “—Humans can’t really predict what’ll happen even in the immediate future—let alone five or ten years down the line—not even the gods would know. But since you brought it up, I’ll share my thoughts too. If things keep going smoothly and I ever get my own shop… I’m thinking we could work together—you and me.”

Saburō slowly looked up at Eiji’s face, and Eiji squatted down beside him.

“Don’t know what kinda shop we’ll end up with,” Eiji said in a hushed voice thick with feeling, “but we’ll live together—you mixin’ the paste, me doin’ scroll mountin’ or bookbindin’, makin’ proper work of it. We’ll each get wives someday, have kids too—but even after that, we ain’t splittin’ up.” He drew breath before pressing on: “—We’ll keep at it together always, buildin’ up the finest shop in Edo that won’t take second seat to Hōkodō. That’s how I figure it—what d’you say? You against partnerin’ with me?”

Saburō thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No—I'm grateful you think that way. But I'd just be weighin' you down."

Part 2-4 “There you go again—that’s your worst habit, Sabu,” said Eiji. “Why’d you be a burden if we run the shop together? You make paste that don’t lose to nobody’s. I’ll work with that paste. With both of us combinin’ our strengths, there ain’t no burden or nothin’ to it.”

Saburō stammered, “I’ve been thinkin’,” “Cut it out.” “Even so,” Saburō insisted tenaciously, “I keep thinkin’—it’s the same with O-Nobu’s situation—but ’cause I’m such a spineless coward, I’ve gone and caused you some unbelievable trouble.” “Did I ever say you were a bother?” “You never say nothin’—never say a damn thing—but that just makes me hate my own spinelessness even more,” Saburō said, peering at Eiji through the darkness. “—Remember? Winter when we were fifteen, was it? When I ran away from the shop? You came chasin’ after me in the rain—all the way to Yokozuna Riverside—and dragged me back.”

“You got soaked in the rain too back then.” “I’ll never forget that,” he said, “but the whole time I was bein’ dragged back, I kept thinkin’ one thing—that if things kept on like this, I’d end up bein’ nothin’ but a burden to you, Eiji. That I’d always be causin’ you trouble and makin’ things hard for you.” “I’ll be straight with you,” Eiji said, drawing a deep breath and exhaling loudly before continuing. “—Sabu, you ain’t no burden to me. You’re the friend who’s always kept me goin’. Don’t get mad—I’m just bein’ honest. Even when folks called you a slowpoke or a space case, you kept your head down, stuck to your work like moss on a rock. Every time I saw that, I’d tell myself—*this* is what real craftsman’s grit looks like.”

“Hey, enough already!” a voice barked behind them. “Don’t know what you’re discussin’, but we’ve waited long enough. How ’bout you both stand up?”

Eiji and Saburō turned around. Behind them stood three men—unclear in the darkness—who had a yakuza-like air about them. Saburō tried to stand up in a panic, and Eiji restrained him.

“Wait,” Eiji said calmly while remaining crouched. “We’re in the middle of an important talk. If you’ve got business, make it later.” “That won’t do,” the next man said in an unnervingly calm voice. “We’ve waited till we’re numb with impatience. Stand up, young ones.” “Eiji,” Saburō said. “Don’t mind them,” Eiji said. “Focus on what I just told you instead.”

One of the men stepped forward and grabbed the collar of Saburō’s kimono. As if he had been waiting for this, Eiji stood up, turned around, and lunged at one of the men behind him. Then he drove his right knee violently into the man’s lower abdomen, and without so much as glancing at the man who groaned and doubled over, he tackled the next man, mounted him as he fell to the ground, and while choking his neck with his left hand, pressed two fingers of his right hand against both of the man’s eyelids.

“I’ll gouge your eyes out!” Eiji shouted. “You two over there—watch close! Struggle and I’ll poke both of this guy’s eyes out!” The man Eiji had pinned down stopped moving. The one who’d been kicked in the gut stayed doubled over, still groaning, while the man who’d grabbed Saburō stood frozen in shock. Their striped kimonos and stiff sashes had likely made them underestimate these two as mere shopboys. They seemed stunned by how unexpectedly quick and fight-savvy their movements were. The man who’d let go of Saburō stood rigid, mouth hanging open, waving his right hand pointlessly.

“Hey，cut it out bro—it was just a joke，”the man said．“We were just tryin’to…settle things—that’s all．”

“Don’t move,” Eiji said while applying gradual pressure with his fingers pressed against the man’s eyelids. “You twitch and I’ll jam these fingers right through.”

“Stop him, Katsu Ani!” the man beneath Eiji screamed. “He’s gonna gouge out my eyes!”

“What business do you bastards have?” Eiji said. “Spit it out clear—what’s this ‘settlin’ things’ about?” “It’s about O-Nobu,” answered the frozen-still man, still waving his right hand with an ingratiatin’ air. “O-Nobu from Sumiyoshi—you know who I mean, right?” “What’s happened to O-Nobu?” Saburō shot back while standin’. “I’m O-Nobu’s brother,” the man said. “She’s had a marriage arrangement since last year. But ever since you lot started showin’ up, suddenly she’s squawkin’ about not wantin’ to go through with it.”

In the meantime, Eiji had noticed a broken stick lying nearby. The man kept talking, and Eiji swiftly released the man he'd pinned down, sprang to his feet, grabbed the stick from the ground, and raised it in his right hand. It must have fallen from a firewood bundle—an oak branch some two inches thick and three feet long.

“What are you gonna do?” The man who had been talking eyed Eiji’s stance, thrusting his right hand forward as he stammered, “I ain’t gonna get rough no more—just want you to hear me out. Just explainin’ things here.” “Keep talkin’,” said Eiji, “but I’ll warn you now—try anything funny an’ I’ll beat one of you to death. We’re honest craftsmen here. In a fight forced on us by yakuza, killin’ one or two ain’t no crime. Now—all three of you—line up over there.”

The man who had been doubled over and the man who had been pinned down stood up and reluctantly moved over beside the man who had claimed to be O-Nobu’s brother.

2-5

Even after returning to the shop and going to bed, Saburō kept saying his chest was still pounding. This was a ten-tatami room adjacent to the workshop that served as sleeping quarters for five people: Eiji and Saburō; seventeen-year-old Denroku; Ushikichi, who had joined in March; Sada; along with the other apprentices combined. Taichi, Jūshichi, and Gorō each had their own four-and-a-half-tatami rooms, but these five had to make do with everything combined—clothing, daily necessities, bedding and personal belongings all stored in a three-ken closet with partitions. On the closet’s opposite side stood a wall; one side had a wooden door leading to the workshop while the east side featured a window—in this layout, Eiji and Saburō had their beds lined up by that window.

The three apprentices were already asleep, and Denroku’s infamous snoring echoed noisily throughout the ten-tatami room. “Who d’you think those three men really are?” Saburō said. “That fella who claimed to be O-Nobu’s brother—d’you reckon he’s truly her brother?”

“That’s a lie, plain and simple.” “But there’s been a marriage arrangement since last year…” “That’s a load of crap,” Eiji cut in. “We’ve been visitin’ twice a month—you always bring her somethin’, and from the start we’ve been straight with each other, no holdin’ back. If there was any arrangement like that, O-Nobu wouldn’t have kept her mouth shut about it.”

Saburō thought for a moment before saying, “—Then what are those guys?” “I don’t know,” Eiji said, shaking his head on the pillow. “Probably some local thugs tailin’ O-Nobu, but we won’t know unless we ask her.” “How awful,” Saburō whispered. “If those guys keep stalkin’ her… what’s gonna become of O-Nobu?” Eiji did not answer. Denroku’s snoring grew notably louder, and Saburō fell silent.

“Humans can’t even see what’s right in front of ’em,” Eiji said after a pause. “We ain’t got money or power—hell, we ain’t even proper craftsmen yet. Sabu—I get how you feel. But what matters now is us. The next two or three years’ll decide our whole damn lives. Harsh as it sounds—forget about O-Nobu. Ain’t askin’ you to do it alone. I’ll forget about women too.”

Saburō held his breath, turned over, and looked at Eiji. "Forget about them?" Saburō asked. "Do you have someone too, Eiji?" "Didn’t I mention it?" "You don’t seem to remember." "It’s been a long time." Eiji stroked his chest under the futon. "You know the Momen cotton merchant family at the money exchange shop in Honchō, right?" "Ah, I’ve been there once too." "There’s a girl named Osue working there as a live-in servant," Eiji whispered. "She’s got dark skin and a tiny frame—told me I’d grown up so big."

“We’re in the middle of talkin’,” Saburō said, “but ain’t it arranged that Momen’s givin’ one o’ their daughters to you as a bride?” “Cut it out.” Eiji snapped this out before whipping around toward Saburō—“What’d you just say now?” “Heard Taichi Ani talkin’ ’bout it.” Saburō stammered awkwardly, “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout it myself... but at Momen, they’re fixin’ to give one o’ their daughters to you, Eiji.”

“Cut it out.” Eiji shook his head on the pillow. “What’d I even do with some flighty brat like that? I’m just a half-trained craftsman, and she’s a rich man’s daughter. No joke—take in someone like that, you’re shackled with dead weight for life.” “In that case,” Saburō drawled, probing hesitantly, “then... ’bout Osue-chan—you already—” “Ain’t like that—ain’t like that at all.” Eiji recoiled from Saburō’s words as if dodging a blow. “She don’t know squat ’bout it—all my own fool notion. Had a thing for her since forever, thought maybe someday... Still do. But after tonight—done with all that.”

Saburō muttered after a slight pause, “...There’s all sorts of things in this world, huh.”

Eiji said nothing.

Denroku’s snoring grew quieter, and the apprentice Sada muttered something in his sleep. Around the time when everyone seemed to have fallen asleep, Eiji’s whispering voice was heard. “If only she were alive...” And he sighed, “—While she’s alive...”

3-1

“This year she’s turned twenty-three,” Saburō read from the scrap paper. “Twenty-three this year—that makes her the same age as us, right?” Eiji adjusted his work apron, spreading paste with the dish while wiping his forehead with his left hand’s back. “Quit readin’ that,” he said without looking at Saburō. “You’ll wrinkle it beyond use.” “I properly troweled it smooth.” “That’s why I’m tellin’ you to stop! Still actin’ like a damn kid.” Eiji spoke almost absently, “Don’t make extra work.”

Saburō gently placed the scrap paper down.

Now that they were twenty-three, for the first time just the two of them had come to Momen alone to re-paper the sliding doors. Two guest rooms' eight sliding doors. It was the fifth day, when they had begun applying the underpaper. The honma sliding doors with vermilion-lacquered edges and sturdy Yoshino cedar frames made even facing each other with brushes feel solemnly focused, their entire bodies thrumming with that pleasant tension of truly "doing work". Osue, the live-in servant, came and peeked in quietly to ask if they would like some tea. When Saburō looked at Eiji's face and Eiji was about to answer, Osono—Momen's younger sister—came running in, pushed past Osue as she entered the room, and sat down beside Eiji.

“I was just practicing,” Osono said while placing a hand on Eiji’s knee, “—you heard me, didn’t you, Eiji?” “Yes,” Eiji said, turning to Osue. “Shall we have some tea?”

Osue said “Yes,” and Osono, shaking Eiji’s knee with her hand, pressed him to answer whether he had heard her singing. Osue averted her eyes and left; Eiji quietly pushed Osono’s hand away. “What’re you practicin’ now?” “Oh my, nagauta!” Osono tapped Eiji’s knee with her hand. “Didn’t you come to the full rehearsal last time? Right, Saburō?”

“Yes,” Saburō touched the back of his head. “Was it Izumi-rou in Yanokura?” “Didn’t you come, Eiji?” “I went,” Eiji said, meticulously wiping each finger of his left hand with a hand towel. “Same Dōjōji as two years back—amazing they never get tired of it. Surprised me.” “You’re hateful! Who wouldn’t get tired of it?” “The master, you see—” "You're impossible!" Osono glared with wide eyes, and Eiji stood up and, saying he was going to wash his hands, headed out into the hallway.

“That was just talk.” Saburō interjected with a stammer, as if mediating, “Y-yes, he was actually impressed.”

“Lies! Who’d be impressed by that? I’m just tired of myself!” Osono exclaimed, widening her eyes in surprise. “It’s true—just like Eiji said.”

And then she burst out laughing, pressing a hand to her chest as she said, “Truly, how does the master never tire of it?” and doubled over with laughter. Saburō flushed his round face as if he’d made some mistake, shifting the paste dish aside and restacking the scrap paper. “Aah,” Osono said, having stopped laughing, “it’s just too funny.”

Osue brought tea and sweets, and immediately after, Eiji returned. Osue poured tea and removed the lid from the sweets bowl; then, without looking at anyone’s face, she hurried out. “That person has a marriage proposal now,” Osono said while taking a sweet, waving a hand toward Sabu. “Give me some tea too. It’s fine—that cup there.” Sabu took one of the teas Osue had prepared, placed it on a tray and offered it, and Eiji asked back with a casual expression, “Who is ‘that person’?”

“Osue, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Osono ate a sweet and sipped her tea. “She’s nineteen like me, right? Way past marriageable age but still refusing every proposal. What’ll become of her if she stays unsold?” “What about you? Same age means you’re Osono too.” “No good—no good for us.” Osono cut off Eiji’s words. “They say my sister and I were born under marriage-shy stars. Sis is twenty-one already without a single decent offer. Have a sweet.”

Saburō hurriedly took the sweets, and Eiji sipped the tea. “Born under an unlucky star, huh?” Eiji said. “Carefree people indeed.” “But it really is true!” Osono shook her slender shoulders side to side and gazed at Eiji from the corners of her eyes as she said, “—Eiji, won’t you take me as your bride?”

3-2

The day after they finished the underpapering was supposed to be their fifteenth-day holiday, but being December, work was meant to continue. Nevertheless, as they were finishing breakfast and preparing to leave, Master Yoshibei came and called Eiji, saying, “Since we’re sending Gorō to Momen, you don’t need to go.” “Why is that?” Eiji asked in confusion, “Is it that I can’t go?” “I’ll assign Saburō to Gorō. You take some time off.”

“He says I’m supposed to take a break.” “All tasks follow established procedures now, so there’s nothing requiring your work at present,” Yoshibei said coldly. “—The year’s nearly done anyway. Treat work as next year’s business and rest until year’s end.” “Is there a reason? Did I make some mistake?”

Yoshibei averted his eyes. "Don't ask what I don't tell you. Saburō, go with Gorō." Saburō nodded silently as Yoshibei left. Adjusting the work bundle, Saburō peered at Eiji’s face as if trying to read it. Eiji’s face had turned pale, his tightly drawn lips bloodless. "What’s wrong?" Saburō whispered huskily. "There was nothing like this up until yesterday." With vacant eyes, Eiji muttered "Just go," stowed his tool bag in the closet, and changed from work clothes into everyday wear.

At Hōkodō, work assignments were fixed; once removed from one’s duties, a person would be left with nothing to do. Of course, apprentices had no such free time, but for someone like Eiji—twenty-three years old with three senior craftsmen above him—this neither-here-nor-there position left him uncertain where to place himself in such circumstances. He informed the apprentice Ukichi and went outside. Yoshibei said, “Don’t ask about what I don’t say.”

This likely meant the reason couldn’t be stated—but replacing craftsmen mid-task was something that wouldn’t happen without grave cause, and as he wondered why that cause remained unspoken (though of course he couldn’t begin to guess), wandering the town without purpose, his thoughts grew thoroughly tangled until he even felt like drowning his confusion in drink.

"Why won't you just spell it out clearly?"

Eiji muttered to himself as he headed toward Ōkawabata, “After being raised from a pup for nigh on ten years, ain’t this too damn cold?”

Since it was morning, he couldn’t find any places serving alcohol. There were rough izakayas catering to river porters and laborers in the back alleys around Ryōgoku Hirokōji and between the waterside tea stalls along the embankment, but these proved hard for the uninitiated to spot; Eiji passed by these shops without noticing them and absently began crossing the bridge. At that moment from the eastern side came a woman clutching a small cloth-wrapped bundle. When she recognized Eiji mid-bridge, her eyes widened in surprise before she stopped short and hurried over to him.

“Isn’t that Eiji-san? What are you doing here now?” Eiji started as if suddenly alarmed, twisting his body sideways to look at the speaker. When he recognized O-Nobu from Sumiyoshi in Horie-chō, warmth spread through his chest—a mingling of joy and nostalgia like meeting an old friend in foreign lands.

“You’re one to talk,” he said in an uncharacteristically friendly tone. “What are you doing out this early in the morning?” “I’m on my way to the shop—I’ve been back home since three days ago. Where are you headed, Eiji-san?” “Aimless.” Eiji said to O-Nobu as they turned and started walking back together, “—I wanna get a drink somewhere, but...” “If you’d like, come on over to the shop. The Master and Mistress wouldn’t say no to you coming, Eiji-san—I’ll make sure of it.”

“It’d be awkward around people who know me.”

“What’s there to feel awkward about? This sort of thing isn’t unusual at all.” In exchange for that, don’t expect fancy side dishes—O-Nobu resolved this herself and quickened her pace.

Upon arriving at Sumiyoshi and entering from the back, Eiji was shown to his usual small private room. Only the aftermath of last night’s guests had been roughly tidied up, with paper scraps and chopsticks scattered in the corners and four or five floor cushions pushed against the wall, the air stagnant with the strong smell of liquor. The women were probably still asleep; the shuttered house was dimly lit and silent, O-Nobu’s voice as she spoke with the master and wife reaching him indistinctly in low tones like hearing a distant conversation in the mountains.

“I shouldn’t have come.” Shivering from the cold, Eiji muttered, “—Should’ve gone to consult Brother at Kōwadō, or straight to Momen to ask why. Either’d been better than this.” “Right—that’s how it should’ve been,” he told himself again. “First gotta figure what I did wrong. Drowning in drink ain’t solving squat.”

O-Nobu brought over the remaining embers and charcoal on a firepan.

Part 3-3

On the tray were three or four small dishes of snacks and three heated sake flasks arranged in a row. Eiji's face was already red, and O-Nobu's eyes were tinged as well. “No way—there’s got to be some reason.” O-Nobu kept holding her cup as she shook her head. “When I caught sight of you crossing the bridge earlier, Eiji-san, you looked like you were about to throw yourself into the river.” “Don’t talk nonsense.” Eiji squinted as if dazzled. “I just wanted a drink.”

“That face of yours—must’ve looked just like that.” O-Nobu sipped sake, then poured for Eiji. “You’re one to talk,” he said while staring into his cup. “Three whole days back home—something happen there?”

“Let’s not talk about that,” said O-Nobu, noticing Eiji’s expression. “Is something wrong?” Eiji poured his sake into the cup washer, immediately refilled it himself while saying “Just some specks,” then stared into his cup before taking a sip. “Remember when I got tangled up with those three yakuza types on my way back here?” Eiji said. “Three years ago,” O-Nobu replied, counting on her fingers. “I’m sorry about that. When I said he was my brother—that was actually Roku the procurer trying to sell me off.”

“You didn’t say that last time.” After getting into a fight with three yakuza-like guys, when Eiji brought up the incident, O-Nobu had fabricated a story and diverted the conversation. From her tone, he’d sensed she wasn’t telling the truth but let it pass without comment. “I didn’t say it—it wasn’t something I could’ve just come out with.” “Can you talk about it now?” “What’s gotten into you today, Eiji-san?” O-Nobu peered at his face as if probing. “You never give me the time of day usually, but today you’re being so considerate—don’t get my hopes up too much.”

“Give me a break if that’s how it came across—I didn’t mean it like that.” “No—don’t apologize. Even if it’s a lie, I’d be happiest if you’d spare me just a little thought, Eiji-san.” Suddenly, O-Nobu covered her face with her sleeve. Seeing her look ready to burst into tears, Eiji grew flustered. “Get me more sake,” he barked roughly. “This place is dry.”

O-Nobu stood up silently, turned her face away, and stepped down to the earthen-floored area. Before long, when she returned carrying two heated sake flasks, O-Nobu’s face looked fresh and clean, and from her lips, which held a friendly smile, a fang peeked out. “I’m sorry.” O-Nobu placed the sake flasks on the tray, moved the empty ones toward the serving platter, and said as she sat down, “Lately I’ve become such a crybaby when I drink even a little—must be my age.”

“How old are you even?” “I’m already an old maid—twenty-one.” “So you’re an old lady now? That’s some attitude.” While saying this, he poured himself a drink and served one for O-Nobu too. Eiji quietly shifted his tone: “There’s something I meant to say—you know Saburō’s got feelings for you, right?”

“Yes, I know.” O-Nobu nodded solemnly, then laughed emptily. “Someone likes someone, this one likes another—it’s just like mushiken.” “Don’t joke around—listen properly.” “If I don’t treat it lightly, things’ll get awkward—I’m only telling you this because it’s you, Eiji-san—but I just can’t bring myself to like Sabu-chan. As a customer, I’ll gladly entertain him, but when it comes to actual feelings? No good. I’m sorry—you’ll have to forgive me.”

“He’s a good guy—dead serious about being in love with you.” “And you know, Eiji-san,” O-Nobu lowered her eyes, her voice dropping. “With the family I’ve got, I’m not cut out to be anyone’s bride.” “You said you wanted to run away someday, didn’t you?” “Our parents are deadbeats, we’ve got too many mouths to feed, and all my brothers are layabouts. There’s my older sister, me, and a kid sister who’s seventeen now—but us three girls are the only ones who’ve ever lifted a finger. We’ll be slaving away till we die.”

“Why did your sister die?” O-Nobu fell silent for a moment, then said while still keeping her eyes downcast, “It was a love suicide.”

“Shin—what’d you say?” “She had a love suicide with someone she loved.” O-Nobu shook her head as she continued, “Even though they loved each other, they tried to sell her into prostitution. My sister wasn’t strong-willed like me, and he was just gentle but narrow-minded—if they were resolved to die anyway, they should’ve found another way. But they hanged themselves in Koume’s Shōmonji Temple cemetery.” Eiji poured sake for her, saying “Drink,” and O-Nobu sipped it like a cat lapping milk.

San-no-Yon

After leaving "Sumiyoshi," Eiji headed to Wasuke's shop in Asakusa. Wasuke had been the head craftsman at Hōkodō, but three years prior in May, he had established a shop called Kōwadō in Higashi-Nakachō and was running it successfully as a scroll mounter.

"What shitty parents she’s got." As he walked, he muttered, "I’ve heard about stuff like this before, but do parents like that really exist?"

After her sister died, they next pressed O-Nobu to sell herself into prostitution. Their poverty was crushing, but there was no need to sell their daughter. If everyone had just worked together even a little, they could have managed day-to-day meals. But the parents themselves had no will to work—they were the sort who wanted comfort and fine food without effort—so they craved quick lump sums of money. O-Nobu refused without budging an inch. There were still five younger siblings—the money would disappear in no time, and who’d care for those children? She insisted she’d rather die than be sold and ruin their futures, until finally her parents relented. Yet as if they’d been waiting for her sister O-Shino to turn seventeen, they now set their sights on her with the same demands. Four or five days prior, when O-Shino came weeping for help, O-Nobu had gone to confront them overnight and spent three days wearing their parents down.

“If you do anything strange to Shino-chan, I’ll kill either Dad or Mom—that’s what I told them.”

In circumstances like ours, it’s not uncommon for parents to be more fearsome than strangers. “That’s why I have to take drastic measures to protect myself,” O-Nobu said. And then, because she was burdened with such parents and siblings, she couldn’t become anyone’s bride—not just Saburō-chan’s—and that she intended to work for her younger brothers and sisters her whole life, O-Nobu added.

"For a woman to have to think that far ahead—such circumstances truly exist in this world," Eiji muttered, berating himself. "—You're still wet behind the ears."

All the way until reaching Higashi-Nakachō, he kept turning over the same thoughts, repeatedly furrowing his brows and clicking his tongue. Kōwadō had a three-ken frontage, with two of those bays being wooden-floored workrooms. In the back were three six-tatami rooms. The apprentice Hanzō, who had been brought from Kobune-chō, had turned eighteen, and there were two other apprentices. Wasuke had married last spring, and this summer twin daughters were born, so he was troubled by the house being cramped.

“Welcome!” Hanzō, in the shop, brightened upon seeing Eiji and said, “A messenger came from Kobune-chō earlier.” “Is the master in?” After asking this, Eiji averted his eyes. “—What’s this about Kobune-chō?” “Sada came with a letter. The master’s having breakfast now—he was up working all night last night, you see.” As he started to say this, Hanzō grimaced. “Brother, this ain’t good—you reek of booze.”

Eiji covered his mouth with his hand. Wasuke not only abstained completely from drinking but harbored a pathological hatred for alcohol itself. It was now the fifteenth day of the month approaching noon, but realizing he'd likely get scolded rather than have his consultation heard if the alcohol smell were noticed, Eiji flushed red. "Right—I'd forgotten about that," he said with a gentle wave of his hand. "I came to discuss something, but if the smell's that strong..."

“Yeah,” Hanzō shook his head in an oddly mature manner. “That won’t do.” “I’ll come back later,” Eiji said. “Keep this quiet.” And just as he was about to step outside, the sliding door across the way opened, and Wasuke emerged picking his teeth with a toothpick, calling out to stop Eiji. Eiji, still straddling the threshold, turned around and bowed. “I’ll come back later,” he said. “Well, come on in,” said Wasuke. “It’s a cramped house, so can’t be helped—I heard about the booze.”

Eiji scratched his head. "I'll skip the alcohol lecture today," Wasuke continued. "There's something I want to talk about instead. Come on in."

When Eiji entered, Wasuke guided him to the six-tatami room on the right. Then he called out to have tea brought to the neighboring room, and the two of them sat facing each other. That room was the tea room, and the sound of his wife’s responding voice and what seemed to be someone still eating—the clatter of bowls and chopsticks—drifted over.

“A messenger came from Kobune-chō earlier.” Wasuke continued using a toothpick, making a high-pitched sound as he sucked his teeth, and said, “You’ll be helping out here for a while. Your belongings will be delivered later, they say.” “Wait,” Eiji interrupted. “Wait a minute—I don’t understand what you mean by ‘helping out at this shop.’” “I’m the one who requested you from Kobune-chō.”

Eiji shook his head. His face turned pale, and his eyes glittered. "That's a lie. It's not true. Brother's hiding something." The wife brought tea, greeted Eiji, and offered it to him. Eiji gave a curt bow while keeping his eyes fixed on Wasuke's expression. When the wife left, Wasuke took his own large teacup, sipped his tea, and countered. "What exactly am I hiding?"

“It’s Momen-san of Honchō,” Eiji said. “The letter from Kobune-chō mentioned that, didn’t it? Right?” Wasuke quietly sipped tea.

3-5

“Don’t make me talk about that,” said Wasuke, keeping his face turned away.

“I’m twenty-three, and this job at Momen-san is my first major assignment,” Eiji said. “Since I was an apprentice, I’ve accompanied the senior craftsmen there. I know the true nature of everyone at the shop, and they should know mine too.” He faltered. There were countless things he wanted to say—they were welling up in his throat—but he restrained himself and desperately suppressed his emotions.

“Until yesterday, there was no problem—I thought my work was going well.” Eiji continued in a low, forceful voice, “—Brother, you know the job—replacing the fusuma paper in two guest rooms. It wasn’t particularly difficult work, nothing requiring special skill. Still, since it was my first major assignment, I put extra care into every step. But then this morning, out of nowhere, the master told me, ‘You don’t need to come anymore,’ and pulled me off the job.”

“Come on, have some tea,” said Wasuke. “I felt like I’d been slapped across the face,” Eiji pressed on, ignoring him. “So I desperately asked the master why—what mistake I’d made—but he wouldn’t answer. Just told me to take the rest of the year off and said not to listen to anything he hadn’t ordered. That was it.” “Drink some tea and calm down,” Wasuke said quietly. “It’s gone cold, but take a sip.”

Eiji took a sip of tea. His throat grew hot, and realizing how parched he was, he downed the rest in one gulp. “You were quite popular at the Honchō shop,” said Wasuke. “Especially with the two young misses—they always favored you. When they were little, you played all sorts of games with them—karuta cards, beanbags, marbles, battledore—and the master and mistress seemed pleased about it too. So you probably thought you all understood each other well.”

“But that’s exactly how it was, wasn’t it?” “Human emotions ain’t ever steady,” said Wasuke. “There’s times folk’ll grin after a beatin’, and times a lil’ ribbin’ makes ’em want t’murder. To Honchō shop, you’re just some hired hand passin’ through—and them’s moneyed bigwigs. If trouble brews, no matter how they doted on ya before, they won’t pull punches or mind manners.”

“You mentioned ‘if something happens…’” Eiji licked his lips. “—Did something like that happen?” “Can’t you figure it out yourself?” “So something really did happen, didn’t it?” Wasuke stared into Eiji’s eyes. Eiji tried to press further, but Wasuke cut him off and said, “Then I’ll just say it.” “You know the Honchō shop’s layout well.” “Not sure if I know it well...” Eiji thought it over. Since he’d played with Okimi-san and Osono-san there, he didn’t think he’d get lost.

“Do you know the master’s living room?”

“It’s the room adjacent to the guest room, one room over, right?” “There’s a small storage chest there,” said Wasuke. “One of its drawers had an old piece of brocade inside. When the master took it out to show a guest, a single sheet of ancient gold-threaded brocade on white ground was missing.” Wasuke watched Eiji’s face closely. Yet Eiji’s expression showed no change whatsoever; only his eyes held a suspicious glint.

“Since it was an extremely valuable item, they began searching,” Wasuke continued. “—The master and mistress did it alone, keeping others from knowing. To put it briefly, when they inspected your and Sabu’s tool bags in the guest room as a precaution, it turned up inside yours.”

Eiji laughed, “This ain’t funny. Quit messin’ with me, Brother.” “It turned up,” said Wasuke. “The master found it.” “They say the bag was yours. A man like Momen’s master wouldn’t spin lies like that.”

Eiji fell silent. He tightened his mouth that had just been laughing, stared at Wasuke’s face as if probing, drew a deep breath, then slowly let it out in small measured exhales. “So you’re saying I stole that piece and put it in my bag?” “The master from Kobune-chō was summoned last night and heard this entire story. Then he was told, ‘We’ll absolutely not let it leak elsewhere, but cease all dealings.’” Eiji started to say something, but Wasuke raised his hand to stop him. “—The master returned to Kobune-chō and thought it over. He discussed it with the mistress—they couldn’t believe you would do such a thing. While they were talking about how it must be some mistake, something from seven or eight years ago came up.”

“That thing from seven or eight years ago...?”

"Try to remember," Wasuke said in a low voice. "—I’d completely forgotten too, but reading the master’s letter made me remember." Eiji wore a puzzled expression for a moment, but then suddenly—as if struck across the face—his eyes flew wide open and his mouth fell agape. He clenched his right hand into a fist and pressed it into his knee with all his strength, the knuckles whitening as it trembled violently enough to blur. "The accounting office’s—" Eiji said with a tongue that might as well have been lead, his words laborious and slow, "—the money box?"

Wasuke said nothing and kept staring intently at Eiji. It was a gaze that mixed the sentiment *You can’t hide this* with the unspoken question *What really happened?* Blood rushed to Eiji’s cheeks only to drain away moments later; his cheek muscles twitched and lips trembled.

“Th-that thing from back then—” he stammered, licking his lips before continuing, “are you dredging that up now?”

Wasuke said nothing.

“It’s true—I stole coins from the money box,” Eiji continued. “I couldn’t resist the smell of grilled eel from the stalls near Ryōgoku Bridge. But after the mistress caught and scolded me, I never did it again—and she promised clearly she wouldn’t tell anyone.” “The mistress found out afterward,” Wasuke said, staring at Eiji again. “—You, do you remember I used to manage the accounts back then?”

Eiji thought for a moment and shook his head. "I was in charge of the accounts," said Wasuke. "I was the first to find you pilfering from the money box. Maybe I should've scolded you myself right then, but I couldn't do it. When I secretly consulted the master about it, he ended up reprimanding *me* instead." Eiji's eyes froze, and Wasuke continued in a confessional tone.

“If there’s money within reach and nobody watching, anyone’d be tempted to take it—that’s what makes us human. The one who leaves an opening to steal is worse than the thief himself. You’re more at fault here than Eiji,” the master said. I didn’t say a word. He was right—I was the one who left that gap open. That’s why I never told you anything, and besides the master and mistress, not a soul’s known about this till today.”

“So, no—” Eiji shook his head and retorted, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on a single point, “You’re saying they’re handling this brocade mess the same way as the money box thing. That’s what this means, right?” “You know that house’s layout inside out—worked right next door in the guest room. If any of the two young misses or shop folks held a grudge against you, that’d be different—but the master himself swore there’s not a soul who does. Or can *you* think of anyone?”

Eiji shook his head, then let it drop as though his neck were broken. "I don't think you did it," said Wasuke, "but the circumstances line up too clean. There ain't no proof it wasn't you neither." "And there's the money box business too, ain't there?" "Don't go talkin' like you're already beat." After the harsh words, Wasuke softened his tone. "A man builds up tabs with the world just by livin'. Think of this as puttin' one in society's ledger. Keep your head down here without a word and help out awhile."

Eiji muttered vacantly, “—Parents are more terrifying than society.” Wasuke looked at Eiji suspiciously. “Brother,” Eiji said, looking up, “you said my luggage would arrive here, right?”

“It should arrive today.” “Sorry to ask, but lend me some money. I’ve got about twenty ryō stashed in Kobune-chō—no—” Eiji spoke without giving Wasuke a chance to object: “Don’t say anything—don’t say anything right now—just lend it to me. I’m begging you, please.” He pressed both hands down and hung his head.

4-1

A woman’s voice echoed in his ears: “You’re so green.” The unpleasantly warm, clinging sensation lingered vividly here and there across his chest and thighs. It felt exactly like the trail left by a slug—sticky lines of mucus clinging to him—and no matter how much he wiped or scrubbed, he sensed they would never disappear. Eiji grimaced and spat two or three times.

“Act like a man, will you? What’s wrong with you—are you sick or something?” “Yeah—I’m sick. Stay away.” “Hmph, puttin’ on airs! What’s with you? You ain’t no daimyo’s young lord—strut ’round here all ya like, even beggars won’t laugh at that act.” “I ain’t puttin’ on airs! Shut it!” “You’re a fine man, ain’t ya? I’ve gone sweet on ya. C’mon, look this way.” “Cut it out—I wanna sleep.” “Oh no, this ain’t no inn! Don’t be so cold—c’mon now, I’m just a workin’ girl here.” “Shut up! I’m a thief—let me go!” Lips like fire—true fire—sucked at his ear, sucked at his cheek. “Ahh—” Eiji groaned and shook his head violently side to side.

On a pitch-dark road, he couldn’t tell where he was. To his right, there must have been a moat or river; he could occasionally hear waves lapping against the bank, and a wind, not particularly strong, was blowing.

“Since they mentioned Monzen-Nakachō, this might be around Kiba,” he muttered. “—It’s dark, pitch-black. No matter which way I turn, I can’t see a thing. Doesn’t feel like a world where humans live.” There were clouds in the sky, and stars twinkled between them. By the faint starlight, he spotted lumber stacked on the left side of the road. Eiji went over there and cautiously sat down. The lumber was slightly unstable, but he balanced himself with his feet, settled into place, and let out a sigh.

“What’s happening and how—I don’t understand any of it at all.” He propped his elbows on his knees, supporting his chin with his hands as he shook his head. “What on earth happened—the ancient gold-threaded brocade… I’ve never even seen it before! How’d that thing end up in my tool bag—my own tool bag?” And then suddenly he began to cry. While still supporting his chin, he shook his head slowly; then, tears spilled from both eyes. Sobs welled up in his throat, and he heard his own sniveling voice. It didn’t seem to come from his own throat but rather sounded like the whimpers of a rain-soaked stray dog, desperate for shelter yet finding none.

“It ain’t Sabu,” he muttered through sobs, his voice breaking. “We lived like brothers—I’d got no reason to do somethin’ like that. That guy relied on me—if I’m gone, he’ll be lost… No way around it—it’s gotta be someone from that household.” “What’re you sniveling about?” a woman’s voice echoed deep in his ears. “The world’s all about greed and money anyway—let’s just blow it all! Blow it all away! Actin’ all high ’n’ mighty won’t change that when you die—you’re no different from beggars or outcasts. Once we’re bones, a lord’s no different from dogs or cats. Hey, c’mon—quit your sniveling ’n’ let’s blow it all!” A different woman’s voice chimed in, “I’ve fallen for you from the bottom of my heart.” “It’s true, you know—I’ve never felt this way before. Hey, won’tcha make me your wife?”

“Make me your wife, heh.” Eiji wiped the dampness around his eyes and cheeks with his hand and spat again. “They all say the same damn thing—‘Won’t you take me as your bride?’ Someone else said that too, didn’t they?” Eiji’s body stiffened abruptly, his eyes fixing on a single point of the dark ground and ceasing to move.

“Don’t be too rough,” came another woman’s voice. “I’ve only just started out—I don’t know anything at all. Be gentle with me, won’t you? Be gentle and teach me everything.” “Not at all,” the woman’s voice persisted. “What’s wrong? It’s awkward being treated so delicately. Do it more like you want to.” “Siblings? Hmph—what a joke.” “Nobody does anything for others—we all do what we want for ourselves. If you didn’t enjoy it, would you be in this trade? People prattle about doing things for family or siblings, but that’s all lies. Hey—come closer.” And again that sensation—like freshly pounded mochi clinging to him—hot, sticky, adhering inseparably to his skin.

Eiji shook his head vigorously, stood up, staggered slightly, and began to walk.

“Take me as your bride,” he muttered as he walked, “—who was it that said… ‘Won’t you take me as your bride?’”

Eiji stopped and gazed upward at some indeterminate point in the sky. The wind fluttered the hem of his kimono, and his disheveled hair lashed against his cheeks.

“Osono,” he muttered. “—She’s the daughter of Honcho’s top merchant house. Even if it were a lie, that kinda scandal would tarnish their name. Childhood friends since thirteen or fourteen… Yeah, they said we were born worlds apart—‘Take me as your bride.’ Her folks must’ve seen danger in it. If I kept hanging around their place, somethin’ might’ve happened—that’s what they feared, wasn’t it?”

“Isn’t that right? So to stop me from coming around, they’d gone and cooked up that whole scheme—isn’t that what happened?” He thought this and concluded it was the closest to the truth. “I’ll prove it.” He clenched his fist tightly. “There ain’t no other way—I can’t go on livin’ branded as a thief. Ain’t no way to live like this. I’ll prove it for sure.”

Part 4-2

“Let me see the master,” Eiji said, sitting down at the front of Momen. “I’m Eiji from Hōkodō. Tell him I’ve come to ask about something.”

It was still early morning; the shop had just opened, there were no customers yet, and three apprentices were cleaning. Eiji had been drinking for five straight days and remained heavily intoxicated, making him believe the figure behind the accounting office lattice wasn’t an apprentice but a clerk or the manager. “Eiji-san, you know how it is,” one of the apprentices said. “How many times must I tell you? The master’s still asleep.” “What’s this, brat? This ain’t your place to meddle.” Eiji belched, then grimaced at the alcoholic stench of his own breath. “You lot—just keep slamming those coin-stuffed hemp sacks against the boards like idiots all day! I’m here to see the master—the owner of Momen! Go tell Tokubei to drag his ass out here!”

And he fell over sideways there. Don't do nothin' stupid. Keep it calm. Don't shout or use tough talk. Hit 'em where it hurts—rich folks can't stand havin' their weak spots exposed. Use that to lull 'em into a false sense of security. Truth and lies show in the eyes—you can fool with words, but never with the gaze. The eyes are what count, Eiji reminded himself.

“Oh, you’re back again,” came a woman’s voice. “No way! You’re so gloomy—like someone about to hang themselves any minute now. Hey, let’s liven things up! Bright and cheerful, okay?” “You’re drunk, aren’t you? Coming here soused to whine—what a pathetic mess. Take him somewhere and sober him up.” “Well? What’re you gonna do? You’re not the only customer here! Hurry up and decide already—you’re so damn unpleasant.” “Ah,” he groaned.

“Mother,” Eiji said, “I can’t bear this pain, Mother.”

He sobbed. This time too, to himself, it sounded like a starving stray dog howling in hunger.

“Look, a puddle.” “Let go of me.” Eiji tried to free his left arm. “Let go of this hand!” “Just a bit more—you’re gonna collapse, Eiji.” “Sabu? What’s wrong?” “We’re headin’ to Horiechō,” Saburō said. “Ain’t no other choice. Or should we try the shop in Asakusa?” “Quit your bullshit! I’m goin’ to Momen to settle this.” “You can’t stay this drunk. Let’s sober up first.” Saburō readjusted Eiji’s arm over his shoulder. “Just lean harder on me—I can take it.”

“How’d you know it was me?” “When I came to work at the Honcho shop, you were passed out drunk,” Saburō answered. “—We thought about lettin’ you sleep it off in the maid’s room, but you were hollerin’ so damn loud we had no choice but to haul you outside.”

“I see… I don’t really get it.” Eiji shook his head hard. “Dreams an’ reality’re all mixed up—can’t recall where I did what. What day’s today?”

“It’s the twenty-first,” Saburō said. “You left the shop in Asakusa on the fifteenth and ain’t been back since, right?” “I wanna drink water.” “Once we turn that corner, it’s Sumiyoshi. Just hang in there a bit longer.” “I can’t… I can’t walk anymore.”

Eiji's knees buckled, and he slid down to sit there in a heap. Saburō staggered from the loss of balance, nearly collapsing atop Eiji. At the corner of Horiechō where foot traffic bustled thickly, Saburō flushed with embarrassment at feeling watched. "Wait here," he blurted before sprinting toward the Sumiyoshi shop.

A woman’s voice was heard saying, “I’ve given up.” “This is the fate I was born with—doomed to bear hardships my whole life. All I can do is pray that next time I’m born into this world, it’ll be as a child from a slightly better family. There’s nothing else to hope for.” “They say that place called Sado is hell on earth, but I’ve lived in hell from the day I was born till now.” “Yeah damn right—this whole world’s hell,” Eiji said. “To hell with it all.”

“Here’s water,” the woman said. “Drink it carefully so you don’t choke.”

Eiji drank water from the teacup and immediately drank another cup. “O-Nobu,” Eiji said, shaking his head and looking up. “Is this Sumiyoshi?”

“You should lie down a bit. Come on.” O-Nobu folded a zabuton cushion in half, using it as a pillow to make Eiji lie down. “I’ll get something to cover you now, so if you can sleep, please do.”

“Where’s Sabu?” “It’s not work—he went to the Honcho shop and such, said he’ll come back once he’s finished.” “I’ve got business in Honcho too.”

Eiji tried to sit up, and O-Nobu pressed him down. “Don’t touch me,” Eiji said. “My body ain’t what it used to be—it’s been tainted like mud. I’m no good anymore.”

4-3

After confirming that Eiji showed no signs of getting up, O-Nobu left the small room, returned with a padded robe, and gently draped it over his body.

“O-Nobu…?” Eiji had his eyes open. “Sorry for causing you trouble.” “I hate seeing you like this, Eiji-san.” “Yeah, I know. Even I’ve come to hate myself—just leave me alone.” “What on earth happened to you? On the fifteenth, you got drunk and left saying you’d come back, then vanished like a dead leaf blown away by the dry wind—no word at all! And now you end up being carried here on Sabu’s back? You’re being utterly shameless! Get a hold of yourself!”

“Lay into me harder,” Eiji said with his eyes closed. “Say whatever you want—I ain’t expectin’ no praise anyway.” “Go to sleep. Once you’ve slept it off, I’ll listen to what you have to say.” “How the hell can I sleep like this? —Cut it out, O-Nobu. My body’s really covered in mud—you can’t come near me.” “What do you mean, ‘covered in mud’? It’s just a little dirt on your kimono—I’ve already brushed it off properly.”

“That’s not the kind of dirt.” I slept with women—women I didn’t even like or remember. He tried to say it, but his tongue wouldn’t budge.

“Forget about that.” O-Nobu spoke as though she had heard his confession: “—I’ve never told this to anyone before, but when I was eleven, a neighborhood man named Roku forced himself on me. Back then, I cried thinking my body was completely tainted—that I’d never be clean again. I even thought about dying right then. But after five days passed, then ten, my feelings settled little by little. I realized my body wasn’t tainted at all—how could something like that ever taint me?”

“To think he’d do that to a child of barely eleven…”

“You remember Roku, right? The guy I told you about before? He started going bad around fifteen or sixteen and ended up sinking to being a procurer in the end.” Eiji recalled the scoundrel from before—the one who’d claimed to be O-Nobu’s brother. “So that yakuza from back then?” “He’s disappeared now—apparently did something dishonorable within his own gang and had to flee Edo. They say if he dares show his face here again, they’ll bury him in some field.” O-Nobu smiled soothingly as she said this. “There now—feeling any better?”

“I’ll try to sleep,” Eiji said.

O-Nobu left, intending to bring water, and Eiji closed his eyes. Even though he thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep, he seemed to have fallen asleep just like that. He only dimly remembered O-Nobu coming and leaving water by his pillow, and when he awoke to the sound of voices, the room was growing dim. He appeared to have been sleeping without his padded robe, for he noticed that his right shoulder and arm had grown completely cold.

“Let’s let him sleep a bit longer,” O-Nobu had said. “It seems he hasn’t slept properly for days.”

“Then I’ll head over to the shop,” Sabu’s voice was heard saying. “I’ve got to let the older guys know.”

“I would like to wait,” a woman’s thin voice said. “May I stay here?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Customers will be here soon, and I won’t be able to step away. It’d help if you looked after Eiji-san,” O-Nobu said. “But what about the shop?” “It’s quite all right—I came here prepared for that.” That’s Osue, Eiji thought. That was unmistakably Osue’s voice. Why had she come to a place like this? While thinking this, he propped himself up on one elbow and drank water directly from the pitcher prepared by his pillow, not bothering to pour it into a cup. The ice-cold water slipped smoothly down his throat, but it seemed to seep all the way up into his nose, triggering three or four sneezes in rapid succession.

O-Nobu slid open the shoji screen, peered in, and heard that he had woken up. Eiji sat up, pulling the padded robe around his shoulders as he shuddered. "You've caught a cold, haven't you? Sneezing like that."

“It seems someone has come.” “Yes,” O-Nobu said, turning around. “It’s someone from the Honcho shop. Please come over here.”

As O-Nobu stepped back, Osue showed her face and nodded politely. Her expression was like something crafted from Seto ware—white, cold, and utterly blank. "I’ll bring the lantern now," O-Nobu said before leaving. "Go home," Eiji told her. "This isn’t somewhere for the likes of you to be."

Osue began to cry.

4-4 Standing in the narrow dirt-floored entranceway, covering her face with her sleeve and stifling her voice, Osue wept. "I've become worthless," Eiji said roughly. "I'm ashamed to have you see me like this. Please—just go home." "I can't go back." From between sobs, Osue said, "I've taken leave from the Honcho shop." Eiji couldn't immediately grasp what she meant. "--Taken leave? Why?" ---

“Eiji-san being alone—” “I-I thought I couldn’t leave you alone,” Osue stammered, rephrasing her words. “You don’t know.” “I do.” O-Nobu brought a lantern lit with flame.

“Don’t just stand there in a place like this—come inside. I’ll get the lantern right away.” O-Nobu urged Osue, “Come on now, I said come in—it’s cold standing there like that.”

Osue, while gauging Eiji’s expression, quietly stepped up into the small tatami room and sat down in the corner. O-Nobu was about to go fetch fire and asked if he wanted to drink sake, but Eiji silently shook his head. “Is what you know about the brocade, Osue?” Osue nodded gently. “What I’m saying isn’t about that,” Eiji said, pulling the padded robe around himself. “The piece of brocade being in my tool bag was either a mistake or someone trying to pin the crime on me for some reason. Either way, the truth will come out eventually.”

Osue nodded again. “That I’ve become a worthless person isn’t about that—it’s not that.” With her moist eyes after wiping away tears, Osue looked gently at Eiji. While O-Nobu brought fire on a shovel and transferred it to the brazier to add charcoal, Eiji remained silent, looking down.

For some time now, customers had begun arriving at the shop, and with maids coming and going through the dirt-floored entrance and the clattering sounds from the kitchen, the house grew lively and bustling. “If you need anything, please call me,” O-Nobu said. “I’ll try not to let customers come over here, so don’t hold back.” “Thank you,” Eiji answered, and O-Nobu left. Eiji sneezed again and with one hand, he searched his pocket. Osue immediately understood, took paper from her sleeve, and handed it to Eiji. He took several sheets of paper folded in two, wiped his eyes, and then blew his nose.

“What a joke,” he said self-deprecatingly. “Catching a cold at a time like this.” “You need to rest—come to my house,” Osue said. “In Kanasugi, Shitaya—I run a brush shop there. It’s small, but there’s space for you to sleep.” “I wish I could, but I’m done for,” Eiji said. “Done for?” Osue retorted firmly. “You’re still the same Eiji-san to me. Others might not see it, but you haven’t changed one bit.”

“That’s not it at all.” Eiji abruptly turned away. The man he once was could never be reclaimed. That former self had been clean in both mind and body. But since the brocade incident, he could no longer trust people honestly, and sleeping with women he didn’t know had stained his flesh. People are fragile things, Eiji thought. A mere scrap of cloth had transformed both heart and body. "I’m not who I used to be," Eiji told himself silently.

“No matter what words you use,” he said while still facing away, “once broken I won’t ever go back to how I was. I’m grateful for your kindness—just leave me be.” “You’re torturing yourself!” she pressed on fiercely. “That’s when it’s most dangerous—you’re right there in it! No—listen! It might sound forward of me... When I saw you lying there in Momen’s maids’ quarters... That moment I knew—this was your most perilous hour! Someone had to stay by your side or worse would come! That’s why I took leave from my post.”

“No.” Eiji shook his head. “There’s no worth in someone like me. Better to apologize and go back to Momen.” “I won’t leave you, Eiji-san,” Osue said, moving her knees closer. “It’s shameful for a woman to say such things, but I’d long since resolved—that I’d endure any hardship to have you take me as your wife. Then when Saburō-san asked how you felt about me… I was so happy.”

Osue once again covered her face with her sleeve and sobbed.

“Sabu…” Eiji muttered. “—Sabu…” “Hey,” Osue said in a trembling, broken voice. “Let’s go to my house. You’re already a full-fledged craftsman—even without the Hōkodō name, you can make it splendidly on your own skill alone. Please, I’m begging you—listen to what I’m saying. Like this.” Osue pressed her palms together in supplication. When Eiji, flustered, waved his hands to tell her to stop, a low cough was heard in the dirt-floored entrance, and Saburō’s voice said, “Sorry.” Osue wiped her eyes and adjusted her posture, while Eiji crossed his arms.

“Can I open [the door]?” “No need for concern,” Eiji answered. “Come in.”

Saburō opened the shoji and entered, avoiding looking at the two.

“How’re you feelin’?” Saburō sat by the brazier and said, “I meant to come sooner, but I’m late. Sorry.” Eiji stared at Saburō’s face. “You shouldn’t have come. You weren’t supposed to come here.” “There ain’t no such thing.” Saburō blinked as if dazzled, stammering as he said, “—I wanna drink some sake. Ain’t it okay?” “Before that, I’ve got a question.” Without taking his eyes off the expression that had appeared on Sabu’s face, Eiji said, “You’ve been told something by the master, haven’t you?”

“Anyway, I just wanna have a drink.” After saying that, Saburō hurriedly added, “It’s awful cold outside—I’m chilled right down to my bones.” “Is it something you can’t say ’less you’re drunk?” “Please,” Saburō said as he stood up, “since I ain’t had dinner yet either.”

Then he went down to the earthen entryway, placed the order himself, and upon returning, sat back down in his original spot without settling in. Osue looked at Eiji and asked, “May I stay here?” Before Eiji could answer, Saburō said, “I want you to stay.” “There’s somethin’ I wanna consult with you about too, Osue-chan,” Saburō said to her. “Things’ve gotten tangled after all.” Eiji sneezed and wiped his nose. Saburō shot a questioning look at Osue, who responded with a soft nod. Eiji noticed this but kept his face turned away. The two seemed to be fretting over him while whispering plans. Thinking this, Eiji sank into leaden gloom, feeling more wretched than ever. As another sneeze threatened him, he grabbed paper, pressed it to his nose, and rubbed vigorously with two fingers.

Of all times for this to happen—he clicked his tongue in his mind. Sneezing at such a crucial moment—what a complete farce.

The ones who brought the sake and food tray were not O-Nobu, but two young women named Ohatsu and Otake. The shop was crowded with customers talking, laughing, and likely getting drunk—voices already starting to ramble incoherently clattered noisily alongside the sounds of dishes and utensils.

“I’ll go with a big one,” Saburō said as he took the lid off the soup bowl. “How ’bout you have one too, Eiji?”

Eiji shook his head. “You oughta drink some,” Saburō said with feigned concern, then had Osue pour him sake and downed three cups in quick succession.

“Cut it out—you can’t hold your liquor,” Eiji said. “Drink like that and you’ll end up wasted.” “No matter how bad you get drunk, the sake’ll wear off eventually,” Saburō said as he took his fourth sip. “But once a person’s name gets stained, a little effort won’t clean it up. Ain’t that right, Eiji?” Eiji stayed quiet until Saburō had drained his fourth cup, then asked, “You talkin’ about me?”

“I’ve been thinkin’,” Saburō said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “—you’re already a top-notch craftsman, Eiji. Even without leanin’ on the master or the shop, you can stand proud on your own two feet. No need to tiptoe ’round nobody’s feelings. Right, Eiji?” “So what you’re sayin’,” Eiji shot back, eyes locked on Saburō’s, “—is I’m gettin’ the boot from the shop?” “Ain’t sayin’ that—just speakin’ my mind.”

Eiji cut Saburō off. “Don’tcha go thinkin’ nothin’. I remember what I did—stormed into Hōkodō’s long-standin’ client’s place, a venerable shop in Honmachi with no rivals, drunk off my ass. You think the master could just turn a blind eye hearin’ that? For Momen’s sake, they’d have no choice but to cast me out. Sabu—spit it straight. I’m gettin’ kicked outta the shop, ain’t I?”

4-5 Saburō made a strenuous effort to smooth things over skillfully. But adding embellishments to his words or using expressions with hidden meanings was utterly impossible for him. Master Yoshibei immediately went to Momen to apologize and promised to expel Eiji from the shop. Then it became clear that he had summoned Wasuke from Asakusa and ordered that he not be placed in the Higashinakachō store either.

“Yeah, that’s about right. I’d braced myself for somethin’ like this.” “Wasuke from Asakusa tried his best to mediate,” Saburō mumbled, as though it were his own failure, “—but it’s too cruel to go that far with the punishment now. They oughta think a bit more ’bout what’s best for him.” “Enough already,” Eiji shook his head and took the lid off the soup bowl on his tray. “If it’s been decided this clear, there’s nothin’ left to say. I’ll drink too.”

Saburō called out to Eiji, and Osue poured sake as if she had been waiting. “The master’s an upright man.” Eiji stared at the poured sake and said, “He doesn’t do anything that’d make folks point fingers behind his back, but he’ll never let even those he’s raised himself get away with crookedness. That’s why Hōkodō’s foundation don’t waver. Ain’t it grand? A real fine thing.” Eiji gulped down the sake in one go. “Don’t go thinkin’ I’m wallowing in despair just ’cause I said all that,” he continued. “Now that my ties with Hōkodō are cut, whatever I do won’t trouble the master no more. And the master—nor anyone else at the shop—has any right left to tell me what to do or not do. Right, Sabu?”

“Well, that may be so, but—” Saburō looked anxiously at Eiji’s face. “You don’t gotta decide here an’ now like that—there’s still the way of gettin’ the senior craftsmen in the shop to speak up for ya.” “Not a chance.” Eiji snapped as if chopping through something, “I don’t give a damn how grand Hōkodō is or how precious its name—seein’ how they handled things this time, I’m through with ’em. Even if they come beggin’ me to return, I’ll never cross that shop’s threshold again. Not in a million years.”

Osue, her face pale and drawn, silently poured sake for Eiji, then for Sabu. Eiji gulped down his second cup in one breath and had a third poured for him while Sabu did not touch his sake and watched Eiji’s state with nervous eyes.

“Sabu, I’ve got a favor to ask you.” “Sure, ask me anything.” “Go to Higashinakachō and bring my belongings,” Eiji said. “I think the money I had deposited in Kobune-chō has probably arrived, but if it hasn’t, retrieve it from Kobune-chō and bring that here too.” “If that’s all there is to it, no trouble,” Saburō said, looking at Osue. “But instead of bringing them here, decide on a place to settle down.”

“My place would be best,” Osue hurriedly said. “For you, Eiji-san, saving money is crucial right now. If you stay at my place, you won’t waste money, and it’ll give you a foothold for starting work.” Eiji shook his head firmly. “—That’ll be after I’ve cleansed myself.”

Osue tried to say something, but Eiji raised his hand to stop her.

“First, I must clear the thief’s stigma,” he said. “Second—the defilement of this body. As Saburō here knows, I never indulged in vice until I turned twenty-three. Drank sake, sure, but never went near pleasure quarters—and that was because of you, Osue. I wanted to take you as my wife someday—to keep this body pure until then.”

Osue lowered her head deeply and, keeping the sake decanter in her left hand, pressed the corners of both eyes with the fingers of her right hand. “I ain’t forgotten that,” Eiji continued, “but gettin’ saddled with some false charge I don’t remember a lick of—gettin’ thrown outta the shop I’d slaved at for ten years, not even lettin’ me get a word in edgewise—that made me snap. First time in my born days I stopped trustin’ folks or this rotten world. Drank myself stupid with a ‘to hell with everything’ rage… wound up sleepin’ with any woman I stumbled ’cross.”

He couldn't remember where he'd slept with how many women, nor what their faces or figures had looked like. That he'd slept with partners he couldn't recall at all made him feel all the more defiled. Until this feeling of being defiled disappeared, he didn't want to go near Osue. "If you've truly left Momen," Eiji said to Osue, "go back to your home in Kanesugi. Once I've made proper arrangements to get by on my own, I'll come to you with a formal proposal. Though I should warn you—there's no telling when that might be. It could take six months for me to reach that state of mind, or maybe two years from now. As things stand, I can't even guess. So I can't ask you to wait for me no matter what happens, Osue."

Osue nodded with eyes opened wide while staring fixedly at Eiji. "That settles it," Eiji said after taking a drink of sake. "Saburō, go to Asakusa now if you would. Osue, you're to return to Kanesugi. I know this is selfish of me, but leave me alone for now." Saburō sipped the cold sake from the lid of the bowl he was holding, and Osue set down the heated sake decanter and said, "My home is at Yaroku Store in the back of Kanesugi Third District. My father's name is Heizō."

“I’ll say it again—you don’t gotta wait for me, Osue,” Eiji said, turning his face away. “When you’re living in this world, there’s no telling when or what’ll happen.”

5-1

The stepping stones leading to the entrance were covered in ice, which showed no sign of melting despite the light rain that had begun falling nearly an hour earlier. Eiji furled his umbrella and propped it in the door compartment. As he opened the lattice door and entered, in the six-tatami mat area at the entranceway, the usual apprentice was beating a hemp bag against a board. The apprentice’s hands were swollen purple from chilblains, with blood oozing here and there on his fingers. When Eiji requested to be announced, the apprentice stood up and left, and soon a clerk named Shōkichi appeared.

“I deeply apologize for the disturbance I caused the other day.” After offering a formal greeting, Eiji said, “Please inform the master that I have no intention of causing any disturbance today—I simply wish to meet with him briefly. Tell him I won’t take up much of his time.”

Eiji thought it would be acceptable to kneel in the dirt-floored entrance. The clerk left, and the apprentice resumed beating the hemp bag. To think they'd use a single apprentice like this—in an unheated entryway—just to scrape off a few measly metal scraps from widely circulated currency. For a store of this stature, shouldn't they feel ashamed? Eiji thought. If enduring hardships is part of learning a trade, then isn't this act here a crime that violates prohibitions? Merchants truly are despicable creatures.

He mentally spat in disgust. The clerk returned, told him to come up, and ushered him into the next eight-tatami room. Then, replacing the clerk, Gihee the head clerk appeared and, remaining standing, asked what his business was. Eiji said he wanted to meet the master. “I’m the head clerk of this shop,” Gihee said while picking his teeth with a toothpick. “All shop matters are entrusted to me without exception. If you have business, I’ll hear it.” “What I need to discuss concerns the piece of brocade from before,” Eiji said, pressing both hands against the floor. “There’s something I absolutely must ask the master directly.”

“That’s already settled, isn’t it?” “For me, it’s not settled.” “That matter is settled,” said Gihee, making a noisy slurping sound as he rinsed his teeth. “Given your long tenure here and that you still have a future ahead, the master chose not to make this a public scandal. As a scroll mounter yourself, you should grasp this much—that was a famous fabric piece worth a hundred ryō. Had the master not settled this privately, what do you think would’ve become of you?”

“Does even the head clerk think I did it?” “The fact remains it was in your tool bag, and it was the master who found it. What other conclusion could there be?” “That’s why I need to meet the master.” Eiji said patiently, “How that piece got into my tool bag—I’ve got no memory of it at all. Even a kid would get this—if I’d really done it, I wouldn’t have left it in my tool bag and gone about my business like normal. I’d have stashed it someplace nobody’d ever find. Ain’t that right?”

“We’re merchants, not examiners,” Gihee said while rinsing his teeth noisily. “How folks handle stolen goods in such cases differs by person, but either way that brocade being in your tool bag’s an undeniable fact.” “No matter what,” Eiji pressed both hands against the floor, “I swear by the gods it wasn’t me! There’s got to be some reason behind this—that’s why I must meet the master and ask him direct! If they brand me a thief, I’ll never hold my head up in this world again!”

“Is that so?” Gihee remained standing as he looked down at Eiji, snapping the toothpick in his right hand in two. “I thought this could be settled through me, but if you’re going to cling to your stubbornness, there’s no helping it. Stay right there as you are.”

And the head clerk left. He had grown too close to the two daughters, and rumors arose that he intended to take one of them as his bride. In fact, Saburō had apparently heard this from a senior apprentice named Taichi. It was unclear where the rumor had originated, but it must have reached the people at Momen as well. To distance him, someone had devised such a method. It was either Master Tokubei, his wife, or someone from the shop—Eiji had inferred this and still believed it now. He had committed a shameful mistake as an apprentice. He had been discovered by the mistress of Hōkodō and forgiven, believing only she knew, but in truth even his senior apprentice Wasuke and the master had known. Even those who knew and forgave him then showed no willingness to understand him in this matter. If anything, because of his past incident, they seemed all the more convinced this time too was his doing.

“I won’t let this end here,” Eiji muttered to himself. “No matter what it takes, I have to uncover the truth.” Before long, footsteps approached. Three men appeared through the slid-open fusuma door—neither clerks nor shop employees, all wearing I-gumi happi coats with belly bands and straight navy work pants. Two appeared in their mid-twenties, one around forty, with “Leader” dyed on his collar. That’s the neighborhood boss, Eiji thought.

“You’re—” the leader said, “the bastard who came to stir up trouble with this shop?” “Don’t be ridiculous—trouble?!” Eiji, startled, stammered, “I-I just wanted to meet with the master—” “Get up, kid,” the leader jerked his chin. “We ain’t havin’ this talk here. If you’ve got somethin’ to say, we’ll hear it outside.”

The head clerk had called these men. It might have been on the master’s orders, but when Eiji realized they were resorting to such cowardly methods, his body started trembling with rage. “I won’t,” he said, suppressing his anger. “I’m not moving from here until I meet the master. This concerns a single person’s entire life—something you wouldn’t understand.” “Make him stand,” the leader ordered the young men. “He’s causing trouble for the shop—drag him out.”

Eiji sat cross-legged, planted himself firmly, and crossed his arms. He had resolved that no lever could move him, but the two young men quietly closed in from either side, and while telling him to take it easy, they each grabbed one of his arms and hauled him upright. He tried to shake them off, but no match for the two men’s strength, he was dragged all the way to the entrance. The apprentice who had been beating the hemp sack started in surprise and jumped back, and Eiji flushed bright red with anger. “Is this how you treat people in this household?!” Eiji shouted. “Merely branding an innocent man a thief isn’t enough—now you manhandle him like some extortionist?!”

“You bastard,” one of the young men said as he struck Eiji’s cheek. “Shut your mouth!”

The other enforcer also struck him, pulled Eiji down into the earthen-floored entryway, swept his legs out from under him to knock him over, then—still barefoot themselves—dragged him out through the latticed door, across the stone pavement, and beyond the gate as if hauling a rice bale. The light rain had turned to snow unnoticed, leaving the frozen wet road already whitened considerably. After throwing Eiji onto that road, the two young men took turns straddling him and pummeled his head and face indiscriminately. The first blow struck Eiji’s ear—from that moment his right ear ceased hearing—while blood flowed from his split lip and mingled with nosebleed until his face became smeared with crimson mud.

“Damn you! Damn you!” Eiji shouted at the top of his lungs, “I’ll kill you all!” He resolved to die. If he was going to die, he’d take at least one of them with him—with this determination, he thrashed his arms and legs with all his might. However, the young fire brigade men seemed accustomed to such situations; skillfully subduing Eiji, they pressed him face-down and ground his face into the road. “Take him to the guardhouse,” said the leader. “We’ll be a public spectacle at this rate.”

“Bastard, stop thrashin’ around,” said one of the young men, driving his fist into Eiji’s ribs with full force. “Keep this up and we’ll make ya a cripple!” Eiji gasped for breath from the blow to his side, curled his body into a ball, and let them have their way.

The guardhouse stood at the corner of Honmachi facing the outer moat. When the three men brought Eiji inside, a police informant and his underling happened to be there. The leader—apparently acquainted with them—rapidly explained the circumstances before handing Eiji over and leaving with his men. It later came to light that this informant was Ootaya Sukejirou from Nihonbashi Yumicho, while his subordinate went by Shima Zō. Eiji lay sprawled across the wooden floorboards, moaning from pain that coursed through his body—especially his battered ribs. Needless to say, worse than any physical agony was the wound festering in his heart. He cursed every soul at Momen and damned those three leaders. Consumed by rage yet hollowed by humiliation, wave after wave of nausea gripped him.

“Hey, young one,” the old guardhouse attendant shook Eiji’s shoulder, “get up now. Get up and wipe your face—there.” The old man pressed a towel wrung out in hot water into Eiji’s hand. “Your head and clothes are soaked through with mud. If you can stand, come over by the fire here. They’ll dry quick enough if you warm yourself at the flames.”

“I’ll burn it all down.” Eiji, still gripping the towel he’d been handed, muttered without attempting to get up, “I’ll burn Momen’s estate to ashes and beat those three firemen to death.” “Quit spoutin’ dangerous nonsense,” growled the police informant, rising from the dirt floor where a fire burned and striding toward him. “Hey, brat—spoutin’ crazy talk like that ain’t gonna end pretty for ya.” “What if I don’t let it end there?” Eiji raised his upper body. “You want some of this?”

He spat in the man’s face.

5-2 Eiji lay bound with his hands behind his back in a corner of the guardhouse’s earthen-floored room. He didn’t know who the man was, but the police informant he’d spat on erupted in fury. After thrashing him with a jitte until he was spent, he had his subordinate bind Eiji’s hands, kicked him repeatedly, hurled a bucket of water over him, and sent him sprawling. Eiji hovered halfway between consciousness and oblivion—not so much from bodily torment as from mental extremity. The blood and mud caking half his face had begun drying, leaving patches of plaster-pale skin that looked horrifyingly grotesque. His half-lidded eyes stared vacantly into nothingness. With each shallow gasp, a few strands of hair—freed from their broken binding cord—swayed faintly at fixed intervals.

“You’re Sukejirou of Yumicho, aren’t you?” Eiji faintly heard a man’s voice say. “You always go a bit too far. What’s the meaning of this?”

A samurai, Eiji thought vaguely. That’s a samurai’s way of speaking—probably a patrol officer or a constable. When asked about the details, Sukejirou launched into a tedious explanation. The explanation came in a hoarse, low voice spoken too quickly; he couldn’t hear it well, nor did he want to.—Let it be whatever. Do what you will. He continued muttering such things over and over in his hazy consciousness. “At any rate, untie him and let him warm himself by the fire,” said the samurai’s voice. “If you leave him like that, he’ll freeze to death!”

Eiji was lifted up. The ropes were untied, and he was carried by two men to the fireside, but it took considerable time before he could feel the warmth of the fire. This too was something learned later: those who had been reprimanding the police informant were three men—town patrol magistrate Aoki Kōnosuke, constable Yasui Tomoemon, and subordinate Okamura Jibei—who had stopped by during their rounds. Okamura, the subordinate, soaked a hand towel in hot water, wiped Eiji’s face and limbs, and applied ointment to his split lips and wounds. Only when his wounds were touched would Eiji’s face contort in pain, but at all other times he remained expressionless like someone with dementia. He looked at no one’s face and answered nothing no matter what he was asked. Eiji had no idea what story police informant Sukejirou had heard from Honmachi’s fire brigade chief or how he had relayed it to Aoki Kōnosuke, but judging from Aoki’s tone during the interrogation, it seemed Eiji was being treated as someone who had attempted extortion at Momen cotton merchant in Honmachi without disclosing his address, name, or occupation.

“Judging by appearances, you don’t seem like that sort of person,” said Aoki. “I am Aoki Kōnosuke, town patrol magistrate. I sense there must be some reason behind this—have you nothing to say?” Eiji did not answer. Aoki waited.

“I’ll set fire to that shop,” Eiji growled in a hoarse voice, muttering to himself. “Kill the three firemen—and those two police informants too.”

Though unclear, the mutter from between his swollen lips must have reached Aoki’s ears, for he narrowed his eyes and gazed at Eiji. Aoki Kōnosuke was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, lean and tall, with a narrow, sun-darkened face whose features stood out with striking clarity. It was a countenance that seemed to radiate self-restraint and strength of will. “If you have a residence and someone to vouch for you, I’ll let you go as you are,” Aoki said patiently. “Where is your residence?”

Eiji did not answer. “If you stay silent, nothing will be understood. If you persist in refusing to respond, I will have no choice but to take you to the magistrate’s office.”

But Eiji did not answer. “It seems the informants acted roughly—no doubt that’s why you’re angry,” Aoki continued calmly. “But listen well: when investigating suspicious persons as part of our duty, we cannot treat them like guests. However much we might wish otherwise, they will inevitably resort to harsh means. The more stubbornly you persist, the more you’ll be suspected of additional crimes, and soon you’ll face prison interrogation. Consider this carefully—why not tell us everything in detail?”

As steam began to rise from Eiji’s kimono and warmth spread through his body, every muscle and joint began to ache as if inflamed. Damn those Momen bastards—those firemen and police informants—I’ll kill them all! Even if it takes thirty years or fifty, I’ll slaughter every last one of them—Eiji swore by the pain searing through his entire body as he thought this to himself.

“Then there’s no alternative,” Aoki finally said with a sigh. “We’ll take you to the magistrate’s office for interrogation.”

And he ordered the old guardhouse attendant to call for a palanquin. Eiji was placed in a palanquin, taken to the Kitamachi Magistrate’s Office, and put into the temporary jail. Though placing someone in jail required the town magistrate’s permission, Aoki consulted with a yoriki named Matazaemon stationed at the office and had him placed in an available temporary jail. Matazaemon’s surname was also Aoki; a member of Kōnosuke’s clan and forty-five years old, he was one of the senior yoriki at the northern magistrate’s office. ――Eiji was indifferent to these matters. Of course, he knew nothing about the jail, nor did he even know that this was the Kitamachi Magistrate’s Office. He shut himself tightly within himself, determined to let nothing from the outside in. The whole world was his enemy—he must not forget this. The wealthy can use their money, and officials their authority, to turn the innocent into criminals. For those like me without money or power, there is no way to oppose them. This was the truth, he thought. Then anger surged up again.

Eiji looked around. Three sides were wooden walls; the side facing the corridor was fitted with prison bars. A surge of anger threatened to make him dizzy, and the sturdy prison bars seemed to recede and draw near. “Damn it!” Eiji let out a shout that seemed to split the air and suddenly stood up. “Let me out of here!”

He threw his body violently against the prison bars. He felt a sharp pain in his flesh and bones, but like a madman slammed himself against them twice, three times, and shook the bars with both hands using all his strength.

“Let me out!” he kept shouting. “I’ll bash every last one of you bastards to death!”

五の三

After seven days in the temporary jail, Eiji was sent to the Ishikawajima Labor Camp. Matazaemon conducted the interrogation himself and treated him with various kindnesses. Aoki Kōnosuke, the town patrol magistrate, spoke as if casually making small talk—mentioning that he was part of his own clan, that those who had gone with him to the Honmachi guardhouse were Yasui Tomoemon, a police officer, and Okamura Jibei, a subordinate, and that all three sympathized with Eiji—then calmly repeated his question about what had been the root of the mistake. Eiji maintained his silence even toward Matazaemon. When he had thrashed about in the temporary jail, the nail on his right big toe had been torn off. It had been treated and wrapped in bleached cotton. That finger throbbed, and dull pains spread throughout his body—in his shoulders, the bones of his hips, and elsewhere—so he winced with every movement. But otherwise he remained like stone, staring fixedly at an indeterminate point ahead, his face rigid as he maintained his silence.

During this time, Aoki Kōnosuke seemed to have investigated Momen. However, at Momen, they only stated that “someone had barged in and caused a disturbance,” and appeared to say nothing about Eiji’s lineage or personal history. This was clearly reflected in fragments of Matazaemon’s questioning, and though Eiji sneered inwardly, not a trace of it showed on his face. Matazaemon was replaced by an examining magistrate called Ishikawa something-or-other, who handled the investigation for three days. Though his methods were quite severe and unsparing, there were still no instances of physical strikes or shouted threats. Then on the seventh day, Matazaemon took over once more.

“It seems particular circumstances may exist,” Matazaemon stated with bureaucratic detachment, “but given the authorities’ pressing duties, we lack time to devote solely to your case. As our investigation thus far reveals no evidence of further crimes, ordinarily we would release you outright. However, having declared neither residence nor guarantor—nor even your employment status—you cannot avoid disposition as a stateless person. It has therefore been decided to send you to Ishikawajima Labor Camp. You will accept this decision.”

Even so, Eiji did not speak. Those sent to Ishikawajima were Eiji and five others—all clad in everyday clothes and straw sandals—with Eiji bound by a waist rope to another young man. The two alone had apparently been judged prone to violence. From the magistrate’s office came a patrol magistrate accompanied by two police officers and three subordinates as guards. The youth tethered to Eiji kept sniffling nervously while twisting his neck left and right. “Name’s Kinta,” he whispered as soon as they cleared town limits. “Nabbed over penny-ante gambling—shipped off to this rock. Even I gotta laugh at how pathetic I look.”

“Shut your mouth!” one of the subordinates barked. “Talking’s not allowed.” The young man twisted his neck and stuck out his tongue. It was an absurdly long, ghostly pale tongue. Eiji did not respond. He had no memory of what the four others were like as men, nor did he look to see how they proceeded through the town streets. Among the passersby, there were men and women who, realizing that criminals were being transported, stopped to see them off with looks of disgust and curiosity; however, most either didn’t notice or, if they did, hurriedly averted their eyes.

"They must find my figure bound with a waist rope terrifying—hmph," Eiji thought. They probably see me as some heinous criminal—a robber or murderer. Fine. Just wait. I'll show you—I'll become exactly the person you all assume I am. He hated everything that entered his sight and challenged it all. When he saw rows of houses that seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their peaceful lives, he hated them; when he saw men and women among the passersby who appeared content and happy, he mocked them inwardly and hurled curses.—But when they reached Echizenbori, just once, something strongly tugged at Eiji's heart. Alongside the storehouse of a merchant house facing the canal, two girls of about seven or eight years old had spread a straw mat on the sunlit ground and were sitting on it playing beanbags.

“On my hand, on my hand,” sang one of the girls, her voice carrying through the air, “lower it down now, sa-a-lute!”

Eiji stopped and looked in that direction. Both appeared to be around the same age, their hair tied in tobacco-pouch buns, wearing brightly colored kimonos with aprons. “One, one, one,” a girl chanted rhythmically as she deftly juggled her beanbags, “lower it down now, sa-a-lute!”

It was just like back then—Momen’s daughters, Okimi and Osono, had invited me, and I used to play beanbags with them like that. As he thought this, a scalding emotion like boiling water welled up in his chest for no reason, and Eiji’s eyes blurred with tears. “What are you dawdling for?” the subordinate prodded Eiji. “Get moving already!”

Eiji started walking. “Big sleeves, big sleeves, big sleeves,” came a girl’s voice from behind, “—lower the big sleeves and sa-a-lute!” Eiji slowly shook his head from left to right.

五の四

“This labor camp is not a prison,” the camp officer had declared. “Let me reiterate the earlier pronouncement: vagrants and stateless persons who should rightfully be sent to Sado Island have, through the authorities’ exceptional benevolence, been assigned here as supplementary laborers.” This institution differed from ordinary prisons in not treating its inmates as criminals. By regulation, they wore persimmon-colored garments stamped with white polka dots, though their hair remained unshorn and married women could keep their hairpins. Those possessing skills would practice their trades, while the unskilled could learn new vocations. Wages would be paid for these labors—funds to establish honest livelihoods upon release—but Eiji had absorbed none of the officer’s words. The image of two little girls playing beanbags at Echizenbori clung to his vision, their sing-song voices echoing through his skull. Ohidari ohidari! Dari-dari-dari Daruma’s eye! Eiji bit his lip and shut his eyes. He could almost see his boyish self in Momen’s inner parlor, entertaining Okimi and Osono with their gaggle of friends.

“Hey,” the young man named Kinta sitting next to him nudged him with his elbow, “stand up.”

The officer’s speech concluded, and the five men who had been sitting on the coarse straw mat stood up and put on their straw sandals. The four subordinate officers stationed on either side of them said, “Come this way,” guided them toward a spacious inner courtyard, and introduced them to the other subordinate officers who had been waiting there. These were said to include handicraft overseers, oyster ash overseers, field overseers, oil-pressing overseers, rice-pounding overseers, guardhouse overseers, as well as labor camp supervisors, doctors, and teachers, though these would be introduced at a later time. When the introductions were completed, a man around fifty years old stepped forward. He had a bull-like build with shoulders bulging like tumors, a naturally reddish-black face untouched by sea winds or sunburn, absurdly large eyes and mouth, and a grating voice like the teeth of a saw being set.

“I’m Matsuda Gonzaemon, supervisor of this labor camp,” the man bellowed. “The laborers here call me ‘Red Demon’ behind my back—couldn’t give a damn if you do the same. Won’t get angry over that shit. But mark my words: that officer who just sweet-talked you over there was Okaya Kihee, chief overseer from the magistrate’s office. If you swallow his pretty words and think this place is paradise, you’re in for one hell of a mistake. They say Sado Island’s gold mines are hell on earth? Same goes for Ishikawajima here—different name, same story. You lot act up, this’ll become a hell that gives Sado a run for its money. Don’t you forget it.”

And he glared resentfully at the five men, spat on the ground, then strode off in large strides. Next came a man who looked about forty-four or forty-five. This unassuming figure seemed oddly youthful for his age, his kimono collar fastened so tightly it appeared to strangle his neck, speaking in a cloying voice as if to soothe some invisible surface.

“I am Kojima Ryōjirō, an overseer here,” the man said with a smile. “An overseer is something like your caretaker. As Mr. Okayasu mentioned earlier, this labor camp is not a place to torment you—for those with skills, we encourage their work; for those without…” “Same damn sermon, ain’t it?” Kinta whispered to Eiji. “That guy’s a silver scammer—worse than the Red Demon.”

“Therefore, those with skills will be given work in their trade,” Kojima continued, “and those without skills who wish to learn a trade may state their desired occupation. The rest will be assigned laborer tasks as needed—river dredging, field cultivation, construction work, rice warehouse loading, and such. Understood? Now, those with existing skills or desired occupations may come forward.” Of the five, the three middle-aged men were a carpenter, a plasterer, and a tabi maker. Kinta had no established trade and did not say he wanted to learn one. Eiji did not respond. The overseer named Kojima questioned him persistently about various matters in a sluggish tone as if his mouth were full of saliva, but Eiji did not utter a single word from beginning to end.

“You don’t seem inclined to state your own name,” Kojima said, frowning at the ledger in his hands. “If you don’t behave obediently here, you’ll suffer.” He then told Kinta and you, “Laborer quarters for you”—a place said to be for those only fit for river dredging or construction work. To hell with it all. Do whatever you want. Every one of you is just an enemy to me, Eiji thought.

五の五 The laborer quarters housed twenty-three laborers. With Kinta and Eiji joining them, which brought the total to twenty-five, the three men—Denpachi, Kurata, and Saiji—were the foremen. Denpachi was fifty-five or fifty-six, Kurata forty-seven or forty-eight, and Saiji likely twenty-eight or twenty-nine; all three were professional laborers by trade and seemed to take pride in having been inmates of Denmachō Prison together. The foremen called Eiji “Bushū.” They likely meant it as "a product of Bushū." There was no way one could avoid giving their name once in the hands of town magistrates and such. Most likely, the two magistrate’s officers named Aoki had their reasons and had arranged for special treatment. This arrangement had apparently been communicated to the labor camp officials and even whispered to the foremen of the laborer quarters. While they would speak ill of him or make various pointed remarks, they refrained from using violence or forcing excessive work upon him, and even when Eiji stubbornly resisted, they did not engage with him.

For the first fifty-odd days, they were made to work on embankment construction south of the labor camp. Ishikawajima was roughly triangular in shape, with Ishikawa Ōsumi no Kami’s residence to the east and Tsukuda Island to the west, each separated by a moat, while Ōkawaguchi lay to the north and the sea spread out to the south. In the direction of Ōkawaguchi, the towns of Funamatsu-chō, Jūken-chō, Akashi-chō, and others lay flatly lined up across the wide river’s expanse. On the northern side facing that direction were a boat landing and a gate, with inmates’ longhouses built to either side of the gate. Longhouses were also on the eastern side, where a bathhouse had been established. Upon entering the gate, straight ahead stood the government office and officials’ residences, while beyond the nearly triangular courtyard stood an isolated guardhouse. It occupied the center of the grounds at the optimal position for monitoring laborers’ movements.

The southern end where embankment work was conducted was the narrowest part of Ishikawajima, spanning only about fifty ken from end to end. The sea lay shallow with a gentle slope, its bottom exposed for two or three chō even during ordinary low tides, while at the new moon and full moon phases, the water would recede as far as fourteen or fifteen chō.—The island’s other three sides were reinforced with stone walls, but its southern tip, battered directly by ocean swells, reportedly collapsed once every three years during storms. To prevent such destruction henceforth, they excavated over ten shaku at the water’s edge, drove cedar logs deep into the ground as pilings, and advanced sturdy construction starting from foundational reinforcement.

Four or five days after entering the laborer quarters, Eiji found his attention drawn to one of his fellow laborers. A man of twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with a face that looked as though his jaw had been shaved off, pointed cheeks, an ingratiating smile for everyone, and a way of speaking that sought favor. His sunken eyes were restless, constantly darting around, yet he never looked anyone directly in the face. I’ve seen that face somewhere before, Eiji muttered inwardly. I definitely recognize that face.

Soon he learned that the man was named Jirōkichi but couldn't recall where they had met. And then he grew close to a man named Yohei and forgot all about Jirōkichi. "I'm someone called Yohei," the man addressed him first. "You've been here over half a month now without speaking to anyone—there must be some reason for that—but staying silent like this poisons your very body."

It happened during a break at the construction site. Eiji leaned against the stacked stones and gazed at the calm sea of early spring. Yohei had approached him there to speak, but Eiji neither responded nor turned to look. "This is the first time I've spoken of this," Yohei said as if muttering to himself, "but eight years ago, I tried to kill my wife. Back then, I ran a small clothier's shop in Shiba-Kanasugi. Though modest, it did well enough—I'd risen from shop boy to apprentice there, then married into the family as their daughter's husband."

Eiji remained silent and listened. The words about having failed to kill his wife had unwittingly drawn his interest. It was not an uncommon scenario—a strong-willed wife from a propertied family and a timid husband who had risen from errand boy. Though he had worked and earned for over ten years and fathered three children, he was never once treated like a proper husband—from morning till night he was berated dismissively and driven like a servant. “Even the children called me ‘Dad’s good-for-nothing,’” he said, “and I was made to eat meals on the kitchen’s wooden floor, just like when I was an errand boy.”

“It wasn’t just my wife who was at fault. You see, we were two people who never should’ve married—we ended up together by mistake. Now that I think about it, she must’ve felt just as trapped as I did, yes.” Yohei let out a long sigh and said, “But back then, I didn’t think of such things. For any person, their own concerns take center stage in their thoughts. They say you can endure another’s pain for three years, but your own pain becomes unbearable in no time. And sure enough, one day, I finally ran out of patience.”

But just then, the break period ended, and Yohei’s story was interrupted.

The next day was rainy, so construction was halted, and half of the laborers from the quarters were sent out to repair the bamboo fence. Along the shore of this island ran a nine-shaku tall bamboo fence, and they were replacing the deteriorated sections. The one who came to give the orders was Supervisor Matsuda Gonzaemon, who glared at the laborers while bellowing in a loud, hoarse voice. True to his epithet “Red Demon,” Eiji thought, *This guy’s surprisingly soft-hearted*, as he flopped onto his back right in front of him, crossed his hands behind his head, and let out an exaggerated yawn.

“Hey, you there, youngster,” Matsuda jabbed his stubby thick finger at Eiji as if to stab him. His face turned red and his eyes bulged wide, but upon recognizing that his target was Eiji, he abruptly swung his finger toward the other laborers and bellowed even louder, “Hey, you mangy mutts! Get movin’ already! Keep dawdlin’ and I’ll snap your damn arms off!”

Eiji snorted derisively. Thirteen laborers had been summoned. Saiji, a young foreman, took charge with Yohei among them. The rain persisted for three days, and so did the bamboo fence repairs. On the second day Eiji went out too, but Yohei was conversely excluded from the group. When they reunited on the third day, there remained no time to speak.—Observing closely now, Yohei appeared a gaunt little man who might have been fortyish, yet his shriveled face and limbs—creased like dried bark—resembled those of a man nearing sixty. His voice stayed hushed and mellow, his speech deliberate and guarded; he laughed a breath behind others’ mirth, ever comporting himself to escape notice.

When the rain stopped and they returned to embankment work, Yohei approached Eiji again during the afternoon break. Yohei said he might be bothering someone young like you with trivial talk, to which Eiji gave a slight shake of his head. Gazing at the sea—still murky and restless from the recent rains—he kept his eyes turned away from Yohei even then. “Eight years back—third day of the ninth month in Kanoe-Tatsu’s year,” Yohei began. “That June they’d minted new silver coins, sent currency rates reeling wild. My shop took heavy losses from that. But troubles piled on—three bolts of fabric I’d bought came flawed. Cheap tsumugi stripes from Isezaki. One bolt meant for women’s wear had uneven dye and fell short by nearly a shaku.”

His wife began cursing as usual, scolding, “You’re a plague-bringer! You’ll ruin this shop soon enough!” and shoved him in front of their watching children. He had been standing at the raised edge of the shop when the momentum of tumbling down into the earthen floor struck his head against the threshold, cutting his temple about an inch. “When I saw the blood on my hand, my vision blurred with frustration, and I tried to lunge at my wife—but one’s nature can’t be helped. I brushed the dust from my kimono and set about tending to my wound.”

Trembling with frustration from head to toe, his overflowing tears refused to cease. And that night, reflecting on everything from his apprenticeship to the ten years since becoming a son-in-law, he resolved that there was no point in living like this—he might as well kill his wife and himself. There, he quietly got up and took out a travel sword from the storage room. Of course, it had belonged to his deceased father-in-law, and since it hadn’t been taken out in ages, the blade had developed rust. He took the unsheathed sword and returned to the bedroom, then shook his wife awake. When his wife awoke and noticed he was holding an unsheathed sword, she let out a scream, leapt to her feet, and fled out the back kitchen door, knocking over sliding doors and paper screens in her panic.

“How fast she was,” Yohei said with a soft chuckle in his throat, “—just like a mad cat with its tail on fire. Yes, I chased after her, but my wife kept screaming ‘Murderer! Murderer!’ as she broke through the alley gate, ran out to the main street, and kept shrieking ‘Someone help! Murderer!’ in a voice fit to tear her throat raw.” The neighbors came out, and a commotion broke out because Yohei was holding an unsheathed sword. Some grabbed six-shaku staffs and laundry poles, others dashed toward the guardhouse, and though shielded by them, his wife kept shrieking, “Murderer!”

“Since I had the sword, they dragged me straight to the guardhouse,” Yohei continued. “My wife listed off all sorts of things that never happened—said if they left me be, I’d kill her and the children for sure—so she kept insisting on a divorce. I was still worked up, so I shot back that whether we split or not, I’d kill you anyway. And well… that’s how I ended up sent to this labor camp, yes.”

"What a terrible woman," Eiji muttered inwardly, recalling when he had been dragged to the guardhouse himself. Anger welled up, twisting his face. “Since coming here, I’ve come to understand many things,” Yohei said with a sigh. “My wife must have truly seen me as a plague-bringer, and to the children, I was just a useless old man. People’s natures shape how they see things and think about them—each of us differently. I only ever pitied myself, never considering my wife’s feelings. Now I realize I was the one at fault… yes.”

Eiji grew frustrated and wanted to yell that this was exactly why even his wife looked down on him. He truly meant to shout, but just then came the foreman’s bark of “Start work!”—and against his true feelings, Eiji turned to Yohei and said in a low voice, “I’m called Eiji.” “Pleased to meet you,” Yohei said. “I’m counting on you.”

Six-One

One night in late February, Jirōkichi caused a commotion in the Laborer Quarters. He claimed that money had gone missing from his own bundle. The room had individual partitioned storage compartments, and each person was permitted to keep their own belongings. As for wages earned after arriving at the island, the authorities kept them in custody while issuing only a ledger that tallied monthly totals. However, money brought from the beginning or valuables sent by acquaintances could be kept in one’s own possession—this being one example of how the labor camp differed from prison: those deemed well-behaved could wear regular clothes, go outside, and meet visitors when they came. Thus it seemed most inmates had at least some money.

“Search properly,” one of the laborers said. “I ain’t never heard of money gettin’ stolen on this island before!” “But it’s gone! What’m I s’posed to do?” Jirōkichi kept rummaging through his bundle as he spoke. “I put it proper in my wallet ’n’ tucked it right ’tween my clothes!” Listening to this exchange, Eiji thought, *Huh?* He’d thought the face looked familiar before, but now he realized he knew that voice too. That ingratiating yet sly way of speaking—he was sure he’d heard that voice before. He turned around.

“Hey now, your compartment’s right next to mine,” the laborer from earlier said. “You ain’t fixin’ to lay blame on me, are ya?” “Don’t be ridiculous!” Jirōkichi shook his head as if to say that was outrageous. “Suspectin’ you, brother? I ain’t got a single speck of that intention! I just put the money here in my wallet, that’s all!” “Hey, Jirōbei,” said one of the other laborers who was lying sprawled out, still sprawled as he spoke. “What’s that ’bout to tumble out your breast there?”

“Huh?” Jirōkichi said, looking down at his chest. Spotting the wallet about to fall out, he opened his mouth in surprise. “Well, this is…” He scratched his head. “This here’s a real blunder. Come to think of it, when I opened my bundle earlier, I plumb forgot I’d stuck this in my pocket. How embarrassin’—what a laughable sight I am right now.” “What’s so damn funny? Quit screwin’ around!” the first laborer shouted sharply. “You’re the joke here—accusin’ folks of shit they didn’t do! Keep this up, bastard, and I’ll make you regret it!”

“Wait a second.” Jirōkichi thrust one hand forward while backing away, his voice oozing false deference. “I never once suspected you, brother—not a speck! I was just sayin’ my own dumbassery’s the real joke here.” Having heard that far, Eiji stood up. And walking toward Jirōkichi, he called out, “Katsu Ani.” Jirōkichi turned around, and the surrounding laborers all swiveled their eyes toward the two as if sensing trouble.

“Back in your gang, you were called Katsu Ani, weren’t you?” Eiji said. “I’ve got something to discuss. Step outside.” “What the—why?” Jirōkichi squinted his eyes and stammered harshly, “I’m called Jirōkichi—don’t know no one named Katsu Ani.” “You’ll understand once we’re outside.” “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“I said get outside!” Eiji raised his fist and punched Jirōkichi in the face. “You might’ve forgotten, but I remember—Procurer Roku. If you don’t wanna step outside, should I spill everything you’ve done right here?” “I-I—” Jirōkichi’s tongue must have gone stiff—the rest of his words wouldn’t come. He looked around at the surrounding men as if pleading for help. “Brothers… this man—”

He began to speak, but seeing nothing but scorn and hatred on every face, suddenly leapt down to the earthen floor, threw open the sliding door, and fled outside. Eiji immediately gave chase, with nearly all the laborers in the room running out after him. ――A mad cat with its tail on fire. While pursuing Jirōkichi, Eiji recalled Yohei’s words, but rather than finding humor in them, he only seethed at the man’s cowardice and spinelessness. The courtyard lay dark, the watchpost’s shoji screens glowing faintly with lamplight across the way. Jirōkichi had likely meant to flee there, but was caught midway by Matsuda Gonzaemon.

“Help me!” came Jirōkichi’s tearful plea. “They’ll kill me—please hide me!”

There, Eiji ran up. It was only when he reached them that Eiji realized the one holding Jirōkichi was Red Demon, and he stopped with both hands clenched into fists. “They say you’re going to lynch this man,” Matsuda growled hoarsely. “Seems like quite a crowd—can’t handle one man without all these people?” “Please hand him over,” Eiji said. “It’s just me against him—the others are only here to watch.”

“You’re a stubborn one,” Matsuda growled. “What grudge do you have against this guy?” “That’s none of your business.” Eiji declared in a low voice, “Hand him over to me.” And he lunged at Jirōkichi.

6-2

Jirōkichi tried to circle around behind Matsuda Gonzaemon, but Matsuda used the hand that was holding him to push him toward Eiji instead. “No violence!” Matsuda growled hoarsely. “No violent acts! Fights and brawling are prohibited! People need patience—those without restraint will suffer! Hey, you stubborn one—do it properly!”

Eiji struck Jirōkichi's head from both sides—with both fists clenched with all his strength, hitting from the right and then from the left. Each time, Jirōkichi's body staggered left and right, but suddenly he let out a strangled scream and lunged forward. Eiji hooked his legs to throw him down, pinned him by straddling his chest, and once more struck his face from both sides. “Help me!” Jirōkichi cried out in a tearful voice. “I’m gonna get killed here!”

Matsuda approached and clapped Eiji’s shoulder. “That’s enough. If the magistrate’s office finds out, it’ll be trouble. Quit it.” Eiji stopped hitting him and stayed pinning Jirōkichi down while breathing harshly, but soon rose up and left toward the utterly dark courtyard beyond as if fleeing those gathered there. He went south past the tenement fronts, passed the sick quarters and women’s quarters, continued to the embankment worksite at water’s edge, and sat upon the withered grass there. He kept his eyes clenched shut until his breathing calmed. Just five or six feet ahead came the soft whisper of waves lapping shoreward, while a hint of breeze carried the brine’s scent.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” He opened his tightly shut eyes and muttered with a sigh, “What was the point of doing that? For that spineless coward—that worm of a man—I could’ve just spat in his face and been done with it.”

In the distance beyond the dark sea, lights from night-fishing boats shimmered on the water's surface. He had initially counted three or four, but as he kept staring, numerous lights became visible both near and far—some motionless, others drifting. "Nobu," Eiji muttered, his eyes fixed on the boat lights, "I beat that Roku bastard up for you. Your sister must've been a real fool to die for some spineless coward like him."

Nobu did not give in. She didn't lose to Roku or the others, and they say she even stood up to her parents. "When you're poor like us, sometimes it's your own parents who are scarier than strangers," O-Nobu had said.

"Maybe so," he thought. "I don't know about parents, but for ten years I respected and trusted Yoshibei as my 'master.'" Momen had even grown close with those in the inner quarters. How had they truly treated him? It was her own parents and good-for-nothing brothers who'd driven O-Nobu's sister to that double suicide. Saburō had a family home in Kasai with his grandfather, parents, and siblings—yet no place there where he belonged. What did it mean—what in this world did any of it mean? Eiji demanded of no one in particular, the questions burning inside him.

“What’s wrong?” said a voice as someone approached from behind. “Having regrets?” Eiji thought Red Demon but didn’t respond. “Why’d you beat that shitty bastard?” Matsuda asked from Eiji’s right side without moving. “Got some grudge from Shaba?” “Ain’t your concern.” “Heard that line before,” Matsuda barked back, then exhaled loudly before continuing more evenly: “—The men say you used to call that bastard ‘Procurer Roku.’ What’s that mean?”

Eiji remained silent. Matsuda stomped heavily and uttered unintelligible curses. "I let you beat that shitty bastard! That slimy suck-up's a worthless piece of trash—just lookin' at his mug makes me wanna puke my guts out. That's why I let you whale on him," Matsuda Gonzaemon growled. "Plus I like you. Heard you got some bigwig backing you up, but I ain't the type to piss myself over that crap. I let your bullshit slide 'cause I like you myself. Even tonight—if I'd wanted, I could've had your ass disciplined proper. Ain't that right, stubborn one?" Matsuda said, squatting down there.

“Tell me about that shitty bastard,” Matsuda said. “That bastard’s likely got other crimes in Shaba. If you tell me what you know, I’ll dig out his true colors. What d’you say, stubborn one? Won’t you talk?”

Eiji remained silent, then stood up and began walking toward the tenements. Matsuda immediately rose and pursued him, seizing Eiji's shoulder from behind.

6-3

“Wait, you bastard!” When Matsuda shouted this, he used the hand gripping Eiji’s shoulder to wrench his body around, then struck his cheek with an open palm. “You think you can look down on me?” Eiji went limp, letting both hands hang as he stared at Matsuda’s face. Matsuda raised his hand to strike again, but—perhaps reconsidering at Eiji’s demeanor—slowly lowered the raised hand and shoved the shoulder he had been gripping. “You’re a damn irritating bastard,” Matsuda said through clenched teeth. “After I went out of my way to—ugh, this is pointless!” He stamped his feet and shouted, “Just get lost already!”

Eiji returned to the tenements.

The laborers in the quarters had all come to regard Eiji with awe. Jirōkichi Roku feared catching Eiji's eye, and whether in the quarters or when their workspaces overlapped, he tried to stay as far from Eiji as possible, appearing perpetually hunched at the shoulders. Among them all, only one person—the junior foreman Saiji—was the exception. He openly showed hostility toward Eiji, treating him with particular harshness both in assigning tasks and during the work itself. In his gaze and demeanor was blatantly apparent the meaning of, "Well? How about this? Still not gonna cry?"

In response to these changes around him, Eiji showed no reaction whatsoever. He never looked at Procurer Roku again, spoke to no one, and withdrew firmly into himself. Even when Saiji did something malicious, he never resisted, but it was clear to everyone that this wasn’t submission—it was disregard. This must have irritated Saiji further and driven him to rage, for one day near the end of the embankment work—when he finally ran out of patience—he challenged Eiji. It happened when Eiji was carrying a stone to be set into the stone wall—a roughly five-kan granite stone missing a corner. He had hoisted it onto his shoulder padded with a patched cloth and was walking while steadying it with both hands when Saiji came up from behind and shoved him in the back with both hands. Eiji lurched forward and fell in a way that cradled the stone slipping from his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, bastard?” Saiji bellowed. “Can’t even handle a puny rock like that? Slack off again and you’ll regret it!”

Eiji turned around and looked up at Saiji, then slowly stood up. It was an extremely sluggish motion, like someone still half-asleep rising to their feet, but the moment he stood up and seemed about to brush the mud from his hands, he drew back his right elbow—now a clenched fist—and slammed it into Saiji’s face with all his strength. The strike swiftly and precisely connected with Saiji’s nose bridge. As Saiji staggered, Eiji crouched low and drove a fierce headbutt into his opponent’s chest. Saiji fell onto his back, pressing his nose with one hand and shouting something as he bent his body into a crouch and tried to rise up. Eiji stomped on his face and delivered an upward kick as he tried to evade. There was not a shred of restraint or mercy in his method. With his straw sandal-clad feet, he trampled the man’s face and chest, then kicked upward only to trample him again.

“That’s enough already, Bro.” Kinta grappled Eiji from behind and pulled him away. “I’m beggin’ ya, stop! You’ll kill the foreman!”

Saiji arched his face—smeared with blood and mud—backward and lay stretched out on the ground on his back, mouth agape and gasping as if he had lost consciousness.

“Let go,” Eiji said to Kinta, “it’s embarrassing—let me go.”

From the opposite direction, overseer Kojima Ryōjirō came running with a six-foot staff. Seeing this, the laborers who had been watching the commotion quickly scattered, and Eiji picked up the stitched cloth fragment that had fallen to the ground, slung it over his shoulder, and hoisted up the tumbled stone. “What is the meaning of this?” Kojima, who had rushed over, said in a saccharine voice, “Who was it? Who did such a violent thing? Who did this? Who was it?” The laborers were each engaged in their work, and none responded to Kojima’s calls. Noticing the other two foremen, Denpachi and Kurata, at the edge of the worksite, Kojima went over there to inquire about the situation. With an air of knowing nothing, the two came over here with Kojima, and the three of them worked together to carry Saiji away. “You’re one tough bastard, Bro,” said a laborer around thirty to Eiji. “When you act, you gotta go all out like you did—been ages since I felt this cleared in my chest.”

Without so much as looking at the man, Eiji kept silently carrying stones as though he hadn't heard anything. The laborers stole furtive glances at Eiji with eyes that mixed awe and fear, but only a man named Yohei wore a sorrowful expression, occasionally looking at Eiji and shaking his head. It seemed as though he were saying, "Poor thing—if only he hadn't done such a thing." 6-4

Saiji was in the infirmary for over ten days. During that time, March arrived, and in place of Saiji, a middle-aged man named Kyūshichi was appointed as foreman. Eiji faced no repercussions. The laborers—and even Saiji himself—seemed to have successfully concealed the truth. At that time, since laborers were nearby, there might have been someone who saw that he had thrown the first punch. If that were the case, they likely kept silent because speaking up would have been disadvantageous to themselves, but in reality, the officials seemed to have known, as ethics teacher Tatematsu Hakuō touched upon the matter during a lecture.

At this labor camp, ethics lectures were held once every ten days. The venue was the government office’s hall, where female detainees also attended. The lectures consisted not of difficult material but moral lessons quoting historical anecdotes, though the laborers universally disliked them and would only attend when guards compelled them each time. When even a marginally attractive woman appeared among the female attendees, some men would volunteer to listen—though on such occasions they ignored the lecture to stare at the woman, leading the lecturers to bar such women from attending.

On the night of March 5th’s lecture, Eiji was specially summoned to attend by Okayasu Kihee, the head officer stationed at the government office. It happened to be his every-other-day bath day, and though he felt listless after bathing and reluctant to go, he had been specially summoned and had never attended before, so he reluctantly went to listen.—The hall measured about thirty tatami mats in size and was located on the south side of the government office, accessible from an engawa veranda facing the inner courtyard. There were fourteen or fifteen men besides Eiji, and likely about the same number of women. The two groups sat divided on the left and right sides of the hall, with the teacher’s seat positioned at the center.

Tatematsu Hakuō was a corpulent old man of about sixty. His large bald head and round face that seemed ready to burst both glistened with an oily brown sheen, while his thick lips shone an unnaturally vivid red. Having heard him called an ethics teacher, Eiji had imagined someone gaunt and austere-looking. Finding his expectations thoroughly upended, he nearly laughed aloud—*this guy's one hell of a character*, he thought. In one corner of the hall sat overseer Kojima Ryōjirō alongside two magistrates' assistants stationed at the government office, with Okayasu Kihee's face visible among them.

Teacher Tatematsu’s lecture was boring. Only he himself grew excited, moved by his own words—nodding vigorously as if declaring “Yes! This! This is humanity’s true path!”—and striking his knee with a fan using all his strength. He rambled about what the Classic of Filial Piety prescribed here, what Shingaku doctrine preached there, how some Tang dynasty figure had done this or that—tales of uncertain origin whether read or overheard—reiterating that these constituted the genuine way humans should live. Eiji was struggling to suppress his yawns when Hakuō suddenly raised his voice and roared, “A Toyotomi retainer called Kimura-something endured having his head struck by a tea servant!”—startling him.

“A general of some standing had his head struck by a tea servant,” Tatematsu Hakuō bellowed threateningly, his eyes bulging as he glared around the room. “—Yet Kimura Shigenari remained silent. He did nothing—didn’t even make a pained face. This is what separates men! Whether the tea servant remained a tea servant is beside the point here—Shigenari became a samurai general, led troops into battle at Osaka, and though he fell fighting against our Tokugawa forces, his name endures in history as a great man.”

“I don’t expect all of you here to become men of Shigenari’s caliber,” Hakuō continued, “—but I hear there’s someone among you who, after being subjected to a mere prank, beat the perpetrator half to death.”

Eiji quickly glanced toward the patrol officers’ seats. However, no one was looking his way, and Okayasu Kihee had tilted his face upward with his eyes closed. “I would ask that man,” Hakuō continued, glaring left and right, “—what might have happened had he laughed off the provocation? Even if mischief were attempted twice or thrice, had he brushed it aside with a smile, the other party would surely have lost steam and ultimately apologized. Yet that man beat his foe half to death—he could not help himself, I suppose—but then what follows? The reason blood feuds became forbidden under the shogunate’s prohibition is this: a child whose parent is slain will resent the killer, and should that child then slay the killer, the slain killer’s child will in turn seek vengeance. This cycle knows no end—society itself cannot function thus.”

“However, feelings of resentment cannot be restrained by the shogunate’s prohibition alone,” Hakuō continued fervently, stroking his forehead with his right hand, “—a man beaten half to death might feel no remorse for his own mischief and instead nurse hatred, plotting vengeance against his assailant.” Here the teacher lowered his voice as though pouring sincerity into it: “—When fire breaks out, you raze the houses in its path to halt it. That is, you prevent a great blaze through the sacrifice of a single house.”

Having heard that far, Eiji stood up. Feeling everyone’s eyes on his back, he silently left the hall and returned to the Laborer Quarters. The teacher’s lecture had undoubtedly been aimed at him; Okayasu Kihee had likely summoned him for that very reason. The people around him sure loved to preach—how ridiculous, Eiji thought. If what I did was wrong, then go ahead and draw a clear line—punish me properly. There’s no need to go on about patience this, endurance that—to drag in tea servants or samurai generals. I am neither some Tang scholar nor a tea servant nor a samurai general. I am none other than Eiji the scroll mounter—a man falsely branded a thief, beaten in the streets, sent to this island labor camp, his life torn to shreds.

“You ever been through somethin’ like that yourself? Should’ve said that to ’im.” Lying on his side with an arm for a pillow, Eiji muttered under his breath: “When I stood up back there, I thought about givin’ that schemin’ baldy’s shiny head a proper wallop. Then if he’d gotten mad, I’d have told him to practice his precious patience—hah! Ain’t Yohei’s way o’ puttin’ it, but anybody can stomach three years of somebody else’s hurt. Don’t go preachin’ ’bout pains you ain’t never felt.”

As he muttered this, Eiji felt the backs of his eyes grow hot and tears begin to spill out. The self that had shut itself inside a hard shell—not letting anyone approach and resolutely viewing the whole world and every person as enemies—suddenly felt pity for itself.

The other laborers had already gone to bed, some among them snoring. Listening to those snores, Eiji felt overwhelmed by a suffocating loneliness as if he alone had been abandoned in this vast world, and crawling into his futon still fully clothed, he desperately choked back his sobs. Saiji, having returned from the infirmary, kept his face wrapped in bleached cotton cloth from the mouth upward, leaving only eyeholes through which he glared incessantly at Eiji. His eyes bore the look of one whose entire body was tensed to pounce at the slightest opening.

“A single needle can kill a man,” Saiji said to one of the laborers. “There’s a pressure point just above the hollow at the base of the skull—stab a needle there, and he’ll drop dead in an instant. No wound left behind—no one’d ever know.” “I’ve crippled as many as five people through shady dealings,” he went on, “and if I set my mind to it, I could take on three opponents at once.” Saiji continued to spew other threats as if demanding acknowledgment, but Eiji neither looked his way nor gave any indication of hearing him.

“You must be careful,” Yohei whispered on one occasion. “—Since Saiji was dismissed from his foreman position, his resentment runs deep indeed. You shouldn’t go near him.” Though he had let it slip, Yohei hurriedly explained that he would never reveal the name “Eiji.” The embankment work ended, and the subsequent cleanup took about seven days. On the evening of the fifteenth, as he returned to his quarters and was washing his hands and feet, Kojima Ryōjirō came to summon him, saying, “Come here for a moment.” Eiji wiped his hands and followed after Kojima. As they went around the government office building, there was a guardhouse beside the gate facing Ōkawaguchi. When they came before it, Kojima stopped and waved toward the guardhouse.

“There’s someone who came saying they want to see you,” said Kojima. “It’s past visiting hours, but special permission was granted. Go meet them.” His tone was slimy and ingratiating. Eiji entered the guardhouse still holding the hand towel. The earthen floor formed an L-shape, with a six-tatami wooden area, and beyond the shoji screens there appeared to be a room. At the edge of the wooden floor area where an elderly guard was lighting a lantern, Saburō sat with a cloth-wrapped bundle placed beside him. The earthen floor area was dimly lit, and since he hadn’t expected anyone at all, Eiji couldn’t immediately tell who it was.

“Eiji,” Saburō called out in a low, trembling voice. “Ah… thank goodness. I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” Eiji flinched and his eyes flew wide open. Saburō gazed at Eiji with a pleading expression, and whether his subsequent words had caught in his throat, he hurriedly wiped his plump cheeks. And as he swallowed his saliva and was about to call out again, Eiji abruptly turned his body around and strode outside.

“Eiji, what’s wrong?” Saburō chased after him with a sob. “It’s me! Saburō! Eiji!” “Don’t know any such person,” Eiji shouted back as he strode away, “Ain’t got nobody I know in this whole damn world! ‘Eiji’ ain’t even my name no more—get lost!” “Eiji...” came Saburō’s sorrowful voice from behind. Eiji pressed his lips tightly together and walked toward the tenements with a hard, fixed expression.

6-5

As soon as he returned to the Laborer Quarters, Kojima Ryōjirō came chasing after him. Kojima was holding a cloth-wrapped bundle and said, "This is a delivery from that man earlier for you." Eiji looked at the bundle with cold eyes but stubbornly rejected it, insisting that was someone he didn’t know and there was no reason to accept such a thing.

“I see.” Kojima nodded but continued staring at Eiji with probing eyes. “Just so you know,” he said, “that man Saburō was worried about whether your cold had gotten better.” Eiji’s expression froze. His eyebrows, eyes, and mouth all became as still as a mask. Then he abruptly turned his face away.

“Still claiming you don’t know him?” “I don’t know,” Eiji answered in a voice like a frayed thread, “I’ve never seen him either.” “In that case, shall we have the office dispose of this delivery item?” “Do as you please,” Eiji replied.

After going to bed that night, Eiji muttered “What an idiot” over and over. The rule was for three people to share five futons when sleeping, but since there were more futons than needed for the number of people, the three foremen, Eiji, Procurer Roku, and about two others each slept alone. “Asking if my cold’s gotten better…” Eiji muttered under his breath from beneath the quilt pulled over his head, “That guy’s still the same. Just because I had a cold back then—even though nearly a hundred days have passed—asking if I’m better or not…”

"What a fool," he muttered while clutching his futon, desperately suppressing the sobs rising in his throat—of all times to catch a cold, he'd been plagued by sneezing and a runny nose. For the first time in his life suffering such cruelty, at the very moment when grief and rage left him no place to rest his soul, he had sneezed and sniffled. It was like Danjō Niki in a play sneezing during a sword fight—Eiji thought this and tried to laugh, but then the cotton-patterned tatami room floated into his vision: himself sneezing in that fireless room, then the boss and his men bursting in—being dragged onto the snow-covered road where two of them beat him savagely, stomping and kicking. Next came the guardhouse—these recollections rose vividly in his mind as he felt blood vessels throughout his body swell with rage.

“Damn it all.” Eiji clung to the futon with both hands, grinding his teeth. “Just you wait and see—I’ll show you what I’ll do. Just you wait and see.”

A few days later, seventeen of the laborers from the Laborer Quarters began being sent out to work beyond the island. Those permitted outside assignments were strictly limited to men recognized for good conduct and minimal escape risk. Eiji wasn't chosen for this privilege, remaining instead to assist with various workshops within the compound—experiences that exposed him to crafts ranging from carving to plastering. Burning oyster-shell lime proved arduous enough, but oil pressing stood as the most brutal labor, said to break even the strongest men within weeks. Other trades filled the workhouse: bamboo hat weaving, palanquin construction, paper-making, straw sandal braiding, and charcoal briquette molding. Those left in the quarters became general helpers—unloading ship cargoes, stacking finished goods, filling gaps wherever needed. Eiji performed his assigned tasks but volunteered nothing. He avoided altogether the bustling room where five workers churned out cheap decorative paper under constant orders. Though foremen and overseers alike commanded him to join, he only shook his head and kept his distance. That particular craft filled him with rage too profound to bear.

“Hey brother, you know what?” Kinta said at one point. “Saiji’s been transferred to Denmacho.” They were loading straw bags filled with oyster shell ash from the ash-burning area onto the ship, both of them covered in ash from head to toe.

“When was that?”

“Three days now,” Kinta said. “Guess you didn’t know that, brother.”

“Why was he transferred?” “Seems he got caught hidin’ shady business,” Kinta said with false wisdom. “Don’t know details, but prob’ly pulled some big job then did petty crimes to cover his tracks—been hidin’ out here at the workhouse. That’s how they tell it.” “Quit spoutin’ nonsense,” Eiji snapped. “But that Saiji bastard hated your guts,” Kinta pressed. “Always looked ready to sink his teeth in your throat given half a chance.”

“So what the hell does that matter?” Eiji hoisted the straw bag onto his shoulder as he said, “I’ve been waitin’ for that.” Kinta’s mouth fell open limply.

7-1 How pitiful, Eiji thought. He’d intended to face Saiji again—last time he’d struck first, but this time Saiji would be on guard. Then they could settle things fairly. Shielding and laboring—comfort and encouragement were riddled with deceit. Once something happened here, all that hypocritical pretense vanished like smoke, and their benevolent faces from yesterday suddenly transformed into demon masks. Just because a piece of brocade had been found in the tool bag, a ten-year bond between hearts snapped like a kite string. Compared to that, Saiji’s desire to make me his sworn enemy was devoid of any deception or falsehood—his determination to take me down, watching for an opening, was genuine. When humans became earnestly resolved—whether for better or worse—it was genuine and admirable. This time, I could finally clash with that guy on equal terms—in earnest.

Yet now they said his other crimes had been exposed. Was there really such a thing? Just like I'd been caught, hadn't he too fallen into a trap laid by the bastards of society? If that were true, I shouldn't have done something so terrible, Eiji thought. After that, he finally began observing the people and events around him with care. Saiji's situation became the catalyst—he realized everyone in this workhouse had been cast out by society. Those here were his comrades. The bastards of society might be the enemy, but everyone in this workhouse had been tortured and swindled by them, just like him. The man called Yohei had been reduced to a workhouse laborer by his own wife and children. The others too must have each endured their own dark and horrific experiences.

“Procurer Roku’s a different story,” he muttered. “That bastard’s human scum. O-Nobu said he fled Edo after betraying his comrades, but truth is he changed his name and slithered into this place—exactly what trash like him would do.” Jirōkichi had been lying low ever since that incident. He too was never assigned to outside work, but no matter the situation, he never approached Eiji, always trying to keep his distance like mismatched ends of a pole.—There had been a man who called out “That cleared my chest!” when Eiji had beaten Saiji that time. Even after that, whenever there was an opportunity, he tried to approach; Eiji had consistently refused to engage, but the man spoke to him regardless. His name was Mankichi, aged twenty-seven, said to have been a firefighter of the Ni-gumi. He loved fights and would roam around Ryōgoku Hirokōji in his free time “picking quarrels.” He had been strictly forbidden from fighting by his superiors, but two years prior in September, unable to endure any longer, he instigated a flashy fight that left three opponents injured. This enraged his superior, who expelled him and sent him to this workhouse—or so the story went. Mankichi had a habit of evaluating all things by their monetary value.

“When you took down Saiji,” Mankichi said, “the speed of your strike was worth at least one koban coin, I’d say.” With remarks valuing today’s weather at thirteen mon, declaring that bastard Jirōkichi wasn’t worth a single copper sen, or offering to pay one bu for a good story—Eiji found himself laughing against his will.

“Cut it out with the ‘brother’ crap,” Eiji said once. “You’re older than me.” “Age ain’t got nothin’ to do with brotherhood,” Mankichi shot back. “Back in Ni-gumi, we had this standard-bearer called Daisan—three years my junior, but damn if he wasn’t worth his weight in gold. When he planted that matoi at the fire’s edge? Straight up thousand ryō spectacle, no bull.”

Then, as if suddenly realizing something, he said, “You finally spoke to me for the first time, brother.”

Indeed, from that point on, Eiji gradually began speaking with others. Though naturally a man of few words who remained unchanged toward those he disliked, the number of people exchanging greetings with him grew steadily—one by one. None rejoiced over this more than Yohei. He had been chosen for the outside work detail and went out beyond the island daily. Sometimes he would buy sweets and sit sipping tea while talking with two or three like-minded individuals.

7-2

One night.

Yohei brewed tea, opened a bag of cheap sweets, called two others besides Eiji, and began making small talk.—Laborers received monthly wages ranging from 400 mon to 1 kanmon, and if there were necessary expenses, half of that could be used freely. The remaining half was held in custody by the office and handed over when leaving the island—as previously noted—and because of this, even someone like Yohei could at least enjoy tea and sweets here.

The two men who joined the tea gathering that time were Goichi and Isuke—both middle-aged, likely thirty-four or thirty-five. Goichi belonged to the farmers’ quarters, Isuke to the carvers’ quarters. “I’ve been in this workhouse over five years now,” Goichi said. “Don’t even think about goin’ back to the outside again—plan to live out my days here and die here.” “It’s not like you decided that yourself,” Yohei interjected as if steering the conversation. “Even if you get burned and fear fire, you still can’t live without it in the end.”

“Well, if you liken it to fire, I suppose that’s true,” Goichi nodded slowly. “Any fool could learn to handle flames eventually, but they’re no match for society’s mechanisms and cunning folk. Worked like oxen or horses till their spines give out—only to lose both home and fields in the end.” “Ain’t nothin’ special about that,” Isuke mumbled as if to himself. “Every soul’s got a tale that’d never end. World’s just wired that way—nothin’ remarkable.”

"But you see, that's not how it is for the person themselves," Yohei said. "You can't know burn pain without being burned, and that pain differs between people. Why, there's even those scared witless just seeing the sun rise." Eiji felt his heart shrivel. There was no need to hear what horrors Goichi and Isuke had endured; at an age that should have been their prime, they'd already given up on society and their own futures. Was it truly these mechanisms crushing them that drove the "world"? They said some famous magistrate preached hating the sin not the sinner—but when Yohei tried killing his wife, where did the guilt lie? With Yohei who attempted murder, or the wife who drove him to it? They called this place a workhouse not a prison, treated us different from criminals—but regardless, they'd found reason enough to cut us off from society. I'd been accused over a scrap of brocade—a crime I didn't commit. Tried finding the real culprit only to get beaten down and dumped here. So where's the guilt here? Some poor metalworker melts down coin granules when desperate for materials—gets punished for destroying currency. Cotton merchants have apprentices shave gold coins near openly. They say every money exchanger does it—so why's that no crime? The metalworker acts from need—too poor to buy raw gold. The merchants do it from greed—no need at all. "If true guilt were judged," Eiji challenged the air in his mind, "which side would fall?"

“My father died young,” Goichi recounted, “so I started field work when I was eleven. There was my ma, twin younger brothers, and a nursing baby sister. I worked till my bones ached—cleared seven tan of wasteland choked with bamboo grass, dug channels to make rice paddies. The landlord promised if we could make fields there, we’d pay no tenant fees for ten years.” But seven years back, the landlord came demanding debt. It was a promissory note for my dead father’s loan plus tenant fees for seven tan of new fields. Those fees had piled up since we first cleared the land, and the twenty-five ryō note was from seventeen years before.

"My dead father was illiterate," Goichi murmured, "so even if there was a promissory note, it only had his thumbprint—no way to prove if he really pressed it himself. And that promise of ten years’ free tenant fees for the new fields? Just verbal—no proof. I consulted everyone I could, even paid legal advisors in the end, but there was nothing to be done." The original five tan of fields that had belonged to Goichi’s family, along with seven tan of newly cultivated rice fields, produced the highest quality rice in the vicinity. This was due to his deceased father’s diligent care and Goichi’s efforts, but the landlord came to desire those fields.

“My father never said a word until he died, so I don’t know if that twenty-five ryō debt was real or fake—but I do know the truth about the fields,” Goichi continued in an emotionless tone. “From age eleven—a full eighteen years—and twelve since we first cleared that new field, I worked myself near to breaking my back alongside my mother and two brothers. I didn’t even take a wife. Then one day the landlord’s agent came with village officials, seizing our fields and home as collateral for that debt—ordering our whole family out immediately. That forced eviction… Can any of you imagine what went through my mind then?”

Eiji lowered his head deeply. He clenched his teeth to avoid being noticed by the three, made both hands into fists, and pressed them against his knees as if trying to screw them into his flesh. When he heard how Goichi had snapped and tried to burn down the landlord's mansion—only to get caught—he stood silently and went outside. "A full eighteen years." He muttered while walking southward, "--A full eighteen years, damn it all."

Eiji didn’t know how backbreaking a task it was to clear wasteland overgrown with bamboo thickets. They cleared the wasteland, dug irrigation channels, and turned it into rice paddies that yielded better grain than anywhere else. After working a full eighteen years without even taking a wife, not only the original fields but even the newly cultivated ones—and the house itself—were all taken away. Because of a single old promissory note of uncertain authenticity and because he had not written a document waiving tenant fees for ten years. Could such a thing really happen—would those around them have just silently watched such cruelty take place? There must have been people in that village too—people who knew about Goichi’s eighteen years of struggle. Nevertheless, was there no one who came to his aid? Eiji let out a groan.

Stars twinkled in the sky, but the surroundings were dark, with only the guard post's paper screens tinged by lamplight. Past the tenements lay the women's quarters, a building enclosed by a palisade fence where men were prohibited from entering or exiting, but as Eiji walked by, he saw a dark figure slip out through the gate of the palisade fence and hurry off toward the southern shore.

“Ah, that’s—” Eiji muttered as he stopped, “That must be Otoyo.”

7-3 Sabu faithfully visited every five days. He must have come after finishing work; despite the island’s strict curfew，Sabu’s visits were permitted. Some time ago，Red Demon had said， “You’ve got someone backing you，” and Eiji had also suspected through other instances that he seemed to be receiving special treatment. However，he did not meet Sabu. Kojima，the overseer，did not insist on anything，but instead brought only a care package and left it there silently. Inside were sweets，grilled eel，boxed sushi，undergarments，loincloths，and such，but Eiji distributed them all to those around him without hesitation.

When he first saw the grilled eel box, Eiji frowned and muttered, "What an idiot." He must have remembered how he often ate grilled eel at the street stalls by Wakoku Bridge in the past. That must remind him of the accounting office’s money box—something he likely didn’t even notice. Eiji, of course, did not lay a finger on the grilled eel either.

One night in late April, just before bedtime, Mankichi came to Eiji’s place and whispered that they should go outside. Eiji nodded and stood up. After going outside together, he asked, “What is it?” “You know ’bout Matsuzō and Otoyo?” “I don’t know the details, but I’ve heard things,” Eiji answered. “Did something happen to them?” “There’s a guy who peeps,” Mankichi said, his voice thick with disgust. “Even talkin’ ’bout it feels dirty.”

Otoyo from the women’s quarters and Matsuzō, a paper cord craftsman, had become involved before anyone knew it, and the woman began tending to him. Matsuzō’s conduct was exemplary; designated an outside errand-runner, he could freely come and go into the city, and as long as he had a guarantor, he could be released from the island at any time.

In the labor camp, proximity between men and women was strictly prohibited, but no matter how strictly forbidden, there were inevitably those who secretly formed relationships. Even when such people existed, it became customary for those around them to feign ignorance and shield them from the officials’ eyes. Eiji had vaguely heard about Matsuzō and Otoyo, and one night he had also seen Otoyo slipping out of the women’s quarters.

“Those two’ve been meetin’ now an’ then at the southern shoreline on nights since they’ve gotten friendly,” Mankichi recounted. “I heard it from Matsuzō himself. But envy’s one thing—there’s some bastard goin’ to spy on ’em.” “Spyin’ on what?” “Where they’re meetin’ up.” Mankichi spat before saying, “Do ya know Kobu the oil presser—that bastard with the lump—brother?”

Eiji did not know. "The oil pressers all got bodies like sumo wrestlers—every last one of 'em unbelievably strong," Mankichi continued. "There's this bastard among 'em called Kobu—got a lump right here on his neck. That shit-stain's got demon strength and never lost a fight even when takin' on four or five guys at once."

Matsuzō was thirty-one, and Otoyo was said to be thirty. Once they began meeting at night to avoid prying eyes, they couldn't go three days without seeing each other. If possible, they would have met every night. But they'd only recently realized Kobu was spying on their meetings—a problem Matsuzō had complained about to Mankichi. "Sneakin' off to watch folks' lovey-dovey business—even sayin' it out loud's filthy, ain't that right, brother?" Mankichi snarled, his breath ragged. "I wanna pound that bastard to dust, but hell—alone I ain't got a chance in hell. Know full well he'd crush me instead."

“Same as usual tonight?” Eiji asked. “Dunno. Just feel like sayin’ I dunno.”

Eiji started walking in silence. Mankichi whispered as he walked alongside him, "What if we brought a stick or something?" Eiji shook his head and said, “No need. I’ll go alone—you wait here.” Of course, Mankichi refused to comply. “Since I’m the one who brought it up,” he declared with a shrug, bracing himself.

That was the seaside where they had carried out the embankment work, with about ten cultivated fields and a weed-overgrown vacant lot. When Eiji had once come to view the night sea during construction, there had been no palisade fence, but now a nine-shaku-high barrier encircled the shoreline. As the two slipped between fields into the vacant lot, Mankichi seized Eiji's sleeve and hissed, "Shh."

Seven-Four When Eiji stopped, Mankichi crouched down and peered ahead. The sky looked ready to rain—a starless dark night—but far out on the sea, a light that seemed to belong to a fishing boat flickered faintly orange. “What’s wrong?” Eiji whispered. “Is he here?” Mankichi again shushed him, muffling his footsteps as he started forward. After five or six steps he halted and silently pointed ahead. In the vacant lot where weeds had begun to grow thick, a seated figure showed black against the darkness like a stain.

“It’s the bastard,” Mankichi whispered into Eiji’s ear, his lips nearly touching it. “Kobu.”

Perhaps having detected their presence, the black figure stirred and called out, “Otoyo?” Eiji silently walked toward him. Mankichi tried to hold him back but couldn’t, and so he just kept watching. “Otoyo?” the man across called out again. “Nope,” Eiji answered. “I’m from the Laborer Quarters.” The man remained seated, turning only his head to look up at Eiji. Eiji crossed his arms and stood on the man’s right side, looking out to the sea.

“The tide’s coming in,” Eiji muttered. “‘Laborer Quarters,’ huh?” the man asked. “What’s your name?”

“Don’t mind it.” “I’m askin’ your fuckin’ name.” “Don’t you mind it,” Eiji said. “I just came to look at the sea.” The man fell silent, staring wordlessly up at Eiji. At intervals, waves struck the stone embankment with the full weight of the rising tide, while from far across the water came the creak of oars. “I’m s’posed to meet someone here,” the man said after a while. “You bein’ there’s in the way.”

Eiji muttered under his breath that it was a quiet night. The man shifted. Eiji thought he would lunge if this was Kobu, but after only a slight adjustment, the man made no move to rise. Eiji was growing discouraged. According to Mankichi’s account, Kobu was an uncontrollable brute who, jealous of Matsuzō and Otoyo’s relationship, would come to spy on their meetings and interfere. If that were true, he would try to drive me away from here. Yet he did not move, and his tone lacked any roughness—if anything, it carried a note of bewilderment.

Thinking the situation strange, Eiji was about to speak to the man when hurried footsteps approached through the dark, followed by a woman’s voice calling, “Sei-san, where are you?” The man turned toward the voice. “Here,” he answered, squinting up at Eiji through the gloom. Otoyo stopped short upon seeing Eiji, catching her breath before asking the man, “Who’s this?” “Says he’s from the Laborer Quarters,” the man replied. “Come to look at the sea.”

"This might sound strange," Eiji said, unfolding his arms as he addressed the man, "but forgive me if I'm off—are you the oil presser they call Kobu?" "So what if I am?" "And—" Eiji gestured toward the woman with a wave of his hand. "Is this one here called Otoyo?"

The man stood up. While seated, his size hadn’t been apparent, but seeing him now standing revealed a frame far larger than Mankichi had described—his height well over six feet, shoulders as thick as a bull’s, muscles bulging. “Who the hell are you?” the man said. “You said you just came to see the sea earlier, but that ain’t the whole story.” “My bad. It’s my fault.” Eiji said while stepping back, “Seems I misheard something after all. I won’t get in your way—I’ll leave now, so cut me some slack.”

And then he slowly started walking.

As they made their way back through the fields, Mankichi—who must have been hiding somewhere—emerged and fell into step beside him. "You catch all that?" Eiji asked. "Yeah," Mankichi said, cocking his head. "Don't make a lick of sense." "You got played." "Ain't possible," Mankichi shot back. "Matsuzō's no two-timer." "What about what we just saw?" "That's why I'm stumped." Mankichi tilted his head further as he added, "What I told ya earlier—didn't just come from Matsuzō neither. Heard it straight from that Otoyo woman too. We're in over our heads here. Ain't there some way to keep Kobu from sniffin' around?"

Eiji turned and looked at Mankichi. “Was that the woman who was there just now?” “I’ve told you this countless times before.” Recalling Kobu’s massive frame and bewildered tone, Eiji told Mankichi, “You’re a good man.”

7-5

The circumstances soon became clear. “Bro’s right,” Mankichi said, scratching his head. “I got tricked outta two shu back there.” Mankichi seemed to have made thorough inquiries. In reality, it was an exceedingly simple matter—Otoyo was a fickle woman who would give herself to any man who approached her. Seishichi (Kobu) and Matsuzō had been acquainted since before, and it was said that Matsuzō would go to spy on Kobu and Otoyo meeting. Then Matsuzō made advances, and Otoyo grew passionate toward him. Kobu was an outlaw quick to resort to violence, but when it came to Otoyo, he seemed utterly disarmed—doing nothing but pestering her with gifts and money, lacking even the energy to get angry or jealous about her other men.

“I thought Otoyo was some kinda shameless man-tamer,” Mankichi said. “But strange thing is, that ain’t how it is at all. She’s got affection for everyone—never does ’em wrong. Kobu’s the oil presser, makes the most in this labor camp, so he’s always givin’ her money an’ stuff. But that don’t mean squat—she treats them without a single bent coin just the damn same.”

At present, the most infatuated was Matsuzō, who had become utterly determined to take Otoyo as his wife once released from prison, having readied himself for that eventuality. Thus it appeared he had deceived Mankichi and attempted to sever Kobu's connection. "What's the deal with that woman?" "That's the baffling part." Mankichi spoke with genuine perplexity: "We talked with Matsuzō and that woman plenty of times—back then, she seemed completely smitten with him too. Swear it's no lie—looked nothin' but true."

When they inquired with the men who had been involved with Otoyo, every one of them had experienced her in that way. Many of the men who drifted away reportedly said she became so intensely devoted that their true selves inevitably surfaced during their time together. “Just some run-of-the-mill story. Not even funny—drop it already,” Eiji said. “Shouldn’t’ve dragged you into this nonsense.” Mankichi bowed his head and continued, “But brother—while askin’ around this time, heard the authorities already know everythin’ ’bout ya. Your background, name, even your age.”

Eiji narrowed his eyes and looked at Mankichi.

“Seems Jirōkichi spilled everything,” Mankichi continued. “Back when you took him down, you called him ‘Procurer Roku,’ right? That reached the constables’ ears, and they grilled the bastard good. Worthless piece of shit ain’t worth a single copper—couldn’t last a second. They promised not to dig up his old crimes, so he blabbed every damn thing he knew.” “So that’s it, Sabu,” Eiji muttered.

“Did you say something?” “It’s nothing,” Eiji said, shaking his head. He started to speak but stopped himself, shaking his head again as if reconsidering. “—It’s nothing at all.” Procurer Roku must have blabbered about Sumiyoshi in Horie. Even if he hadn’t mentioned instigating fights between me and Sabu, he’d surely spilled how often we drank there. Tracing that path would lead them straight to O-Nobu—Hōkodō’s connection would become clear too. But why dig so deep into my background? They’d only confirmed my identity through Sabu’s visits. Yet they told me nothing directly—their treatment hadn’t changed one bit. What in blazes were they playing at? Eiji wondered.

"It must have been that Patrol Magistrate Aoki," he muttered. "Whether from town patrols or magistrate duties—either way, it was that Aoki's doing." What do you plan to achieve—thinking you can mollify me this way? You imagine my rage will crumble over such trifles? This wasn't some jest—the toenails I'd ripped out had regrown, but the lacerations in my heart still bled fresh. Using Sabu to water me down with tears—these weren't wounds that'd mend from cheap tricks like that, Eiji scoffed inwardly.

The rain that had started falling at the end of April continued until mid-May. The seventeen men from the Laborer Quarters who went out to work beyond the island were said to be engaged in reclamation work along Fukagawa's shore, but during the prolonged rains they could not continue the landfilling and instead holed up in their quarters idly. Sabu—who had come unfailingly every five days—ceased appearing after May began. Though his absence didn't mean they would meet—he had only been coming to collect delivered parcels—the cessation of these deliveries now began to trouble Eiji. Those around him who regularly shared in the sweets and boxed sushi seemed to notice too; several asked things like "Your visitor's stopped coming—something wrong?" Eiji could only reply that he knew nothing of it—and grew furious at himself for caring about Sabu.

When the rain stopped, the weather turned abruptly hot, and besides bathing every other day, they were now permitted daily water ablutions.

The seventeen men resumed their outside work assignments, while those remaining in the Laborer Quarters continued to be driven by miscellaneous duties within the camp.

On a certain day in early June, Kobu the oil presser started rampaging, causing a great commotion. Eiji was unloading straw bundles for ropes and mats from a boat with five companions when, hearing people's clamoring voices and seeing officials running about near the ash-burning area, he casually went to investigate. Then Red Demon Matsuda Gonzaemon came from the opposite direction, waving his hand and shouting. “Don’t come here!” Matsuda shouted. “Go back, go back—you’ll get hurt!”

Kinta, who had followed Eiji, called out to the overseer, “What’s all the commotion?” “Kobu’s gone berserk,” Matsuda barked back. “Three men already down, but that damn bastard’s got a sledgehammer—can’t do a damn thing ’cept wait till he tires himself out.” Eiji began walking as he listened. “Stop it!” Matsuda shouted, ignoring Eiji and raising his hand at Kinta. “That damn Kobu’s gone mad—he can’t tell friend from foe anymore! Don’t go near him!”

Eiji walked slowly forward. On this side of the ash-burning area stood the oil-pressing shed, surrounded by a wide open space where laborers and officials had formed a sparse human barrier.—Kobu stood before the oil shed. He had stripped to the waist, gripping a sledgehammer in his right hand, bloodshot eyes blazing fiercely. Bare shoulders bore bull-like musculature, the lump at his left neck base appearing as nothing more than healthy flesh swelling. Arms to chest were densely matted with coarse black hair, hands seeming twice normal size.

“It’s dangerous!” someone shouted from the crowd. “Stop, you stubborn one!”

Eiji pushed through the crowd and stepped forward. Two or three people shouted, “Stop! Come back!” Eiji approached Kobu at a measured pace. “You’re next, huh?” Kobu said, hefting his sledgehammer. “You wanna end up a cripple too?” “Wait,” Eiji said in a calm voice. “It’s me—the guy from the Laborer Quarters you met that night by the south shore.”

Kobu narrowed his eyes and glared at Eiji. “I don’t know what’s going on,” Eiji said, spreading his hands wide. “But you’ve done enough to get it out of your system by now. Everyone’s trembling in fear. Why don’t you stop now?” “So you’re from the Laborer Quarters,” Kobu said while pausing to think, then jerked his chin back. “—Then why’d you come stickin’ your nose in here?” “Because I remember it too.”

Kobu narrowed his eyes again. “Oh, it’s you. The one who beat Saiji.” “Enough already. That kinda thing won’t do you no good—you’ll just end up hatin’ yourself later.” “No! Get lost! I’m breakin’ outta this island!” “Escapin’ means death,” Eiji said with a smile. “And how’d you even manage it in broad daylight?” “I’ll bash anyone in my way to death!”

“All of them here?” Eiji drew a circle with one hand. “That’s impossible. Let’s settle down and talk. What exactly caused all this?” “Otoyo was stolen from me.” Kobu slammed his sledgehammer into the ground with a thud. “When that bastard Matsuzō was leaving too, I begged the overseers—begged ’em over and over, bowing my head—not to let Otoyo go! But that shitheel Matsuzō stole her away anyway! None of those overseers even tried to stop her from leaving!”

Kobu’s face twisted, and tears spilled from his eyes. Eiji quietly slipped closer and took the sledgehammer from his hand.

“I’ll escape the island and beat that bastard Matsuzō to death!” Kobu seemed unaware his sledgehammer had been taken, speaking through near-tears: “Otoyo promised herself to me! Without her, there’s nothin’ worth breathin’ for—they can execute me for all I care! I’ll bust outta here and slaughter that damn bastard!”

“I get it. I really do,” Eiji said, placing a hand on Kobu’s shoulder. “But escaping the island isn’t possible here and now. You know that, Sei-san. You’ll get yourself killed trying to take down Matsuzō.” “I don’t give a damn about my life.” “So you’re just leaving Otoyo to Matsuzō?”

Kobu hung his head.

“If you die here, Sei-san, that bastard Matsuzō will really live it up.” Eiji stroked Kobu’s shoulder earnestly. “I’m your ally, Sei-san. If you’ll have me, I’ll help with any problem. I promise—so endure here.” Seishichi 'Kobu' slowly turned his head and gazed at the three fallen figures. “I’ve got the magistrate’s backing,” Eiji continued. “I’ll smooth things over about those three men too. Listen, Sei-san—if you take punishment, I’ll take it with you. A man’s promise. Understand me, Sei-san?”

Seishichi nodded, his head still bowed. Eiji turned and signaled to the officials with a hand gesture that the situation was under control.

8-1 “I’m thirty-one this year,” Seishichi said heavily. “Didn’t know a damn thing about women till I met Otoyo in my second year here. Might get laughed at, but I been scared of ’em since I was knee-high. Even starin’ at some little girl’s face too long made me feel like her mouth’d split clear to her ears any second—I told you this before?” “Seem to recall it,” Eiji answered vaguely. “About when you went into that rock bath with your mother.”

His hometown was somewhere in Kōzuke Province, where he was born as the third son of a poor peasant family. When he was five or six years old, his mother took him to a hot spring cure deep in a mountain stream near their village. There were several rock holes along the river where hot springs welled up from their depths—an open-air bath with neither roof nor walls. As Seishichi soaked in the water cradled by his mother, an unknown woman entered behind them. He found himself looking up from below when she stepped into the rock bath with one leg. Clutching his mother's neck in panic, he screamed, "A monster!" The impression must have seared itself into him—even after growing up, whenever he stared at a woman's face too long, her mouth seemed to split open to her ears with a red tongue flicking out. Eiji had heard this story countless times—how even his mother's mouth split apart in dreams.

“Strangely, I wasn’t scared of Otoyo at all,” Seishichi continued. “Maybe ’cause we first talked at night—down by the south shore under moonlight, this was before they started the embankment work. Waves kept crashin’ through gaps in the collapsed stone wall, makin’ all these hollows in the sand. Yeah—when you stepped into those hollows, you’d disappear from view.” Eiji rattled his handcuffs as he swatted at mosquitoes. The place was an empty room in a tenement facing the Ōkawa River where the two had already been confined together for over ten days. After that disturbance, Eiji met with Okayasu Kihee, the head officer stationed at the magistrate’s office, explained the circumstances in detail, and pleaded for Seishichi to receive lenient judgment. Due to Seishichi’s assault, two junior officials had their arms and legs broken, and one oil-pressing laborer who tried to intervene had his head split open. According to the doctor’s diagnosis, one junior official whose leg bone had been broken might become lame, but there was little concern for the other two. Because Seishichi had long been known as an uncontrollable brute, the authorities were insistent, and it nearly came to him being sent to the oubliette. Thereupon Eiji defiantly demanded that if Seishichi was to be sent to the oubliette, they should send him there too. Eiji had sworn on his honor as a man that if punishment were to come, they would face it together. Trusting that vow, Seishichi had discarded his sledgehammer. A man had believed in another man—he had insisted that trust couldn’t be betrayed. Regarding Otoyo’s handling that caused the commotion, overseer Matsuda Gonzaemon was investigated and laborers questioned. Indeed Seishichi had made requests to the overseer about Otoyo. But from the overseer’s perspective, Matsuzō could establish a household once released while Seishichi still had time remaining before leaving the island. Naturally they couldn’t refuse if Otoyo wished to leave—when this became clear, Eiji’s insistence prevailed and Seishichi received thirty days’ handcuff confinement. Before Eiji got matching punishment, exhaustive negotiations occurred with authorities—even an inquiry sent from labor camp magistrate to town magistrate. Though entirely unprecedented, this too came to pass through Eiji’s stubborn resolve.

In this way, the two men had spent over ten days in confinement, but upon living together, they realized Seishichi was no uncontrollable brute—rather, he proved to be an exceedingly gentle soul, timid to the point of foolishness yet profoundly kind. He ran away from his hometown at fifteen, working as a construction laborer and odd jobs man, and came to Edo at twenty-two. There too, he had neither the wit nor skill beyond working as a construction laborer or odd jobs man. He was always mocked, exploited by others, and cast aside once a job was done. Four years ago, he had gotten into a fight with three men and injured them all, which led to him being ganged up on and beaten by a crowd of laborers before finally being handed over to the authorities. He had no guarantor and could not speak of his hometown, so he was treated as a vagrant and confined to the labor camp with a five-year term. "It was only after coming here that I was able to live a life worthy of a human being," said Seishichi. Oil pressing was grueling labor, but through his peasant-born endurance and exceptional physical strength, he had become unmatched by anyone. Now there was no one left who mocked him; if anything, he was rather feared. "I want to live here my whole life," Seishichi had even said.

“Women are a wonderful thing—nothin’ finer in this world than a woman,” Seishichi continued. “When I first touched Otoyo’s body, she felt so soft I thought she might melt clean away if I weren’t careful.”

This too was a repetition, yet for Seishichi himself, no matter how many times he retold it, he never grew weary, nor did its freshness seem to fade.

“And on top of that, her voice—it’s indescribable. Every time I hear it, I feel like I’m about to faint.” The sound of approaching footsteps came from outside, and the wooden shutters were opened. Then, along with the evening light, a wind blew in, and the briny scent of the sea seeped refreshingly into the room’s stagnant air. The person who entered was not the usual junior officer but Okayasu Kihee, the head officer. “Bushū, someone’s come to see you,” said Okayasu. “I’ll take off your handcuffs. Come out.”

8-2

The fact that the head officer had come himself was likely to leave no room for refusal. Having perceived this, Eiji did not offer a reply. When Okayasu Kihee turned around, the regular junior officer entered and removed the key from Eiji’s handcuffs. “Aren’t the mosquitoes terrible?” Okayasu said to the junior officer. “Light some mosquito repellent for them.”

The junior officer looked doubtful. There was no precedent for doing such things for those in confinement. Okayasu repeated, "Light some," nodded to Eiji, and went outside. Eiji followed behind him while alternately rubbing his left and right wrists. Where the handcuffs had pressed, a heat rash had formed. In the courtyard square, laborers who had finished their work were present, looking at Eiji with sympathy; among them were some who nodded in greeting.

He thought it might be the gatekeeper’s hut, but they led him to a small tatami room belonging to the magistrate’s office building. Stepping up from the veranda and entering the central corridor to the left, immediately on the right side sat Osue. She wore a single-layer kimono dyed with delicate leaf patterns and a plain brown obi, her hair tied in an oil-free bun. Her face had grown so sunburned in just a short time that she seemed transformed—yet Eiji recognized her instantly as Osue. “Don’t be stubborn today,” Okayasu said. “A woman came all this way to the labor camp to see you. Think hard about that—understand?”

"You can take your time talking until I come to call you," Okayasu said and left.

The small tatami room had a window to the east and walls on both sides. Though the paper screens and window facing the central corridor were open, little wind entered, making it stiflingly hot. A fan had been placed there, but Osue showed no sign of picking it up, having set down a cloth-wrapped bundle beside her and sat properly. "It's been some time." Osue kept her gaze lowered as she bowed her head slightly. "Have you been well?" “You shouldn’t come to a place like this,” Eiji said in a low voice. “I’m not the person you knew anymore.” “Don’t ever come back.”

“Sabu-chan sent a letter—that’s how I finally found this place.” Osue continued speaking as if disregarding Eiji’s words: “In early May, Sabu-chan developed beriberi and went back to his home in Kasai to recover. Just when we thought he’d get better soon, he came down with a stomach ailment. They say he won’t be able to go out for quite some time yet.” Since he couldn’t visit you either, he wrote asking us to gather these items and deliver them. Osue kept talking as she opened the bundle, arranging undergarments, loincloths, and boxes of fruit sweets. Then she finally looked up and stared at Eiji, whispering hoarsely, “This is too cruel, Mr. Eiji!”

“Why?” Osue stammered. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here—not even a single word?” “I’m a body caught in the tainted ropes of the authorities.” “It’s not your fault, is it, Mr. Eiji?” Eiji’s face stiffened. “What?” “Sabu-chan wrote all the details.” Osue licked her dry lips, parched from agitation, and spoke in a rushed tone, as if frustrated by her tongue’s refusal to move properly. “Ever since you disappeared, Sabu-chan used every spare moment from work to search for you. I did as you told me—I went back to Kanasugi. Yes, your belongings and money are all being kept safe there.”

Saburō, not wanting to worry her, hadn’t told Osue that Eiji had gone missing. On his days off and after work, he tirelessly searched every possible lead, but Momen must have taken thorough countermeasures—Eiji’s whereabouts remained untraceable, as if he had vanished into smoke.

"He came by my place too," Osue continued quietly keeping her eyes lowered．"He must've come checking if I had news－but never let on．Told me you'd gone west for respite so earnestly－trying hard not worry me．" Through January and February this dragged．Come March second－Doll Festival Eve－Momen summoned them．Saburō trailed Master Yoshibei through Honchō shop doors．They fed him sweet festival wine and sushi while waiting－till some apprentice blurted out how Eiji came through year-end snow only beaten bloody by neighborhood toughs then dumped at guardhouse． When Saburō pressed watchmen they dodged－words murky．No choice－he trudged Hatchōbori begging help from patrolmen．

“Then it turns out this officer named Aoki knew about you—Officer Aoki had actually been searching for your whereabouts too. He explained everything: that you were there, stubbornly refusing to speak to anyone, and that if they let you off the island, you might cause some irreparable trouble.” Why things had turned out this way—even Officer Aoki hadn’t understood. So Sabu went to the Kōwadō in Asakusa. “Wasuke at first refused to engage with him at all, but worn down by Sabu’s persistence, he finally recounted the circumstances of the brocade fragment.”

“There’s no reason Mr. Eiji would do such a thing—even if fire could catch on ice, he’d never do such a thing,” she said. “Sabu-chan wrote that with absolute conviction.” “The fragment was in my tool bag,” Eiji sneered. “I didn’t see it with my own eyes, but a master like Momen wouldn’t lie about such a thing. No matter how much Sabu protested, who’d believe him?”

“I don’t care about that,” Osue declared firmly. “Sabu-chan believes it, and I believe in you too, Mr. Eiji. Let those who want to think otherwise believe whatever they please!”

“You don’t understand.” Osue stared at Eiji’s face with her large eyes, blinking repeatedly. He had kept it folded deep within his chest until now, never speaking of that incident to anyone. He had known speaking would be futile—that no words could undo what had been done. But now, under the weight of Osue’s wide-eyed gaze, he felt an irrepressible urge to lay everything bare.

“You’ve no idea what it’s like,” Eiji said, “being accused of theft for something you didn’t do. I spent ten years at Hōkodō since I was thirteen—slept under the same roof, ate from the same pot, thought they knew me to my core. But the master wouldn’t hear my defense. Without a word of explanation, he stripped me of my work and tried to quietly cast me out to the Asakusa shop.”

“I went to Asakusa to hear the details from Wasuke; then I got drunk and went to Honchō, collapsing in a stupor at Momen’s shop. When I went back there again, Momen summoned the I-gumi boss and two young men to drag me outside, beat me mercilessly in the snow, and hand me over to the guardhouse. And there too, I ran into a police informant who nearly beat me to death.” “Please, Mr. Eiji, stop.” Osue turned pale and, trembling, tried to stop him. “I don’t want to hear such terrible things—please stop already.”

Eiji glared up at the ceiling through narrowed eyes and bit his lower lip hard with his teeth. The hand resting on his knee formed into a fist clenched with such force that the knuckles alone drained of blood, appearing pale. “There’s one single thing I can guess about why they framed me as a thief—who plotted it,” Eiji continued. “No proof, but I was close with the inner circle at Momen. With the two daughters, it was like we were childhood friends. There was even a rumor I’d marry one of them someday. It’s no joke—I didn’t have a shred of such feeling. First off—I’d already decided clearly in my heart on someone else to take as my wife.”

Osue lowered her eyes, but her pale face stiffened, and the trembling of her body did not cease. "But Momen doesn’t know my true feelings," Eiji said, "and with such strange rumors spreading, it’d be a nuisance. It’s no wonder they’d take measures to keep me from approaching the shop. Of course this is conjecture—there’s not a shred of evidence. But what else could there be? What person or circumstance would force an innocent man’s guilt by planting an old brocade fragment in his tool bag? I’ve thought it through ever since, but there’s no such person, no conceivable reason that would necessitate such an act. That’s exactly why I went to Momen a second time—to get to the bottom of it."

“Even now.” Osue asked in a stumbling, faltering tone, “Mr. Eiji, do you still mean to get to the truth of it?” Eiji slowly shook his head. “No use. Push too hard now and they’ll brand me a proper thief for keeps. They’re Momen’s master—I’m just some worthless craftsman my own master cast out. That’s why I couldn’t give a proper account even when the Magistrate’s Office asked so kindly. No way to dig up the truth now neither.” He leaned forward, knuckles whitening on his knees. “But I’ll collect what’s owed—that I swear.”

Osue looked at Eiji fearfully. “Once I’m out of here,” Eiji whispered, “I’ll make Momen, the I-gumi boss and his men, Ota-ya the informant and his underling Shimazō—every last one—taste something they’ll remember till their dying day. I swear on my neck—I’ll make it happen.” Osue pressed both hands to her face, voice choking through sobs as she asked in fragments, “Then... what about me... Mr. Eiji?”

8-3 “Forget about me,” Eiji said, turning his face away. “Loved you since first layin’ eyes on ya. Had decided solo—if ever takin’ a wife, it’d be you.” “Heard from Sabu-chan,” Osue murmured into her collar. “That’s why left money ’n’ gear with ya—back then still figured we’d shack up, start some piddlin’ scroll-mountin’ shop.” Eiji’s face contorted like he’d swallowed rotgut, brows knife-sharp over twisted lips. “But that ship’s sailed. Whole deal’s busted. What I’ll do when sprung? Told ya plain—ain’t that same Eiji no more. Man cut clean from you ’n’ Sabu both.”

“Don’t decide that, Mr. Eiji.” Sobbing, Osue shook her head. “Don’t decide things like that!” “Can you make a dead bird sing?” “You’re not a bird, and you’re not dead,” Osue retorted. “I may not understand how much pain and bitterness you’ve endured—having no memory of it myself. But you don’t know what Sabu-chan felt searching desperately for you after you disappeared, or how I felt reading his letters. Isn’t that exact effort to understand each other why friends exist? Why marriages exist?”

“While things are still peaceful,” Eiji said as he stood up, “I’ve already told you how I feel. Don’t come here anymore—and tell Sabu not to come either. Got it?” “I don’t know anything about Sabu-chan.” Osue wiped her tears and declared firmly, “I’ll do as I please.”

Eiji left without so much as a glance at the items spread out there, silently exiting into the hallway.

When the thirty-day confinement was lifted, it became July.

In the Laborer Quarters, they bought sake with everyone’s pooled money to celebrate Eiji. They had asked the overseer to turn a blind eye to this, and though Matsuda Gonzaemon, the Red Demon, cursed as usual, he too contributed some money. “I owe you one.” Matsuda called Eiji aside and said, “If you hadn’t stopped that lump-neck bastard back then, who knows how far that crazy fool would’ve blown things outta proportion. The bastard held a grudge against me too over Otoyo—probably wanted to settle scores. That it all calmed down thanks to you. Late as it is, I’m thankin’ ya.”

“Forget about it,” Eiji said with a smile. “It wasn’t something I did for your sake.” “Damn right.” Matsuda must have taken offense—his face suddenly flushed crimson, swelling like a bloated gourd. “Tonight’s sake I’ll overlook as my gratitude! Laborers holding a drinking party? First rule broken since this island began! If the higher-ups catch wind, this bastard might get exiled to Hachijō! I’m a bottomless damn fool for letting this slide—mark my words!”

“Don’t worry—we won’t drink enough to get drunk,” Eiji said earnestly. “If you’re concerned, why not join us yourself as a precaution, Mr. Matsuda?” Matsuda’s swollen face abruptly slackened into a slovenly droop. “Out of the question! Me, the overseer, doin’ such a thing?” he snapped, then shuffled off with an embarrassed air.

Denpachi, the oldest foreman, took charge as organizer while an outside errand runner procured birds and fish. Using vegetables begged from the Laborer Quarters' kitchen along with rice, they swiftly prepared twenty-five meal servings. One portion belonged to Lump-neck Seishichi, summoned when preparations concluded—the sight of sweet-simmered fowl and vegetables piled high on a plate, grilled fish with pickled garnishes, miso soup alongside white rice sent murmurs through the crowd. Though Laborer Quarters meals offered barley rice in quantity year-round—with exceptions like New Year's rice cake soup, shrine festival red beans, summer loach stew and Tanabata noodles—their daily fare's meagerness made any treat cause for celebration. After everyone settled in place and Denpachi issued thorough warnings, sake appeared—Eiji and Seishichi being first to lift their cups.

“Thanks,” Seishichi said softly to Eiji. “It’s all thanks to you. And I’m sorry for causing trouble all those thirty days. Please forgive me.” “We’re square,” Eiji replied. “Let’s keep getting along from now on.” There were only two sake cups; the rest used mugs. Yohei, who couldn’t drink, and two others poured and served while portioning out the amounts. “Weird thing, this,” Mankichi said, tilting his head as he sipped his sake. “Sipping it like medicine like this—feels like something’s tickling the pit of my stomach.”

“What’s this worth in coin?” asked the man sitting next to him.

Mankichi, swept along, reflexively started to answer but suddenly caught himself and snapped, "Shut your trap!" Then everyone started laughing.

"If we could do this even once a month," one man said in a voice thick with emotion, "I’d be willing to spend my whole life in these Laborer Quarters." “You said it,” another man chimed in. “This island’s way more comfortable than that cutthroat world out there—always scheming to rip the tongue from a living horse.”

“I had no idea,” another man immediately chimed in, “do they really rip tongues from living horses out there in the outside world?”

Then everyone started laughing again.

8-4

A peaceful hour or so passed, during which five men came to Eiji to exchange cups. Eiji declined, saying it was his habit not to engage in sake pouring or cup exchanges, but none of the five men seemed offended. They savored their liquor carefully while speaking encouragingly about helping each other from now on. Jinbee appeared to be thirty-four or thirty-five, Takeshi around thirty, and the three men—Sanpei, Kichizō, and Tomisaburō—looked to be roughly the same age as Eiji.

"You've become quite the popular one," Yohei whispered when they retired for bed. "In my eight years here, I've never seen everyone get along like this. Though I can't drink a drop myself, watching them all enjoy themselves so much made me happy enough to feel drunk just from looking." Eiji stayed silent awhile before asking in a tone probing the man's true feelings, "Mr. Yohei—you still mean to spend your whole life on this island?"

“That’s my intention,” Yohei answered. “I seem ill-suited for life in the outside world.” Then he added: “Earlier someone mentioned that ruthless society where they’d gouge eyes from living horses—but here on this island, there’s none of that. No tripping people up at their weakest moment, no outwitting others or deceiving them. After all, there’s nothing to gain from such things here—don’t you agree?”

There too, of course, there were unpleasant things. There were contrarians and malicious types, and work one didn’t want to do had to be done. "Even so, you can’t surpass others to make profits or advance your status here," Yohei said, "and since you only need to do your assigned portion of work, there’s no fear like in the outside world of being made to drink scalding water." "The reason I say such things," he added, "is probably because I’m just a useless old man—already half-dead."

“Just because you call yourself old—aren’t you still in your prime?” “I’m forty-one,” Yohei replied with a feeble laugh. “But that night I told you about—the night I tried to kill my wife—I feel like I aged twenty or thirty years in those hours. No—more than feel it. My very body’s turned completely old. You might find that hard to believe.”

And Yohei left for his own sleeping area.

After lying down, Eiji began to think. Among those in the Laborer Quarters, there were more than a few who declared they never wished to return to the outside world and wanted to spend their lives on this island. Timid, lacking exceptional talent, and merely kind-hearted—life in the vast outside world would prove harsh for such people. But that alone couldn’t be the whole story—they had not only been burdened by life's hardships but cruelly treated and harassed by society in countless ways. Just as Procurer Roku, fearing his comrades' revenge, had chosen this island as his hideout rather than the outside world, for them too this place must have become a safe haven. What pitiful people, Eiji thought.

"What a cruel world," he muttered under his breath. "But I'm different. I'll have my revenge—I'll pay back double the pain I've endured!"

It seemed the wind had begun blowing at some point; the storm shutters rattled noisily, and a lukewarm wind blew in through the plank walls. Eiji listened to it as he fell asleep enveloped in a drunkenness he hadn't felt in ages. "I'll do as I please," Osue said. Osue's face was corpse-pale—whether her hair cord had snapped or not, her locks hung disheveled, and her eyes glaring at Eiji seemed to blaze with blue fire. "What are you planning to do?" Eiji asked. Then Osue's mouth stretched wide, both corners splitting to her ears. The inside of her gaping maw glowed crimson, a serpentine tongue flicking out. Eiji choked in terror and thrashed to escape. As he struggled, he muttered this was a mistake. "This is Seishichi's dream—not mine! Seishichi's the one dreaming this!" Eiji kept insisting.

“Bro!” someone shouted. “Wake up, Bro! The Great Storm’s hit!” When Eiji opened his eyes, the room was pitch dark, assaulted by the clamor of awakened men and the wind’s ferocious roar. “It’ll collapse any minute!” another voice yelled through the darkness. “We need to brace the beams!” The entire structure screamed as gales battered it, plank walls groaning under the strain. Eiji tightened his obi while dressing, bellowing “Stay calm!” But his words vanished beneath the roof’s splintering tear, wind howling through gaping holes to churn the air into violent eddies.

“That sake!” someone shouted. “The Red Demon turned a blind eye, but the Sun Goddess didn’t—this storm’s our punishment for the drink!” “Get outside!” Eiji shouted. “Once the roof’s torn off, it won’t hold! Everyone, get out!”

8-5 The man who had first rushed outside shouted, "Water!" Torn by the wind, their cries were barely audible, but everyone emerging afterward kept shouting "Water! Water!" in panic. Hearing this, several people hesitated at the doorway. As they wavered, the tenement building suddenly heaved violently. The sounds of wood splintering erupted in rapid succession, and with shocking ease, the structure collapsed from one end.

Eiji had intended to exit last and was standing at the doorway with several others when he heard the sound of wood splitting. "This'll collapse! Out!" he shouted, pushing two or three men aside as he leapt outside. The collapsing building’s eaves grazed his back—a perilous instant. Outside was water over their ankles, and each time a gust came, white spray flying from its surface could be clearly seen through the darkness. The people from the other rooms of the tenement had also come out, and though there were voices shouting something, they were completely drowned out by the wind’s roar. Both the government office and watchtower were pitch dark and invisible; the water was rapidly rising, already reaching midway up their shins.

“Lend a hand!” someone shouted. “There’s someone trapped inside the collapsed building!” Eiji turned around. “Is that true? Who is it?” “Don’t know who,” the man said, “but there was one guy behind me who got left behind. Listen—you can hear ’em, can’t you?” Though the wind blew from the south, the tenement had collapsed southwestward—toward them. Just as the opposing force slackened, the northeast-leaning section lurched forward. Pressing their ears close, they heard desperate shouts from beneath the fallen roof.

“Lend me a hand!” Eiji shouted. “Someone’s getting crushed! Hurry!” Several men came running over.

“Hey, hang in there!” Eiji screamed toward the collapsed building. “We’ll get you out now! Just hold on!” He estimated the location based on the voice he could hear, then grabbed and threw aside every board and pillar his hands touched. Several people followed Eiji’s example and began clearing away the debris, but though the shack had appeared nothing more than a crudely built structure with planks hastily nailed to pillars while standing, they were astonished by the sheer quantity and weight of those pillars and planks when they actually started cleaning up.

“Hey, gather round!” came Red Demon’s voice. “We’re moving the sick to the magistrate’s office!” Eiji clung to a thick square pillar. It appeared to be one framing the doorway. Mankichi brought over a log and declared he’d use it as a lever. Finding nothing to prop beneath the log, Mankichi jammed one end under the pillar and wedged his shoulder against the other, heaving with all his strength. Somewhere another structure must have collapsed—the splintering of wood, dull tremors through the ground, and human shrieks reached them through the storm.

“It’s no good,” Mankichi said. “This pillar won’t budge an inch.”

“We can’t do anything unless we move this thing,” Eiji shot back. “Give it another try—come on!”

The square pillar was unexpectedly heavy, and what's more, with broken planks and beams piled on top, it showed no sign of moving easily. About two men came running over and, together with Mankichi, lifted the log. “Everyone, gather round!” Matsuda Gonzaemon’s shouting voice could be heard. “Over here! It’s in front of the magistrate’s office!” The gale, accompanied by stinging spray, lashed painfully against everyone’s faces and hands.

“It’s not rain—this is seawater!” someone bellowed. “Look—taste how salty it is!”

The square pillar shifted, and the three men working the log lever nearly toppled over. Eiji pushed aside the square pillar and, while scraping away the plank fragments beneath it, called out, “Are you okay? Which way?” “Here! Hurry!” came the response from beneath the plank fragments; “Quickly, I’m begging you—I’m about to drown!”

When they realized what he meant, the water was already up to their knees. "Hurry!" Mankichi roared, and the four of them desperately cleared away plank fragments and broken crossbeams. Matsuda the Red Demon came splashing through the water and barked, "What the hell are you shitheads doing? Can't you hear the order to assemble?" His voice had grown completely hoarse from all the shouting and yelling—he sounded like some phlegmy old man with a bad cold.

“Someone’s getting crushed!” Eiji shouted back. “Help me out!” “Of all times to get yourself crushed,” Matsuda snarled, “you’re one useless pumpkin-headed oaf, aren’t you? Who is it?” Cursing all the while, he nonetheless stepped forward to help and somehow managed to rescue the man. It was Kinta, crawling on all fours beneath the interlocking pillars, half of his face twisted sideways to avoid the water now submerged.

"That was close," Mankichi said as he helped pull him up. "Another moment and you'd have been done for! Bet you feel like you just dodged a bullet, huh?" "Sorry 'bout this... I owe y'all one." Kinta pressed down his waterlogged hair while bowing repeatedly. "I thought I was done for," he said. "Move it!" Matsuda waved his hand. "Quit dawdlin'! Get to the magistrate's office!" As they began walking together, Eiji felt fear for the first time. This is bad, he thought. This island had originally been a sandbar; sediment discharged from the Ōkawa River had accumulated to form a sandbar, and additional soil was deposited there to create an island. Even now, the water rose to their knees; if the wind continued blowing any longer, the entire island might end up submerged. Eiji had just thought this when someone shouted, "When's high tide?"

“Around fourth watch of morning—4 AM!” someone shouted back. “But what’s the hour now?” “Must be eighth watch,” came a reply, though no other voices joined in. Before the magistrate’s office stretched ankle-deep water where figures jostled—officials visible on the veranda alongside the labor camp magistrate himself. The wind-guarded box lanterns sheathed in oiled paper revealed their silhouettes clearly enough, though their light failed to pierce the inner courtyard’s darkness.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Okayasu Kihee called down from the veranda. “Where are the women?”

A reply came from the edge of the crowd confirming they were all present. "The men are accounted for!" Matsuda Gonzaemon roared. "Want me to tally 'em?"

“If everyone’s accounted for, good,” Okayasu said. “The Magistrate will speak now. Settle down and listen quietly.” The Labor Camp Magistrate was a gaunt, towering man of fifty-two or fifty-three—a position beyond figurehead status, serving as deputy to the Edo Town Magistrate. “I am Narushima Jiemon,” the magistrate announced in a carrying voice. “With this tempest and high tide imminent any moment now, staying here means gambling with your lives. Therefore, by my own authority alone, I grant you provisional release. But since this lacks the Town Magistrate’s sanction, you must return within seven days. Should even one man flee and fail to come back...” He paused, letting the wind carry his next words. “I’ll slit my belly to atone. Understood?”

"There are three ferry boats on the Ōkawa River. Have the sick and women leave first in an orderly manner," Narushima Jiemon concluded. From among the laborers arose a commotion that was neither shock nor terror, and they began to scatter unsteadily. The voices urging calm and order seemed to go unheard as they jostled toward the gate in a disorderly rush. Eiji too was pushed and shoved while making his way around the building corner, following the fence along the Ōkawa River until he reached the approach to the landing. Then the human wave halted there, and beyond it near the guardhouse, someone was screaming incessantly.

There, the government building formed a wall, the wind had weakened somewhat, and the guardhouse’s high-hanging lantern fluttered as it cast its light. Eiji roughly pushed through the crowd and headed that way. The one screaming was Lump-neck Seishichi; he had stripped to his waist and was brandishing a sledgehammer overhead.

“Get back, you bastards—turn around!” Lump-neck barked. “Women and the sick can go, but able-bodied men stay! We’ve lived on this island—owe it a great debt—and we’ll keep living here! Any bastard who flees this island we’re beholden to? I’ll splatter your brains! Go ahead—try getting past me!” “That’s right—we stay!” Eiji shouted at the top of his voice from within the crowd. “Even if you get outta here, who knows what hell you’ll catch being branded island escapees!”

The word "island escapee" struck sharply in the laborers' ears. Eiji kept shouting that they'd be seen as prison-breaking island escapees, and his words spread from one laborer to another.

“What ‘island escapee’ nonsense!” a man called out. “We were told straight from the Magistrate’s mouth—it’s temporary release!” “You think they’ll buy that?” Eiji shouted, jabbing a finger at him. “This release ain’t got the Town Magistrate’s stamp! Just this local Magistrate’s whim! No proof it’s emergency measures! With this storm, guards’ll be swarming the opposite bank! March over there mob-handed and they’ll brand you island escapees the second they spot these blasted water-patterned rags! Don’t you see?”

“Then what’re we s’posed to do?” another man fired back. “Stay here’n we’ll drown sure as shit! If we’re dyin’ either way—” “Ain’t necessarily dyin’!” Lump-neck Seishichi roared. “Magistrate’n his men’re stayin’ too—y’all seen how high the office ground sits! We put our backs into it, ain’t no way this whole damn island goes under!”

“Even so, those who wanna run—run!” Eiji barked. “But don’t you break formation—sick ’n’ women go first.”

Hachi-no-Roku Through Seishichi's intimidation with his wooden mallet and Eiji's skillful verbal threats, the disorderly stampede subsided. Following the sick and women, evacuees boarded three ferry boats that then rowed out onto the Ōkawa River without incident, leaving over seventy laborers behind.

The wind seemed to have grown even stronger, and with the water level continuing to rise, they could see the white crests of waves breaking across the courtyard square. Seishichi had someone bring out all the available hemp ropes, straw mats, and straw ropes, called together the carpenters and plasterers, and headed to the oil-pressing room. "The oil-pressing hut is sturdy," Seishichi said as he waded through chest-deep water. "It won’t collapse in the wind, but the jars of pressed oil will get washed away."

Eiji set to work on the government building. There, constables and subordinate officials were working en masse—nailing slats to storm shutters, lashing corridor pillars with ropes, bracing structures with cedar logs, while others dug drainage ditches around the building. Eiji joined the ditch-diggers and took a hoe from a man, saying, "Let me take over." "Here," the man said, handing over the tool. "Well if it ain't Bushū! You actually went and did it."

That was Red Demon Matsuda Gonzaemon. "That 'island escapee prison break' line was sharp thinkin'," Matsuda said. "Thanks to you and that lump-neck bastard—without ya, we'd've had corpses on our hands. Consider this your reward." "It wasn't a threat," Eiji retorted as he worked the hoe. "I only said it 'cause I truly believed it." "You really believed that?" "With this great storm, people on the opposite bank are already on edge—what'll happen if inmates in water-dot-patterned uniforms suddenly start pourin' off boats there? There's no official notice about this," Eiji said. "Put yourself in their shoes—what'd you think, Mr. Matsuda?"

Matsuda fell silent for a moment, then went somewhere to fetch a hoe and returned, joining Eiji in digging the ditch. "You must've really," Matsuda said, "been through some terrible shit." "It ain't just me—everyone in these Laborer Quarters has been put through hell by society in their own way." "You never hold back, do you bastard?" Matsuda stopped working and glared at Eiji. "Always gotta cut people down—you hate my guts that much?"

Eiji looked at Matsuda in surprise. “That I put you down? That’s no joke. I’ve liked you from the start, Mr. Matsuda.”

“Hmph.” Matsuda swung the hoe down with all his might. “I ain’t fallin’ for your sweet talk—won’t ride that palanquin!”

The surging water rolled in waves, washing over the excavated ditches to sweep across the government office’s front garden, while the office building groaned ominously. Roof tiles clattered as they were blown away, and the wind kept roaring at the eaves and overhangs. The sky was pitch black, but with the gale-force winds driving clouds northward at unnatural speed, occasional breaks revealed glimpses of stars twinkling through. “Stop digging now,” came Okayasu Kihee’s voice. “It’s no use anymore—everyone out!”

“The water won’t rise any higher,” Matsuda said to Eiji. “High tide’s already passed—let’s get out.” “I’ll go check on Lump-neck.” “What about Lump-neck?” “He went to keep the oil jars from getting washed away—headed for the oil-pressing room.” “Don’t—that area’s getting pounded by waves head-on! You going over ain’t gonna change a damn thing! The bastard’ll be fine!” “Just a precaution!” Eiji shouted. “I’ll go check real quick!”

“Stop it, Bushū!” Matsuda shouted. Eiji thrust his hoe into the ground to probe it while wading into the water. What surrounded him was less water than raging waves—after advancing just slightly, chest-high surges crashed incessantly against him, their breaking spray striking his face like sand being hurled, stinging again and again. To make matters worse, the water kept surging and receding without pause, threatening to sweep his feet away if he lowered his guard. Gripping the hoe like a staff, Eiji fought against the water’s force as he pressed forward desperately.

The oil-pressing room building stood less than twenty ken from the government office, yet reaching it seemed to take half a koku. When he arrived, the building stood solidly in the water, and from within came the sound of a large group singing, audible through the howling wind. The door was closed, and the entire hut had been bound with ropes and thick cords.

“Hey, you okay?” Eiji banged on the sliding door with all his strength and shouted, “Is everyone safe?”

The singing inside stopped, and someone called out to Eiji from above. When he looked up, there was a small window where someone was sticking their head out. "It's Bushū from the Mokko Room!" Eiji shouted upward. "Is Mr. Sei okay?" The head at the small window vanished, replaced by Seishichi poking his out. Though he couldn't see the face clearly, Eiji recognized Seishichi's voice. "I'm fine," Seishichi said. "What the hell're you doin' comin' out here again?"

“I came to check on things.” “Can’t hear ya!” Seishichi shouted. “I’m lowerin’ a rope now—grab onto it!” The thrown rope kept getting blown away by the wind, forcing Eiji to make three attempts before he could finally grab hold of it. Several people worked together to pull him up, and when Eiji climbed in through the small window, he found himself on a shelf-like mezzanine floor where a resounding cheer rose from the darkness. “Watch your head,” Seishichi said. “This here’s where we stack the rapeseed bags—only nine shaku wide, and the ceiling’s right above you. Just sit down here.”

Voices came from all around—comments like “You made it, Bushū!” and “What’s it like outside?”—though he couldn’t tell who was speaking. Everyone was in a buoyant and lively mood. When asked about the oil jars, Seishichi replied that they’d all been lashed together with ropes and that the hut would hold. “Is there anyone from the Mokko Room here?” “We’re over here, bro!” Kinta’s voice answered Eiji’s call. “Foreman Denpachi and Mr. Yohei are with us too.”

“One last push!” Eiji shouted. “Everyone, hang on!” With a whoop, another cheer erupted. A sudden gust assaulted them, making the entire hut shudder as pillars and crossbeams groaned. Then someone began singing—four or five others who knew the tune joined in loudly. Eiji couldn’t recognize the song nor make out the words clearly, yet strangely his eyes burned hot behind the lids until tears spilled over.

“Just to see you…” came the fragmented song lyrics through the storm, “…hands that cut horse grass…you never came…only shadows remain.”

Eiji gently wiped his eyes. A gust of wind shook the hut again, and somewhere there came a violent sound like boards splitting apart.

Nine-One

The sea was still turbid with muddy brown water, but the air had cleared completely, and in the distance, the mountains of Bōshū appeared bluish.

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” Osue said, adjusting her furoshiki bundle. “At first, I resolved to keep coming every five days without fail—even if you wouldn’t see me, Eiji-san. Like Saburō-chan did, I’d gather what I thought you needed and just deliver it. But after returning home and thinking it through… I started to understand how you must feel—not wanting to see anyone, not wanting anyone’s pity.”

When he'd been mercilessly battered from all sides over just a scrap of cloth—when his whole life lay shattered—wasn't hating people and despising society only natural? Now he was filled with that hatred—merely having his hatred inflamed whenever he saw those living safe and peaceful lives. It might be better not to approach Eiji-san until his feelings settled. "That's what I thought," Osue said in a frail voice, "--but there were times I couldn't bear it anymore and rushed out in a frenzy. Whenever I imagined you here in these laborer quarters doing convict work, my chest would feel like it was splitting open—I just couldn't stay still. I'd bolt outside and end up all the way at the Teppōzu Riverbank across the way."

But when she came to the riverbank and saw Ishikawajima, she suddenly became frightened and her legs froze. She reasoned that if she went there again, it would only stoke Eiji-san’s anger—his hatred for society and people—all over again; she mustn’t go. She should endure a little longer. Cycling through these thoughts, she soothed herself into turning back from there.

“During this great storm, the first thing I thought of was here,” Osue paused briefly before continuing. “It was past midnight—the wind kept growing stronger, and Father said he was worried about the high tide. He said if this wind didn’t let up by the time the tide reached its peak, Fukagawa’s shoreline would flood—and if Fukagawa flooded, this place would be even worse off. If there hadn’t been town gates or something blocking me, I would’ve rushed straight here.”

Eiji had been wondering why Procurer Roku had done such a thing. Roku had boarded an evacuation ship, but when disembarking, an old man who made rope crafts fell into the sea, and he jumped in to try to save him. And so he had drowned together with the old man—or so it was said. The evacuated laborers had all returned by the fifth day, with six or seven people having witnessed the incident, and Roku’s corpse having already been discovered beforehand. The boat had reached Nakasu; however, Roku’s corpse had been washed away during low tide and caught on a post at Tsukishima’s shore. With his polka-dotted work clothes identifying him, word was immediately sent to the labor quarters. The old man’s corpse had likely been carried much farther away—no reports of its discovery had come from anywhere yet—but the story of Roku attempting to save that elderly man stirred great astonishment and admiration throughout the Laborer Quarters. In such ferocious winds and raging waves, even the most skilled swimmer would have found rescuing a drowning person impossible. It was likely precisely because Roku lacked swimming skills that he had jumped in, but Eiji couldn’t comprehend what had driven a man like him—a procurer who had done such despicable things and sucked the lifeblood from countless women—to attempt such an act.

“Were you truly unharmed?” Osue persisted. “With all those buildings destroyed or swept away—Eiji-san wasn’t injured?”

“Huh? Oh, me?” Eiji kept his eyes fixed on the sea and answered vaguely, “I’m just as you see me. Are you disappointed?” “Eiji-san,” Osue said. “Humans are strange creatures.” Eiji muttered to himself as if speaking to no one, “Utterly strange creatures—can’t make heads or tails of ’em.” “What do you mean by that?” “None of your business,” Eiji said, looking at Osue with emotionless eyes. “You should head back already. I’m in the middle of cleanup work—busy, see.”

Osue took several letters from her sleeve, placed them atop the bundle, and handed them to Eiji. “These are Saburō-chan’s letters,” Osue said, turning her face away. “I came all the way to the riverbank across the way each time, but always ended up taking them back home. So they piled up to four letters—please forgive me for that.”

And Osue fled from Eiji as though running away.

Nine-Two All four of Saburō’s letters lacked dates, and his handwriting remained as clumsy as ever. At Hōkodō, apprentices were made to practice penmanship from their errand-boy days, and even after becoming full-fledged craftsmen, it remained shop custom to practice calligraphy whenever time allowed. Thus even those with rather unskilled hands could produce characters decent enough for their clumsiness once reaching around twenty years old—yet Saburō alone never improved, still writing only childlike script. He must have been aware of this himself, for all four letters began with apologies for his poor penmanship.

“What an idiot,” Eiji clicked his tongue. “Instead of apologizing for your shitty handwriting, you should’ve written the damn dates! Can’t tell which came first or last like this.” The letters all followed a similar pattern—expressing concern for Eiji and relaying updates about Saburō’s own circumstances. Life in Kasai was peaceful, his illness was steadily improving, he was going out to the fields with his older and younger brothers and doing the weeding in the rice paddies. Fireflies teemed around the rice fields and riverbanks, so thick at night that you could barely walk without stepping on them. My mother and sister-in-law were both being kind, so I could focus on recovering without worry," he wrote, "though when I suffered from intestinal trouble, it was quite a struggle. But just as they say beriberi heals when you step on rural soil, I think I’ll be completely better by around September. My sister-in-law gave birth to her seventh child, making the house increasingly cramped, and now I’m sleeping in the storeroom—these matters and more were jumbled together without any order.

"He's being driven hard again," Eiji muttered. "Says he can rest and recover, but getting worked in fields day and night, sleeping in a storeroom—that fool'll never learn." Saburō had likely written that way to keep Eiji from worrying, but he lacked the skill to write sentences that could make anyone believe it. The more casually he tried to phrase things, the more his painful daily struggles became evident. Eiji finished reading the fourth letter and was about to roll it up when he suddenly said "Oh" and fixed his gaze on the characters. He'd initially thought the writing was as clumsy as a child's scrawl, but upon closer inspection, beneath the awkwardness lay an unpretentious charm—plump yet natural.

“Hmm.” Eiji spread out the other three letters and examined them. “Strange. I’ve seen this handwriting somewhere before.” There were characters resembling those on a horizontal tea ceremony scroll that Master Yoshibei or one of the senior apprentices had prepared. Eiji remembered thinking how such awkward characters could possibly be used for a hanging scroll—it had definitely been written by some monk somewhere. When he later reconsidered it, he’d realized this wasn’t poor craftsmanship but rather possessed a distinctive style unique to that calligrapher; now looking at Saburō’s characters, he thought they shared a certain charm with that monk’s calligraphy.

“Ridiculous,” Eiji muttered as he tidied the letters. “Even if that’s true, it’s got nothing to do with me now.”

July was autumn on the calendar, but of course, the heat remained harsher than midsummer's peak. The great storm and high waves had spared only the government office and oil storage room, smashing and washing away all three laborers' barracks, the women's quarters, the infirmary, other small structures, and fences. Two-thirds of the newly built stone wall from the southern shore's embankment work lay destroyed. There cleanup operations and temporary hut construction commenced simultaneously, with every laborer mobilized for the tasks. With women assigned laundry duties, cooking, and tea distribution, daylight hours across the island now carried light banter and laughter wherever one went. Whenever Matsuda Gonzaemon passed through such areas, he barked with a voice like metal basins clashing.

“You worthless bastards!” When dealing with male laborers, Red Demon would roar like this: “Get too cocky actin’ high and mighty, and I’ll have you bastards luggin’ stones!” “You shiftless sluts!” When dealing with female laborers, Red Demon would snarl like this: “Keep gettin’ hot under the collar from men’s stink and flappin’ your gums all day, and I’ll toss you in the river to scrub your filthy asses clean!” “Oh please do,” one woman retorted sarcastically, “I’m sure you’d scrub us real good, Matsuda-san—we’d be much obliged!”

Matsuda’s face turned a dark crimson, but he never shouted back. Knowing he couldn’t win in a war of words, he pretended not to hear and walked away. Among the men too, there were those who occasionally acted confrontational toward Matsuda, but this stemmed not from hatred or resentment, but rather from fondness and affection.—Only overseer Kojima Ryōjirō, who was the most approachable and soft-spoken of all, found himself disliked by nearly all the laborers. Yet between the other officials and laborers existed a strangely harmonious relationship—none of the expected antagonism between authorities and prison workers, but rather a closeness akin to that between landlord and tenant flowing between them.

"So you've noticed after all," Yohei answered Eiji's question. "There's indeed such an atmosphere here. You see, this stems from the ideas of Hasegawa Heizō who established these laborers' quarters. The rule passed down through generations of officials states these quarters aren't jails—laborers mustn't be treated as criminals." "Has that lasted till today?"

“There were indeed cruel officials among them,” Yohei said, shaking his head mournfully. “Counting from the magistrate down to his deputies—thirty-four or thirty-five men in total. The government allocates over six hundred bales of rice and four hundred ryō of gold annually to this place. I’ve heard several officials embezzled that rice and gold, or skimmed portions from the laborers’ wages. Not that anyone remained ignorant of such deeds—they simply couldn’t stop until caught. A common tale anywhere, but how bitterly it grieves me to see humans succumb to greed.”

Eiji held his breath as if trying to absorb every detail of what he had heard. “So…” Eiji asked, “is it true that money and rice really come from the government?” “That’s what makes these Laborer Quarters special.” In Edo city, there was no end to vagrants and petty thieves—those who had fled rural hardships, victims of natural disasters, people ground down by poverty or their own flawed natures. Yohei went on to explain how the Laborer Quarters’ founding principle was to gather those released from prison with neither trade nor family, teach them skills, let them save wages, and eventually return them to society as ordinary citizens when the time came.

“They do take a small fee from our earnings,” Yohei continued, “but we’re provided food and shelter, free medicine when ill, and get to keep what wages we earn. Such provisions require considerable funds and rice from the government—and to ensure their noble intent isn’t corrupted, officials must be chosen with great care.”

Therefore, officials did not force anything upon the laborers or impose unreasonable demands. When that happened, they couldn’t just keep acting selfishly anymore．They naturally started doing what they ought to do willingly，and before they knew it，each of them settled into their assigned roles without any coercion.

“It seems you never noticed,” Yohei said with a proud smile, “but think back to the old barracks before they collapsed. Though roughly built with knotty wood, they were always kept clean. Before they sent me here, I was in the South Town Magistrate’s makeshift jail—right inside their office compound, but dirtier beyond compare to this place. The food was coarse and foul too. I don’t know about Denmachō Prison firsthand, but you can imagine how terrible the main facility must be from hearsay alone. Wasn’t it just recently—when we celebrated your release from confinement with that drinking party?—that several men vowed to spend their whole lives on this island. You remember that, surely.”

Eiji did not reply and remained still. There were countless people who lived each day barely scraping by, crushed beneath society's mechanisms while being tossed about by its workings. When such people came here, wouldn't they say they never wanted to return to the outside world again? Saburō belonged to that same group. Precisely because they existed within society, they were called fools and good-for-nothings, forced to be driven by others. But here they wouldn't be mocked—all they had to do was work from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. Only a small fee was deducted, yet lodging, baths, even medical care were all free, and whatever they earned became entirely their own. That's right—this place is perfect for Sabu, Eiji thought.

“This is a place to domesticate men.” After being left alone, Eiji muttered, “I’ll be damned if I let them break me.”

Osue had been visiting every five days. Using his busy workload as an excuse, Eiji had kept avoiding her, but when she came on August 11th—perhaps having figured out that the first day of each month was a holiday—he was summoned by Okayasu Kihee and forced to meet. Yet when he entered the familiar sitting room, it wasn't Osue waiting there—it was O-Nobu from Sumiyoshi. "What," Eiji said remaining on his feet, "You come to shame me too now?"

“I knew you’d say that,” O-Nobu replied with an undaunted expression. “That’s exactly why I didn’t hold back from coming until today.” “There’s nothin’ to talk about.” “You could at least sit down,” O-Nobu said, gently tapping the tatami mat. “I need to talk to you about Saburō-chan.”

Eiji sat down with a reluctant expression.

“Here, this is for you.” O-Nobu held out a paper-wrapped package. “It’s nothing special, but it’s a gift from me.”

9-3

Eiji involuntarily smiled. Her speech remained as crisp as ever, and the way she clearly stated "my gift" while handing it over herself was so typical of O-Nobu. “Did something happen to Sabu?” “I knew you hadn’t been told.” O-Nobu wiped the sweat on her forehead with a folded hand towel and said, “He was dismissed from Kobunechō.” Eiji gave a suspicious look. “But he went back to Kasai because he’s sick, didn’t he?”

“Apparently he was dismissed at the end of June—and with just a single letter at that.” “Who told you that?” “Straight from Saburō-chan himself,” O-Nobu said eagerly, as if it were her own affair. “After getting that letter, he went straight to Kobunechō—and stopped by Sumiyoshi on his way back.” “But I heard he had beriberi and stomach troubles on top of that.” “That’s right—he looked terrible.” O-Nobu frowned. “His face and hands were gaunt and bony, but his legs were swollen like this. Using a cane like an old man, shuffling along unsteadily—it was truly unbearable to see.”

After severe diarrhea had persisted for ten days straight, he still forced himself to get up despite needing rest. He went to Kobunechō but couldn't meet the master; his senior apprentice Gorō came out instead. With work having slowed down and needing to reduce numbers, given your illness seems hard to cure and prospects dim, we've decided to have you withdraw at this point. With that explanation, they handed over his withheld wages with an additional ryō added—that was how it went. "Right then in the next room," O-Nobu said with piercing eyes, "the mistress was talking to someone. Chatting and laughing loud enough to hear, yet never showing her face or saying a word till it ended."

Eiji shook his head quietly. “That’s got some reason behind it. Work slowing down happens every summer. Besides, Sabu’s sick—no way they’d dismiss a sick man over that. There’s gotta be something else going on.” “I thought so too,” she said, “so I asked around everywhere. But Sabu-chan says he can’t think of any reason at all.”

“He’s just too dense.”

“That’s what I thought, Eiji-san.” O-Nobu glared at him. “When Saburō-chan said he couldn’t think of any reason, you mean it’s because he’s too dense?”

Eiji narrowed his eyes and stared fixedly at O-Nobu’s face. “You’ve never known real hardship,” O-Nobu said quietly. “—I heard about the brocade fragment and everything terrible that happened to you afterward. When you collapsed drunk at Sumiyoshi, I told you I hated that version of you—remember? The moment I learned why everything happened, I remembered saying that... Even if I hadn’t known back then... What a horrible thing that was to say.” Her voice dropped lower. “I came to hate myself so much for it.”

I wanted to rush over immediately—not because I'd said something thoughtless—but because Saburō-chan had heard the full story from Aoki the yoriki, and by March we'd learned about the brocade. When Saburō-chan confided this to me, I couldn't sit still thinking about how you must be feeling. But Saburō-chan kept stopping me; he was still keeping it secret from Osue-san too—"Eiji-san's too worked up to want meetings," he'd repeat, "and if you visit now you'll only rile him worse. Best wait a while longer to see how things settle."

“Until he went back to Kasai because of his illness, Saburō-chan’s mind was completely occupied with you—he put himself in your shoes, stopped me from trying to visit you, kept everything hidden from Osue-san to spare her worry—and yet,” O-Nobu lowered her voice, “here you sit cross-legged, coolly calling Saburō an utter dullard. After all the awful things you’ve endured, Eiji-san, you haven’t changed one bit—still that same sharp-witted, self-important man who’s never tasted real hardship.”

“Ain’t nothin’ worth praising here,” Eiji shot back. “But callin’ Sabu a dullard ain’t no badmouthing.”

“I know that already—given how close you and Saburō-chan are, there’s no way you’d say something like that with ill intent!” “Then what the hell are you angry about?” 9-4

O-Nobu again stared directly and intently at Eiji’s face.

“Why Saburō-chan was dismissed from Kobunechō—I thought you’d figure it out right away, Eiji-san.” “What about you, Nobu?” “I’m too stupid to get it,” O-Nobu said, her face crumpling like a child about to cry. “But from how Saburō-chan told his story—the way his words lined up—I pieced most of it together. And if I could, you must’ve too. Right, Eiji-san?” Eiji stared at a fixed point on the wall, working through the thought. “No way...” he muttered under his breath, then whipped around to face O-Nobu with startled eyes.

“No way... that’s...” he said.

O-Nobu nodded slowly. “That’s right—the real reason is exactly that.” “But Sabu must’ve been careful! He must’ve taken precautions not to be noticed!” “If someone goes out every five days,” O-Nobu said, “no matter how careful they are, people will notice. Even without that—they’d already been on high alert about you in Kobunechō. How could they possibly miss Saburō-chan—who’d never done such things before—sneaking out quietly every fifth day?”

Eiji fell silent, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. That's right—Sabu had been dismissed because he came to visit me in the Laborer Quarters. He must have tried to avoid suspicion, but Sabu wasn't clever enough for that. If they'd found out someone was bringing me supplies, of course Hōkodō wouldn't let it stand. For Master Yoshibei, above all else, the name "Hōkodō" was what mattered most. Eiji clenched his teeth. The movement of his jaw muscles became visible.

“Do you understand why I came to say all this, Eiji-san?” O-Nobu said. “—Listen, you can’t forgive what they did to you, and once you get out of here, you mean to take your full revenge—that’s your plan, isn’t that right?”

Eiji did not say anything. "I understand your feelings perfectly, but isn't that too self-centered? Look—if you could take proper revenge, that would be one thing. But they won't just sit around waiting for it, will they? They have money and power—they're the ones who had you sent here on false charges in the first place. Of course, they say nothing's stronger than human resolve—you might succeed in revenge, and if you do it well, it might clear your mind. Your mind alone." O-Nobu's eyes sparkled. "—But what then becomes of Saburō-chan? What becomes of Osue-san?"

Eiji remained with his arms crossed and did not move a muscle for quite some time. “Once something starts—” Eiji began, then let out a loud cough. Unfolding his crossed arms and stroking his knee with one hand, he continued, “—ending it ain’t so easy.”

“There’s no need to get involved in something that won’t end—I’m not saying you have to stop right now—but instead of something as pointless as revenge, please consider the people who’ve worked hard and worried for your sake, Eiji-san.” Eiji stood up and went to the window, gazing outside for a while. The north-facing view offered a glimpse of the Ōkawa River if one stood on tiptoe. In the clear August sky, several blindingly white clouds drifted, their luminous backdrop making the swarm of red dragonflies look like scattered debris at first glance.

“Procurer Roku is dead,” Eiji said to O-Nobu, his back still turned to her. “They say he drowned trying to save an old man who fell from a boat during the last great storm.” “—Procurer Roku, you said?” “Here he went by Jirōkichi,” he said, turning back around. “I’d heard he was being chased by his gang, but he hadn’t fled Edo—he’d snuck into these Laborer Quarters.” “And... they say he saved someone.”

"He tried to save someone and drowned—I don’t know the details myself, but there are several who saw it happen. That scoundrel Roku, of all people."

O-Nobu stared at Eiji for a few moments, then asked, “How did you know it was Roku?” “I realized it from the way he was talking, and then—” he started to say but shook his head. “—Humans—you never know what they’ll do when the time comes. That’s what I thought.” “That’s true—even so, if he’d gotten out of there, he probably would’ve made people cry again.” O-Nobu sighed as she said this. “But I can’t believe it’s true. That man was sneaky to the core—since way back when, he wasn’t capable of anything beyond tripping up the legs of those trying to hang themselves.”

“Now he’s in Kozukappara’s unclaimed grave,” Eiji said, turning his gaze out the window again. “—Even after all the sneaky, underhanded things he did to earn that nickname, in the end it didn’t work out for him.”

O-Nobu remained silent, looking at her own knees. A clever man of means，unacquainted with hardship. The words O-Nobu had condemned became deeply ingrained in Eiji's mind. Self-centered，seeking revenge out of personal resentment，obsessing solely over that—I gave no thought to those toiling for my sake. Hmph．That Nobu—she doesn't realize she's the one who's never known hardship． Let them suffer even a quarter of what I've suffered—then they'd understand how a human can't help but seek revenge． He tried to dismiss it with defiance，yet still the words—clever，man of means，unacquainted with hardship—refused to leave his mind．

"Yeah, bullshit." Eiji muttered while carrying planks to build the temporary hut, “—Even if His Excellency the Shogun himself pleaded and begged, I said I’d do it and I’ll damn well do it. Just watch me!”

9-5 "Damn it all!" Eiji cursed himself. "What does she know about being self-centered? What the hell does Nobu understand? In my chest, blood's still gushing out! Who knows what this pain's like? Shit—forget that crap from Nobu!" The cleanup after the storm took the entire month of August. Because of the high waves, the island's soil had been washed away across a wide area, requiring them to bring in soil and gravel from outside. Even after building the temporary huts where the laborers lived, constructing the ash disposal site, and repairing the government buildings, they continued filling soil and leveling the terrain. Rebuilding the collapsed stone wall on the southern beach looked likely to take even more time.

On the holiday of September 1st, Eiji and Seishichi "Lump-neck" were summoned to the magistrate’s office and each received a reward of one kanmon. On the night of the storm, they were praised for two achievements: restraining the laborers who had fallen into complete disarray and safely evacuating them, then giving over seventy individuals the impetus to voluntarily remain to protect the island. Eiji declined. He stated that it had been Seishichi's accomplishment, and that he himself had merely followed his example afterward. “The magistrate was watching,” Narushima Jiemon said with a calm smile. “—The initial credit rightly belongs to Seishichi. Seishichi’s raised sledgehammer stopped that panicked mob in their tracks. And it was only through your subsequent persuasion that things went smoothly. Seishichi’s sledgehammer alone couldn’t have restrained that crowd trembling with fear of death. Force inevitably begets force—there would have been casualties before evacuation.”

The magistrate said it was Seishichi's strength and Eiji's wisdom—these two things—that had quelled that disturbance. "With all due respect," Eiji said, raising his face, "that is how Your Honor has chosen to perceive it, but it is not my own view. As I merely imitated Seishichi's actions, I must decline to accept any reward." "You speak stubbornly." The magistrate smiled with patient calm. "But as magistrate," he continued, "I cannot retract what has already been offered. What would you have me do?"

Eiji did not answer. "The matter of the reward has been approved by the town magistrate," Narushima said. "It cannot be withdrawn now. Do you have any better ideas?" Eiji paused briefly before replying that if it was about the reward, he wanted it given to all seventy-odd people who had stayed and worked on the island. "I see." After a moment, the magistrate nodded. "Very well. There should be no issue. Then one kanmon shall go to Seishichi, and the remaining one kanmon will be given to the seventy-odd people."

And then the magistrate stood up and left for the inner rooms. Along with the attending constables, Eiji and Seishichi also stood up, but Okayasu Kihee stopped Eiji. "I have something to tell you," Okayasu said. "Come over here." Seishichi went out to the veranda, and the other constables headed back toward the magistrate's office. Okayasu turned down the corridor, entered the usual small parlor, and sat facing Eiji. —Okayasu Kihee, as if remembering something, stood up after having sat down once, opened the northern window, returned to his original spot, sat again, and remained silent for a while.

“Now, this—” Okayasu said, waving his hand toward the window. “—The wind carries the scent of flowers. Can you detect it?”

Eiji sniffed the air about three times, then silently shook his head from side to side. “This September wind we’re breathing now,” Okayasu continued, “this refreshing, cool flavor—I find it most agreeable. Each season’s wind carries distinct scents, flavors and textures against the skin, but I favor autumn’s crisp chill above all. When savoring this breeze, one feels the joy of being alive—particularly now, steeped as it is in osmanthus blossoms.”

Eiji watched Okayasu’s face with a questioning look. He called me here—so why’s he going on about the scent of the wind and how it feels against the skin? What’s the point of all this? Eiji wondered.

“What about you?” After two breaths, Okayasu quietly asked, “Have you ever felt autumn in the wind’s touch or enjoyed the scent of flowers it carries?”

Eiji did not answer.

“You’re still young,” said Okayasu Kihee with a smile playing on his lips. “—You’d probably say you don’t know anything about such old-people stuff. But this isn’t about being young or old—it’s about whether you have those feelings or not. Go on, take a good sniff. What you’re smelling now is osmanthus blossoms.”

“Is this what you summoned me for?” “Is that objectionable?” “I’ve no need for winds or flower scents. If you’ve no other orders, I’ll return to my cell.” For the reward ceremony, Okayasu Kihee wore formal hemp robes and gripped a folded fan. He partially opened then sharply snapped it shut, turning toward the window with feigned deafness to Eiji’s words. “Though it holds no interest for you,” Okayasu began slowly, “the autumn wind remains autumn’s breath—cool and fragrant with osmanthus. Yet when enraged, this same breeze becomes tempest: houses torn asunder, waves churned skyward, broken bodies left in its wake. July’s storm shattered this island. Through your hands it stands nearly mended. But should men rage as storms do—what then? Winds escape judgment, but mankind answers to law.”

“For whose sake?” Eiji sharply retorted, “For the strong? Or for the weak?” “For society as a whole, I should think.” “You don’t understand.” “I wanted to tell you this once—I know everything about you.” Okayasu spoke in softened tones. “Your anger is justified. Momen’s methods were wrong, the informants handled things poorly, and Hōkodō—others too—should have shown more consideration. All that is true enough. But let us now contemplate fortune and misfortune.”

It was just a few years ago that three men from Tsugaru Province went to Ezo Island to pan for gold dust. After enduring unimaginable hardships, they managed to obtain a massive two kanmonme of gold dust. When they took stock, they realized their food supplies were beginning to run out. Though it was September, because it was a region where winter comes early, they had to decide whether to withdraw as they were or exchange the gold dust for money to prepare winter provisions. But there was still abundant gold dust there, and it was too much of a waste for them to withdraw. So they decided to stay through the winter, and to purchase the necessary tools and provisions, one of them loaded the gold dust onto a horse and set out. The name of the place is unknown, but they say the round trip to that village took about ten days. The two remaining men continued to wait while panning for gold dust. Five days passed, then seven, then ten, then twelve—but the man who had gone out did not return. As their food supplies kept dwindling, the two men added wild plants to their small amount of rice, making porridge to stretch their meals. Before long, the two men came to believe that the man who had taken the gold dust had simply fled, and they tried to pursue him. However, over half a month had already passed, and with their bodies weakened from meager rations, they realized such a thing was impossible. If the man did not return, they would have to prepare for winter and gather food. The two men found a cave near the river and gathered as many edible things as they could—birds, fish, roots, nuts, and the like.

The two men had no knowledge of winter in that land. They kept panning for gold dust until snow fell, and when the snowfall made work impossible, they retreated into the cave. The cold's intensity defied all their expectations, while the firewood and food meant to withstand it quickly diminished. Cursing the companion who had fled - the companion they themselves had sent out alone - they turned their blame and hatred on each other. Frequently they heard bestial roars and scuffling movements beyond the cave entrance; whether bear or wolf mattered little, for they abandoned all hope of survival.

Just as they had resigned themselves to death, three natives came searching for them and handed over sufficient tools and provisions for wintering. According to the natives’ account, their companion had obtained those supplies and was attacked by a bear while loading them onto a horse for the return journey. After entrusting the natives to deliver them to this valley, he died shortly thereafter. —There had been two kanmonme of gold dust. Since it was work done to evade the Matsumae domain's notice, they probably couldn't exchange it at regular prices. Moreover, in such an inconvenient land that could be called the edge of the country, where prices must have been exorbitant, even less than half of the gold dust they had brought would have sufficed for that amount of supplies. What became of the remaining gold dust? The two men never even considered such things. They were saved—simply knowing they no longer had to fear death was enough—and they hugged each other and wept.

“Talk of fortune and misfortune sounds like whining—words I’ve heard till I’m sick of them. But fortune and misfortune do exist.” Okayasu sighed briefly. “This story’s spread far enough—you might’ve heard it—but those three men’s experiences showed fortune and misfortune in many forms. The Ezo Island natives, ground down for years by unscrupulous Japanese merchants, grew cunning and vicious as wolves. Yet those two stumbled on natives with more kindness and honesty than you’d find in ten Japanese towns.”

“Even if you don’t notice it,” Okayasu said with a measured breath, “this crisp wind carries osmanthus fragrance. Calm your mind and breathe deeply—then even you might catch its scent. Calm your mind and properly consider your fortunes and misfortunes. Don’t forget there exists a Saburō and an Osue in this world.”

10-1 The repairs on the southern embankment were nearing completion.

As late September arrived with a stretch of clear days, descending to the tidal flats sometimes revealed Mount Fuji in pristine clarity. Mankichi appraised this view at one thousand ryo plus two bu. "What's with the 'two bu'?" asked a man standing nearby. "The thousand ryo's standard pricing—I just tacked on two bu extra," Mankichi declared, flaunting his audacity. Since July's storm, an unprecedented atmosphere of calm camaraderie had taken root within the Laborer Quarters. Yet Eiji grew increasingly withdrawn—ignoring all attempts at conversation, either snapping at persistent interlocutors or turning his back to walk away. He made constant efforts to remain alone.

Osue visited three times a month—on the 1st, 11th, and 21st, her days off—but Eiji refused to see her. After that, perhaps Okayasu had given up as well, making no further attempts to arrange a meeting and simply delivering care packages to the room. Eiji would give these to the roommates, never touching them himself or even attempting to see what was inside.—On days off, it became his custom to go to the southern beach as usual, spending nearly the entire day sitting or lying on the grass near the shore.

"Saburō... you fool." He muttered while twisting his lips, "I never asked you to, but you kept meddling in my business and got yourself kicked out of the shop you’d worked at for over ten years. Now you must finally get how I feel, even just a little."

“Buzz off—don’t mess with me,” he would sometimes growl in a low voice. “Leave me be. I’ve been as good as dead since last year’s end. No amount of coaxing’ll change how I feel. Just cast me aside already.”

"Heh. Gold prospectors? Pathetic," he sneered, shrugging his shoulders. "So some honest fool hauling gold gets mauled by a bear—that's misfortune? And his partners cursed him thinking they'd been tricked? No shit—undoubtedly that was unlucky. But what's that got to do with me? This ain't some wilderness mishap. Rich bastards wielded their wealth, informants abused official authority—they turned innocents into criminals and beat them half-dead. That bear was just an animal. But those villains? They're flaunting their power through Edo's streets right now. Until I make them pay—I won't die. Can't let myself die until then."

Tears spilled from Eiji’s eyes. He pursed his lips to suppress a sob and, while gazing out to sea, gently shook his head from side to side. Across the limitlessly blue and clear sea, dozens of ships with large sails glided in a fleet from Bōshū toward Shinagawa. He had somehow come to know—without recalling from whom—that these were fishing boats from around Kisarazu: they would drag their nets while catching fish, arrive at Shibaura to unload their catch, then return to Bōshū while fishing once more.

"What happened during the July storm?" Eiji narrowed his eyes as he gazed at the striking cluster of white sails and muttered to himself: There must have been ships that went out fishing—among those that did, some would have been unable to escape and sunk. What must men with wives and children have felt when they realized they couldn't be saved? How must those widows and orphans have grieved? They likely cursed the sea and despised this fisherman's livelihood. Yet still—those who fish never cease.

When spending time at the southern beach, Eiji would mutter incessantly to himself—most of it about Saburō and Osue, the rest mocking scorn at the officials trying to placate him. October arrived, and the embankment repairs had come to where they would be finished in a day or two. For this reason, many of the laborers from the Mokko Room were assigned to reclamation work, leaving only seven workers including foreman Denpachi at the southern beach site.

The wind had been fierce since dawn, churning the sea into violent swells that forced them to wait for low tide before driving piles. Even when the waters fully receded, this being no spring tide season, the exposed flats stretched barely fifty ken from shore before the waves would come rushing back within the hour. "Five piles left," Foreman Denpachi announced. "Finish these today if luck holds." They worked along the stone embankment's seaward face, driving sharpened cedar logs into holes dug through five feet of sand until reaching solid earth—fifty-seven such piles already stood guard against the battering waves. Eiji's task was digging these foundation pits while others operated the reverse hammers: three-man teams gripping handles beneath an elevated mallet-head, driving each post downward through coordinated shouts and heaves. Work requiring camaraderie Eiji shunned, choosing solitary labor whenever possible.

He was digging the fourth of those five remaining holes when suddenly the stone wall collapsed and crushed Eiji beneath it. Onto the sand hole dug five or six shaku deep, the collapsed stones filled the cavity in jagged formations mixed with sand, and Eiji was struck hard across his spine, his breath catching. “It’s terrible! Come here!” someone’s voice was heard. “Someone’s buried! There’s someone under the collapsed stone wall!”

10-2 Whether the blow to his spine had done damage, Eiji writhed in the agony of suffocation. In reality, he had only tried to writhe; his hands and feet wouldn't move. He had been crushed by sand and stones with almost no space left.

“It’s Bushū!” Denpachi’s voice shouted. “The one buried is Bushū! Hey!” Denpachi called out to Eiji. “Are you okay, Bushū? Respond!” he heard Denpachi shout in a panicked voice. Eiji could not answer. His breathing had finally returned to normal, but with half his face blocked by sand, speaking would likely send sand cascading into his mouth—more than that, he was terrified to make a sound. Stones weighing eighteen to twenty-six kilograms each pressed down on his shoulders, torso, waist, and legs. He couldn’t feel any pain yet, but his body was numb, leaving him unable to tell where or how badly he was injured. If he were to make a sound, he felt that some bone might break or some internal organ might spurt blood.

"Everyone over here! All of you!" came the foreman's frantic shout. "First get these stones out—those ones there! Stop! Not like that! If you don't work carefully, the rest'll come crashing down!" Somehow the sand kept swelling up, threatening to bury his face entirely. Eiji twisted his head sideways as slowly as he could manage, keeping the rest of his body perfectly still. —The tide. The tide's coming in.

Eiji realized this and held his breath. Over an hour must have passed since they began working, meaning the tide would soon come rushing in. If it reached the shore before they dug him out—the thought made Eiji want to scream.

“Please work quietly,” Yohei’s voice was heard. “If the sand collapses, it’ll be dangerous. How about digging from both sides?”

"No good!" the foreman shouted back. "If they dig the sand, more stones'll collapse! Removing the rocks comes first! Someone go tell the office!"

“Already went!” someone answered.

Foreman Denpachi was an old man. He was fifty-five or fifty-six years old, but emaciated and deeply wrinkled, appearing like a seventy-year-old man. He was in no state to contribute physical strength, and among the remaining five, even Yohei was too weak to be of use. "If only Lump-necked Seishichi were here at a time like this," Eiji thought. When he raised his eyes, through the gaps between the stones piled upon stones, a portion of the dully overcast sky appeared as a narrow strip like a torn piece of sliding door paper, and a strong wind faintly howled through that crevice.

With everyone's desperate shouts, one stone was removed, and then—likely because the balance they had maintained until then had shifted—the other stones swayed violently and slid down onto Eiji.

“Be careful!” Yohei cried out in a tearful voice. “If you remove them recklessly, the stones will collapse even more. Let’s use a lever.” “Bushū!” Denpachi called out in a choked voice from between the stones. “Answer me! Are you all right? Are you alive?” “Ah,” Eiji answered cautiously, “I’m all right. Take it slow.”

“It won’t be long now. Hang in there.” Eiji tried to mention the rising tide but clenched his jaw shut. He felt moisture begin soaking through the instep of his right foot pinned beneath stones. At first he thought it might be blood, but the wetness kept rising from toes to ankle. The seawater wasn’t just advancing over the sand—it was seeping upward through the ground itself. “No use,” Eiji whispered into the crushing darkness. “Drown before they dig me out... Remove stones and more collapse... Either way—finished.”

Yohei said to use a lever. That must have been the lever—the cedar log used for stakes was quietly inserted through the gap between stones. It struck Eiji’s thigh, then slid down toward his shin. “That’s my leg there!” Eiji shouted as cautiously as he could manage. “Move it more this way! If you keep going like that, you’ll snap my leg clean off!” “Look at that—the tide!” Yohei’s tearful shout was heard. “The tide’s coming in! Hurry—please, everyone hurry!”

Eiji felt his entire body turn to ice. The water that had soaked up to his instep had now risen to his shin, and the lever log extending over his shin seemed to be getting wedged in place. “My leg’s going to break!” Eiji shouted. “Move the log aside!” “Let’s start with these stones,” the foreman’s voice was heard saying. “Hold the lever steady.” A strong force was applied to the cedar log, and Eiji felt the bone in his shin creak sickeningly.

“My leg’s going to break!” he shouted. He tried to say, “Move the log aside,” but sand filled his mouth, stifling his voice, and he coughed violently. The wind blowing through the gaps between the stones carried the sound of approaching waves. “Help me, Sabu,” Eiji blurted out without thinking. “—I’m done for.” An immense weight was applied to the lever log, and the moment Eiji heard the sound of his shinbone breaking, he lost consciousness.

Part Three of Ten

——If I had remained unconscious then, or if I had simply died, how much better it would have been.

Afterward, Eiji would think this many times over. Having once lost consciousness, he was brought back by the searing pain of saltwater soaking into his broken shin wound. Then began the true terror and suffering. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but when he came to, he remained pinned beneath stones while the rising tide's waves reached him, water steadily eroding sand from above and below. Some stones must have been removed, yet the weight pressing down remained unchanged, leaving him completely immobile from back to waist. Perhaps because the pressure allowed only a third of his normal breath, agony as if his chest were being clawed apart made his vision darken.

It wasn't mere pain. Eiji cursed himself for still clinging to life and shouted "Sabu! Help me!" twice more. The cries never became sound, but in the sightless crimson void, Sabu's panicked face flickered faintly before vanishing. Sandy water had already begun submerging his face. Numbed by terror, he couldn't comprehend what it meant when grit-filled water seeped into his half-open mouth.

"Please stop... I was wrong," he pleaded in terror. Everything was my mistake. Please, everyone, forgive me. Yohei’s screaming voice could be heard in the far distance. The shouts of the other men could also be heard, but only Yohei’s hysterical crying seemed to go on forever. During that time, the stones were removed one after another. Members of the oil-pressing room rushed over, and Seishichi the lump-neck put his formidable strength to use.

“Hang on, Bushū!” Seishichi kept shouting. “Don’t lose heart! It’s almost over! Keep it together!” Eiji lost consciousness again, though apparently only briefly. Forced to vomit water and coughing violently, he came to lying on his back, the harsh rasps from his own mouth grating against his ears. “Easy now, easy,” came a voice beside him. “Don’t move him—the leg bone’s broken.” A doctor, Eiji thought. He only knew him as Dr. Santetsu—the man’s full name remained unclear. The middle-aged physician’s gaunt frame and sharp eyes felt vaguely familiar. Though absent during the storm evacuations, Eiji recalled hearing both this doctor and the ethics teacher worked nearly without pay. So my turn’s finally come, Eiji thought.

“There appear to be no major injuries besides this fracture,” said the doctor. “Though there are considerable bruises. I shouldn’t find any other broken bones, but I can’t say for certain until I conduct a thorough examination later.”

“Thank goodness, that’s a relief,” came Okayasu Kihee’s voice. “The stones must have supported each other. When I heard the news and rushed over, I thought it was already hopeless.”

“Bushū, you okay?” Seishichi called out, peering in. “Later! Later!” the doctor urgently interjected. “No talking now—don’t let him speak! Everyone get back to your quarters!”

“There should be people to carry him,” said Seishichi. The doctor ordered them to bring a door plank, attach ropes like a stretcher, spread a quilt underneath, and so on.

Eiji, his mouth gritty with sand, carefully turned his head to the side and spat two or three times. Each time, a sharp pain spread through his body. But he couldn't tell where the pain originated, and the sand in his mouth refused to clear. Unless they incised his broken shin immediately, the bone couldn't be set. The doctor said to send for Dr. Nakajima at Yamashirokishi without delay, and Okayasu Kihee ordered a subordinate to carry out the command.

"I won't forget this, everyone," Eiji shouted in his heart. I was stubborn and standoffish, never caring for anyone else, never letting anyone get close.

Even though I had only ever thought of myself, everyone—even those who usually didn't get along—joined forces and worked desperately to save me. "I'll never forget your voices—not for the rest of my life," Eiji shouted silently. They'd worked as desperately as if they were his own siblings or children. Mr. Yohei had cried for me, and Mr. Okayasu too—this stubbornly contrary version of myself up until now must have been such a detestable, hateful bastard—but they still came rushing to help. Oh right, and Sabu too.

Part Four of Ten

Eiji had no idea how the treatment had been performed. He later heard they'd used medicine concocted by some surgeon—the incision and bone-setting hadn't been too painful, though his shin had likely gone completely numb. While the surgeon named Nakajima treated him, Eiji couldn't tell dreams from reality. Saburō and other familiar faces would appear in turns; sometimes two or three faces overlapped, and he heard voices shouting rapid words whose meaning escaped him.

Strangely, only when Saburō's face appeared did the space before his eyes turn crimson and waver. "I'm here, Eiji-chan, right here," Saburō called out from within the crimson hue. With timid eyes and an apologetic smile playing at his lips, Saburō gazed at him with such evident concern. The visceral rawness of it made Eiji shake his head—he couldn't help snapping, "I'm fine, quit fussing over me. Wipe that pathetic look off your face." During the treatment, Eiji vomited three times. It was a substance with an indescribably foul stench—a clump of mud and sand and putrid water—whose odor clung to his tongue long after.

At his bedside, Yohei was always present. Seishichi the lump-neck would often come by to check on him as well. It seemed he was neglecting his work duties to come visit; though Dr. Santetsu would scold him and send him away, he would soon return to check in again. At night, six or seven people would usually gather and keep talking and laughing until Yohei hurried them along. The doctor was named Takimoto Naomichi and had a practice in Kyōbashi Umenmachō, from where he reportedly commuted every day. No one knew why he was called Santetsu or anything like that, but even when addressed as such, Takimoto neither corrected them nor made a point of stating his real name. The surgeon at Yamashirokishi was called Nakajima Tan'an, a man versed in both the Southern Barbarian (Portuguese) and Dutch schools of medicine, and in surgery was said to rank among the top five of his time.—Nakajima came three times in total; after giving Takimoto instructions for subsequent care, he declared "This should suffice" and left, never to appear again.

“You may end up with a slight limp,” Nakajima Tan’an said during his final visit. “The rest depends on your youth. You must avoid using your leg for fifty days.” Then he laughed, adding, “Walking with a slight limp can be quite dashing, you know.” For two days he received only hot water. From the third day onward came kudzu gruel and thick gruel, but when semi-porridge was served on the fifth day, Eiji vomited again. The moment he took a mouthful of semi-porridge, the stench of dead fish and shellfish mingled with rotting garbage and steaming seaweed—all blending with seawater’s briny odor—rose so violently that he expelled not just what he’d swallowed but everything remaining in his stomach. Later, when his chest settled and he reflected carefully, he realized no actual foulness had existed—it was the terror of being crushed beneath stones resurging. The water that had flooded his mouth tasted of salt and something indefinable. Yet there lingered no scent of putrid fish or desiccated seaweed. Those were odors one smelled during spring tides when tidal flats emerged from the sea. Dr. Santetsu said the stones’ pressure had likely strained his internal organs, but this would soon subside.

“I get how you felt back then, brother,” Kinta said one night at Eiji’s bedside. “Yeah, outta all of us here, I’m probably the only one who really knows what was goin’ through your head while you were trapped.”

As usual, five or six people had gathered, but except for Yohei, everyone had been assigned work that day and hadn't been at the collapsed stone wall site. "You're always playin' the five-copper know-it-all," Mankichi fired back. "Even if you'd been there, nobody but the buried guy could've understood how it felt." "I was buried alive myself, y'know," Kinta said. "Back in that big storm—got trapped under a collapsed tenement, tide comin' up around me, nearly drowned to death. You lot—yeah, you were there too—before they dragged me out, I was sure I was done for. Chanted sutras like my life depended on it."

“You know sutras?” someone interjected from the side. “Ya damn fool! I’m a true Edoite!” Kinta shot back fiercely, “Think I’m puttin’ on airs? I don’t even know how many times t’chant the Lotus Sutra proper!” “What kinda half-assed act you pullin’?” A man called Tomisaburō cut in, “Those’re invocations or Lotus chants—ain’t sutras at all.” This’s strange—so invocations ain’t sutras? “Dead right.” “Then why they chantin’ non-sutra stuff at temples ’n memorials?” “That’s a whole different kettle o’ fish!” The pointless debate about what exactly made ’em different dragged on and on, till finally they all burst out laughin’.

“I was tryin’ to say somethin’ clever,” Mankichi said to Kinta, “but you’re like someone who dropped a five-copper tonight.” He couldn’t understand—what did it all mean?—and he kept turning it over in his mind. Needless to say of when he had been rescued from under the stones, ever since then they had been gathering by his bedside indiscriminately. If they wanted to talk, it would’ve been more comfortable to do so in their room. Here, if they got even slightly noisy Yohei would scold them, and within moments they’d be driven out. It appeared he had obtained permission from the authorities; Yohei didn’t go to work and instead stayed constantly by Eiji’s side to care for him, pushing aside anything that might hinder his recovery and keeping it at bay.

I have no memory of doing anything for these people, Eiji repeatedly thought. Moreover, these people worried for him, labored so hard, comforted him—and none of it was out of whim or obligation; it was just like being with true siblings. Eiji had initially been unable to acclimate himself to that. The change in their overall demeanor before and after the storm, and the feelings they had shown him since his calamity. It was like emerging from a narrow hole into an unfamiliar, vast expanse—a completely new mountain and river scenery spread before him, leaving him bewildered—a sensation that resembled just that. And one day, he recalled what Okayasu Kihee had said.

“Even if you haven’t noticed or cared, this wind carries the refreshing taste of autumn, and the scent of osmanthus blossoms fills the air.”

To Eiji, though vaguely, the meaning of those words seemed to come into focus. Perhaps I had never truly looked at these people until now, he realized. Just as he'd lacked the awareness to distinguish osmanthus blossoms carried on the wind, he thought this particular quality might have always existed among those in the Laborer Quarters. When these thoughts surfaced, he felt his chest expand slightly and his breathing ease, sensing a calm that let him gradually parse details of this vast new landscape stretching before his eyes.

About twenty days after his injury, Okayasu Kihee came to visit one day. Eiji sat up and expressed his gratitude. His leg - wrapped in bleached cotton over splints - still couldn't support sitting upright properly, but he'd managed to sit up during meals for the past three days. "You must've known that girl Osue's been visiting all this time," Okayasu continued. "With those care packages arriving like clockwork every scheduled day, you couldn't possibly have been unaware."

Eiji looked down and replied, “Yes.” “To tell the truth, I kept your injury secret too,” said Okayasu. “I thought it cruel to worry that girl. But when I heard your recovery was going smoothly, I told her the essentials.” Eiji raised his eyes to look at Okayasu. “So today,” Okayasu continued calmly, meeting Eiji’s gaze, “Saburō came in her stead. He’s waiting at the gate now—you’ll see him, won’t you?”

Eiji looked down again. “Yes, I will meet him,” he answered with a bow. “I apologize for the inconvenience.” With that, Okayasu stood up and left. Yohei folded the quilt and placed it against Eiji’s back, then adjusted the disarray of his sleeping robe. Saburō entered holding a bundle, bowing left and right indiscriminately as he mumbled something that sounded like a greeting or an apology.

“Please, come in.” Yohei waved his hand as he spoke. “Don’t mind formalities—there’s no need for reserve here.”

Then, as if suddenly remembering, the old man brought two half-sized folding screens from across the room and arranged them around Eiji’s bed. There were three other patients, but their beds were spaced quite far apart, and they likely wouldn’t be looking this way. Still, Yohei had clearly intended this as an act of thoughtful consideration. Saburō, still visibly uncomfortable with this arrangement, crouched down and shuffled closer. He shuffled closer, placed the bundle beside him, timidly looked up at Eiji as if beholding something fearsome, and attempted to smile.

“E-Eiji-chan,” Saburō stammered, “you—you must’ve suffered something awful.”

At the same time, Saburō's face contorted helplessly, and from his small, round eyes, large tears streamed down one after another.

Part 10-5 He's still as careless as ever, Eiji thought. But the moment that thought arose, words escaped his lips against his will.

“You came all this way. I’m sorry for making you worry so much,” Eiji heard his own mouth say. “I’m fine now.” “Thank goodness, thank goodness.” Saburō wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and smiled weakly. “When I heard from Osue, I was scared outta my mind. Thought even if I came here, you might not wanna see me.” As if to prevent the conversation from growing too heavy, Eiji cut in and countered, “I’m fine, but what about you? Is your illness better now?”

“Ah, don’t you go worryin’ ’bout me. O-Nobu taught me a good medicine—nothin’ but the runs, see? Once that cleared up, the beriberi settled down too.” “You goin’ to Sumiyoshi?” Saburō blushed and looked down. “Well…” he said awkwardly, “If I don’t go three days runnin’, I get all antsy-like.” “She still in Katsushika?” “Well… ain’t exactly like that,” Saburō faltered, “—There’s somethin’ ’bout all that… better you hear it from Osue herself.”

“Why?” Eiji asked sharply. Saburō—perhaps at a loss for words—unwrapped the bundle and arranged six boxed meals there. As he pushed two of them toward Eiji, he stammered out an explanation: these were what O-Nobu had made for him, that they might not taste good but would nourish his body. “These four here—she said to give them to the people in the room. That’s what it was about.”

“Did you come from Sumiyoshi again today?” “Osue’s here too.” Eiji nodded as if restraining himself, then asked quietly, “Is Osue here with you now, or did she go to Sumiyoshi together with you?” Saburō fell silent as if perplexed and rubbed his forehead with the back of his right hand. He seemed to have missed his chance to speak and appeared unable to find the right words. Then, as if discovering an escape route, he stood up with the four boxed meals, stepped outside the small folding screen, and handed them to Yohei while making a rambling greeting. Eiji remained leaning against the quilt, arms crossed and eyes closed. What hadn’t he said? Something must have happened—but what exactly was it? he wondered. Even when Saburō returned and timidly sat down, Eiji kept his eyes shut.

“Um,” Saburō said, “—how’s your leg doing, Eiji-chan?” “They say I’ll be lame.” “No way,” Saburō gasped. “No way something like… becoming lame could happen.” “It’s just for show, they say,” Eiji said, then composed himself, opened his eyes, and smiled. “—Not that it’s certain yet. The doctor’s diagnosis is I might end up lame.” Saburō kept his mouth hanging open and watched Eiji’s face without saying anything.

“No need to be surprised. Instead, I saved my life,” Eiji said. “Besides, my work’s sedentary—even if I end up a bit lame, it won’t interfere with my job.” Saburō suddenly hung his head. When he pressed his eyes with his right hand, he stifled a sob. “That’s awful,” Saburō said through tears. “That’s too cruel.” “I told you I saved my life instead, didn’t I?” “Even so—for Eiji-chan to end up lame… How could something like that be allowed?”

“Quit it. Someone might hear,” Eiji stopped him in a low voice. “Anyway, I didn’t die. It’s not like being lame’s been decided for sure. Forget that for now and tell me your situation—hey, are you still in Katsushika or not? Which is it?” “You should hear that story from Osue. I’m no good with words.” “You’re one frustrating bastard.”

“That’s not how it is.” Still sobbing with a rattling throat, Saburō wiped his eyes and said, “—There’s really nothin’ wrong. I just thought if I went blabberin’ carelessly, I might put you in a bad mood.” Eiji waited silently for what would come next. “Katsushika withdrew at the end of September,” Saburō said while rubbing his forehead. “What with my brother’s wife havin’ another baby and all.”

“I read about that in a letter.”

“Was that so?” Saburō shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “So—I couldn’t go back to Kobunechō, and anyway, I tried discussing it with Osue. And well, since there’s the matter of when you get out, Eiji-chan, after talking it all through, we decided to rent a place.”

Saburō glanced at Eiji’s face but, seeing no sign that he would say anything, continued with a stutter. “So then, near Osue-chan’s place—it’s a back tenement—there was a vacant house, and since the rent was cheap, we rented it.”

“So it’s Shitaya Kanasugi then.” Saburō nodded. “We settled there temporarily, but since it’d cause problems when you come out, we thought—even a side alley would be better than a back tenement.” “Quit involving me in every little thing,” Eiji said. “I’ve incurred a big debt to this labor camp—can’t get out over trivial matters. Stop planning around me.”

Saburō widened his round eyes, opened his mouth, and stared at Eiji. "But Eiji-chan," Saburō said after swallowing hard, "you promised me once—no, not like that—that when you opened your own shop, you’d put me in charge of preparing the glue, didn’t you?" “That was back when I was in prison,” Eiji said, turning away. “—What I am now is a labor camp inmate, I’m telling you.”

Eleven-One

“Hey, you’re awake,” said Kobu Seishichi as he entered. “Are you allowed to walk already?” “Not yet,” Yohei said. “Everyone shouldn’t rush him like that. Even without that, he’s getting impatient.”

“But I heard he moved over here yesterday. If he’s left the infirmary, then he isn’t under the doctor’s care anymore, right?” Eiji sat with his right leg stretched out, eating his meal. His unkempt stubble had grown out, and deprived of sunlight for so long, his complexion remained pallid with slackened flesh, though over thirty days had passed since treatment began—his body itself had likely recovered. In his eyes and around his mouth, a healthy youthfulness had reclaimed its vigor.

“We mustn’t forget the crucial point,” Yohei said. “It’s not an illness—it’s a broken leg bone. Though you’re no longer under the doctor’s care, the real challenge begins now. You’ll need to endure bit by bit, get accustomed, and then start practicing walking.” “Maybe that was a bit too quick,” Seishichi said. “What do you mean by that?” “Back when I was in the countryside, there was this cripp—” Seishichi started to say but hurriedly corrected himself, “—this man named Sakusada who had one disabled leg. Whether he got kicked by a horse or somethin’, ended up with one leg useless, see? He walked around with a crutch cane. Rememberin’ that made me try makin’ one like this.”

Seishichi lifted it up to show them. It was a T-shaped crutch cane with a horizontal bar at the head, polished to a shine. "No, no—don't show me that thing; it's troublesome," Yohei said, waving his hand, while Eiji set down his bowl and chopsticks.

“Sorry about that, Sei-san,” Eiji said, turning back. “Thanks. Let me take a look.” Seishichi checked Yohei’s expression as Eiji dragged himself toward the edge of the raised floor. “Might be a bit long,” Seishichi said while handing over the cane. “If it’s too long, you can just cut it. Yeah—put that part under your armpit.” “Don’t try standing,” Yohei cautioned. “I’ve seen one like this before too.” Eiji sat at the edge of the raised floor and slowly lowered both legs to the earthen area below. Adjusting his grip on the crutch, he settled the crossbar under his armpit. “Feels good. Solid work. What’s the wood?”

“It’s cherry wood,” Seishichi answered. “I tried all sorts—if they bent too much that was trouble, if they weighed too heavy that was trouble too. So I consulted Mr. Isuke from the carving room, since I figured he’d know about different kinds of wood. Then he said cherry would work best.” “Don’t make everyone worry.” “You might not need it soon,” Seishichi said, waving a hand without purpose, “but I thought you might want it at first anyway.”

“There, that’s enough.” Yohei reached out his hand. “I’ll keep it until you need to use it.” Eiji passed the cane to Yohei.

“Well then,” Seishichi stepped back, “I’m still in the middle of work.” Eiji expressed his gratitude once more, and Seishichi departed. While watching Yohei take the crutch cane away and stow it inside his storage space, Eiji drew in a quiet, long breath and cautiously let it out. As if afraid Yohei would notice that breath—even though nearly twenty days had passed since returning from the infirmary to his room, Yohei still attended to him constantly. Even if not working was permitted by the authorities, wage income would cease. When he once tried bringing this up, Yohei laughed and replied that such worries were completely unnecessary since they’d had him deposited with the authorities for eight years already. He took care of everything from laundering undergarments and tabi socks to changing clothes. As for loincloths, since there was an excess from care packages, he stubbornly discarded them, but Yohei assisted with everything from washing his face and meals to managing the bedding and even carrying him to and from the latrine—providing care so thorough it would be rare even from a real father.

“Are you done with the meal?” Yohei said. “Shall I make some tea if you’d like?” “Thank you, but I settled for hot water.” Folded bedding was placed against the storage space. Eiji dragged himself back from the edge of the raised floor and leaned his back against the bedding. “Mr. Yohei,” he called out, “I was thinking of starting handwriting practice—could you arrange for an inkstone and brushes?” “Sure, they’re doing the bookkeeping at the watch hut, so I’ll go ask them.” Yohei, who was clearing the meal tray, said that and looked kindly at Eiji. “—I’m glad you have come to feel that way.”

Eiji averted his eyes. “Today is December… what day is it again?”

“The tenth, since tomorrow’s a day off.” “Then that makes it about fifty-five or fifty-six days now.” “You shouldn’t dwell on counting days,” Yohei said in a soothing voice. “A doctor’s prognosis always downplays things—even an illness needing a year’s recovery gets called ‘half a year or more’ to keep patients from losing heart. Anyway, quit thinking about timelines. A broken bone fusing is like grafting a tree—thirty or fifty days won’t cut it for you.”

Eiji nodded and said, "That's why I think I'll start handwriting practice." "I see, I see. Then I can rest easy."

A genuinely relieved expression appeared on Yohei’s face. Outside, it was cloudy with a wind that wasn’t too strong blowing through. The building being a makeshift hut meant gaps riddled both floor and plank walls, letting drafts seep inside. Two hearths stood ready—both lit when laborers filled the space—but now only one held fire, its charcoal futile against the pervasive chill no matter how they stoked it. Yohei kept urging “Move closer to the hearth,” yet Eiji wouldn’t shift from his post before the storage nook. The authorities’ fuel ration never sufficed, forcing laborers to pool coins for extra. Eiji couldn’t even contribute those meager funds—a man wholly dependent on others’ care. To think of his working comrades while hogging hearth warmth felt unthinkable—or so Yohei seemed to assume. But truth diverged: Eiji strove instead to confirm through bodily trial some inner transformation. He knew full well the drafts’ bite and shivers’ onset, knew fire’s comfort waited steps away—yet willed himself from that cozy trap.

“I need to fully feel just how cold the wind blowing through these gaps really is.” He crossed his arms and muttered, “—Since I’ve just eaten my meal, it’s not that cold yet. But before long, the body shivering will begin. I need to properly savor how that shivering starts and what it feels like when it does.” Until reaching this age of twenty-four, he had never consciously savored the coldness of drafts or the body shivering—this was the first time. Even if the thing itself held no meaning, the resolve to savor it without evasion was crucial.

"Hmph. Have I gone and imitated Mr. Okayasu?" He pondered for a moment with a bitter smile, then immediately shook his head. "—That's not it. I haven't imitated Mr. Okayasu. This was born within my own heart. This is something important." After finishing the cleanup and returning, Yohei suggested covering him with a quilt, but Eiji replied it wasn't necessary. Yohei didn't press further and soon went outside.

"No, better not." After a while, Eiji shook off the thought that had surfaced in his mind. "Watabun can wait. I'll keep that matter forgotten for now."

But there was one thing. He had to acknowledge that believing his entire life had been ruined by a single scrap of brocade was a mistake. "A human life shouldn't be shattered by something like a scrap of brocade," he told himself. "It's strange," Eiji muttered again, "but during July's storm—even while thinking 'I won't die from this'—I felt with perfect clarity that I was alive right then. When I lay crushed under that collapsed stone wall, swallowing gritty saltwater, wishing death would end the suffering—even then, I felt vividly aware I still lived."

Now, don't rush—before moving from one thing to the next, thoroughly think through the first one.

"One definite piece of evidence that my feelings have begun to change is this." He closed his eyes and slowly muttered each word as if carving them into something: "A human life must not be ruined by something like a single scrap of brocade—this is the first principle."

He repeated the words over and over in his heart. Eiji could now divide his past into two parts. One was himself up until November of last year—peaceful and fortunate. The other was himself after the Watabun incident—a self with both body and mind covered in wounds. These two selves were entirely different; when looking back through his experiences since becoming a labor camp inmate until today, the self from that peaceful, privileged life now appeared pathetically small, shallow, and complacent.

"Now now, don’t rush like that." Eiji kept his eyes closed again and, smiling faintly, told himself, "Even I haven’t exactly shed a layer of skin yet."

Yohei came in carrying an inkstone box.

11-2

“I’m sorry for not visiting,” Saburō said as he set the bundle aside. “I was worried, but something came up that kept me from coming.”

“Cut it out. You haven’t been neglectful—you’re here proper now, aren’t ya?” Eiji cut in. “And bringing stuff again—I already told ya to quit that.” “It ain’t nothin’ worth makin’ a fuss over. Just a little token for the folks in the room, and the rest’s just cloth Osue cut up.” “I’ll say this plain—don’t ask about this leg.”

Saburō narrowed his small, round eyes and said, “It’s not doing well, is it?” “I said don’t ask about that.” “But—” Saburō started to say, but upon seeing Eiji’s glare, he nodded. “I get it. I won’t bring it up again.” “Is she working at Sumiyoshi?” “Ah… only sometimes… but the other day O-Nobu said she wanted to come here to meet you again.”

“You egged her on again, didn’t you?” “That ain’t it! No way I’d do somethin’ like egg her on! O-Nobu was a bit drunk—might’ve said it in her cups—but she kept sayin’ two, three times she wants t’come see you soon.” “She’s provokin’ you, that one.” “Provokin’ me? ’Bout what?” “You won’t make your move, so she’s usin’ me as bait t’force your hand—that’s her whole scheme.”

Saburō made a face as if he was about to cry, twisted his lips into a bitter smile, and vaguely shook his head. “Ah'm glad ya said that, Eiji-chan,” Saburō said. “—But it's different now. O-Nobu's done told me all 'bout how she feels.” Eiji fell silent.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Saburō said abruptly, as if suddenly remembering. “O-Nobu’s double tooth fell out.” “Why’re you changing the subject?” “Did you forget? About her tooth right here.” “I know. Double teeth do come out eventually.” “She said it’d last till twenty, but I was shocked it came true—since it was exactly October when she turned nineteen.”

Eiji stared steadily at Saburō’s face. “Saburō,” Eiji said in a resolute tone, “can’t ya ever speak seriously for once?” “Seriously? What am I—” “What’d O-Nobu say? What’s this about her talkin’ ’bout her feelings?” Saburō weakly hung his head, hunched his shoulders, and let out a deep sigh. A sorrowful, helpless-looking figure. Why am I like this? Eiji wondered. When apart, I think of being kinder and working hard for them, yet face-to-face I grow impatient and end up speaking harshly. I’m such an unpleasant guy—even as I thought this, I couldn’t soften my attitude.

“I—I’ve been thinking,” Saburō murmured with his head still bowed, “sometimes I think—no, more like often—that me falling for her was a mistake. Right from the start, I wasn’t cut out for falling in love with women. A slowpoke like me loving O-Nobu… it’s downright laughable.” “Out with it—did O-Nobu mock you?”

Saburō shook his head side to side. “She wasn’t laughing—she was crying.”

Eiji fell silent again. “O-Nobu said she’s liked you from the start.” “She was drunk, right? That one can hold her liquor, but when she’s drunk, her mouth runs wild. She’ll stubbornly insist on things she doesn’t mean or say the opposite of what she’s really thinking. Who in their right mind would take a drunk O-Nobu’s words seriously?” Saburō slowly, repeatedly shook his head from side to side. “O-Nobu knows full well that I plan to be with Osue—you know that too, don’t you?”

“O-Nobu also said that,” Saburō said in a low voice. “But she said it’s fine—even if we can’t become husband and wife, she’ll keep loving Eiji-chan her whole life.” Eiji laughed. “Childish nonsense you’re spouting. That’s drunken rambling. Loving someone your whole life? This ain’t some storybook—you think real flesh-and-blood people can do that?” “If it’s someone like me...” Saburō said, lifting his face with a frail smile, “I... I don’t plan on ever forgetting her.”

Then suddenly changing his tone and pointing behind Eiji, Saburō asked if he had started the handwriting practice. "About five or six days ago," Eiji answered. "Everyone was surprised when I wrote characters, then they said they wanted to learn too. Now I'm teaching kana to about five of them."

“That’s good,” Saburō said. Eiji had come to feel that way, and Saburō seemed profoundly relieved.

“As I thought, Eiji-chan,” Saburō continued, “you’re made to stand above others wherever you go.” “Shall I show you?” Eiji said, then scooted backward, took a scroll from the small desk behind him, returned, and handed it to Saburō. “Take a look at this.” Saburō unrolled the scroll, then looked up at Eiji suspiciously. “—This is my letter, ain’t it?” “It’s my model,” Eiji said. “I’m using those characters as a model to practice my writing.”

“This ain’t no joke—that’s unthinkable!” “If you think I’m lying, then look at the desk—there’s a pile of practice sheets I used this as a model for.” “But that’s—my clumsy handwriting like this, you—” Saburō stammered in confusion, “That’s your fault, Eiji-chan.”

11-3 “That ain’t it. These characters ain’t bad at all,” Eiji said with force. “—I thought so too at first. Up until just the other day, I kept thinkin’ what clumsy scrawl this was. But when I settled down and looked real close, I realized they ain’t clumsy—they’re trueborn characters.”

“When practicing handwriting, don’t try to write well,” the master of Hōkōdō had repeatedly said. Trying to write well makes it false—characters reveal one’s true nature. No matter how skillfully you write them, characters that don’t show the person’s true self aren’t real characters. Being skilled or unskilled didn’t matter—don’t deceive yourself, just write honestly. The master always said that. “You remember this, don’t you, Saburō?” Eiji took back the letter from Saburō and spread it across his knees. “It’s hard to say this to your face, but these characters here are the genuine article. If we’re just talking about pure handwriting, you’re ahead of me.”

Saburō turned red, took out a folded tenugui cloth from inside the front of his kimono, and wiped his forehead and neck.

“I’m drenched in sweat.” “I shouldn’t have said something so pretentious.” Eiji said while rolling up the letter, “Seems like every person’s got abilities they don’t even realize themselves. I’ve been here nigh on a year now, and in that time I’ve seen all sorts of folks and happenings. The Laborer Quarters ain’t like regular towns—it’s full of vagrants and jailbirds, folks spat out by proper society. But when you live alongside ’em and watch close, even the dimwits and layabouts and violent brutes everyone complains about—they’ve all got their good points. There’s even some who do work so fine nobody could copy it. Long as they ain’t born villains or madmen, every person’s got innate talents. Ain’t no rule sayin’ a master carpenter’s grand while a rough joiner’s worthless. Hell, some fishmonger with a belly band might wield a knife better than Yao Matsu’s head chef. Spend a year here like I have, and that’s what you see, Saburō—so quit belittlin’ yourself all the damn time. Take a good long look at what you’re made of.”

Saburō unwrapped the package with clumsy hands, placed the bundles of bleached cotton loincloths nearby, then took the three boxed meals and looked around the room. At that moment, Yohei, having finished preparing the tea, was coming over from the hearthside.

“You always go through such trouble visiting,” Yohei said. “It’s weak tea, but please have some.” Saburō thanked him on Eiji’s behalf and presented three boxed meals. The usual round of thanks began again, and Eiji turned his face away. "What a pain," Eiji clicked his tongue inwardly. He’d probably not heard a word—like chanting sutras to a stone, just wearing his mouth out. When Yohei left toward the hearth with the meals, Saburō folded the wrapping cloth and mentioned Osue had taken another maid position.

"The household in Shitaya Kanasugi may be small," Saburō continued, "but her father runs a brush shop there—they aren’t struggling to make ends meet. When she went into service at Watabun previously, it was just to learn proper manners. But this time’s different—she says she wants to save up even a little of her wages for when Eiji-chan gets out." “That again?” Eiji made a disgusted face. "I told you I’m someone who might never get out of here, didn’t I? Tell her straight not to think about me anymore. Do me this favor, Saburō."

Saburō nodded vaguely, “—Alright, I’ll tell her. Though even if I do, it won’t make any difference.”

Eiji pretended not to hear.

“Is it all right if I call you Eiji-san?” After Saburō left, Yohei came to his side and said, “I was sworn to secrecy by Okayasu-san.” “Call me whatever you like—names are just code words anyway.” “This might upset you,” Yohei said in an uncharacteristically assertive tone, “but couldn’t you be a little kinder to Saburō?”

Eiji stared at Yohei’s face. “Kind? What do you mean by that?” “You should know this yourself—that person keeps visiting diligently despite having no free time. Whatever your connection may be, this isn’t something done on mere whim. You’re smart, Eiji-san, so my words shouldn’t sound absurd to you. But no matter how wise one becomes, humans can’t see their own backs.”

And Yohei went over there.

11-4 The final phrase of Yohei’s words had lodged firmly in Eiji’s mind. What nonsense! Whether you were smart or not, anyone could see their own back if they used a mirror. He retorted inwardly, yet knew Yohei hadn’t meant it literally—and even if he had, you couldn’t see your own back without a “mirror.” Did that mean Yohei was suggesting the very sharpness of mind that let such thoughts surface so readily was what made Saburō’s words and actions seem so exasperating, leading to harsh treatment?

“Ugh, how ridiculous.” Eiji berated himself: Why did he keep obsessing over what people said? What good did it do to fixate on every damn comment? He should just be himself.

"I have to quit this habit," Eiji told himself. Those wanting to learn handwriting gradually increased in number, and on days when rain or snow halted laborer work—or after evening meals—nearly ten people would come to their desks daily. There were old desks from the government office’s storage room, and others made by the carpenters. They had asked outside helpers to buy inkstones, brushes, ink, and such, but since paper was costly, they also used a water-writing method. This meant writing characters across an entire sheet of paper, then completely covering it with ink, letting it dry, and writing again with water on top. The written characters naturally disappeared when dry, but since this helped practice brushwork, a single sheet of hanshi paper could be used for quite some time. Amidst this, one day the overseer Kojima Ryōjirō came and complained this violated Laborer Quarters regulations.

“You must not arbitrarily teach or learn characters in places like the Laborer Quarters,” Kojima said deliberately without looking at Eiji. “While wanting handwriting practice is a commendable aspiration, those serious about it should formally petition for permission. Learning written characters is no trivial matter—if you study under someone of unknown background, it may lead to irreversible consequences later.” They were to either obtain permission from the authorities or have their handwriting practice prohibited, it was declared.

The phrase “someone of unknown background” was likely referring to Eiji. Eiji had continued his handwriting practice at Hōkōdō for ten years and was counted among the skilled within his peers. He favored Hirotaka and Ryōko, having studied both Karayō and Wayō in their orthodox forms. Eiji thought if Kojima had any discernment he would have recognized this, but immediately shook his head—No— No—the fact that it violated regulations might indeed hold true. If submitting a formal request was required, then following proper procedure was the way to go, he reconsidered.

Since the others in the room also wanted to obtain permission, Eiji gathered several volumes of his handwritten exemplars and had Yohei take them to the government office. At that time, the lower-ranking officer reportedly said they would consider it, but the next day, Okayasu Kihee himself came to the room. After everyone had gone out to work, leaving only Eiji and Yohei, Okayasu dismissed even Yohei.

“The problem lies in Hakusō handling calligraphy,” Okayasu stated without preamble. “When the office grants you special treatment, there exist those who’ve long nursed grudges—it appears they alerted Hakusō. A petition had reached the magistrate beyond my awareness.”

Hakusō referred to Tatematsu, the Shingaku instructor. Despite also volunteering his lectures without pay, Hakusō—evidently wounded in pride upon hearing that mere laborers were teaching calligraphy while bypassing him—had lodged a vehement protest with Magistrate Narushima Jiemon. Learning characters required proper foundation from the outset, he maintained—not mere rote memorization but cultivation of disciplined mindset. While one needn’t possess spotless desks beneath bright windows, he insisted practitioners must purify both body and spirit before taking brush in hand, free of worldly thoughts. Such haphazard instruction in disorderly laborer quarters, conducted without decorum, could only breed harm—so he had argued.

“There’s some truth to that,” Okayasu continued, “and wouldn’t you agree the government office’s parlor would be quieter than this room?” “Whether everyone will go is another matter,” Eiji replied. “They feel at ease picking up a brush here in this room, but if they have to go all the way to the office, I doubt they’ll keep it up.” At that, Eiji burst out and laughed aloud. Okayasu looked at him suspiciously, then asked, “What’s so funny?” Eiji recalled a certain lecture by Master Tatematsu Hakusō—how Kimura Shigenari had demonstrated exemplary patience, how essential endurance was for humanity—which the master had once eloquently expounded. The man himself had gotten angry. Because Eiji was teaching calligraphy, the middle-aged Shingaku instructor—his pride wounded—had even stormed in to protest to the magistrate. When he realized this, he couldn’t help but burst out laughing—though of course he said nothing of it to Okayasu.

“I’ll discuss it with everyone when they return,” Eiji said after stopping his laughter, “but with my leg like this, I can’t join them elsewhere. I’ll continue conducting the practice here as before.” “Don’t let your spirits be dampened by a thing like this.” Okayasu Kihee said this and left.

11-5

When they heard about teaching handwriting practice at the government office, all the laborers laughed it off. "That Shingaku fatso? Hell no," said Sanpei. "Sure he'll stuff his lectures into the lessons, but just lookin' at that old man's blubbery body makes me wanna puke. I'd rather choke down burdock tempura than sit through that crap." "What's with all this burdock talk?" "Don't make me spell out the damn joke," Sanpei growled, scrubbing his nose with a knuckle. "More importantly—you plannin' to haul your ass to the office for lessons or what?"

“Even though you’re the one spoutin’ burdock somersaults, why should I be the only one marchin’ out there?” “Somersaults? Seriously?” Sanpei furrowed the bridge of his nose. “Don’t tell me you don’t get the wordplay on ‘kinpira’*?” “Serves you right!” Kichizō clapped his hands. “Now you’ve gone and explained your own damn joke!” “Now, hold on a moment,” Yohei interjected in a placating tone. “I understand how you all feel—it’s certainly not worth trekking all the way to the government office. After all, you only want to learn a character or two when the mood strikes you, and formally attending a proper schoolhouse would feel like a chore. That said, since Mr. Okayasu has gone to the trouble of worrying about this, and it’s under the magistrate’s directive, I think you ought to give it a try—even if just for a month or half a month.”

“That might be fine for you, Yohei-san,” Foreman Kurata said, “but it’s an unreasonable demand to make us trek all the way to the government office and do handwriting practice with someone’s stuffy lectures like they say.” “It’s like hauling yourself to India just for tea-rice,” someone said.

The monthly first-day holiday was designated for Shingaku lectures and handwriting practice, and five or six people from the Mokkō room began attending as well. Oddly enough, they all consisted of those who had never shared desks with Eiji—in other words, precisely the ones who had turned their backs on the companions practicing handwriting together with him. "I hadn’t noticed either," Yohei said, "but human affairs are complicated indeed. Those fellows were envious—when everyone gathered around you for handwriting practice without approaching themselves, they must have genuinely wanted to join in as well."

"I did something wrong," Eiji said. He had no recollection of inviting anyone. He had merely taught those who asked to be taught; his original intention had been to do it alone. He had wanted to learn something from Saburō's characters - through this practice, to distract himself from his crippled body's frustrations even momentarily. But he'd needed to consider that over twenty men shared this room. If ten people were arranging desks around him, he should have at least asked how others felt about it. *I never realized*, Eiji clicked his tongue at himself.

The twenty-sixth day approached dusk with snow falling since morning, yet through it O-Nobu came visiting. Work being canceled due to snow meant all inmates were gathered in the mokko room. They would normally meet in the office's small parlor, but Eiji's leg still hadn't regained enough strength for the walk. Yohei addressed the group, gathered them into a corner, then arranged half-folding screens around Eiji as before. "Oh, don't you look well!" O-Nobu spoke while brushing snow from her umbrella at the entrance, "Forgive my delayed visit—everything's been chaos since November."

She greeted Yohei, opened the bundle she was carrying, and—saying “It’s not much, but please each take a bite”—handed over the packet of cut mochi. Then she came toward Eiji with the remaining bundle. “You look completely well now.” “Quit repeating yourself—settle down.” “You’ve gotten heavier.” “I’ll pass on leg talk.” “You’ve definitely put on some weight.” O-Nobu narrowed her eyes and scrutinized Eiji from face to torso. “Your cheeks look completely different—ugh, if you don’t stop there, all that fine manliness of yours will go to waste.”

“Did you come here just to chatter, or do you actually have some business?”

When Yohei brought tea, O-Nobu—as if evading Eiji’s question—offered a polite word to Yohei and sipped her tea. “At Sumiyoshi… the master passed away.”

“Why?” Eiji looked at O-Nobu with startled eyes. “There’s no ‘why’ about it—it was some kind of illness that rotted his bones and flesh from his legs up to his waist,” O-Nobu said with a grimace. “They say if they’d caught it sooner there might’ve been a cure, but that quack in town hadn’t a clue. He kept slapping on ointments until it was too late. By the time some renowned surgeon examined him, there was nothing left to be done.”

“That’s one hell of a terrible doctor there was.”

As she said it had been eleven days since his death, O-Nobu set down the tea bowl she had been holding. "They were just a couple with no children, and their hometown was some far-off place," O-Nobu continued. "The mistress has lost all her strength—she’s practically become an invalid herself. I’ve been handling everything from prep work to cooking to managing the shop."

Eiji waited a moment before asking in return, “But… what happened?” “The mistress asked me—you know—to become her adopted daughter.” “Do you dislike the idea, O-Nobu?” asked Eiji.

“It’s not that simple, you know.” O-Nobu hesitated before continuing, “Sumiyoshi may be small, but we built our reputation on drinks and appetizers. The late master was truly skilled as a chef. If it’s left entirely to women now, our customers will surely stop coming.” “Quit dragging it out,” Eiji cut in. “Hearing all that won’t do me any good. There’s something more important you came to say, isn’t there?”

“You’re so impatient.” O-Nobu glared. “I only come to talk occasionally—you could at least listen properly. You’re the one who told me to settle down from the start, but maybe you should take your own advice and calm yourself a bit.” “Alright, alright. Then chatter away all you like—I can’t match your strong-willed ways, O-Nobu.” O-Nobu suddenly hardened her gaze. “What do you mean by that? You’re not talking about Saburō, are you?”

“You’re getting off track.” “But since we’re on the subject, I’ll make it clear,” O-Nobu declared defiantly. “I told Saburō: ‘I can’t possibly develop romantic feelings for you. I’ll keep you company as a customer anytime, but don’t expect anything beyond that.’” “There seem to be plenty of strong-willed women in this world,” Eiji said, “but I doubt you’d find even two who could speak so bluntly to a man’s face—especially one they’re smitten with.”

“The reason I’ve survived this long is because of that,” O-Nobu said, lifting her face. “If I hadn’t done this, I’d have ended up like my dead sister—either in the clutches of Roku the procurer or devoured by my own parents. If a woman wants to live properly, setting clear boundaries comes first. Leave even a single thing ambiguous, and you never know when it’ll kill you. My sister’s the proof of that.”

“Impressive,” Eiji said. “This isn’t sarcasm—I mean it straight. You’ll do just fine, O-Nobu.” “Yes, that’s exactly my intention,” said O-Nobu, averting her eyes. “I’m no heartless monster, you know. When I think of Saburō’s feelings, saying those things hurt—like pressing a blade to my own chest.” “It was better for Saburō too—he wouldn’t hang around forever like that,” Eiji nodded before looking at O-Nobu. “Now then—you’ve got something important to discuss, don’t you?”

O-Nobu sat with her hands in her lap, intertwining and untwining her fingers, appearing unable to begin speaking immediately. “It’s a marriage proposal, huh?” Eiji asked.

O-Nobu nodded quietly. “Don’t you like him?”

“Yes,” O-Nobu answered in a whisper, “there’s a place called Tokiwa-ro over in Ryōgoku, you know.”

“I’ve only heard of it.”

There was a chef there named Toku-san. He was thirty-five and seemed to have been an old acquaintance of Sumiyoshi’s late husband, often coming by to drink, but they’d formed a plan to make him O-Nobu’s husband and keep Sumiyoshi running. “Thirty-five is too old,” O-Nobu continued. “It’s distasteful to become that old man’s wife—and what’s worse, he has a drinking problem. He’s quick to anger, and when he gets mad, he turns violent right away. I’d rather die than become that man’s wife.”

“If you’re that resolved in your gut, there shouldn’t be any problem.” “But that’s exactly why it won’t work—that’s why I came to get your wisdom.” “Pathetic,” Eiji said with a bitter smile. “Thirty-five makes him an old man?” “Take this seriously,” O-Nobu said.

11-6 “I’m being serious here,” Eiji said. “Calling a thirty-five-year-old an ‘old man’ just shows how much you despise him, O-Nobu.” “I’ve already said that.” “Then what’s the problem? Just like you set boundaries with Saburō, clearly say you don’t want to—ain’t that right?” “If that settled things, I wouldn’t be here asking for advice.” To make matters worse, the man was utterly infatuated with O-Nobu and would say things when drunk—like how he’d kill her and then himself if this arrangement fell through. He wasn’t just making empty threats—he genuinely seemed capable of it. The mistress of Sumiyoshi had always placed absolute faith in his culinary skills and kept pleading through tears that there was no way to keep the shop running without bringing him onboard.

“Why don’t you just run away?”

“That’s what you’d say, isn’t it, Eiji-san?”

“Why don’t you just run away?” said Eiji. “The mistress of Sumiyoshi ain’t that old herself—she’s probably not much older than that chef, is she?” O-Nobu shook her head. “The mistress is thirty-eight.” “She’s in her prime, ain’t she? They say a bride three years older’s one you’d wear out straw sandals searchin’ for even with coin.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” O-Nobu burst out laughing, pressed her hand to her mouth, then said, “It’s one year older we’re talkin’ about.”

In neither the mistress nor the man could even a hint of such a thing be seen. Even if there were one chance in ten thousand of that happening, leaving Sumiyoshi before it did would mean I’d become no different from scum. “The reason I escaped Roku the procurer and didn’t end up devoured by my parents was all because of Sumiyoshi,” O-Nobu said. “You’d probably say any other shop would’ve been the same—and maybe you’re right. Maybe it wouldn’t have been any different elsewhere. But maybe it *would* have been different. Don’t you think?”

“That O-Nobu’s damn good at spinning arguments, ain’t she?” Eiji said while adjusting his bad leg’s position, “But what I’m tryin’ to say ain’t about whether Sumiyoshi’s good or bad as a shop—it’s that your nature’s the real linchpin here. You’ve lasted this long not thanks to the shop, but ’cause of that unbeatable streak in you. That’s what I mean.” O-Nobu stared fixedly at Eiji’s face before slowly shaking her head.

“You’re so naive about the world,” O-Nobu said with a heavy sigh. “That’s not how it works—not at all.” She paused briefly before continuing, “Even when a dragon ascends to heaven, it can’t just use any cloud. There are clouds it can climb and clouds it can’t. A dragon may have the power to reach heaven, but without a cloud to latch onto—what? What are you laughing at?”

“Never mind.” Eiji stifled his laughter and waved a hand. “You startled me—a naive one suddenly turning into a dragon.” O-Nobu shrugged both shoulders and glared at him while letting them slump as if to say “How disappointing.” “Now I understand why you can’t grasp Saburō-chan’s hardships,” O-Nobu declared in a tone bordering on lamentation. “If my stubbornness alone could’ve let me thrive in any shop, the world wouldn’t work that way, Eiji-san. The dragon analogy might’ve been excessive, but no matter how clever you are or how skilled your hands—that alone wouldn’t make you a proper craftsman anywhere. You might claim you’d have succeeded even without Hōkōdō, without Saburō-chan or Osue-chan. But you can’t erase that Hōkōdō existed, that Saburō-chan was there, that there was someone named Osue-chan.”

“So now Saburō gets the dragon’s ascension? Never mind my situation—if you won’t leave the shop and hate that man so much, I ain’t got any ideas either.” “I suppose not.” O-Nobu heaved a long sigh. “Talking it through like this made me realize how pointless consulting you was. Sorry for bringing such a trifling matter.”

“No need to apologize. If my leg weren’t like this, I’d meet that man and try to sort it out.” “Thank you. Just hearing you say that makes me happy,” O-Nobu said with a smile. “I’m sure things’ll work out somehow. I’ll do my best to hang on long as I can.” “O-Nobu ain’t the type to lose,” Eiji laughed encouragingly. “But if you get stuck proper, come here.”

“Just tell me once—what’s going to happen to your leg?”

Eiji shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s a snowy path—be careful not to slip.”

O-Nobu gazed fixedly into Eiji's eyes and nodded once, like a young girl.

12-1

From between the stones, Saburō’s face appeared. His face was soaked and smeared with tears, twisted hideously from terror. "Don’t die on me, Eiji-chan," Saburō implored, intertwining his fingers tightly and pressing them against his mouth. "You’re my only hope—hang in there—don’t die on me, Eiji-chan—it’s almost over—stay strong—you can’t die—if you go, I’m finished too—if you die, I’ll follow you," he pleaded through tears. He tried to say Stop crying—I’m fine, but the stones’ weight crushed his chest unbearably, leaving him voiceless. Seishichi’s voice—the lump—shouted, "Don’t lose, Bushū!" Yohei’s face came into view, then Mankichi’s and Kinta’s. Not just familiar faces—even strangers peered through stone gaps, voices raw as they yelled Hang tight! Don’t you dare die! We’ll save you soon! I’m fine—but my chest’s getting crushed—get these stones off me— Eiji writhed in agony.

“Eiji-san.”

Someone shook his shoulder. “Eiji-san, you’re having a nightmare. Come on, Eiji-san.”

Eiji awoke with a frustrating anguish, as though dragging himself up from the depths of a muddy swamp. The room was bright with sunlight; he lay on his back under the bedding, and right before his eyes was Yohei’s worried face. “You’re awake? Are you alright?” “Yeah.” Eiji coughed and replied, “Thanks for waking me up. I was having a bad dream.”

“The towel’s here.” “Thanks.” With the towel Yohei handed him, Eiji wiped the sweat from his brow, then under his arms and across his chest. “Soaked through,” he muttered.

“Shall I fetch another?”

Eiji shook his head, folded the towel, and placed it beside the pillow. When he asked the time, it was said to be around two in the afternoon. So he had slept for nearly an hour, and Yohei said it was because he was tired.

It was now the nineteenth day of the New Year, and he had begun practicing walking five or six days earlier; that day too, from morning onward, he repeated the exercise time and again without pause. With the crutch cane Seishichi had made for him tucked under his arm, he walked slowly across the dirt floor, gathering each step as if picking them up one by one. He had been practicing standing since dusk, but even after he began walking, at first he couldn’t find his center of balance and would often stagger unsteadily. Yohei never left his side, soothing him with "Don’t rush, don’t rush" as if calming a child, and the moment he saw even the slightest hint of danger, he would immediately reach out to help. Though he found it irritatingly meddlesome, Eiji obediently let Yohei have his way.

“Today marks six days,” said Yohei. “Pushing yourself so hard all at once might actually be counterproductive. You should rest for two or three days.”

Answering that he would do so, Eiji closed his eyes.

The impression of the dream he'd just had was seared into his mind with visceral intensity. Saburō's tear-streaked face and pleading voice—"Don't die"—remained so raw and vivid that even awake, Eiji couldn't accept them as mere figments of sleep.

That's right—this isn't a dream. This is reality, Eiji thought. Even now at this very moment, Saburō must be worrying about me—that's how it's always been. From long ago until this day, Saburō's heart and eyes have never left my side for a single instant.

Moreover, ever since he had been pinned under the stones, his comrades from the Laborer Quarters had gathered around him, all worrying for his sake and trying to comfort and support him. Seishichi had made a crutch cane for him, and Yohei took better care of him than his own parents ever did. Moreover, not a single person acted out of self-interest—there wasn’t even anyone expecting thanks. This is something significant, Eiji thought. Both when he had been rescued from beneath the stones and afterward—each time he recalled it—he had felt a profound astonishment, but the dream he had just seen now carved that reality anew into his heart with unmistakable clarity.

"No—wait, Saburō," he whispered under his breath. "I can’t leave yet. What these comrades here have done for me is too significant. I can’t possibly leave this place without giving something back to them."

He considered the master of Hōkōdō and Wasuke of Asakusa. And yet, even if he could never forgive the events of that December two years prior, he now felt with profound clarity just how precious and invaluable the new world he had come to know through them—and the experiences shared with so many people—truly were. “I’ll never forgive them—the Master of Watabun, the head of the neighborhood, or those two informers,” Eiji whispered. “I’ll make every last one of them understand—in a way they’ll never forget for the rest of their lives. Just you wait.”

But he himself had realized. The desire to take revenge on them had weakened considerably by now. It was likely from around the time he had realized that a person's life shouldn't be dictated by a scrap of brocade—even when he meticulously recalled each humiliation and act of violence he had endured, he no longer felt the kind of frenzied rage that had once overwhelmed him.

I’ll make them understand without fail.

Such vows were once what strongly supported Eiji. "If it hadn't been for the obsession of revenge, I might have died"—so he had even thought. That now seemed to have been replaced by something else. What if I had kept working at Hōkōdō, opened my own shop, married Osue, and lived a peaceful life? When he imagined this, what he now saw before him was nothing but a repulsive emptiness. Compared to the four hundred days since he had come here, such a life felt utterly devoid of flavor—ordinary, tedious, downright boring. Indeed, something within Eiji had changed—or was changing.

Two days later, on the rest day of the twenty-first, eight vagrants were sent over, and three of them were assigned to the basket room. Accompanying them was the Red Demon Matsuda Gonzaemon, who introduced Giichi, Shōkichi, and Ryū, told them to get along well, and left. Because it was a rest day, everyone was gathered in the room, and due to his seniority as foreman, Denpachi tried to introduce them all. Then a young man named Giichi refused. “Ain’t no need for that,” said the young man, hiking up his hem to sit cross-legged as he slapped his hairy shin and glared around at everyone. “Hmph—every last one o’ you’s got that country bumpkin look about ya. From here on out, I’ll be teachin’ you lot some manners—bit by bit.”

Then he added, “I’m Giichi the Scoundrel—remember that.” Giichi was twenty-six or twenty-seven, Ryū was probably eighteen or nineteen, and the one called Shōkichi appeared to be around thirty. Giichi was of average height, but his tightly muscled frame suggested agility, and his features were handsome enough to be called good-looking—yet this handsomeness only amplified the menace in his sharp, severe eyes and his incisive threats. Whether they had some prior connection in Shaba or not, Ryū seemed to genuinely revere Giichi, following him around with constant calls of “Brother” and throwing himself into assisting Giichi’s needs with frantic intensity.

The man called Shōkichi also seemed to have his own peculiarities. He had a narrow face with sharp cheekbones and a small, gaunt frame, always wore a faint smile around his lips, and spoke little in a low, calm voice—yet there was something about him, an eerie quality reminiscent of a wolf stalking its prey, that kept others from approaching him as well. Even so, Shōkichi performed his assigned tasks and never openly defied the daily regulations. While flashing an intermittently sinister undercurrent that made one wonder when his true nature would surface, he obeyed the foreman’s orders. However, Giichi was the opposite—he didn’t show up for work and kept to his own schedule for sleeping and waking. Whenever he was up, he would invariably be fiddling with Hanafuda cards, and come nightfall, he urged everyone to gamble.

—He's just like me, Eiji thought. I must have been just like that too when I first came to the Laborer Quarters. I had convinced myself that being falsely accused and subjected to cruel treatment granted me some special entitlement, driving me to act out any rebellion or whim I desired. Giichi was exactly the same—believing his moniker "the Scoundrel" to be a special privilege and flaunting it to everyone.

――I was like that too, huh. Everyone must have found it utterly galling—every time Eiji thought of this, he broke into a cold sweat. Giichi had apparently been secretly keeping an eye on Eiji since his arrival. He didn’t show up for work, had his meals prepared for him, and spent his time either lounging on his futon or practicing calligraphy—all of which gave off an air of arrogance that grated on others. Yohei had already returned to work, so Eiji had declined any assistance beyond meal preparation and laundry. But even that seemed to irritate Giichi, and after five or six days since his arrival, he started demanding that meals be brought to him as well.

“Just because you’re a cripple doesn’t make you any less of a Laborer Quarters laborer.” Giichi said, putting deliberate force on the word ‘cripple,’ “If a single person can do it, I oughta be able to too. Or you saying you refuse me?”

“I’ll do it,” said Yohei. “Exactly—that’s how comrades should get along,” said Giichi. “And while you’re at it, I’ll have you handle my laundry from now on too.”

12-2 “Don’t get angry—you mustn’t get angry,” Yohei whispered softly to Eiji. “Preparing meals and doing laundry—those are trivial matters. That man is deliberately making unreasonable demands just to pick a fight.” “Yeah,” Eiji nodded. “I won’t get angry.”

"Because of my presence, I've made others shoulder troublesome matters again—I'm sorry for that," Eiji apologized inwardly. Ever since Hakuō began teaching calligraphy at the office, five or six individuals from there started attending as well; according to what he'd heard, people from other rooms also came to learn, and for a time, their numbers reportedly exceeded twenty. Even now there seemed to be those attending Shingaku lectures and calligraphy practice elsewhere—but within just their basket room alone after New Year's everyone had stopped coming altogether until gradually without notice more desks began lining up around Eiji than ever before.

“Hey, how ’bout a round?” Giichi called out, skillfully shuffling the Hanafuda cards. “We’ll settle wins and losses at month’s end.” Then, folding the straw mat into quarters, he slapped down the Hanafuda cards showily. He must have been quite skilled—his card-handling was flawless, and the crisp sound of them striking the straw mat rang out sharply. For Kinta—who had been sent here for petty gambling—it must have been an irresistible temptation; every time he heard that sound, his entire body would pitch forward as if about to dive in.

“Hey, ain’t there anyone who’ll play?” Giichi goaded, skillfully shuffling Hanafuda cards. “This ain’t no terakoya schoolhouse—Laborer Quarters inmates learnin’ letters? That’s lunatic’s work.” Mankichi, sharing a desk with Eiji, began to rise with a retort. Eiji shot out his hand, seized Mankichi’s arm, and forced him back down with a hissed “Don’t.” The exchange lasted mere seconds, but Giichi caught every motion. “You there—brat,” he barked, jerking his chin at Mankichi. “Yeah you—the shitstain next to the cripple. Sounded like you mouthed off just now.”

“His leg went numb,” Eiji answered, “he just adjusted his sitting position a bit.” “I ain’t askin’ you! Shut your trap!” roared Giichi, standing up and advancing toward Mankichi. “Hey, bastard! You deaf or somethin’?” Mankichi’s face turned pale as he looked up, and Yohei came running over to him.

“Now, now—there’s no need to get so angry,” Yohei placated Giichi. “There’s a guard hut right over there with officials stationed inside. If you raise your voice too much, they’ll hear you.”

“Shut up!” he bellowed, shoving Yohei with all his might. “Old geezer, keep your mouth shut!”

At that moment, Matsuda Gonzaemon entered. When Eiji saw Yohei being violently shoved and tumbling onto the earthen floor, he was seized by a blinding rage and reached for the crutch cane propped against the door recess behind him. Rather than any thought of what to do next, his hand moved swiftly of its own accord. At that moment, when the sliding door opened and he recognized the Red Demon entering, Eiji closed his eyes, leaned back against his futon, and let out a deep, long sigh.

“Fine evening. How’s it going?” said Matsuda, looking at Yohei on the earthen floor. “—What’s wrong, Yohei? What’re you doing down there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing—just a bit of dizziness,” Yohei answered while brushing dirt from his kimono. “At night, my legs sometimes give out on me.” “Now that’s talk we don’t need spreadin’,” Matsuda said, deliberately widening his eyes. “Makes it sound like we ain’t feedin’ you decent at the Laborer Quarters. You get Doc Santetsu to check you?” With a vague laugh suggesting it was no real concern, Yohei stepped onto the wooden floorboards. Matsuda Gonzaemon turned his gaze toward the calligraphy practitioners and Giichi, who stood blocking their path.

“Well, you’re Giichi,” Matsuda called out．“Thinkin’ of takin’ up calligraphy?” “Eat shit,” Giichi shot back，returning to his spot． “Hey!” Matsuda barked．“What’d you just say?” “Now what was it...” Giichi settled cross-legged before the straw mat，scooping up Hanafuda cards as he answered，“Just mutterin’ to myself—can’t recall a thing．Best leave it be．” Matsuda’s face bloated livid crimson true to his Red Demon moniker，eyes blazing like they might burst from their sockets．

“You damn bastard!” Matsuda roared．“Where the hell do you think you are?!” Giichi instantly retorted，“—Wasn’t it the Ishikawajima Laborer Quarters?” Matsuda Gonzaemon’s hands clenched into fists，and those fists trembled violently． Eiji’s chest filled with sorrow． It was exactly the same—he had made Red Demon this angry before too． When Matsuda had tried approaching him familiarly，he had coldly，mercilessly rebuffed him． Back then，Matsuda must have wanted to strike him—just like now，his entire body trembled with anger，but he had suppressed it by simply growling，“Get lost．” How detestable I must have been，Eiji thought．What an insufferable bastard I was．

“If you know that,” Matsuda Gonzaemon said through clenched teeth, “then you shouldn’t have forgotten the rules of this Laborer Quarters. Hand over those Hanafuda cards.” “What’re you gonna do?” Giichi bared his teeth in a grin. “If you’re openin’ a gambling den, I’ll deal ’em cards myself.” “Gamblin’s forbidden here. Not one damn card gets tolerated. Hand ’em over.” “I paid my own coin for these.”

“Hand them over here!” Matsuda shouted.

12-3 Giichi laughed mockingly. When Matsuda Gonzaemon shouted "Hand over those Hanafuda cards!", his anger appeared to have reached its peak. Hearing this, Eiji felt as though he were the one being berated and froze in shame. Giichi was taunting Matsuda. By doing so, he sought to parade himself before everyone. Just as I myself had once been—though in truth such posturing meant nothing and only made me a clown. While Eiji thought this, Giichi stood up with a jeering laugh, gathered the Hanafuda cards, and placed them in Matsuda's hand.

“It’s just a joke, Matsuda,” Giichi said. “Can’t you take a single joke here?” “You think I look like a fool to you?” Matsuda said through ragged breaths. “The head officer said this isn’t a prison. He’s right about that. But underestimate the Laborer Quarters, and you’ll regret it.” “Got it,” said Giichi, turning to Ryū behind him. “Remember what the supervisor just said, Ryū—apparently this place is scarier than Denmacho. Let’s behave ourselves.”

“You still mad about that, brother?” Ryū said with amusement. “Or maybe you’re just scared?”

Matsuda strode out and roughly slammed the sliding door shut. Matsuda Gonzaemon took the Hanafuda cards away. It was something everyone had witnessed. Yet the very next day, Giichi sat facing the straw mat again, toying with Hanafuda cards. At the Laborer Quarters, belongings underwent strict inspections - blades, Hanafuda cards, dice - all would inevitably be confiscated. Nevertheless, Giichi had Hanafuda cards in his possession again with absurd ease. Whether he'd hidden them somewhere or obtained new ones within the Laborer Quarters - no one could tell.

“You said you ended up here because of a fight, didn’t you?” Eiji said to Mankichi one day. “The other day you nearly started something again—don’t ever take them on.” “But brother, I don’t think I can keep holdin’ back no more.” Eiji shook his head. “No good—that Ryū guy’s got a dagger.” “No way!” Mankichi’s eyes widened. “No way… a dagger?” “He has one,” Eiji pressed. “He hides it from everyone—takes it out when he’s alone and wipes the blade down. Sure, it’s meant to intimidate me, but at his age? He’s dangerous. Thinks killing someone’ll make a name for himself. Give him an excuse, and he’ll use that thing. Got it?” Eiji locked eyes with him. “—No matter what happens, don’t you ever take him on.”

“Something’s bound to happen soon,” Mankichi said uneasily. “I can feel it—it won’t end without something happening.” “Then stay away from them,” Eiji said.

Within about half a month, people began succumbing to Giichi’s temptations and taking up Hanafuda cards. Kinta was first to sit before the straw mat, followed by Sanpei, Takeshi, and Tomisaburō—then two or three from other rooms joined too. Eiji had been born with an aversion bordering on terror toward gambling. The master of Hōkōdō too despised gambling; he’d even forbidden drawing lots to decide which apprentice fetched nighttime snacks. He would always say vices like drink and women fade eventually, but gambling never ceases—that no gambler could stay at Hōkōdō. Indeed, several had been cast out after gambling consumed them into dishonor.—Whenever Eiji watched them clustered around Giichi, breathlessly absorbed in each dealt and flipped card, he saw mirrored there the very image of those senior apprentices who’d ruined themselves.

This couldn't go on forever—the authorities would surely find out soon. Eiji had thought this way, but he soon realized how naive his assumptions had been. For Giichi to operate so brazenly, proper arrangements must have been made in advance. Whenever overseer Kojima Ryōjirō appeared, the Hanafuda cards vanished instantly and the gathered men dispersed. After seeing this happen three times, then five, they came to understand it served as a warning—an inspection was imminent.

“Things have gotten really bad, brother,” Mankichi whispered to Eiji. “I heard from Kinta today at the worksite—that Giichi’s been bribing the officials with money.” “Don’t say such things.”

"But do you really think we can just leave things as they are?" Mankichi whispered fiercely. "You must’ve noticed by now—the men in this straw-mat room have split into three factions: those learning characters from you, brother; the crowd gathered around Giichi; and then weaker ones like Denpachi and Yohei who can’t do a damn thing. Don’t you think?" Eiji did not answer. "The gambling lot used to resent you and our group," Mankichi pressed on, "but now they hate us—not just ’cause we don’t gamble, but ’cause they can’t stand us doing handwriting practice. Did you know even Kinta’s looking at us with scorn now, brother?"

Eiji nodded very faintly but still said nothing. “Even when we go to the workplace, it ain’t like before—everyone’s started slacking off, I’m tellin’ ya.” Mankichi took a deep breath before saying, “—Only ’bout half are workin’ proper. The rest either put on a show or—the worst of ’em—have quit altogether. And the very worst? They’re sneakin’ in gamblin’ whenever they get a chance, brother.”

_It’s no different in this room either_, Eiji thought. Just as Yohei had once said，despite being inhabited solely by men who lived and slept there，this room had always been kept orderly and meticulously cleaned. But now this was no longer the case．There were still some who tidied only their immediate surroundings and never skipped cleaning，but their numbers dwindled day by day，until occasionally it fell to foreman Denpachi and Yohei to clean the entire room．

“I can’t take it anymore,” Mankichi whispered. “I’m gonna go complain to the magistrate-sir.” Eiji slowly shook his head. “You should stop. It’s pointless.” “I’m going straight to the magistrate-sir.” “The authorities have their own systems. Besides—” Eiji paused to gather his thoughts, then said, “—Humans are weak to desire. I don’t know how deeply Giichi has bribed those officials, but even if you file a complaint, they’ll use every trick to suppress it—to protect their greed and reputation. The magistrate? Officials are his subordinates. Their subordinates’ failings become his failings. It’s not as simple as you think.”

“So what’re we supposed to do? You tellin’ me to just sit back and watch, brother?” “Cool your head,” Eiji whispered gently. “Last year’s big storm didn’t last three days straight. No great fire ever burned a full year through—quit it already.” Eiji suddenly turned his face away, flushing with embarrassment. “Makin’ me spout this old-man talk—you’re one hell of a bastard, y’know that?”

One night in mid-February, when Eiji had gone out alone to the southern beach, the hulking Seishichi came searching for him. For five or six days now, Eiji had been coming there every night to train by throwing logs. From the woodshed, he would bring out about five unsplit logs—each roughly three shaku in length—and hurl them at the post standing on the beach. Since he left under the pretense of going to the toilet, Yohei likely remained unaware, but he continued this training every night except on rainy days.

It might not be necessary—but there may come a time when it is. Eiji would likely have to confront Giichi, Ryū, Shōkichi, and their group through physical force someday. On the night he saw Matsuda Gonzaemon and Giichi clash, he had thought to himself and felt it was his duty. So what should he do when the time came? Ryū had a dagger, and Giichi seemed strong. It was unclear whether Shōkichi would back him up, but on his side—with one leg disabled, only a crutch cane to wield, and a body that couldn’t move quickly—there was no choice but to throw it. Of course, he had hidden three logs of suitable size between his folded bedding in his own quarters, but he brought five logs to the beach and practiced throwing them at a post from a distance of about twelve or thirteen shaku.

“Is that you there, Eiji-san?”

When Seishichi called out to him like that, Eiji was so shocked his heart almost stopped. “Ah,” Eiji answered hoarsely. “Do you need something?” “Fine evening,” Seishichi said as he approached. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Since I’ve been idling all day,” Eiji answered haltingly, “and my body’s been itching restlessly, I’ve been messing around like this.”

And he threw the log he was holding at the post. The sky was thinly overcast, with only a single patch of clouds faintly aglow with moonlight. The post twelve or thirteen shaku away was not clearly visible even to Eiji’s accustomed eyes. Even so, the log he threw struck the post with a high-pitched sound. “Damn, that’s impressive,” Seishichi said. “You aiming for that post?”

12-4 While answering affirmatively, Eiji walked along thrusting his crutch cane into the ground and picked up the round logs that had fallen around the post. Four were found immediately, but one seemed to have bounced far away and couldn’t be found. “Still need that crutch?” “I can’t tell you how much this has helped me out. I’m more grateful for this thing than anything.” Having said that, Eiji stroked his cane. “—You got some business or somethin’?”

“Yeah, well…” Seishichi fidgeted. “I’ve got somethin’ to discuss, but—Stubborn One—no, Eiji-san—standin’ around talkin’ must be tirin’ for you.”

“Nah, I’m already used to it.” “Well,” Seishichi said, clearing his throat and fidgeting with his earlobe, “the thing is… today, that Otoyo came by.” Eiji peered through the faintly pale night air and gazed at Seishichi’s face. “You know about Otoyo, right?” “The handcuffs took their toll,” Eiji said. “So, what happened?” “She says she broke up with Matsuzō and now wants to be with me.”

If he himself wished, he could leave this labor camp. There was no impediment regarding that point—the true problem lay in what would come after leaving here. "As I’ve said before, all I can do is day laborer or stevedore work. No matter where I go, people just mock me and work me to the bone," he said. "Even if I leave the labor camp this time, I don’t think I can make a better living than before. And if people mock me again... I feel like I might do something irreparable," Seishichi said in a serious tone, as though agonizing over the dilemma.

“To tell the truth, I wanna be with Otoyo—you know how I’ve been devoted to her heart and soul. I’d do anything to make Otoyo my wife,” Seishichi said with a heavy sigh, “—but when I think ’bout life after leavin’ the labor camp, I just don’t know what to do myself.”

Eiji remained silent for a while before saying, "That's a tough one." What mattered most was how genuine the woman really was. Even back when she'd been at the labor camp, they said Otoyo had entangled herself with multiple men. She'd actually promised herself to Seishichi, yet ended up leaving with Matsuzō the paper-cord craftsman. Why would she break things off with Matsuzō now, then come all the way back to the labor camp declaring she wanted to marry Seishichi? That part alone made no sense to Eiji.

“That’s a difficult matter,” Eiji said as he adjusted the crutch tucked under his arm. “Just because things were that way before in the Labor Camp doesn’t mean they’ll be the same this time. You managed to keep your companions in check in the oil-pressing room all this time—I think there’s a chance it might work out unexpectedly well. But this might be unnecessary meddling on my part—what truly matters is how Otoyo feels.”

“I thought about that too—that’s why I made sure to ask Otoyo real careful about how she felt.” Seishichi said emphatically, “She cried her eyes out, apologizing and swearing up and down—said from now on she’d protect only me, that she’d make a proper wife for sure. Her face was all messed up with tears.” Did she truly want to become Seishichi’s wife that badly? Was she genuinely wishing for it from the bottom of her heart? Or was she planning to use marriage to Seishichi as a way to escape some troublesome situation? For Eiji, that point was something he couldn’t accept no matter what.

“I know this sounds heartless, but this matter is beyond someone like me,” Eiji said apologetically. “What do you think—maybe Mr. Okayasu from the office could offer some good advice?” “I don’t need any clever advice,” Seishichi shook his head. “All I want is to hear how you feel about it.” “That’s exactly why I’m telling you it’s a problem.” “Just say ‘Go for it’ or ‘Don’t’—that’s all I need.” Seishichi pleaded in a clinging voice, “You’re young but you’ve suffered plenty—you ain’t the type to sort things out with just logic. You must have some idea what’s right. C’mon, Eiji-san—just one word. Tell me ‘Go for it’ or ‘Don’t.’”

Eiji looked up at the sky. Though it was called spring, it was still mid-February, and the night air was cold. Yet in the whitish glow of clouds pregnant with moonlight, there lingered a hidden warmth—as though to soothe away the sorrows, laments, and hollow joys of those living below. "I just can’t do it—spare me this," Eiji finally answered, keeping his face turned away. "There’s nothing I can say."

Seishichi seemed to mull over Eiji’s words carefully, gazing at his own feet as he thought, then let out a quiet sigh. “I shouldn’t have made such an unreasonable request,” Seishichi murmured. “I’ll think it over proper. Well, see you.” “Ah, see you,” Eiji replied, bowing his head low. You should stop, Sei-san. Please give it up. As he listened to Seishichi’s retreating footsteps, Eiji screamed inwardly. Things won’t work out with that woman. You’ll get hurt again. But that might be what it means to be human, Eiji told himself. Whether told to stop or go ahead—it wouldn’t change Seishichi’s mind. No matter what I say, he’ll do as he pleases. Living ain’t about counting gains and losses. Life’s short. Better live how you want. Do your best, Sei-san.

12-5

Eiji spread out Saburō’s letter on the small desk and practiced calligraphy while glaring at it.

On the other side of the room, five or six men surrounded Giichi, gambling and drinking sake. Among them were Kinta, Tomisaburō, Jinbee, and Isuke from the carving room. They wore striped or solid-colored striped everyday clothes rather than polka-dot work uniforms, sitting cross-legged or with one knee propped up as they drank chilled sake from teacups and fixed their eyes on the Hanafuda cards spread across the straw mat. Aside from Giichi and Ryū, every man there had skipped work claiming illness—and Ryū stood guard outside the doorway, watching for patrols.

How much longer would this continue? Eiji wondered as he moved his brush. This was no different from a proper gambling den—what were the officials even doing? "Humans are weak against desire," Eiji had once told Mankichi. Officials were human too—press money into their hands, and they'd weaken. For those working in places like the Laborer Quarters on meager stipends, resisting such temptation might prove especially difficult. But it couldn't be that every last one was corrupt. Even if a fire broke out with smoke billowing up, someone had to notice—what was Mr. Okayasu doing? This had gnawed at him for ages. Even if they'd bribed the labor camp magistrate, they still couldn't soil Okayasu Kihee's hands. That man alone could be trusted—perhaps he was waiting for some catalyst, Eiji thought.

“Brother,” Ryū said at the doorway, “—someone’s coming.” “What d’you mean ‘someone’?” “With this mark, there’s no mistakin’ it.” Ryū paused briefly before adding, “Got it—it’s the usual Pumpkin.” He snickered. Eiji opened his mouth and exhaled softly through pursed lips. Pumpkin meant Saburō—on the two occasions Saburō had visited since they’d moved here, Eiji had heard Giichi and Ryū call him that and laugh. _Don’t rise to this_, Eiji told himself as he set down his brush, grabbed the crutch leaning against the wall behind him, and shuffled toward the earthen-floored entryway. At that moment Saburō peered through the doorway, cloth-wrapped bundle in hand. Ryū’s broad shoulders blocked immediate entry.

“I’m coming over there now,” Eiji called out. “Let’s talk outside.” Someone around Giichi said, “Take your time,” and two or three people snickered. As Eiji approached the doorway, Ryū sluggishly moved aside with an annoyed look. “Did something happen?” Saburō asked as they began walking together. Eiji shook his head. “I wanted to go outside. I’ve got to get my leg used to moving again.”

"But that group back there…" "Don’t talk about them," Eiji cut off Saburō. "Let’s go toward the sea." Saburō watched Eiji walking with his crutch, eyes filled with anguished intensity. He quickly averted his face, but Eiji muttered, "That’s it." Those eyes—he shouted inwardly. The Saburō who had peered out from between stones in his dream now wore that exact gaze. "Don’t die on me—you’re all I’ve got," those eyes had pleaded.

“Aren’t you going to Sumiyoshi anymore?” “I go sometimes,” Saburō answered. “After hearing how O-Nobu feels—it’s strange to say—but I’ve felt oddly unburdened, enough to surprise even myself.” “Don’t fool yourself.” “It’s no deception—it’s truth,” Saburō said. “Of course I still care for her. I’ll never forget O-Nobu my whole life long. But feeling unburdened—that’s true too.”

“Alright.” Eiji changed his tone. “Around the 26th at year’s end, O-Nobu came by saying some trouble had come up. You know anything about that?” “What could this ‘trouble’ be?” Saburō paused briefly before replying. “I didn’t notice anything, but… when I stopped by the day before yesterday, she said she’d forgotten to mention renting a place in Sakamoto 2-chōme.” “What? The house in Sakamoto 2-chōme?”

“Our place is an old two-unit house in the back alley—used to belong to a cooper. There’s a wooden-floored room we can use as a workspace.” “Hey, look,” Eiji jerked his chin toward the sea. “They’re already out clam digging.” The two had come to the southern shore, where across the vast tidal flat—stretching so far it seemed the tide had receded a full ri—people gathering shellfish could be seen scattered here and there. “Didn’t we go once too?” Saburō squinted his eyes against the glare as he spoke. “—Back during the March spring tide.”

“I came by way of Kawasaki Daishi,” Eiji said, turning to Saburō. “—You’re free to get a house, but don’t go counting on me.”

12-6

Saburō looked perplexed as he adjusted the bundle in his arms and glanced down at his feet. “I’ve told you this before,” Eiji continued. “I’ve caused everyone here in the Laborer Quarters trouble beyond what words can express. Until I repay that, I can’t leave this place.” Saburō paused for a moment and said, “I’ve been talking with Mr. Okayasu until now, but…”

Eiji stared at Saburō’s face.

“Mr. Okayasu,” Saburō continued in a drawn-out manner, “had been saying you should leave this place. Until now he couldn’t mention it—he’d been sworn to secrecy—but there’s also a man called Mr. Aoki, a yoriki from the North Town Magistrate’s office, who’s been worried about you and comes here often to check on you. At this camp, Mr. Okayasu writes about your condition every month and sends it to Mr. Aoki, but seems Mr. Aoki himself comes in person to verify it. And he’s been saying the same thing—that it’d be better to get you out of the Laborer Quarters.”

“Wait a second,” Eiji interrupted, grimacing, biting his lower lip, and tilting his head. “—This makes no sense to me at all. If what you’re saying is true, it sounds like I’m some daimyo’s secret heir or something.”

“Everyone’s genuinely worried about you.” “Why?” Eiji shot back. “Why’re so many people fussin’ over me? I ain’t the only one the town magistrate’s office shipped off to the Laborer Quarters. There’s plenty worse off than me—folks who actually need help. So why’s everyone frettin’ over just me? —There’s gotta be a reason. Saburō, you’re still hidin’ somethin’, ain’t ya?”

Saburō slowly shook his head. “There’s nothing left to hide,” Saburō said carefully, weighing each word. “I don’t think there’s any reason at all.” “You expect me to believe that?” “I’ve been thinkin’,” Saburō said haltingly, “—does every single thing folks do gotta have some reason behind it? Ain’t there times when people do stuff even they can’t figure out why—like they’re movin’ without knowin’ what’s drivin’ ’em?”

“That’s not the same thing.” “Do you remember, Eiji-chan?” Saburō let out a deep sigh and said, “It was winter when I was fifteen, wasn’t it? I ran away from the shop and tried to go back to my hometown in Kasai. While I was crossing Ryōgoku Bridge in the rain, getting soaked, you came chasing after me.” “Drop it with that old story.” “When I stubbornly said I’d go back to the countryside, you followed me through the rain endlessly—never leaving until I finally said I’d return to the shop. —Eiji-chan, why’d you go that far for me? Why?”

"That’s because you’re my friend." "You had other friends too—like Brother Gorō at the shop who doted on you plenty. There was Kiyo from the confectionery in town, Masu-san the tatami maker—all close pals of yours. Me? I was just the most useless layabout in that crowd—a kid with nothing going for him. So why’d you go to such lengths worrying over someone like me? Why’d you do it, Eiji-chan?"

“So,” Eiji stammered, “you’re my friend—and you knew about my family circumstances in Kasai too. Either way, I didn’t want you to leave.” Saburō pressed in a probing tone, “Don’t you think Mr. Aoki and Mr. Okayasu worrying about you comes from the same place, Eiji-chan?” Eiji thrust his crutch cane against the ground and moved closer to the water’s edge, narrowing his eyes at the clam diggers scattered across the tidal flat.—The memory of being pulled from beneath collapsed stonework resurfaced with visceral clarity—the inmates’ desperate efforts to save him, their earnest care afterward.—How they’d rallied like madmen to dig him out; how they’d crowded round to bolster his spirit afterward.

“This is the bond between people,” Eiji whispered under his breath. “The bond connecting this Laborer Quarters and me. This bond isn’t something that can be easily severed.” “Mr. Okayasu was worried,” Saburō said, stepping closer. “—There’s a troublemaker in the same room as you now. That man’s bound to cause some trouble soon, and you won’t just stand by and watch. So they want to get you out of here before that happens.”

Eiji turned to look at Saburō. “Did Mr. Okayasu really say that?” “Ah,” Saburō nodded. “I just heard about it now.” Mr. Okayasu did know after all—he was waiting for something. What was he waiting for? For them to start causing trouble? If that’s the case, then now should be the perfect time—they were already openly engaging in forbidden gambling, several officials had been bribed because of it, and the Laborer Quarters had been thrown into chaos. They were already running wild—what more could there possibly be to wait for? Eiji thought.

“It’s not what you’d call proper work,” Saburō continued, “—but since New Year’s, I’ve started taking odd jobs bit by bit—fixing sliding door paper in tenement row houses, re-papering shoji screens… Then just the other day, Mr. Hirosuke from the brush shop—you know him, Osue’s father—through his introduction I got work from a bookbinding workshop in Shitaya Okachi-chō too. The owner goes by Shigesaburō.”

“That’s good,” Eiji said absently. “That’ll work out fine.” “So I talked with the bookbinding workshop owner—when I mentioned you’d been at Hōkōdō, he said there’s proper work waiting if you’ll take it.” “I still can’t leave this place—quit badgering me, Saburō.” “Maybe so,” Saburō said, swiping his free hand across his brow, “but Mr. Aoki and Mr. Okayasu both say the same. The work’s lined up proper—couldn’t you at least think about going? Pay your debts here what’s owed, but… just consider leaving.”

Eiji did not respond. “You might’ve forgotten,” Saburō pressed on uncharacteristically, “but I’m relying on you. If you’re by my side, somehow I can manage my own work—feel like I can do things proper-like. But when I’m alone, I get all shaky and unsure—just end up botchin’ everything.” “Wait, Saburō.” Eiji said, “We ain’t kids no more. We’re both twenty-five now, you know?”

“I know how old I am.” “Then quit acting so clingy. At twenty-five, you’re plenty old enough to have a kid or two by now. You think you can get through life spouting that naive nonsense about feeling insecure without me?” “I just—” Saburō stammered miserably, “I just want you out of there, Eiji-chan. If what I said sounded like whining, forget it. My feelings don’t matter—just please, I’m begging you, leave that place.”

“I won’t,” Eiji said. “No matter who says what, I can’t leave.”

Saburō put down the bundle he was holding, widened his round eyes, and glared at Eiji.

“You won’t listen even when I beg you this much?” “I hate bein’ nagged,” Eiji replied. Then Saburō grabbed Eiji’s collar with both hands, let out a ragged “Hah!”, and gasped out, “Eiji-chan.” “I’m just a useless dimwit,” Saburō cried, his voice shaking. “From where you’re standin’, every word outta my mouth must sound naive an’ aggravatin’. But even so—Eiji-chan—couldn’t you humor me just this once? Even the biggest bigshot’s gotta listen to somebody once in his life—ain’t that how it goes?”

Eiji looked at Saburō’s hand gripping his kimono collar. The short, stubby, knobby fingers—roughened from paste preparation—continued gripping the collar as they trembled slightly. “Alright,” Eiji said after a moment. “I’ll think about it.” Saburō released his grip. “Sorry—I got carried away and acted rough.” “Stop apologizing—seems I’m the one who should be saying sorry,” Eiji said, twisting his lips into a grimace. “I won’t say it out loud ’cause it’d sound corny, but listen—I’ve caused you a hell of a lot of trouble for years. This isn’t something you settle with apologies or thanks—might take my whole damn life to pay back, if I even can. And same goes for here—they saved my life when I was at death’s door.”

Eiji’s words broke off unnaturally, and he kept his face turned away from Saburō as he took some time to steady his breathing. “I’ll think about it,” Eiji continued in a low voice after a moment. “I won’t drag this out—just wait half a month or thirty days more. By this time next month, I’ll manage something. I’m sure I can manage it. So endure until then and wait for me.”

Saburō silently picked up the bundle he had placed on the ground with a listless gesture.

13-1 Like a weathered cliff crumbling of its own accord, or a fissure at the cliff's edge abruptly beginning to spread, the atmosphere in the Laborer Quarters grew visibly thorny and menacing. Those gathering around Giichi numbered nearly thirty by March—though fluctuating with circumstance, never dipping below fifteen. The gambling bouts always carried lethal intensity, with two or three formidable men present—bare-chested save for their haramaki belly wraps and loincloths. Old Denpachi the foreman muttered once, "This might as well be a gambling den." Eiji didn't grasp the full implications, but he understood the gist. Now besides Kojima Ryōjirō, two more officials stood guard over the room.

One night, as Eiji was throwing sticks at the seaside, Mankichi followed behind and called out to him. Having apparently watched Eiji’s actions for a while, he quietly approached and asked, “Is that what you’re up to?” “Who’s there?” Eiji demanded in a low voice. “It’s me.” Mankichi moved around to face Eiji. “I had something to talk to you about, brother—was planning to wait outside the latrine. But then you came this way instead, so I figured I’d follow and see what you were doing.”

“Then get going already. I’m training my body here.” “Oh, is that so?” Mankichi said, abruptly changing the subject. “Speaking of which, I heard Kobu from the oil press room left. That true?” “I don’t know. Did he leave?”

“I heard Isuke from the carving workshop chattering away in the gambling den,” said Mankichi. “Turns out that woman everyone used to gossip about came to summon him about half a month back. Kobu apparently agonized over it before consulting Isuke—and Isuke advised him to go with her.” Ah, Eiji sighed inwardly. I’m a callous person. When he asked me what he should do, I should have told him to stop. If he’d wavered for half a month, then Seishichi himself must not have fully trusted the woman. Back then, I thought anything I said would be pointless. Even if I’d told him to stop, I believed I couldn’t undo his lingering feelings for her. But now that I think about it, that was just self-serving presumption—my approach hadn’t truly considered Seishichi’s well-being.

“I have no right to be using this crutch cane.” Eiji stroked his crutch with one hand while looking up at the starry sky glittering above. “Isuke was turning that story into a laughingstock with everyone around him,” Mankichi was saying. “—Claiming it wouldn’t last fifty days. That before Kobu’s saved-up earnings ran out, the woman’d take up with several other men.” “You just mentioned a ‘gambling den’—what exactly do you mean by that?”

“I’m talkin’ about Kobu right now.” “Tell me—what exactly do you mean by ‘gambling den’?”

“You ask yourself, brother,” Mankichi retorted defiantly. “You’ve been patient—turnin’ away, not even glancin’ their direction. But over there? Every last one of ’em’s got their eyes glued on you day and night. You make even a twitch, and several of ’em snap to attention. They see right through you, brother.” “What’re you even sayin’? That’s absurd.” Eiji turned his face away. “You’re outta your damn mind.”

“Fine, let’s leave it at that. But listen, brother—no matter what clever tricks you use, there ain’t no way you can pull this off alone.”

Eiji retorted coldly, “When did Seishichi leave?”

“Fine—if you want to play dumb, play dumb. But I’ll say one thing.” Mankichi lowered his voice there. “We ain’t lettin’ you handle this alone, brother—when the time comes, we’re movin’ too. Won’t name names, but there’s four others besides me. We’ve all got our tools prepped.”

“Damn it!” Eiji involuntarily raised his voice but immediately lowered it again. “That’s no good—I told you before, those bastards have daggers! They don’t give a damn about killing people! Even if four or five of you jump them, you ain’t got a chance in hell!” “Then what’re you planning to do, brother?” “There are officials in this Laborer Quarters.”

“They’ve been muzzled with a bit,” said Mankichi. “Ain’t got a clue how much they’ve had their palms greased, but the officials are even deliverin’ liquor to those bastards.”

Eiji shook his head from side to side, then exhaled a long, deep breath—hoh—as though expelling the poisonous air that had accumulated in his chest.

“I’ve been thinking—I’ve been thinking hard about this,” Eiji said after a moment. “There’s no way the authorities don’t know what’s happening in the Laborer Quarters, and it’s impossible every last official’s been bribed. If they haven’t stepped in yet, there must be a reason—there has to be. So I’m begging you—don’t do anything reckless. This isn’t something four or five of us can settle on our own.”

13-2

I can't endure this any longer. We can't just stand by and watch our Laborer Quarters end up like this. "We don't know what the authorities are thinking," Mankichi argued stubbornly, "but since the Laborer Quarters are ours, isn't it only right that we restore them ourselves?" "Only four have promised to act," Mankichi continued, "but if you take the lead, brother, I think others will join in too. Everyone except those around Giichi would probably rise up."

“I’ll think about it,” Eiji said again. “If we’re really going to do this, we need a foolproof plan. This isn’t something brute force alone can settle—got it?” Mankichi pointed toward the post. “Want me to go get that stick?”

“There’s another one hidden in the room,” said Eiji, adjusting his crutch. “—We can’t risk suspicion. You go back first.” “Don’t keep me waiting too long,” said Mankichi, walking backward, “—Kobu left the day before yesterday.” Eiji went to the post, searched the ground to gather round logs, and hid them behind the stone materials nearby.

“What should I do?” he muttered. “I had no idea about any of this.” If I acted, everyone else would follow suit—I couldn’t drag them all into this. He thought about calling Giichi outside, about confronting him one-on-one where no one else was around. “In that case,” he muttered with a bitter laugh, “there’d be no chance of winning like that.” He adjusted his grip on the crutch cane. “With this leg of mine, catching them off guard’s my only shot.” Eiji exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound like steam escaping a kettle—and ran his thumb along the crutch’s worn cherrywood grip. “No choice but to talk to Mr. Okayasu after all,” he concluded aloud to the empty yard. “If even he can’t get the authorities moving... Well.” His knuckles whitened around the cane. “Reckon that’ll be time enough to reconsider.”

I didn’t want to talk to Okayasu Kihee. The reason they had refrained from acting until now must be due to unavoidable circumstances. But now that things had come to this state—now that danger threatened even our roommates—I couldn’t act on my own judgment alone. "At least I’ll try talking to Okayasu Kihee," Eiji resolved. Before walking away from that spot, he turned to look out at the sea. The wind had nearly stilled, and even the occasional sound of waves washing against the stone wall came as a soft whisper. Beneath the starry sky, the dark sea flickered with lights from night-fishing boats, while the air carried the scent of sun-warmed tide.

Eiji returned to the room, opened the closed sliding door, and stepped into the earthen-floored area while shifting his weight onto his crutch—when Ryū sidled up and suddenly kicked the crutch away with his foot. Caught off guard, Eiji could barely focus on keeping his bad foot from getting injured. He fell sideways and, remaining in that position while looking at Ryū, slowly pulled the crutch—which he hadn’t released from his hand even when falling—toward himself.

“I’m keepin’ my distance ’cause I think you’re a cripple,” Ryū said with a thin smile. “What’s your problem pickin’ a fight? This ain’t your private room.” The room fell silent. A tension-filled silence spread like wind dying abruptly before a storm breaks—so profound it seemed no one dared to breathe. But immediately, someone walked across the wooden floor and threw three round logs in front of Eiji’s eyes. The logs rolled with a dull thud, and one struck Eiji’s shoulder.

“What’re you planning to do with these?” came Giichi’s voice from the wooden floor. “What’re you trying to pull with this crap?” Eiji quietly rose to his feet, shielding his injured leg as he leaned heavily on his crutch cane to stand. “My bad,” Eiji said to Ryū. “I was careless. Forgive me.” Ryū bared his teeth but said nothing. Eiji turned around, hunched his body to pick up one of the round logs, gripped it in his right hand, and showed it to Giichi.

“Like this—you grip this log and train your fingers,” Eiji said. “The doctor recommended it.” “Hear that, Ryū?” Giichi muttered from the corner of his mouth without shifting his gaze from Eiji. “Says the doc recommended it. This bastard’s lookin’ down on us.” “If you doubt it, go ask the doctor yourself. They say gripping and releasing this builds finger strength—gives vitality to your whole body.” “Drop that crutch,” Giichi sneered. “We see through your game. Why not set that thing down?”

“It’s fine, Brother,” Ryū said. “I’ll make him obey.”

“Wait.” Eiji unsteadily bent his body. “This cane is important to me.” “But if you’re telling me to throw it away, I’ll throw it away,” he said, watching Ryū approach from the corner of his eye as he placed the round log on the earthen floor. Then, straightening his hunched upper body and readjusting his crutch cane, he leapt forward in long strides and struck Giichi’s leg with all his might where he stood at the edge of the wooden platform. Giichi—who had let his guard down seeing him as a cripple—the moment he saw Eiji’s legs leaping swiftly, took a full-force blow to his shin.

The moment the cane swung sideways struck Giichi’s shin with a thud, Giichi let out a bloodcurdling scream and collapsed; Eiji swiftly glanced toward Ryū. Ryū’s eyes flew open so wide they might’ve popped out, and he stood rigid with his mouth hanging open. Eiji noticed the fallen Giichi drawing a dagger from his breast, and after regripping his crutch cane, he struck down with all his strength in a prayer-like swing.

“Stop!” Giichi screamed again, “I was wrong! Stop!” Eiji struck blow after blow like a madman. The crutch pounded his head and chest. The dagger flew from Giichi’s hand as his head and face became drenched in blood. Only then did Ryū begin to move.

13-3 Eiji’s movements were tinged with madness, but his mind was calm. His attack on Giichi had been an impulsive act of anger, governed more by instinctual rage than by judgment. But the moment I landed the first blow, my judgment kicked in: I couldn’t let this chance slip away. If I didn’t finish this thoroughly here and now, it would only leave the seeds of calamity behind. Don’t think of this man as human. This thing is a venomous snake—treat him like the snake he is. Eiji was commanding himself like that in his mind.

Ryū remained frozen in place, but when he saw Giichi being mercilessly beaten—blood gushing from his head and face—he turned deathly pale and, trembling, drew a dagger from his robe before edging toward Eiji. Whether it was the group that had been gambling, those who had been facing their calligraphy desks, or the elderly—until that moment, none of them had so much as twitched. They had been overwhelmed by the horrific scene before them, as if bound by invisible chains, but when Ryū began to move and the blade of his dagger glinted in his hand, Mankichi leapt up as if waking from a dream.

“Behind you, Brother!” Mankichi shouted. Eiji cast a glance at Ryū and, while switching his grip on the crutch he had been using to beat Giichi, shouted over his shoulder at Mankichi approaching from behind: “Don’t interfere, Mannojii!” His voice echoed throughout the room: “You go to the office! Nobody interfere—this is my job to handle!” Ryū turned the dagger’s blade upward, his ragged breaths loud enough to reach them as he edged closer step by step. Eiji quickly noted Giichi lying motionless and swung his crutch cane from right to left as Ryū charged at him with his whole body. The dagger pierced Eiji’s left shoulder while Ryū—struck hard in the neck by the cane—went flying sideways and tumbled to the wooden floor’s edge. Eiji rushed forward without hesitation, raised his cane, and struck. The blow hit Ryū’s head, then chest, then slammed into his face from the side.

“Help me!” Ryū screamed from where he lay collapsed, both hands clutching his head. “Enough! Somebody help—I’m gonna die!” But Eiji didn’t let up. Ryū became drenched in blood in moments and stopped moving. Eiji ceased his beating and turned to look at Giichi. Giichi lay facedown, groaning as his face sank into the pool of his own spreading blood. “Alright,” Eiji called to the gambling crowd. “The officials’ll be here soon. Anyone from other rooms—clear out now if you don’t wanna get tangled in this.”

From the group of fifteen or sixteen people, more than half stood up, leapt down to the earthen floor as if terrified, and fled barefoot through the doorway. “Mr. Yohei,” Eiji said, “did Mannojii go to the office?” “He went,” Yohei answered.

At that moment, Kojima Ryōjirō entered through the doorway. He had apparently run there; gasping for breath, he looked around the room, his gaze shifting from the prone forms of Giichi and Ryū to Eiji. “I did it,” Eiji said. “I’ve just reported it to the office.” Kojima’s face stiffened. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but without uttering a word, he drew his sword. Eiji quickly grabbed his crutch cane and took a stance. “You should stop, Mr. Kojima,” Eiji said quietly. “Even if you cut me down, there are plenty of other witnesses. Besides, killing me would take more effort than it’s worth.”

A conflicted expression crossed Kojima’s face. Then three men holding something like six-foot staffs advanced toward them. “Don’t do it! Don’t you dare step in!” Eiji shouted while glaring at Kojima. “This is my job alone—stay seated!”

Kojima Ryōjirō swiftly glanced around at the faces of the laborers in the room with eyes as if seized by terror. “Put away your sword,” Eiji said. “I won’t say anything about you. People from the office will come this time—struggling won’t help. Sheathe your blade and get out of here.”

Kojima, still gripping his unsheathed sword, edged backward step by step and exited through the doorway.

Yohei, together with two foremen, examined Giichi and Ryū’s wounds and said, “Someone call Dr. Santetsu.” “The doctor isn’t here at night,” replied two or three men.

The moment Kojima Ryōjirō left, the entire room seemed to spring back to life, with everyone bustling about restlessly and talking noisily among themselves. When Mankichi, who had rushed back, appeared at the entrance, Eiji—overwhelmed by immense fatigue and a hollow sensation as if something had been drained from his body—sank weakly onto the edge of the wooden floor.

“Mr. Okayasu is coming!” Mankichi pointed behind him toward the outdoors with his hand at his back and gasped out, “He’s almost here. Are you alright, Brother?”

Eiji nodded, closed his eyes, and lowered his head.

Article 13-4

“Officials aren’t as secure as people imagine,” Okayasu said. “The hierarchy between superiors and subordinates, labyrinthine regulations, jurisdictional boundaries—within these confines, human rivalries flourish. Some crave promotion while others will stoop to anything for personal gain. Bribes change hands, laborers’ wages get skimmed, shady deals are struck with provision merchants—nearly every vile practice found in society thrives here too.”

That was the room where Eiji and Seishichi had once received the punishment of handcuffs and been confined for thirty days. Behind the nagaya tenement where the room was located flowed the Ōkawa River, and from the small, high light window left open came intermittent sounds—the leisurely wash of waves against stone embankments and the creak of oars from boats gliding across the water’s surface. Okayasu recounted how the Laborer Quarters formed one world and the officials another. In any world shaped by gathered humans, he explained, there would always be strife between good and evil—it could never be wholly unified under good alone nor entirely dominated by evil. The very principle that these Laborer Quarters were “not a prison” contained contradictions and ambiguities, he continued, often leaving authorities perplexed when punishing rule-breakers while cunning lawbreakers who exploited these flaws remained ever-present. “These things don’t show on the surface,” he said, “but I’ve understood them for years.”

“I knew what Giichi and his men were up to from the very beginning,” said Okayasu Kihee. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened—in most cases, the lower-ranking officials had been bribed.” When I noticed the matter with the mokko room, I saw that Kojima Ryōjirō and two other lower-ranking officials had already been ensnared by Giichi’s group. “As superintendent, I have no direct dealings with the laborers. Decisions are made based on reports from overseers, supervisors, room caretakers, and foremen—I lack the authority to ignore these and meddle in the laborers’ quarters. If an incident requiring formal investigation were to occur, that would be different. But acting rashly beforehand could stir up unrest throughout the entire Laborer Quarters. Their true aim in constantly trying to co-opt officials is to use it as a threat—so that when trouble surfaces, the whole office gets implicated.”

“Do you understand these circumstances?” asked Okayasu. Eiji, though seeming dissatisfied, nodded. “To make matters worse,” Okayasu continued, “—Kojima is distantly related to the labor camp magistrate. Magistrate Narushima is a decent man, but he disapproves of the Laborer Quarters system and lacks discernment in people—so he uncritically accepts whatever Kojima says. That’s why I can no longer approach the laborers’ quarters.” When he heard that Giichi and his men were growing bolder and had even begun bringing in alcohol, he could no longer remain silent. However, the arrangements by Kojima Ryōjirō and the other lower-ranking officials were thorough, and there seemed to be no opportunity to approach.

“Even if I explain these circumstances,” said Okayasu, pausing briefly to catch his breath before continuing, “—they may seem frustrating to you, and I might appear cowardly. If you do think that way—then consider your own situation. Think about how we treated you when you were first sent here—you who refused to work, who rebelled, who defied every rule—think about how we handled you.”

Eiji chewed over those words, then quietly lowered his head. “In matters between people,” Okayasu said in a heartfelt tone, “there are cases that must be dealt with swiftly and cases where one must patiently wait for the right moment to ripen. In this case, because you ran out of patience, the cleanup of the mokko room was accomplished for now. It may not have been the right time yet, or it might have been just the right time—which it was won’t be clear until more time has passed—but at any rate, it’s certain that a conclusion has been reached for now.”

That's right—it seemed a conclusion had been reached, Eiji thought. He had done it all alone from start to finish, without involving anyone else. He had been taken to the office by Okayasu and examined by the dōshin in the magistrate's presence, but he maintained his silence about Kojima Ryōjirō and the lower-ranking officials, of course, as well as the gambling itself. The dōshin had likely known, but the magistrate himself had probably noticed nothing; in response to Eiji's assertion that it was merely a fight, he became enraged at the brutality of the means and declared Eiji would be sent to the main prison. There appeared to have been prior coordination before the interrogation, for the dōshin strongly defended Eiji by stating the conditions: two opponents carrying prohibited blades against a lone man with a disabled leg. How had the magistrate received this? Narushima Jiemon showed no sign of considering the dōshin's defense and immediately dispatched a messenger to the town magistrate the following day. All rewards and punishments in the Laborer Quarters required the town magistrate's approval. And so Eiji had been confined to this room.

“You did well not to name Kojima or the lower-ranking officials, nor mention the gambling,” Okayasu continued. “—Had these matters been revealed, Magistrate Narushima—who already opposes the Laborer Quarters system—might have made some recommendation to the Town Magistrate we can’t predict. Then this situation could have developed into something threatening the very existence of these Quarters.”

“I want to secure this Laborer Quarters and nurture it moving forward. Though flawed, the current system holds great significance in protecting those predisposed by character or circumstance to become criminals—equipping them with skills and funds to reintegrate into society. And in Edo, where population growth and living conditions make governance increasingly difficult, this institution will likely assume even greater importance going forward.”

“It may seem like I forced everything onto you alone,” said Okayasu Kihee, “but I want you to know I had my own deliberations.” “I understand now,” Eiji said with a cough. “To be honest, I was suspicious about why the office stayed silent and even resented you, Mr. Okayasu, for what you were waiting for. But that’s not all—from the start, I’d decided I’d be the one to stand in the line of fire.”

Okayasu Kihee stared at Eiji’s face. “What do you mean by that?” “It’s nothin’ worth explainin’,” Eiji mumbled, then continued clearly, “—Just felt like I was the only one who could handle Giichi an’ Ryū. Truth is—Mankichi from our same room lit the fuse. Started yellin’, ‘We ain’t lettin’ ’em wreck our mokko room like this! I’m ’bout to snap!’”

“Is Mankichi the man who used to be a scaffold builder?” “Yes, he prides himself on fighting and looked all too ready to do it. I managed to stop him since they had daggers, but I couldn’t know whether Mankichi would stay restrained after that. So I thought I’d act before Mankichi could.” “Never speak of that again,” Okayasu said, lowering his voice slightly. “—If it comes out that you harbored a grudge against those two and had been waiting for an opportunity, your punishment will not be light.”

“I don’t give a damn whether my crime’s heavy or light,” Eiji said with a wry smile. “—But I never imagined things would go that far that night. The moment I stepped through the doorway, Ryū kicked my cane away and sent me sprawling pathetically on the dirt floor. Even then—though I cursed like hell—I wasn’t fired up to act. But when Giichi came out onto the raised floor and... when he made me into his laughingstock—my vision went dark, and I just did it.”

"I don’t expect any leniency," Eiji said, "but the facts are as I stated them."

“The report was written as such,” Okayasu nodded. “—I truly didn’t know your leg had healed either.” “It’s such a ridiculous story.” Eiji grinned again. “Thanks to you, I managed to get the jump on them—but when they saw my leg, both of them were wide-eyed.” Okayasu Kihee laughed without making a sound. “So,” Eiji asked impatiently, “what judgment will I receive?”

“You know you can’t stay here.” “I’m prepared for most outcomes.” “Giichi lost an eye and broke two ribs,” said Okayasu. “Ryū’s left arm was broken and his left ear torn off. Neither suffered life-threatening injuries, but since they smuggled prohibited weapons, they’ll likely be sent to Denmachō once their wounds heal.” “Am I going with them?” Okayasu Kihee shook his head. “You’ve been sent back to the North Town Magistrate for re-examination. I can’t say more than that.”

“Understood.” Eiji lowered his head deeply and muttered, “Looking back now, I think I went too far with those two. I was wrong.” “That’s not true.” Okayasu sharply cut off Eiji’s words: “The ones who should feel remorse aren’t those men—there ought to be others.”

Eiji fell silent. Okayasu Kihee did not continue speaking but silently watched Eiji’s eyes; then, as if to say, "You understand, don’t you?" he nodded and quietly stood up. “This may be an unreasonable request,” Eiji asked, “but before I leave here, can I meet everyone in the room?”

“This is not something I can decide on my own authority.”

“Please, I beg you. There’s a debt I can’t put into words that I owe them all. Let me at least say my goodbyes properly. Please.”

“This is how it is,” said Eiji, pressing both hands to the floor and bowing repeatedly. “I’ll try asking the magistrate,” said Okayasu, “but permission will likely not be granted. You’d do better to abandon hope—you’re a condemned man now.”

13-5 Eiji looked up at Okayasu in surprise. He had never imagined he would hear words like "You are a condemned man" from Okayasu’s mouth. —Okayasu Kihee’s expression had transformed entirely. Though his eyes still held warmth, his entire countenance now carried a cold severity—the very visage the laborers derisively called an “official’s mask” behind his back. Eiji had never before seen such an expression on Okayasu.

“We’ll have your belongings from the room moved over here,” Okayasu said. “—You’ll likely only be here another two or three days. Rest well until then.” Eiji pressed both hands to the floor and bowed his head again.

Then, on the night two days later—after an intervening day had passed—about an hour after finishing dinner, Yohei appeared without warning. Soon after, two lower-ranking officials brought in a modest spread of sake and accompanying dishes. "This is a token of our goodwill—keep it quiet," the officials murmured before slipping away.

“It’s a fine evening.” Yohei spoke in a low, awkward voice, his eyes searching Eiji’s face. “—Everyone’s worried… but you’ll be okay, won’t you?” “It’s been decided there’ll be a re-examination by the Town Magistrate,” Eiji said, picking up the sake bottle. “But it doesn’t seem serious—tell everyone not to worry. Here, have a cup.” “I can’t handle alcohol.” “Well, fine. Since it’s our farewell, take it.”

Then, saying he’d just go through the motions, Yohei took the cup. On the tray were arranged some vinegar miso, sesame-dressed greens, and simmered small fish, among other things. “Just being able to meet you, Yohei-san, was enough,” Eiji said. “I caused everyone a great deal of trouble, but the debt I owe you is one I could never repay in a lifetime.” Yohei waved his hand. “What have I done? It’s what you did this time that was truly a blessing for everyone.”

Yohei finished sipping his sake, set down the cup, and poured a drink for Eiji. Eiji took a small sip and then looked at Yohei while still holding the cup. “Words alone won’t change anything, but I’d planned that when the time came for me to leave here safely, I’d have you come out with me and we’d live together.” Yohei, still holding the sake bottle, looked back at Eiji with eyes as if he’d been startled.

“Things have turned out this way, so those plans are scrapped—but if I could leave prison early, and if you’re still here, Yohei, I’d surely come for you.”

“Thank you… thank you.” Yohei bowed his head. “Just you saying that means everything.” “I’ve been alone since I was small—ever since losing my parents and siblings all at once in that fire. Even if siblings were too much to ask… just one parent would’ve been enough.” Eiji clenched his teeth until they creaked. “If only that hadn’t happened—we could’ve lived together.” “That warms my heart to hear, Eiji-san—but you’re mistaken about being alone,” Yohei said. “Setting aside your comrades here in the barracks—you’ve got Saburō, Osue, and O-Nobu watching over you out there.”

Eiji turned to look at Yohei. “Of course I know them,” Yohei nodded. “I know all three. And I’m sure there was a time when I told you to be kinder to Saburō.” “I remember.” Eiji took a sip of sake and straightened his back. “It’s our farewell—let’s not dwell on that talk.” “No one—no one at all—can live entirely alone,” Yohei continued, disregarding Eiji’s words. “—The world has its wise and its unwise, but even if it were all wise people, things wouldn’t work right. Even in matters of profit and loss—for there to be those who gain, there must be those who lose. If you feel indebted to us, Eiji-san, don’t forget it’s not just us—it’s Saburō, O-Nobu, Osue too. You were never alone—not once—and you never will be.”

Eiji had been staring at the cup he held but suddenly frowned, took the sake bottle from Yohei, and said, “Just one more,” as he poured. Yohei reluctantly took the cup and, as if drinking poison, gently brought it to his lips. “This lecturing doesn’t suit me—I’ll stop now,” said Yohei, stroking his mouth with one hand. “—You’ll surely become a first-rate artisan, Eiji-san. That’s the kind of man you are. Though mind you—it’s not just you. The world has plenty born with talent fit for greatness. But even those innately gifted can’t achieve anything alone. For one talented person to make use of their gift, dozens upon dozens without such talent must lend unseen strength. Think deeply on this, Eiji-san.”

"Guess this is why old folks like me end up disliked—talking like this," Yohei said with a laugh. —Saburō, Eiji cried out in his heart. Ah, Saburō—I wanted to see you again.

14-1

“Try walking one more time,” O-Nobu said. “Don’t be so reserved—I hadn’t seen it properly before, all right?”

Eiji stopped trying to step up into the small tatami room and instead took two or three steps across the narrow earthen floor to demonstrate his walking. “Oh my—you’re completely Heiza!” “What’s this ‘Heiza’?” “Heizaemon the Unflappable—never heard of him?” Saburō, who had already gone up to the small tatami room, laughed, and Osue covered her mouth with her hand as she laughed too. “I’m not Heiza at all,” Eiji said. “Look properly.” He took two or three more steps to demonstrate. When observed carefully, his right leg appeared to drag slightly—though barely noticeable unless pointed out. O-Nobu gazed at him with dreamy eyes and declared, “How dashing you look like that.”

“Dragging a leg like that—it’s rather stylish.” “Is that how you take a compliment?” “I’m not lying—it’s true! Hey Osue—you think so too, right?”

“I suppose so.” Caught off guard by the sudden address, Osue flusteredly tilted her head before saying, “I don’t need stylishness—I just want you to recover properly.” “My, aren’t we playing the wife already!” O-Nobu glared. “Don’t want other women finding your man dashing, do you?” “Stop it—calling him ‘my husband’ like that!” “Stop it—calling him ‘my husband’ like that!” O-Nobu mimicked her tone, then glared again. “—Your cheeks are blazing red!”

That day was April 7th.

Saburō and Osue came to take custody of Eiji after his release from the North Magistrate’s temporary prison. Eiji had spent seven days in the temporary prison. Though Ishikawajima had remanded him for “re-investigation,” no proper inquiry occurred. After five days’ confinement, yoriki Aoki Mataemon summoned him and asked whether he intended to return home. “Genzaburō—landlord of Shitaya Sakamoto 2-chōme—and Saburō jointly petitioned to take custody of you,” came Aoki’s words. “They’ve secured housing and livelihood prospects. As the magistrate’s office deems your return home advisable—what do you say?”

Mataemon said that. There was no need to question how Saburō had learned of Eiji’s presence at this magistrate’s office. While searching for Eiji’s whereabouts, Saburō had apparently met Aoki Kōnoshin from the town patrol and sought his help. Mataemon belonged to Kōnoshin’s clan and seemed to have maintained constant contact with him regarding Eiji’s case. The news of Eiji’s transfer from Ishikawajima to the Town Magistrate’s custody must have reached Saburō immediately.—Yet what of the reinvestigation into the Laborer Quarters incident? No matter how fervently Okayasu Kihee worked to suppress it, they couldn’t simply let the matter rest—not when multiple witnesses had seen the assault occur. Even his own conscience remained unsettled by this—with that thought, Eiji pressed Mataemon again. Then Mataemon shook his head quietly and said, “Forget that affair.”

A petition had been submitted by over a hundred laborers from the Laborer Quarters requesting your release, and our investigation made it clear there were no facts warranting punishment. Mataemon said the only thing that mattered now was whether you could return home resolved to forget all past events and become a proper artisan. Eiji requested time to consider, returning to the temporary prison to think for a day. He thought of Hōkōdō, of Watabun, of the informant. Before, those thoughts alone would have filled him with boiling rage. But now his heart barely stirred, his anger fading like dying embers into memory's depths. He tried recalling the same things repeatedly, as if confirming them. And realized even his once-fervent resolve for revenge had nearly lost its form. "Is this truly certain?" he asked himself. With human nature being what it was, this feeling couldn't be called absolute—yet now it felt certain. Believing matters would likely settle thus, Eiji made his proposal to Aoki Mataemon.

At the magistrate’s office, besides returning Eiji’s clothes they had held in custody, they also handed over the wages he had earned and saved at the Laborer Quarters. It amounted to five ryō, two bu, and a bit more—slightly more than Eiji had anticipated. He divided it into two parts and requested that half be sent to the Laborer Quarters—since he had heard the tenements were going to be rebuilt soon, he wanted his contribution added to the reconstruction costs. When Eiji said that, Mataemon stared into his eyes for a moment, then silently nodded.

The ones who came to pick him up were Saburō and Osue; the landlord of Sakamoto-chō was not there. The returned kimonos and obis were soiled, and since Osue had brought brand-new garments, he changed into completely fresh ones from the skin out. At that moment, while helping him change clothes, Osue suggested stopping by Sumiyoshi. “Today’s just a small gesture.” As she prepared the meal for the three of them, O-Nobu said, “Next time, we’ll have a proper celebration.”

The mistress had apparently gone to the public bathhouse, so a young maid named O-Matsu assisted O-Nobu. There were three maids, but they all commuted and wouldn’t arrive until four o’clock, it was said.

When the meal was ready, O-Nobu removed her tasuki sash and work apron and sat before the three.

“Let me make one thing clear first,” Eiji said. “I won’t be giving thanks, so none of you should offer congratulations either. Truth be told, I’m not in any state worth celebrating yet—I’m asking this of you.” He bowed his head. Saburō and Osue’s faces grew slightly tense. O-Nobu, as if to dissolve that tension, took up the sake bottle and poured for Eiji.

“Eiji-san’s changed,” O-Nobu said, looking at Osue. “I told him just now to walk again for me, didn’t I? If it were the old Eiji-san, he’d have yelled ‘Quit nagging!’ for sure. But now he didn’t even make a displeased face—he walked exactly as I told him to. The old Eiji-san couldn’t have done that even if he’d stood on his head.” “Even I,” Eiji said, “can’t pull off some showy act like walking on my hands. More importantly, O-Nobu—what became of that marriage proposal from before?”

“We’ll talk about that next time.” “Can’t you at least tell me whether it’s been settled or not?” “Right,” O-Nobu said, setting down the sake bottle. From her sleeve, she produced a razor wrapped in a piece of red silk. “This—I’ll show them this.”

Osue sucked in a breath through her teeth. “So that man,” Eiji asked, “you did say his name was Toku, right? He still hasn’t given up?” “It’s a battle of endurance, I suppose—but I won’t lose.” Having said that, O-Nobu unwrapped the piece of red silk and adjusted her grip on the razor in her right hand. “That man can’t do a thing unless he’s drunk. Once he gets drunk and starts harassing me, I’ll press this right here against his throat—go on, try laying a hand on me. I’d rather die than let someone like you do anything to me.”

“It’s dangerous—put that away,” Eiji said, pointing at the razor. “Do you really think you can keep pushing through like that forever?” O-Nobu wrapped the razor in a piece of cloth and, while tucking it into her left sleeve, said, “Even if I were to run away from this house, I couldn’t escape that man’s grasp—just like my sisters couldn’t escape from procurer Roku. Running away would be the same as losing right there—and I won’t lose.”

“You’re strong, aren’t you,” Osue said with a sigh. “Thank you.” O-Nobu smiled, “You have Eiji-san, so you’re fine. Osue-chan—don’t become a woman like me.” “O-Nobu, you take this too,” Eiji said while holding the sake bottle. “I’ll pour you just one cup.”

O-Nobu suddenly straightened her posture and accepted the cup with solemn grace. Cradling in both hands the sake Eiji had poured her, she closed her eyes, whispered words too faint to catch, then drank in one measured motion. Though none heard the murmured vow, all three comprehended its weight—for a breathless moment, they sat frozen in shared understanding.

Osue had apparently not yet taken leave from her place of employment, so after leaving Sumiyoshi, she returned to the residence said to be in Surugadai-shita, and only Eiji and Saburō headed toward Shitaya. "I'm worried," Saburō said as soon as they started walking. "Nob-chan... Will she be all right like that?" "Even if she isn't all right, there's nothing we can do about it." "I've been thinking—can't we do something about that man Toku?" "Now that my business is settled, you're worrying about O-Nobu next?" After saying this, Eiji looked at Saburō with encouraging eyes. "We've had enough trouble over other people's affairs. O-Nobu will manage on her own. From now on, think more about yourself."

Saburō nodded and said, “Yeah,” but his expression didn’t suggest he truly agreed. Since they happened to be nearby, they stopped by the bookbinder in Kanda-Imokuchō and met the owner, Moshirō. He was a gaunt man in his fifties—perhaps short-tempered—with his neck slightly bent to the left, and he had a habit of constantly shaking his head while speaking rapidly.

“So you’re Eiji, I hear. Good eyes… Those eyes are good. I like them,” Moshirō said briskly. “Work’s piled up but we’re short-handed—counting on you to hold steady.” “I’ll keep up my end,” Eiji said, bowing his head.

Fourteen, Part Two

The house in Shitaya was a two-unit building located in the back alley of Sakamoto 2-chōme, with a middle-aged couple named Masuroku living next door. The layout consisted of two six-tatami rooms and a wooden-floored area spanning about eight tatami mats. The kitchen area had an attached privy. The well stood immediately out back, while the kitchen contained a built-in hearth complete with buckets, water jars, and cooking pots.—Saburō opened the closet to display two new futon sets, explaining that one had been made by Osue. These two sets were wrapped in karakasa-patterned oiled paper, with another futon set stored separately.

“This one’s mine,” Saburō said. “I didn’t touch yours and Osue’s at all—once she comes, I’ll be staying elsewhere anyway.” “You’re moving out?” “This layout won’t work for three people—that’s why I’ve made arrangements at the old tenement in Kanesugichō.” Why did you go to such unnecessary trouble? Isn’t this enough as it is?—Eiji had meant to say those words, but he kept them unspoken. In the inner six-tatami room were arranged a long brazier, chests of drawers, a tea cabinet, clothes racks, mirror stands, and such; in the wooden-floored area, work tools had been prepared.

“Did you do all this by yourself?” “No—Osue and I took care of the inner part together.” “You managed to get all that money?” “You might get mad at me,” Saburō said apologetically, “but there’s something I want you to look at.” Eiji sat beside the unlit long brazier and, with restless unease, stroked its edges and the cat board. Saburō took out a note written on three sheets of Japanese paper from the small-item drawer of the chest, returned to sit before Eiji, and handed it to him.

“With the money I received from Eiji-chan, I managed to get all these things together. I’m sorry for acting on my own without asking first, but I’ve written down all the prices properly here,” Saburō said. “—I don’t think there are any mistakes, but could you check just to be sure?” Eiji glanced over the three sheets but had no intention of verifying the totals; he took his wallet from his pocket and pushed it toward Saburō along with the notes.

“You’ve done everything for me—I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Eiji said. “This wallet’s got what I earned at Ishikawajima inside. It’s pitifully little and I’m ashamed to hand it over, but take it for now. I’ll make up the rest later.” “Make up the rest?” Saburō looked at him quizzically. “What’re you talking about?” “Never mind,” Eiji cut in. “Let’s you and me get something good for dinner tonight.” No need to check the records—the money Eiji had provided couldn’t possibly have covered all these furnishings alone. Saburō must have emptied his own purse completely, what with the Kasai household taking their share during his beriberi convalescence back home, then buying all these household goods on top of that. The realization hung between them, but since gratitude alone wouldn’t settle things, Eiji had steered the conversation elsewhere.

After paying their respects to the landlord Gensuke, their neighbor Masuroku’s house, and the three houses across the street, the two of them ate dinner. As for the rice, Saburō cooked it himself, while from Uokiku—a caterer on the main street—he obtained soup, grilled dishes, sashimi, vinegared dishes, and added two bottles of sake. As had been their custom until now, the two of them kept their sake flasks and cups separate, never pouring for each other or exchanging cups.

“This is our shop.” Eiji sipped his first cup of sake, then looked around the house. “From this shop—we’ll begin, Saburō. Let’s do this right.”

"I’ll do my best not to be a burden," Saburō said, bowing his head. "Please look out for me, Eiji-chan." Eiji had been about to snap, "Don’t talk nonsense," but he restrained himself and said instead, "It’s mutual—I’ll be counting on you too." "We’ve finally made it this far." Saburō took a sip of sake and said, "Ever since you told me someday we’d have our own shop, Eiji-chan, I even dreamed about it—but I never thought it’d really happen. Right now, I feel… happy, but kinda scared too."

“I feel the same way,” Eiji said. “The world’s no gentle place—even after all this trouble getting a shop, there’s no guarantee we’ll make it work. Truth is, I’m scared stiff just thinking about it.” Saburō stared at him wide-eyed, as if startled. “How could that happen?” Saburō fired back fiercely, “With your skills, you’d stand your ground anywhere! Talking like some coward—that’s not the Eiji-chan I know!”

“You’re the only one who thinks that,” Eiji said earnestly. “I haven’t worked properly in nearly three years. To be honest, I don’t know when—or if—I’ll ever regain my former skill. But right now… just having you here with me is what keeps me going. Don’t ever forget that, Saburō.” “I ain’t worth hearin’ that kinda talk—I’m still just a stubborn, slow, useless fool,” Saburō said, raising his eyes sharply, “but if I can be any use to Eiji-chan, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Fourteen, Part Three

“I got all worked up there.” Eiji forced a wry smile and, picking up his chopsticks in an effort to lighten the mood, said cheerfully, “This is our first meal with just the two of us. Let’s drop the heavy talk and keep things lively.”

“Should I get us another bottle each?” “Let’s stop here. Until we’ve got work settled, even if I feel like drinking, I intend to go without a single drop if I can.” After saying this, he rubbed the side of his forehead with a finger, looking embarrassed. “I’m getting all worked up again—can’t help it. Feels like coming out to the city’s left me all flustered.” “You’ll calm down soon,” Saburō said worriedly. “It can’t be helped for two or three days.”

The following day, accompanied by Saburō, Eiji went to Kanesugi Third District and met Osue’s father. The brush shop was a small establishment with one apprentice; Heizaemon had lost his wife long ago and had been living alone, it was said. He bore no resemblance to Osue in either face or build—reserved in speech and of a seemingly gentle disposition, he appeared aged beyond fifty though he claimed to be forty-five. “Yes, she’s my only daughter,” Heizaemon said, ceaselessly puffing on his tobacco. “An only child she may be, but there’s no need for concern—I’ll manage on my own. When women come of age, they suddenly leave their parents behind. It seems that as long as they stay by their parents’ side, they can’t become proper women.”

The year Osue turned thirteen, Heizaemon tried to call her in to scold her. At that time, his wife was still alive, and they treasured their only daughter Osue, raising her with full indulgence. But once she turned thirteen, he thought it was about time to start disciplining her, and though he couldn’t remember what had caused it, he called her in to scold her. Then Osue said, “Yes,” and stood up to come over. The voice and tone with which she said “Yes” were no longer those of the Osue of yesterday.

“It wasn’t the voice that begged me or her mother for things or threw tantrums,” Heizaemon continued quietly. “How should I put it… In a word, it was the voice of a girl who’d become a woman. Right then, I thought the parent-child bond between us had already been severed.”

When that time comes，daughters unknowingly become prepared to leave their parents. “At that point，I already thought Osue was no longer ‘our daughter，’” Heizaemon said，and with that，he sullenly fell silent. After finishing the discussion about the wedding celebration and leaving the brush shop，they walked just one block when rain began to fall from the clear sky. Looking up，they saw white and gray clouds overlapping in the blue sky，while a mass of black rain clouds was rapidly spreading from the south.

“Looks like a shower’s coming,” Eiji said, eyeing the rain clouds. “Should we hurry?”

“Instead, let’s stop by my place.” “——Your place too.”

“It’s the place I arranged,” Saburō said. “It’s in that alley there. Watch your step on the gutter planks.” To the right stretched rice fields, with Ueno’s hill and forest visible beyond them. What was likely irrigation water flowed through a narrow stream spanned by a single-step bridge. They crossed it, turned left at the greengrocer’s corner, and entered the alley. This area must have escaped fires—the row houses lining both sides stood ancient, their eaves nearly touching and pillars warped with age. Foul water overflowed from between the gutter planks, filling the alley with an unnatural stench.

“What a wretched place,” Eiji instinctively grimaced—and in that moment, the rain began to pour down in torrents. Saburō leapt into one of the row houses. “Are you there, Osei?” While calling out toward the other side of the shoji screen, he beckoned to Eiji. “Osei! It’s me—Saburō!” A response came, and the shoji opened. Eiji would get wet under the eaves, so he had no choice but to enter the narrow dirt-floored area. The one who opened the shoji screen was a girl of sixteen or seventeen, and when she saw Saburō, her eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh my, what a surprise!” the girl said cheerfully. “You’ve come! —Is this your companion?” “Ah,” Saburō laughed with awkward ambiguity, “since the evening shower started, we thought we’d stop by my place to wait it out.” “The key?” she said, starting to rise but remaining kneeling as she looked at Saburō and Eiji. “If you’re waiting out the rain, you can stay here. It must be musty over there with everything shut up tight.”

“But it wouldn’t be good for the patient.” “There’s no need to worry about Father—I’ll make some tea now,” the girl said, smiling at Eiji too. “Please, do sit down for a moment.”

Eiji silently nodded in acknowledgment, and the girl stood up to leave. "He’s an acquaintance from when we were there," Saburō whispered. "I hear he used to be a samurai. His parents have been bedridden for ages, and their daughter—the one called Osei now—supports them through piecework." "That explains it," Eiji said. "I thought there was something different about her demeanor." As he spoke, Eiji thought the girl’s cool eyes—which had widened in surprise when she saw Saburō—and the buoyant tone of her voice seemed to lay bare her feelings toward him.

“She’s quite pretty,” Eiji whispered. “How old is she?”

“Well…” Saburō tried counting on his fingers and said, “Exactly sixteen. She’s still a child.”

14-4

The tea served as weak brew was indeed just that—spent leaves—and scalding hot enough to sear one’s tongue. Eiji and Saburō sat on the raised threshold, and the girl excused herself with “I’m rather busy,” then picked up the sewing that had been spread out.

“This one,” the girl asked, rubbing the needle against her hair as she looked evenly at Eiji and Saburō, “—isn’t this Mr. Eiji?” “That’s right,” Saburō answered. “How did you know?” “Just a lucky guess,” the girl said. “You were only ever talking about Mr. Eiji, weren’t you? You even bragged about him to my bedridden father. So I thought right away—it must be him.”

“She’s exaggerating.” Saburō gave a bashful smile at Eiji. “I didn’t brag about you that much—really.” “Saburō must have caused you a lot of trouble,” Eiji said to the girl. “I’d like to offer my thanks as well.” “No, it’s my father and I who should be thanking you.” The girl stopped her sewing and said, “If it weren’t for Saburō-san, my father and I would have been driven out from there.”

Saburō, flustered, stammered things like “No way! Osei exaggerates everything—it’s a problem,” then covered his mouth with his hand upon noticing how high-pitched his voice had become. “Has your father’s illness been long?” Eiji asked, and the daughter replied, diligently pushing her needle forward as she spoke. Her father was Nagatame Tokikane and was fifty-seven years old. Up until my grandfather’s generation, they had been low-ranking gokenin retainers and had apparently lived in a small residence in Honjo. When my father assumed the family headship and my grandfather passed away shortly thereafter, those in the Kobushin-gumi who had gone ten years without an official post were dismissed. It was due to the authorities’ administrative convenience; they received fifty ryō and had to vacate their small residence. After becoming a rōnin, Tenkaku married a woman who had been a restaurant maid and lived modestly by running something akin to a temple school. During that time, they moved residences countless times, and his wife bore three children, but the first two died soon after birth, and only the third, Osei, grew up healthy. She was born somewhere in Fukagawa, then lived in Kanda’s Yanagihara, and for a time had also resided in Nihonbashi. What she remembered clearly was the time they lived in the Tasuke-ten tenement on Onarimichi in Shitaya. Osei was five years old when her mother abandoned her husband and daughter and ran away. When Tokikane became a rōnin, he had received fifty ryō, which he hid away for emergencies, using it only in dribs and drabs when absolutely necessary. Due to their extremely frugal lifestyle，they still had over thirty ryō remaining. His wife discovered it and took every last bit when she ran away. It was bitterly ironic—soon after the money Tokikane had carefully saved for emergencies was taken away, that very “emergency” arrived. That winter, Tokikane suddenly began to suffer from pain in the joints of his limbs, became unable to teach at the temple school, and was confined to bed, where he spent his days moaning in agony. At first, they managed to scrape by by relying on the parents of his students and the goodwill of their tenement neighbors, but such a situation could not last, and within less than a year, they were neatly driven out of the tenement. There was no other choice. Tokikane swallowed his pride, tearfully pleaded with the Nagatame main family, and lived there for three years. The main Nagatame family was a minor hatamoto with a stipend of just over 200 koku and had a residence in Kōjimachi. The main family, likely struggling due to their large household, confined Tenkaku and his daughter to a storage-like space and treated them no better than beggars. ‘Even so, it’s better than starving to death,’ Tenkaku had said, but in the third year, Osei tearfully pleaded with her father, ‘Let’s leave there.’

The youngest son of the main family, a fifteen-year-old boy, began harassing Osei with pranks. If she told her father, it might cause an uproar; using her nine-year-old judgment, she kept pleading to leave without explaining why. Thus they left the Kōjimachi house, wandering from Honjo’s Naruhira district to Asakusa’s Sanya, Shintorigoe, then back to Honjo’s Kiyosumi-chō. During this period, Tokikane’s illness briefly eased, and for about two years in Kiyosumi-chō, they barely sustained a small temple school.

“People say I take after my mother more than my father,” the girl said with a smile. “Father’s always been gentle, you see. My memories of Mother are hazy, but piecing together what Father’s told me—she seemed strong-willed, brisk and lively, with a taste for flashy things.” It was also Osei who had suggested to her father that they start the temple school in Honjo Kiyosumi-chō, and even when his illness relapsed after just two years or so, she never told him to quit. After leaving Kōjimachi, Osei took on babysitting and errands wherever she went, and sometimes lined up boxes of cheap sweets in the narrow earthen floors of tenements. All the while, whenever she encountered someone skilled at sewing, she would persistently beg them to teach her. In every neighborhood there were such people, and by the age of fifteen, she had already learned to handle silk fabrics.

“I’m sorry for rambling on like this,” the girl said with a faint smile to the two men. “After Father collapsed again, we moved here not long after. Since no one here knows us, they wouldn’t notice if I hid my age, right? When we came last March, I said I was eighteen. That way I could get better work and sewing fees.” She gave a mischievous shrug of her shoulders. Eiji asked again about her father’s illness. The daughter answered in a matter-of-fact tone that when the pain worsened, they simply warmed it and there was no other treatment available. It wasn’t that she lacked affection for her father—her tone carried brisk resignation, as if acknowledging nothing could be done about it.

Before long, the rain stopped, and the two thanked them and went outside. The lingering evening shower had left puddles across the road, with gutters along both sides overflowing. “Not worn out?” Saburō asked Eiji. “She’s a solid one.” Eiji replied, dragging his leg almost imperceptibly as he spoke. “The way she told her life story—no wasted words, straight to the point. Sharp mind.”

“I moved into that tenement in October and rented Sakamoto’s place by December, so we really only spent eighty-five or six days together,” Saburō said in his usual drawling tone. “But in that time, I must’ve heard that life story of hers about ten times.” “What did you do?” “The rent had piled up, and they were being evicted.” Saburō scratched his head in embarrassment. “I must’ve looked like a real pushover—or maybe she thought I had guts. She came to my place with the landlord in tow—‘This man’ll pay,’ she said. ‘He’s my cousin.’”

Eiji opened his mouth and looked at Saburō. “That’s right—‘This man here is my cousin,’ she said.” Saburō gave a slack laugh there. “I couldn’t get a word out,” he said.

To Eiji, the scene of that moment seemed to unfold vividly before his eyes. She was steadfast and sharp-witted. But that wasn’t all—when she saw Saburō, who had just moved in, she must have immediately thought this was someone she could rely on. That was likely not her sharp-wittedness at all, but a woman’s instinctive intuition. From the age of five, having been tossed about by poverty and the world’s cruelty for over ten years, she had now, for the first time, encountered someone she could truly rely on. The way her eyes had widened in surprise when she first saw Saburō, and her manner of speaking afterward, had revealed as much. That girl must have instinctively sensed not only the cunning to have someone pay her rent but also that he was someone she could entrust her entire life to. If that were not the case—if she had experienced more than enough of men’s cruelty at the main family’s house in Kōjimachi—then there could be no reason for her to show such reckless trust toward Saburō alone, Eiji thought.

“No matter how many times I hear it,” Saburō had been saying, “that life story of hers is something else. Not that the story itself is interesting—it’s more how she tells it, y’know? Hmm, she’s still just a kid, Eiji—a little sprout like her talkin’ all grown-up like that? Can’t put my finger on why, but it’s downright fascinatin’. Swear it’s true.” “She’ll make a good wife,” Eiji said, then abruptly changed the subject. “I heard she’s sixteen, but she looks way older than that.”

“She’s had a hard life.”

The distance from Kanasugi to Sakamoto-chō was a stone’s throw away. After the evening shower, the road was crowded with people coming and going, packhorses, palanquins, and the like. Amidst them walked a married couple of candy vendors—the woman striking a gong and drum, the man singing vulgar songs—dancing in zigzag patterns through the bustling thoroughfare. The man was thin and in his mid-forties; the woman was so obese she looked nearly twice his size and was likely five or six years his senior. Her face—with its receding hairline—was painted stark white, and large red circles adorned both cheeks.

"Isn't that Matsuzō?" "That's Matsuzō the paper cord craftsman," Eiji thought, eyeing the man's face from the corner of his eye. Of course, it wasn't Matsuzō, but they resembled each other so closely they might have been twins. "So that's how some people live," Saburō said mournfully. "What must that feel like?" "A cart's coming," Eiji warned.

When they returned to the house in Sakamoto-chō, the couple next door were fighting. The husband, Masuroku, was said to be a commuting clerk at some kimono shop, and the wife had formerly been the head maid at that same shop; ever since Saburō had moved in, they had apparently been fighting nearly every day. They made no noise and did not shout or yell. Yet listening to their low, barbed voices as they hurled insults at each other, there was something more terrifying than a physical brawl.

“There are couples like that too,” Eiji said to Saburō. “What do you think they feel?”

14-5

On April 21st, Eiji and Osue held their wedding ceremony. Because they had chosen a day when the labor camp was closed, four people came from Ishikawajima: foreman Denpachi, Yohei, Mankichi, and Matsuda Gonzaemon, the Red Demon. They laid out congratulatory gifts—charcoal tongs, a shovel, paired husband-and-wife chopsticks, a box dining set, a bolt of bleached cotton cloth, and three freshly laundered yukata. “This old yukata’s my heart’s offering,” Matsuda growled like an angry bear. “You’re thinkin’ this rag ain’t worth a damn—but if that’s what’s in your skulls, you’re just pumpkin-headed numbskulls who couldn’t tell gold from goat shit!”

Eiji smiled to himself, thinking Same as ever, but Osue’s eyes looked frightened. Matsuda turned to Osue and beckoned her over with a slight gesture. “You wouldn’t know this,” Matsuda said, straightening up with mock formality, “but you don’t use new cloth for a newborn’s underclothes or diapers. You use cotton washed dozens of times till it’s soft—baby skin’s like fresh-pounded mochi, see? Treat it rough just once and it’ll tear clean through. What’s so damn funny, Mankichi?”

“Nah, ain’t nothin’ funny,” said Mankichi, stifling a laugh. “Yer givin’ a lecture ’bout babies when the weddin’ ain’t even happened yet! Look, everyone—Osue’s huddlin’ there red as a beet!” “What’s this ‘not yet’ nonsense? You’ll be sleepin’ together startin’ tonight!” said Matsuda, hurriedly changing the subject. “Look—it’s like this, see? We don’t know when we’ll get to come back, right? That’s why I figured I’d say my piece now. If it was outta line, I’ll apologize.”

“Thank you, Matsuda-san,” Eiji said, bowing his head. “This is the finest gift of all. I won’t thank each of you individually—please know I accept this with deep gratitude.” Mankichi, looking flustered, replied, “You’re most welcome,” and everyone burst into laughter. The wife of Masuroku from next door and the landlord’s wife had come to help and were handling the meal preparations and sake arrangements. Heizō of Kanasugi was said to dislike such affairs; without inviting the three or so relatives he had, he came alone as dusk fell. Saburō suggested to Eiji that they should at least invite two or three of his former senior apprentices, but Eiji firmly refused, insisting that Yohei-san would serve as his parental figure and Saburō as his relative substitute; he also would not agree to having even a formal go-between.

“If we’d met through a go-between, that’d be one thing,” Eiji said. “But we came to know each other on our own and decided to be together ourselves. Having some ceremonial go-between just for show—I want no part in such a farce.” “That may be so,” Saburō said with a sigh, “but there’s also society to consider. Don’t you think it’d be better to have someone to mediate if anything happens down the line?”

“There’s you here, ain’t there?” Eiji pointed at Saburō and declared, “For both me and Osue, just having a confidant like Saburō is more than enough.”

Saburō, looking both bashful yet deeply moved, murmured "Eiji-chan" under his breath—that had been yesterday. Today from morning onward, he darted about alone inside and out; when the four men from the labor camp arrived, he immediately began arranging meal trays and serving sake. Eiji had told him repeatedly, "You're the host today—leave the chores to others and sit still," but Saburō kept making excuses about being awkward with such ceremonial postures or his shoulders stiffening up, never managing to settle down for even a moment.

Heizō nevertheless appeared in formal kamishimo attire, having a sake shop worker carry two square casks each holding one sho. Osue wore a striped silk kimono with a stiff obi, her usual attire without even tabi socks, while Eiji was dressed in a striped cotton kimono with a three-foot obi. When Eiji introduced each of the people from the labor camp to Heizō as his benefactors, Heizō expressed his gratitude and greeted them courteously each time. Even upon hearing they were from the labor camp, he never once showed any sign of displeasure; though his words were few, his manner of greeting was entirely ordinary.

Even though it was called a wedding celebration, it was a simple affair. The two sat side by side and, using the newly received box-style dining set in place of a ceremonial tray, simply performed the three-times-nine cups ritual. The cups were earthenware ones Yohei had brought, and the sake was served from a heated flask. When the cup exchange ended, Osue stood up to serve, and Eiji moved to a lower position and sat down.

“Thanks to you all, we have safely completed the formal cup exchange. Thank you very much.” Eiji pressed both hands to the floor and declared, “—As you can see, we stand here with nothing. Though you honor us with celebration, we can make no return. Saburō, Osue, and I—we three shall throw ourselves into work with empty hands. Osue knows this path won’t be easy, but the labor camp taught me endurance. Even if we must subsist on cold rice for five years or ten, we’ll persevere—I’m determined to build a shop that stands equal to any ordinary establishment.”

"Please watch over us," he concluded in an uncharacteristically strained tone. "I'll put on a celebratory show!" Mankichi declared, his face flushed from drink. "Ain't no trouble, right Matsuda-san? Takasagoya style!" Matsuda Gonzaemon's eyes bulged. "The hell you say? You can manage that kinda stunt?" "This stunt'll hurt somethin' fierce,"

“Do it,” Yohei said. “That’ll wrap up tonight’s celebration proper.”

Mankichi began to sing.

十四の六

Mankichi had a good voice, but it was unmistakably that of a kiyari work song, and his melodic phrasing too remained true to kiyari style. Given his background as a former firefighter, this came naturally to him. But when he reached the line “tsuki moro tomo ni idefune no,” he suddenly burst into laughter himself, slapping his forehead two or three times as he shook with uproarious guffaws. “You damn fool laughin’ by yourself ain’t helpin’ nobody, you numbskull!” Matsuda bellowed. “We were just about to wrap this up proper-like, but thanks to you, it’s turned into a damn farce!”

“That’s not true at all, Matsuda-san,” Eiji said. “Even if it’s done poorly, a friend’s heartfelt effort to celebrate us is far more precious than some formal performance. Thank you, Mankichi.” “Come now, Matsuda-san,” Yohei said, taking up the sake flask and offering it. “Tonight’s special—why not take off your kamishimo for once and drink your fill?” “Kamishimo,” you say? Matsuda’s eyes bulged again. “That’s your kamishimo, Matsuda-san,” Denpachi said while chewing on something. “You put on that rough act to hide your soft heart. We all see through it now—no need to keep up the charade.”

“Don’t look down on me!” Matsuda roared. “What makes you shitty bastards think you know how I feel?” His face turned a reddish-black. It was the usual prelude to his torrent of abuse, but this time he did the opposite—lowering his eyes, keeping silent, and continuing to drink hurriedly as if thoroughly discomfited. The labor camp had a curfew; though they’d received special permission to come today, when Yohei heard it had struck seven, he said, “Let’s call it a night,” and turned his cup upside down. Eiji had something he wanted to discuss with Yohei. Eiji wanted to say, "Leave the labor camp and come live here with us as family,"—but he did not voice it. That was because he thought it was something he should go to the labor camp himself and discuss with Yohei alone. Before long, the four men stood up, and Heizō also rose. When Heizō stood up, everyone looked at him in surprise. Heizō had remained so silent and unsmiling that everyone had completely forgotten he was even there until then; he had not spoken a word nor cracked a smile.

Eiji, Osue, and Saburō saw everyone off to the main street. “Make sure you two live happily, alright?” As they parted, Matsuda said, “You’re called Osue-san now, right? If this bastard here ever does you wrong, just come barging into my place straight away, got it? Then I’ll knock some sense into this bastard pronto.” Repeating “Please live happily,” Matsuda Gonzaemon shed tears messily.

“Well, I’ll be!” Mankichi said, “So it’s true after all—even a demon’s eyes can shed tears!” “What nonsense you spout, you damn fool? I’m no ordinary demon—I’m the Red Demon Lord!” Matsuda wiped tears and snot across his face as he leaned against Mankichi’s shoulder. “Ah, I’m drunk. Lend me your shoulder, you pumpkin fool.”

By then, Heizō and Yohei were nowhere to be seen.

The three returned home, and as Osue began cleaning up with the neighbor’s wife and the overseer’s wife, Eiji sat facing Saburō, gathered the remaining sake flasks, and began drinking. Neither of them was much of a drinker. Saburō seemed to be drinking more in quantity, but it remained sake that didn’t get him drunk. “Let me say my thanks just once.” Eiji pressed both hands to his knees and bowed his head. “—Thank you, Saburō. Truly, thank you.”

Saburō waved a hand near his forehead but said nothing. “Let’s partner up, the two of us,” Eiji said, lowering his gaze. “—We’ll do this right.” Saburō seemed frustrated as he tried to say something but couldn’t find the right words, shaking his head and working his mouth soundlessly. “Well, I—,” Saburō said, “I think I’d best be headin’ out soon.” “Don’t talk nonsense—you’re stayin’ over, that’s for sure. Drink up.”

“Ugh,” Saburō said. “Then, just this one more.”

After seeing off the two wives who had come to assist, Osue wiped her hands and sat down beside Eiji.

“Osue-san,” Saburō said with a slurred tongue as he bowed, “I’m real sorry. Meant to leave way sooner, but ended up overstayin’. At this rate, reckon I’ll just be a burden on you two.” “We’ll be drinking all night,” Eiji said to Osue. “You must be tired. Go on to bed.” “But Eiji-san...” “It’s better if we’re alone,” Eiji said with a meaningful look. “You’ve got tomorrow ahead of you. Just go to sleep already.”

Osue confirmed Eiji’s words with her eyes before addressing Saburō and rising to leave. Though he’d declared they’d drink through the night, Eiji now found even sake’s scent repulsive. Saburō—who normally held his liquor—had grown thoroughly drunk, his body swaying unsteadily while his speech slurred beyond coherence. “Let’s turn in, Saburō,” Eiji finally said. “You look ready to collapse where you sit.” As he spoke these words and turned, his gaze caught Osue through the half-open door of their six-mat room beyond. She stood disrobing in the adjacent chamber—the smooth slope of her newly bared shoulders and the delicate hollow of her waist striking him with unexpected vividness as she slipped into nightclothes.

“I’m such a no-good guy.” Saburō rolled over as he said this. “I’ll be half-measure trash my whole life.”

Fifteen: Part One

Eiji began by assisting Saburō with his work. For what passed as decent fusuma, they typically used cheap paper meant for tenements, and occasionally took on shoji replacements for main-street merchants or households under house arrest. He aimed to start with such drudgery to reclaim the skills he'd let grow rusty over nearly three years of disuse. "This kinda work's fine," Saburō recited his stock phrase. "Ain't fittin' for someone like Eiji-chan. I can handle it alone."

"Enough already." Eiji always retorted gruffly, "Don't worry about it." Saburō had moved to the Kanasugi house, arriving at eight each morning and returning home after dinner unless there was night work. There wasn't enough work to require overnight labor, nor did much work come from the bookbinding shops in Otamachi. It appeared their mistake had been refusing that first gaudy large mounting job - claiming his skills were still too rusty for proper mounting work. Hōkōdō seemed to have been perceived as flaunting its reputation, leading even the work previously funneled to Saburō being reduced.

“It’s fine, really—nothing to worry about,” Saburō repeated. “Even in Kobunechō summers were slow. It’s like this every year, right? Once the cool breezes start blowing, we’ll be swamped.” “I’m not worried at all.” Eiji laughed as he said it. “Nothing ever goes smoothly from the start. You’re such a worrier.” This was worse than the labor camp. You could even say it was far better—no food worries, work always available, wages paid, free treatment when sick. No wonder so many didn’t want to leave that place, Eiji thought privately. He’d seen their lives before and thought it akin to being kept like livestock. But now, with a wife and their own small shop, facing each day’s suffocating struggle to survive, he finally understood the meaning of those camp whispers.

"Here, dozens of people have to fight over a single job," Eiji thought. In any occupation, to make a job your own, you must possess skills unmatched by anyone; yet even then, if you let your guard down for a moment, others will snatch it away from under you—like a pack of wolves fighting over a single scrap of prey. They took on any job that came their way, never shunning work with meager pay, and when there were no orders, they made cheap paper for tenements to sell. Yet even so, by the time August arrived, the meager savings they had managed to hold onto were completely exhausted.

“I know this makes me sound like a heartless person,” Saburō muttered one day, “but if only a big fire would break out somewhere, we might finally catch our breath.”

“If there were a great fire,” Eiji said, “this house would burn down first. Fortune and misfortune are fickle like that. Rather than thinking strange thoughts, make sure to focus on preparing the glue properly.” Osue was managing well. From the very start, there had been none of the glamorous excitement one might associate with a new household. Whenever free from housework, she would immediately go to the workshop and diligently assist Eiji. After her time at Wata-mon, she had served at a large merchant house in Nihonbashi-dōri Nichōme as a senior maid—her fingertips had been slender and well-tended then—but now those hands quickly grew rough, their knuckles swelling prominent. For just over fifty days, she had kept her hair styled as befitted a new bride, but eventually—begrudging both the cost and time of hairdressing—she took to tying it up simply instead. Naturally, she stopped applying rouge and powder altogether.

Don't get too settled into household life so soon. Eiji had tried several times to say it, but seeing how busy she was as a wife each day, he couldn't bring himself to voice the words.

The three of them had been eating meals together at nine in the morning and six in the evening, but starting around mid-August, Osue began missing meals, and before long Saburō stopped eating dinner as well. The reason being that Osei was preparing and waiting at the Kanasugi house. Osue said she would eat alone later and seemed to make do tidying up in the narrow kitchen. Eiji never doubted this, but Saburō was eating cheap bukkake meshi at a yatai stall in Kanasugi, Osue was stretching leftover rice into gruel or porridge, and making do with side dishes of raw miso or just licking salt. To put it simply, their household finances had become so strained that they had to skimp on meals.

Eiji stayed late at the workshop every night to regain his bookbinding skills. Osue remained constantly by his side—lighting mosquito coils, fanning Eiji when he sweated, and bringing towels wrung out in water. “There’s a girl called Osei in Saburō’s tenement,” Eiji told Osue one night. “She’s sixteen, they say, and seems thoroughly smitten with him.” “So that’s who it is—the one making supper and waiting for him.”

Eiji nodded. “Saburō thinks she’s just a child and doesn’t seem to notice at all, but that girl’s already a proper adult—she’s been supporting a bedridden father since she was five. You should go see her sometime.” “Me?” “You,” Eiji said with a smile. “—I think she’d be the perfect match for Saburō.”

Fifteen: Part Two

When September arrived and some time had passed since changing into lined kimonos, Eiji noticed Osue remained in her unlined kimono. It was made of fine striped cotton—not a yukata, but what she had worn all summer long. “This isn’t an unlined one—it’s lined.” “Look,” Osue said, flipping up the hem to show him, “see? There’s a proper lining. I resewn it because I liked this pattern.”

“There was that scale-patterned lined kimono—I prefer that one.” “I gave that one to our neighbor Obun-san.” “Our neighbor Obun-san?” “The wife next door,” Osue said in a low voice. “Her husband Masuroku-san—the shop where he worked as a live-in clerk went under, and since then he’s been peddling fabrics.” But business fared poorly, and these days they barely scraped by through Obun’s odd jobs. The couple had sold or pawned all their belongings, leaving them unable to make even a single lined kimono. When I heard that,” Osue said, “I gave Obun the scale-patterned kimono.

“So… I was asked to help with something. Do you think you’ll get angry?” “Hold that end.” Eiji smoothed the paste with his brush as he spoke. “Press it down firmly—yes, like that.” Osue kept both hands pressed on the paper’s edge as instructed, peering up at him from beneath her brows. “Do you think you’ll get angry?” “What were you asked to do?” “It’s sewing work,” Osue said with affected casualness. “Obun-san has too many orders to handle alone right now. She says if she refuses any, they’ll stop giving her work altogether—so she wants to finish everything she’s been commissioned for.”

“So you’re saying you want to help with that?”

“Would that be all right?” “It might seem heartless, but you should stop,” Eiji said while smoothing paste with the brush. “—You’re already swamped with our work alone. From morning till night, working nonstop without even a moment to doze off. I know it.” “Oh don’t be silly! Do you think I work that much? If anything, it’s almost too easy.” Then for the first time she affected a spoiled nasal tone: “Come on, it’s okay right? I’ll take care of our household properly.”

“If what you just said is true and you really want to do it,” Eiji said while gazing at his hands, “then go ahead—just don’t overexert yourself. The andon lamp’s oil has run low.” “Yes,” Osue said as she stood up. “I’ll tell her first thing tomorrow—Obun-san will surely be pleased.”

He had known nothing about their neighbors' circumstances. He hadn't known which shop Masuroku had worked at, whether that shop had gone bankrupt, or whether he was truly peddling textiles afterward either. That night was the first time he heard about it from Osue. The world was in a terrible economic slump overall—even among the large wholesalers in Nihonbashi, it was said that not a few shops had gone bankrupt. Walking through town, one couldn't help but notice signs like "Going Out of Business Sale" or characters for "For Sale" pasted on shuttered shop doors.—This alley too had several narrow lanes branching off to either side, lined densely with old tenement houses. Most residents were day laborers, and even children, once they reached seven or eight years old, seemed to have to work at something to help with household finances. One day at the back well where Osue did laundry, a girl about eight years old—carrying an infant on her back—came and helped wring out the washed clothes. Thinking her just a helpful child, Osue thanked her and wrapped some sweets, but the girl reportedly said she didn't want sweets and held out her hand asking for payment instead. After that too, similar situations occurred frequently, and Osue would sigh over how such lives existed in the world.

When Osue said she wanted to help their neighbor's wife with sewing work, Eiji immediately thought, "So we've finally come to this." Commissioned work being scarce, around thirty fusuma sliding doors and sheets of karakami paper intended for sale stood propped in the workshop corner collecting dust. Even the hope that things might improve once cool breezes began to blow had now, with the season's arrival, become little more than utter darkness.

No matter how desperate things got—a man was done for once he had to make his wife earn their keep.

When he was at Hōkōdō, Master Hōbei often used to say that. Eiji agreed wholeheartedly. There were indeed several households around Kobune-cho where wives worked diligently while husbands idled about—places that seemed to manage well enough for a time, only to inevitably close up shop or flee under cover of night. Here I can't let Osue take on paid work—if I don't break through with my own skills, my craft will never become true artistry. Eiji thought this, but understanding their struggle to afford tomorrow's rice, he gritted his teeth and held back from saying "Stop."

Around that time, Saburō started going out to do odd jobs here and there. He would only say, as if making excuses, that he’d been asked to help out, and would evade any questions about where he went or what kind of work he did. Then after two or three days, he would come by and quietly hand Osue a small amount of coins. It wasn’t clear whether they were coins or goods, but Eiji thought they were probably coins—though he neither looked at them nor tried to confirm.

“Main gate and rear gate,” Eiji muttered. “Can’t handle a pincer attack like this—it’s suffocating.” The two were trying to weather this crisis without Eiji noticing. Yet their very care to remain unnoticed weighed heavier on him than the help itself.

One day in October, Eiji went to the public bathhouse; upon leaving the bathwater behind, he did not return home but instead walked on with his wet hand towel folded up in his grasp. With no particular destination in mind, he passed through the backstreets of Nichōme, wound his way along the twisting paths, and emerged onto the rice paddy path of Iriya. Most fields had already been harvested, their black soil lined with stumps spreading out on both sides of the narrow path, while black birds that might have been crows fluttered down or suddenly took flight.

“Calling in some old man—what a joke that was,” he muttered as he walked. “Going on about him being a father figure… If we’d actually brought him here, we’d have dragged even Yohei-san into our mess.”

The wintry sky stretched clear and bright.

As he entered Asakusa's temple district, the earthen walls and white plaster surfaces bathed in sunlight shone blindingly bright—a radiance that only deepened the uncertainty weighing on Eiji’s heart. "I should head back now," he muttered. "Osue must be worried—but damn if I want to go home."

The voices of two men talking as they approached from behind reached him.

“He’s a strange man, that Genzo,” one of them was saying. “Whenever he thinks of doing something, he always remembers something else he has to do before that.” “That guy’s one busy man,” Eiji muttered to himself. “There’s an inkstone placed right in the middle of the room,” the first monk continued. “You see—he stood up to wash it, then suddenly realized he needed to chop firewood there. So he left the inkstone and went to split logs. When he finished that, he’d remember another obligation—morning prayers or memorial services, all sorts of things really—parishioner visits or being summoned to the main hall. Lately, every time he tries to wash that inkstone, without fail he remembers some urgent task that needs doing first.”

The accompanying monk said, “I’ve never seen a man that busy before.” “After a while, you see,” the first monk continued, “having that inkstone sitting right in the middle of the room started to seem perfectly natural. Once that happened, they couldn’t move it anymore—they had to use other inkstones and just leave that one where it was.” When Eiji saw the two men approaching from behind and passing him by, they were both middle-aged monks. Carefree bastards—they probably don’t know a speck of life’s hardships, Eiji muttered inwardly. He remembered hearing a folk saying when he was young: killing one ant was the same as killing a thousand monks. It meant monks weren’t producers but “idle consumers”—a phrase steeped in poor people’s anger—and Eiji now found himself agreeing completely.

“Should I just disappear somewhere like this?” he muttered. “Go into the mountains where no one can find me and die in a ditch?” “Look out!” someone shouted. “It’s a horse!” Eiji jumped aside and looked; he had nearly collided with a horse loaded with cargo. By the horse’s breath and its intense animal odor, he felt as if his face had been enveloped; Eiji wiped his face and neck with the hand towel he held. Anger welled up within him. More than being yelled at by the horse handler, he grew furious at himself for being so lost in thought while walking that he nearly collided with the horse.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to be,” Eiji blurted out involuntarily. “Hey, Eiji-kō—this wasn’t how you were supposed to be! Moping around like some rotten woman, sighing all day—what’s happened to you? Where’s the old Eiji-kō gone?”

At that moment, he was called out to from behind.

“Isn’t this Eiji-san? Where are you going?”

When he turned around, a woman of about twenty-four or twenty-five approached him, carrying a bundle of some sort with a faint smile playing about her cheeks. Her face looked familiar, but he couldn't place it.

“It’s been a while.” The woman bowed before continuing, “Have you been thriving all this time since then?” “Forgive me, but who might you be again?” “Oh dear, have you forgotten me?” The woman said with a seductive glare. “Okame from Sumiyoshi—I’m Okame.”

15-3

Eiji was drinking at Sumiyoshi. Not in his usual small private room, but at the seating ledge in the dirt-floored area. Before him were placed grilled dried fish and sweet stew, and sitting opposite was O-Nobu, pouring his drinks. “So, how’s Kame-chan doing now?” “I didn’t ask,” Eiji said, narrowing his eyes, “but from what I saw, she seemed to be doing well—like a proper wife.” “If that were true and things settled as they were, it would be nothing short of a miracle,” O-Nobu said, explaining the circumstances of Okame leaving this establishment and the man involved. Eiji was not listening. Because he hadn’t drunk in a long time, he was already beginning to get drunk on his second bottle of sake. The lump in his chest—as if lead had been lodged there—loosened cleanly, as though a wind had blown through it, and he felt something akin to a sense of resolve, one he himself had completely forgotten, welling up within him.

“I should warn you,” he said, “I’ve got no money on me today.” “Already heard about that.” “Not a single copper in my pockets.”

“Why do you dwell on such things?” After pouring a drink, O-Nobu looked at Eiji mischievously. “You didn’t have a fight with your wife and come running out here, did you?” “How can you talk about marital squabbles when I’m at the point of hanging myself?” “What are you talking about?” “It’s the work—there isn’t any, you know.” Eiji himself was startled by how fluently the words poured out, “Since opening my shop, I’ve had no real work to speak of. I know times are hard everywhere, but this way we’re done for—honestly makes me want to hang myself.”

“Oh, you’re being so dramatic.” O-Nobu stared intently at Eiji’s face. “It hasn’t even been six months since you opened your shop—why this desperate hurry?” “Osue’s taken up piecework, and Saburō’s off doing day labor somewhere.” Eiji took a sip of sake before speaking—neither recklessly nor despairingly, but with a confrontational edge. “Who knows where he goes or what he’s doing? All I know is he does odd jobs somewhere and slips his paltry earnings to Osue. And Osue—she claims she’s helping the neighbors while stitching clothes from dawn till midnight whenever she gets a moment.”

“Don’t complain,” O-Nobu said as she poured his drink. “When a husband’s work goes sideways, isn’t it natural for his wife to take up odd jobs? Look at the world—you can find stories like that everywhere you look.” “Just listen.” Eiji took a sip of sake and paused as if ordering his thoughts. “I’d been wholly fixated on getting the stiffness out of these hands. Sure, I did the rough jobs Saburō scrounged up, but otherwise I threw myself into retraining my own craft.”

“That’s what you intended from the start, right?”

"My hands have more or less recovered—I think I can handle most jobs now." "But there's no work, you're saying?" "That's not all there is to it." Eiji sharply raised one eyebrow and said, "When a man starts making his wife earn money, that's the end of him. It's not just something I've heard from others—I've seen it with my own eyes countless times. Once you let your wife support you, a man is truly finished."

“What an arrogant way to think.” Eiji looked at O-Nobu in surprise. O-Nobu’s voice had suddenly turned cold and sarcastic. “Your stubbornness is one thing, Eiji-san, but I can’t stand that arrogance of yours,” said O-Nobu, glaring at him. “Don’t they say husband and wife become one flesh? This idea that a man is ruined if his wife earns money—it’s just your inflated pride talking, this notion that men should provide for women. What’s wrong with a wife supporting her husband when he’s out of work? Men and women are the same—this world doesn’t exist to glorify men alone!”

“You’re dodging the point, O-Nobu.” “I’ll drink too.” She stood up.

At that moment, a customer entered, and the young maid Omatsu said, “Welcome back,” guiding them to one of the seating ledges. O-Nobu, who had returned carrying her own cup and a heated sake flask, brightened with a smile upon seeing the customer and said, “Oh, welcome back,” then went over there while casting Eiji a sidelong glance. “Seems she’s angry,” Eiji muttered to himself, pouring another drink. “—‘A man works to support a woman’—as if that’s what this is about. You know damn well that’s not it.”

But perhaps that arrogance had hit close to the mark. Osue and Saburō were earning money to tide the three of us over this emergency. To think that I was making my wife earn money for me might be arrogance, he thought. "That's where it's off." Eiji shook his head vigorously, as if trying to rouse his drunkenly muddled mind awake. "I ain't got no arrogant feelings at all—not a damn bit! I just feel like I ain't doin' right by Saburō or Osue."

When someone said, "I'm sorry," and he looked up, O-Nobu stood there with the previous customer. The man appeared to be fifty-five or fifty-six, dressed in a layered Yūki tsumugi silk kimono with a haori overcoat, secured by a navy Hakata-ori belt, wearing hemp-soled sandals laced with white-tanned leather cords.

“This is Sanukiya-san, one of our regulars,” O-Nobu introduced. “He wishes to join us and has something to discuss.” Her tone brooked no refusal. Eiji waved his hand as if being reeled in and answered, “Please.” “Might be forward of me, but pardon the bother,” said the customer in a rural twang as he settled before Eiji. “Name’s Sanukiya Ihei—countin’ on yer skills.”

15-4

While blankly staring at five koban gold coins placed on paper, Eiji sipped water from the teacup. Sanukiya Ihei—is this for real? “Enoshima in Sagami Province,” O-Nobu said. “It’s nowhere near here.” “I wouldn’t bat an eye even if it were a hundred ri away—but this all came too sudden-like. Still can’t wrap my head around it being real.” “Might seem sudden to you, Eiji-san, but Sanukiya-san’s been searching five days already.” That was how they’d explained it. Sanukiya was a restaurant in Enoshima, Sagami Province with twelve guest rooms. To replace all their sliding doors, he’d come all the way to Edo seeking a craftsman. Three rooms especially needed painted fusuma doors requiring mounting expertise. The other rooms had lavish specifications too—from framed panels down to the base paper. It looked like proper work he could sink his teeth into, and for the first time in ages Eiji felt fired up, laying out detailed opinions about the order. Ihei seemed taken with Eiji’s proposals—asked him to come survey the place and left five ryō as deposit. Turned out Ihei had made rounds of seven or eight mounting and paper-hanging shops—even visited Hōkōdō they said—but none could agree on wages. Every place wanted five-plus craftsmen minimum, all top hands given the work’s demands. At that rate, Enoshima jobs were impossible this season—labor costs alone would triple Ihei’s budget even before materials. But hearing the deadline just needed New Year’s delivery, Eiji reckoned he and Saburō could manage between them. The pay didn’t matter—more than anything he needed work. Proper work in his trade—that alone made him want it bad.

“I was drunk,” Eiji said. “Must’ve agreed so easily ’cause I was drunk. But thinkin’ on it now, feels like some dream.” “The money’s right there before you,” O-Nobu said. “You’re not sayin’ you want out now, surely?” “That how my words sounded to you?” “I’d clean forgotten,” O-Nobu said, rising. Fetching her cup while directing Omatsu to pour sake, she settled across from Eiji. “Meant to drink while complainin’ earlier, but this round’s for celebratin’.”

“Is the proprietress all right with this?”

“The proprietress hasn’t returned since last night—we’ll discuss that later,” said O-Nobu, pouring herself a drink. “Sanukiya-san had been here five days already, staying at an inn called Yoshidaya across the moat. If he’d mentioned the job earlier, I would’ve relayed it to you myself, but he said nothing until today! Though if you hadn’t complained about having no work, I might not have mediated at all. Enoshima’s beyond Hakone Pass, after all.”

“Huh—so it’s beyond Hakone Pass?” “Pour me a drink,” O-Nobu said, thrusting her cup forward before immediately sticking out her tongue. “Oh right—no cup exchanges, no mutual pouring.” “I’ll pour—since I landed this job thanks to you.” “That reminds me.” Omatsu brought heated sake as two regular maids appeared. They greeted them with “Good morning,” but O-Nobu paid no heed, drinking continuously while earnestly confronting Eiji.

“Eiji-san, earlier you were talking about Saburō-chan doing day labor and making your wife earn money, weren’t you?” “Quit it—too damn early for this.” “This makes three cups—I’m not drunk-talking, I mean this,” O-Nobu said. “Listen—you’re counted among Hōkōdō’s top hands, aren’t you? Even without this job, you’ll become a sought-after artisan someday. When folks say ‘a man’s done once his wife starts earning,’ that’s not your sort. That’s for layabouts who sponge off their wives’ work. Your case is different—you want work but can’t find it. If there’s no work, even Hidari Jingorō would’ve ended up begging!”

“Hidari Jingorō, huh? That’s new to me.” “Don’t sidestep this—we’re reaching the heart of the matter.” O-Nobu kept pouring her own drinks as she pressed on. “You said earlier you’re making Osue earn money, didn’t you? And I called that pure arrogance. Do you grasp that, Eiji-san?” Eiji gave a noncommittal head shake.

“Don’t be angry—I mean this sincerely,” O-Nobu said. “That attitude of making Osue earn money—once your business prospers, you’ll start thinking you’re supporting everyone through your own efforts.” “Isn’t it natural for a man to earn a living and support his wife and children?” O-Nobu shook her head slowly. “That’s preposterous—you can’t be serious. The very notion that one person supports another is pure arrogance. For you to succeed as a craftsman, Eiji-san, countless people lend their strength behind the scenes. Didn’t Saburō-chan himself say it? ‘I’m just a worthless idler—but without the glue I prepare, even your work wouldn’t turn out right.’”

“The glue Saburō prepares is second to none—there shouldn’t have been anyone at Hōkōdō who could surpass it.” “You’ve often said that before, Eiji-san.” Two men who appeared to be regular customers from the neighborhood entered. Saying “Welcome,” O-Nobu called the maids. Then, signaling to Eiji with a glance, she placed the heated sake flask and small dishes onto a tray and stood up. “Let’s go over there,” came the whispered command, and Eiji too rose and moved to the inner private room. The hour was nearing dusk, and the inner private room had grown dark. O-Nobu told Omatsu to bring an andon lamp.

“Just a bit more, so listen seriously.” O-Nobu finished arranging the place settings and sat down, immediately declaring: “Since you say so yourself, Eiji-san—it’s no lie that Saburō-chan prepares glue no one can match. You use that glue for your work—whether they’re hanging scrolls or folding screens—and when the results are good, you get praised: ‘Fine craftsmanship,’ ‘Skillful hands.’ But does anyone ever praise the glue? Do you really think there’s a single soul who’d say, ‘The glue used on this scroll shows masterfully prepared adhesive,’ Eiji-san?”

“It’s the same with Osue,” O-Nobu continued, shifting her tone. “Even if your shop prospers someday and she no longer needs to take on menial work, that doesn’t mean her life will get any easier. Managing the household and ensuring you can focus on your craft—those burdens will far outweigh any sewing jobs. Don’t you think so, Eiji-san?”

Eiji said nothing, took the teacup, and sipped water. O-Nobu drank two more cups by herself.

“I’ve been serving customers like this for so long, and I’ve truly come to think this way.” O-Nobu sighed and said, “—Those who get looked up to by society as ‘brothers’ or ‘masters’—they all have several people like Saburō-chan supporting them behind the scenes. It’s true, Eiji-san.”

“I get it, I really do.” When I was at the labor camp, Yohei had told me something similar. It had meant something like: You're not alone—at the very least count, there's Saburō-chan and Osue and O-Nobu, isn't there? No matter the circumstances, people are never truly alone. Even so, O-Nobu’s words—that behind those elevated and respected by society, there are always people like Saburō supporting them in the shadows—stung deeply.

Omatsu brought a lit andon lamp and carried two heated sake flasks. “You understood me, then.” O-Nobu drank from the new flask herself. “—Your eyes look like you’ve understood.”

O-Nobu stared at Eiji’s face as she said this, and suddenly tears spilled from her eyes. “Why didn’t you make me your wife?” O-Nobu stared at Eiji with eyes overflowing with tears and said, “Even though I love you this much, I could’ve become a good wife for you—not just doing menial work, but I would’ve gladly sold myself off for your sake.”

“The light blue curtain’s fallen—we’ve moved from prologue to the main drama now,” Eiji said in a tone that pretended not to have heard anything. “—Should head back before they start worrying at home. Thanks.” “No—don’t go yet!” O-Nobu seized Eiji’s hand with swift desperation. “I’m begging you—stay just a little longer.”

Eiji showed her the money pouch he’d stowed in his pocket. “You haven’t forgotten this, have you?” O-Nobu snapped out of her agitation upon seeing that pouch as though she’d plunged off a cliff. While listlessly brushing back a stray lock of hair, she gave a soft, bashful smile. “I must’ve been drunk. I’m sorry.” O-Nobu stuck out her tongue slightly and shrugged her shoulders. “Osue must be worried. You should hurry back to her.”

“O-Nobu, are you alright?” “That’s not it.” O-Nobu tapped her obi sash. “And then—though I probably don’t need to say this—the mistress here has managed this.”

O-Nobu held up her right thumb. “Who do you think that person is?”

Eiji read O-Nobu’s expression. “That… Toku-san the chef?” “I don’t need to carry a razor anymore—but isn’t it strange?” O-Nobu hunched her shoulders. “If he gets involved with the mistress, I’ll feel like my own man’s been stolen next. Women are such odd creatures, don’t you think?”

15-5

Upon returning to Sakamoto Nichōme, Eiji didn’t give Osue a chance to speak and abruptly launched into an account of what had transpired at Sumiyoshi. "It’s like a condemned man making his defense," he thought bitterly even as he spoke, but Osue’s face brightened in an instant, lighting up with life.

“That’s wonderful, isn’t it? Truly wonderful,” Osue said in a buoyant voice. “I’ll never forget O-Nobu’s kindness as long as I live.” “If you even hint at that,” Eiji warned, “O-Nobu will fly into a rage.” That’s right—she loves you, Osue thought privately, though she kept the words unspoken. “So when will you leave for the inspection?” “Tomorrow,” Eiji answered. “I’ll depart while it’s still dark tomorrow.”

“Enoshima’s far, isn’t it?” “Since it’s my first time going there myself, I can’t say for certain—but it’s definitely closer than Hakone.” As Osue rose cheerfully to prepare dinner, Eiji asked her where Saburō was that day. “Now that you mention it,” Osue said turning back toward him, “I met that Osei girl today—just like you said, she’s pretty and capable and altogether lovely.”

“Did she come here?” “It was me who went. Since you went to the bathhouse and were taking so long to come back, I thought you might’ve gone to Saburō-chan’s place or somewhere, so I went all the way to Kasai.” Eiji squinted as if dazzled. “My apologies,” he said while averting his eyes. “Exactly as you said.” Osue said as she headed to the kitchen, “That person would be perfect as Saburō-chan’s wife.” It had only been a brief conversation while standing, but the fact that the girl named Osei was fond of Saburō had been evident in her words and expressions. Since Saburō was the more easygoing one, Osei’s lively, sharp-eyed nature would likely prove useful. “I’ll find a good opportunity to get them together,” Osue said in a lively tone from the kitchen. “So, was Saburō there?” Eiji asked. “No, he apparently went out for work; if he doesn’t come tonight, he’ll surely stop by tomorrow,” Osue replied.

“Will Saburō-chan be going to Enoshima with you?” “The inspection I can handle alone,” Eiji said, “but I need him to buy materials while I’m away. Our stockpiled items won’t do—we must reorder even just the lining paper. And we might miss the deadline if we don’t place orders immediately.” “How busy we’ve become.” Osue came over while setting the meal and said, “Such a special evening deserves something—shall we open a bottle? It’s been ages.”

“We’ve had enough sake,” Eiji said, waving his hand. “Let’s make do with what we have—then prepare for tomorrow.” Throughout the meal, Osue’s flushed face held a smile as she talked nonstop about trivial matters. It’s too early to celebrate like that—that should come after finishing the job—Eiji tried to say, but realizing how deeply she must have been troubled to rejoice so heartily now, he found himself unable to dampen her joy. As soon as the meal ended, Eiji wrote in the order book. For painted fusuma screens, several types of backing paper were required: depending on whether the artwork was on paper or silk foundation, one needed papers with properties suited to each surface—like Usumino or ganpi for the foundational layer applied directly, intermediate layers, and reinforcement layers. Since these were handmade papers, even those labeled “Mino” varied in texture density and thickness, while uniformity in the paper’s weave remained a critical condition. Selecting these required nothing but long experience and intuition—and though Saburō seemed somewhat unreliable for such work, since ordering them didn’t guarantee immediate availability, there was no choice but to entrust him with the task for now.

“If Saburō comes tomorrow,” Eiji said, showing Osue the completed order book, “have him take this to Yamatoya in Honrokuchō and tell them we want this entire order prepared within ten days.” “Yamatoya in Honrokuchō, right?” “It’s Yamatoya Saburōbei’s paper shop in Honrokuchō Yonchōme,” Eiji emphasized. “Saburō might call it Happara—since we always used Happara at Hōkōdō—but I’m telling you, it’s Yamatoya. Don’t forget.”

“Understood,” Osue nodded. “About these five ryō,” Eiji said as he unwrapped the bundle and took out the money, “I’ll take two coins for the palanquin fare to Enoshima and back. One ryō might’ve been enough, but better safe than sorry on urgent travels. Give the remaining three to Saburō and tell him to put them as deposit at Yamatoya—meaning I’m sorry, but not one copper mon of this can go through your hands.”

“Shall I show you?” Osue said with a quick laugh as she stood up. She retrieved her purse from the chest’s small drawer and shook its contents onto her lap. “Count it please—there’s two bu and one shu plus a little more. I’ll be just fine.” Eiji stared fixedly at Osue’s lap, then let out a long sigh as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, the tension draining from his body. “It’s still too early to sleep.” Eiji said in a voice that seemed to catch in his throat—“Should I check the brushes?”

Part 16-1

Eiji, who had departed on his journey, returned on the evening of the third day. He looked unmistakably exhausted, as though he had made a journey befitting a courier, yet his spirits seemed high; even as he removed his travel gear, he continued talking animatedly without pause.

“Osue, you’re coming with me too,” Eiji declared first thing. “—It’s a view so stunning it’ll make you feel like a fool just looking at it. Over here you’ve got Fuji visible like this, then this terrifyingly vast sea circling all around, and on the shore these pure white waves whooshing in nonstop, see? And the wind—damn, it’s like they’ve cranked up some bellows special! It’s incredible!” “You should go take a bath now.” Osue said with a laugh, “You’re covered in dust.”

“The bathwater’s filthy at this hour—we’ll just boil water at home and wipe down,” Eiji said while fastening his obi. “More importantly, like I stated from the start, you’re coming along for this job too.”

“Enoshima? I’m afraid to go somewhere that far away.” Osue tidied up Eiji’s discarded clothes and stood up. “I’ll get the water boiling right away.”

"You must be tired. Why don’t you lie down for a bit?" Osue called from the kitchen. "The work turned out first-rate through proper channels—just as I thought," Eiji said while half-listening. If this were Edo his name would spread instantly—but fame meant nothing now. To land such mainstream work for his first independent job—that alone was luck enough. What intrigued him more—when he'd presented full estimates,the Sanukiya proprietor had added fifty percent. "He took a shine to your quote," Eji continued."Said if costs run over,tell him straight—no client like that exists these days."

Then, suddenly becoming aware he’d been talking too much, he abruptly fell silent. Just as he was about to ask “What about Saburō?” the lattice door at the entrance opened and Saburō’s voice could be heard. “Come in,” Eiji said, and upon seeing Saburō enter, he noted him wearing a kimono with bold stripes layered with a cotton haori of finely spaced lines, his hair freshly retied. “Sit down.” Eiji said with studied casualness, “The Enoshima job’s settled.”

Then he took out the money belt from the chest and pushed it before the seated Saburō. “It’s a half-payment of thirty-five ryō,” Eiji said, “though since we took five ryō as a deposit already, that leaves thirty ryō remaining.”

“So,” Saburō licked his lips, “so, it’s a seventy-ryō job?”

“Depending on how it turns out, it could increase by fifty percent—but let’s not count on that.” “Wow, that’s our Eiji-chan for you,” Saburō stammered. “Me, I always end up stuck with whatever half-baked jobs come my way, but I guess having skill or not really does set people apart.” “It’s thanks to you,” Eiji said plainly. “It’s thanks to you and Osue,” he added. “I won’t say anything more now, but once the job’s done, I plan to properly thank you both.”

As if recoiling from those words, Saburō frantically waved his hands and cut in, “Don’t even think about it!” Disregarding that, Eiji changed the subject. “Did you place the paper order?” “Yeah,” Saburō licked his lips again, “I handed over that order form and the deposit to Yamatoya.” “Will everything be ready soon?” “They said they’ll have them ready.” And Saburō looked timidly at Eiji. “Um… is this job urgent?”

Because Saburō’s tone carried a hint of fear, Eiji, as though only now noticing, studied Saburō’s face.

“We agreed to finish by New Year’s—what’s the problem?” “It’s nothing really, but…” Saburō weakly lowered his eyes. “—From Kasai… They sent word my mother’s sick—might not last the day.” Eiji glowered and pressed, “And?” “So… I mean, it’s my mother, and Kasai isn’t exactly far.” “You’re impossible!” Eiji’s tone turned harsh despite himself. “What’s this ‘Kasai’ nonsense? You—forgotten what they did to you there?”

“That’s exactly why this is hard for me.” “I won’t mention other things—just what happened when you fell ill and went home to recover is plenty! They threw an emaciated patient—swollen legs twice their size—into a storage shed and even made him do odd jobs, didn’t they? From strangers I’d expect it, but from your own flesh-and-blood siblings? Your mother was among them too, wasn’t she? And now you call her ‘Mother’? You’ve got no right to say that word now!”

“Oh, you’re back,” Osue said as she entered from the kitchen. “—The water’s already boiling.”

Part 16-2 "Tonight I'll buy sake and get us something good to eat," Eiji declared, heading to the kitchen. Since Eiji insisted he would handle it himself, Osue remained behind and served Saburō tea.

“What’s wrong?” Osue whispered. “I heard a loud voice earlier though.” Saburō explained the circumstances and said he wanted to make his way along the night road to Kasai.

“That’s troubling.” “Eiji-chan got furious for my sake,” Saburō said quietly. “On account of how they treated me rough-like, he’s hated Kasai since way back—says folks like that ain’t family, not parents nor siblings neither. And… well, truth told—my kin’re a pack of rotten apples.” Osue nodded, glancing toward the kitchen. “But here’s how I figure it,” Saburō continued, voice lowered, “it was my own flesh and blood what came down hard on me—I never done nothin’ worth blamin’.”

"My husband isn't angry at you," Osue said, turning red—seemingly embarrassed at having unwittingly used "my husband" for the first time. "Who'd ever think you're at fault?" "That ain't it—that ain't it at all!" Saburō shook his head impatiently. "—Don't know how to put it right—my tongue's too clumsy. But here's the thing: No matter how rough they treated me, she's still my mother. If I'd done somethin' worth blamin', that'd be different. But if not... ain't no harm in goin' to take her final water."

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.” Without fully grasping the meaning behind his words yet wanting to encourage him, Osue added, “He understands that much too.” Eiji emerged wiping behind his ears with a damp hand towel and told her to prepare the sake. With a rustle of fabric, Osue stood up while signaling Saburō through a glance, and Eiji settled beside the long brazier. “When are you heading out?” Eiji asked.

Saburō adjusted his posture for no particular reason. “You’re going to Kasai, aren’t you?” “Will you let me go?” “You’re a pitiful man,” Eiji said. “But I’ll tell you this straight—once the materials are ready, we’re leaving Edo immediately. I plan to bring Osue along since she might be of some help. We can’t have you lollygagging around.” “Thank you—I’ll owe you for this, Eiji-chan.” Saburō bowed. “I’m just making a quick trip there and back. From how the message sounded, they said I might not even make it in time to see her before she passes—and even if that’s not the case, I’ll return right away.”

“I’ll check about the glue to be certain.” “Now?” Saburō countered, and Eiji gave a nod. The two rose and went to the workshop.

Saburō lit a candle, opened the removable floorboard in a corner of the workshop, and pointed out five jars beneath the floorboards. Slightly smaller than water jugs, their lower halves were buried in the soil. Three out of the five had preparation dates written on their paper-sealed lids. Saburō pointed to them one by one starting from the edge as he explained, and Eiji nodded and said he understood. When he replaced the lid as it was, Saburō looked at Eiji uneasily while extinguishing the candle.

“Um…” Saburō asked weakly, “You wouldn’t… leave me behind, would you?” “It’s up to you.” Eiji went to hang the damp hand towel he was holding in the kitchen, then returned and said as he sat down, “—This job might decide our whole lives. There’s truly no time left to waste.” “I know, it’s all right,” Saburō said apologetically. “So, uh… truth is, I need to head out now.”

“We’ll have a simple celebration—eat together, then go by palanquin. That should work.” “A palanquin?” Saburō’s eyes widened. “To finish things quickly, that’s part of the job too,” Eiji said as he pulled his money belt closer and took out a single koban. “This is your advance share—take it without hesitation.”

Saburō started to say something.

“Just take it.” Eiji tightened the cord of his money belt without letting Saburō speak another word. “Given your nature, there’s no use sayin’ this—but this money’s yours. It might seem heartless, but you can’t give a single coin to the folks in Kasai. Listen, Saburō—depending on how you handle work from here on out, you’ll end up with Osei. If you show ’em a place like Kasai where money slips through your fingers, she’ll be cryin’ her eyes out once you’ve got a household.”

“Wait.” Saburō stammered, “If you go tellin’ me everythin’ all at once like this, I’ll just get all mixed up. What’re you sayin’ ’bout me ’n’ Osei-chan doin’, Eiji-chan?”

Eiji waved his hand as if brushing something away. “Enough. We’ll discuss that when we get back.” “Even so, if Eiji-chan’s plannin’ to put me and Osei-chan together, that’s a damn wrong idea.” “You’re going to say she’s still a child, right? Fine—we’ll leave this talk for later.”

16-3

The next day brought a fierce north wind that whipped through the streets, the cold biting sharply. Yet shortly after breakfast, Eiji set out for Yamatoya in Honeshi-cho Fourth District to confirm details about his paper order. The shop owner informed him they would prepare all specified items within five days, adding that payment could wait if Eiji continued patronizing their establishment. Paper merchants typically carried themselves with an air of superiority—this seemed an industry norm. Stocking premium papers from near and far required not only substantial capital and discerning taste but stemmed fundamentally from paper's inherent value as a precious commodity, fostering attitudes distinct from other trades. Yet Yamatoya defied this stereotype. The reason likely lay in the authenticity of Eiji's order—every item requested represented top-grade quality. Moreover, Saburobei the owner had perhaps taken a liking both to the meticulous way the order was placed and to Eiji's character itself when they met face-to-face. In any case, Saburobei proved genial, dismissing payment concerns while urging Eiji to keep entrusting them with future orders.

“Oh?” Saburobei asked upon seeing Eiji stand up. “Did something happen to your leg?” “Yes, during last summer’s big storm,” Eiji replied, stroking the sole of his foot. “I did something clumsy and sprained it, but there’s no problem now. Does it bother you?” Saburobei shook his head. “My second son also has a disabled leg—well, please take good care of it.” Eiji silently bowed his head.

When he left the store and stood on the dusty road whipped by strong winds, Eiji suddenly found himself wanting to visit Ishikawajima. It might have been the questions about his leg that prompted it, but he felt compelled to share his newfound fortune with Okayasu Kihee and Yohei—this job that had finally come through. Meeting the owner of Yamatoya even made him feel as if fate itself had validated his streak of luck. Since being sent to the labor camp, misfortunes had plagued him in relentless succession. He’d learned through harsh experience that calamity rarely travels alone—it arrives in swarms—and perhaps good fortune followed the same cruel arithmetic. If that were true, he’d clutch this chance tight and make it theirs, Eiji resolved.

At a street corner, Eiji hailed a palanquin, and at Funamatsuchō's riverbank boarded a ferry bound for the island. When he landed on the island, he visited the guardhouse and requested a meeting with Okayasu Kihee. "If it isn't the Stubborn One!" The old guard at the guardhouse said in astonishment, "Well I'll be damned! You actually came! How've you been? How's that leg? Here—sit down here for a bit."

In the meantime, the middle-aged guard went to relay the message and returned with word that Okayasu would see him immediately. The old guard kept insisting that Eiji should stop by on his way back while puffing on his tobacco, seemingly eager to reminisce about the storm. When Eiji went to the government office, a subordinate official ushered him into a reception room. Okayasu Kihee appeared shortly afterward, his black hakama wrinkled and the collar of his undergarment peeking out at the chest. Eiji stared wide-eyed at this disheveled appearance—like someone who'd just been in a brawl—unlike anything he'd ever seen from the man before. Okayasu must have noticed his reaction—he brushed down his hakama and adjusted his collar as he sat, muttering by way of explanation about some uncontrollable new laborer causing trouble, then suddenly fixed Eiji with an anxious stare.

“You,” Okayasu whispered in a searching tone, “did some trouble find you?” Eiji felt his chest tighten. That question coming the moment their eyes met could only mean genuine concern. Feeling heat rise behind his eyes, Eiji shook his head in denial and pressed both palms to the floorboards in formal greeting. “Truth is—I’ve finally landed proper work. Came to share the news.” He raised his head and continued, “Not Edo work—a country commission. If this goes well, it’ll give me the grip I need to keep my shop standing.”

“Good, that’s good.” Okayasu relaxed his tense expression with relief. “That’s the best news I could hear. Ah yes—Matsuda told me about your wedding celebration. You’ve found yourself a good wife, haven’t you?” Okayasu Kihee’s attitude suddenly became distracted there, and he seemed to lose any inclination to listen earnestly to Eiji’s story. Without needing to infer, his concern was directed toward the newly arrived laborers. If Eiji had come to him with some trouble, he would have done everything he could to help. But Eiji was someone who had left the labor camp and had secured work. Once he understood that, it was enough—Eiji was already out of his hands. What was occupying Okayasu Kihee’s mind at that moment could only be the matter of the new laborers—uncontrollable ruffians, by all accounts. While thinking this, Eiji asked about Yohei and Lump-Seishichi. All the inmates from the mokko barracks had gone out to work off the island, so of course Yohei was with them, and they said everyone he knew was away. After that, Seishichi had completely vanished without a trace, and it was said that even his whereabouts were unknown.

“That woman—Otoyo, was it?” said Okayasu Kihee, his brow darkening. “He moved about three times with her. The third time was to Kobiki-cho 1-chome, but from there, Seishichi vanished completely.” “How did you know that?” “Those who leave here are monitored by the town magistrate’s constables for a year—of course, in a way that neither they nor their neighbors notice.” “So,” Eiji lowered his voice, “had they assigned watchers to me too?”

“You didn’t seem to notice,” Okayasu said with a smile, “but of course you were being monitored—to prevent any possible missteps.”

Eiji quietly and deeply bowed his head.

“The woman called Otoyo still lives in a tenement in Kobiki-cho 1-chome,” Okayasu said. “The current man is a carter who’s five years her junior.” “Perhaps Seishichi went back to the countryside,” added Okayasu Kihee.

16-4 There was no way he would have returned to the countryside, Eiji thought. It was unthinkable that he, who had been so infatuated with Otoyo, would part from her of his own accord. After moving to Kobiki-cho, Seishichi had disappeared despite there being surveillance—the fact that he "disappeared" suggested something unusual must have occurred. The matter of the man—a carter five years her junior who had gotten together with Otoyo after Seishichi—weighed on Eiji’s chest like a dark, ominous shadow.

“What’s wrong, Sei-san?” In the palanquin returning to Sakamoto-chō, Eiji softly called out, “Where are you?” If he was safe somewhere out there—he should just come back to the labor camp—as long as he stayed on the island he wouldn’t have to suffer people’s cruelty—Eiji muttered as though in prayer. Saburō showed no signs of returning. Paper arrived from Yamatoya, and Eiji immersed himself in cutting them to match the measurement ledger. Thinking about Saburō infuriated him—he focused solely on cutting paper to size and thought of nothing else. And so after dinner he drank sake to distract himself. Osue never once spoke Saburō’s name either—perhaps sensing Eiji’s irritation—she kept her nerves perpetually on edge like brushing against bramble thorns.

On the eighth night after Saburō had left, after finishing dinner, Eiji—who had been drinking—suddenly set his cup down loudly. “Osue,” he said, “are your preparations ready?” Osue nodded anxiously and answered, “Yes, they’re ready.” “Good. Then we’ll depart tomorrow,” Eiji declared as he stood up. “Bring the lamp—I need to inspect the glue.” His impatience lay bare before her eyes. Osue found herself unable to speak.

Eiji went to the workshop and opened the raised lid in one corner as if impervious to the wooden floor’s coldness. When Osue brought the andon lamp, he said, “Give me the glue bucket.” Osue took down a lidded flat bucket from the built-in shelf on one side of the workshop and thoroughly wiped its interior with a dry cloth scrap.—Eiji peeled off the label from the first jar and removed its tightly fitted wooden lid. From beneath the floorboards, the cold scent of earth and the ripe odor of glue enveloped Eiji’s face. When he placed the removed jar lid upside down on the wooden floor, something written on its underside caught his eye.

The date when the glue had been prepared was written on the front. Wondering what might be written on this reverse side, Eiji drew the andon lamp closer. There could be no mistaking Saburō's handwriting—as he read, Eiji's face grew rigid, his drunkenness appearing to evaporate in moments. "Osue," he said in a rasping voice, "bring me sake—cold will do."

“Here?” “Here,” he said in a weak voice. “Two or three flasks—in cups.” Osue started to say something, but seeing how strangely Eiji was acting, she went to fetch the sake without protest. Eiji sat cross-legged directly on the wooden floor beside the andon lamp, glaring at the overturned glue jar lid as he began drinking cold sake from a cup. Osue brought a tray laden with side dishes, remarking that it was cold there, but he seemed not to hear her at all—offering no reply and not touching his chopsticks, his gaze devouring the characters on the underside of the lid as he emptied two flasks of sake in what seemed like moments.

“If we’re leaving tomorrow,” Osue said soothingly, “you shouldn’t get yourself so agitated.” “It was him,” Eiji said. “It was Saburō.” “What do you mean?” “The Watabun gold brocade scrap,” Eiji said with a grimace. “Read this.” Eiji pointed at the underside of the glue jar lid. Osue peered in, read the characters written there, then looked at Eiji with frightened eyes.

“Understood?” Eiji said.

Osue shook her head. “Here’s what it says,” Eiji read aloud, tracing the characters with his fingertip. “—I was wrong. That scrap of brocade gettin’ Eiji-chan exiled to the island—that’s my sin. Even if it takes my whole life, I gotta make up for this crime.”

16-5

Eiji stiffened his posture and stared at Osue’s face. Then he grabbed the third flask, poured it into his cup, and drained it in one gulp. “I never could make sense of it,” he said, glaring at the ceiling as he continued. “Sure, Saburō and I go back to our apprentice days. But these three years since they shipped me off to the island—what he’s done crosses every line. Just tracking me down in his spare time would’ve been hell! I didn’t give my real name or mention Hōkōdō once—they sent me off as a complete masterless wanderer. Finding someone like that across all Edo… It’s practically superhuman! And that’s not half of it—after locating me, he kept visiting so much that Hōkōdō finally kicked him out!”

“Please wait a moment.” “You’re the one who should wait,” said Eiji, pouring sake into his cup and taking a sip. “During work breaks—on every day off—he’d come bearing gifts even for my cellmates. For what purpose? Eventually word reached Hōkōdō’s master, and he got expelled from the shop. For what purpose? Just because we’d been friends since our apprentice days? Because we were close?”

“Yes, I think so.” With a pale, strained face, Osue nodded. “I’ve heard since my time at Watabun-san’s—Saburō didn’t just know you since childhood; he’s always relied on you for his whole life. ‘My life only has meaning because of you,’ he said. ‘If there were no you, I’d have ended up a day laborer or a street performer.’ I’ve heard Saburō say those very words himself.”

“Hmph.” Eiji sipped his sake and shook his head slowly with a sneer. “Do you remember?’—that’s what he’d want to ask.” “What are you talking about remembering?”

Eiji gently shook his head again—a motion like trying to wipe away the rainy scene at Ryōgoku Bridge that had surfaced behind his eyes. “Here’s how I see it,” Osue pressed on. “When that brocade scrap went missing, Saburō was working right beside you. He was there through it all, yet never noticed someone putting that scrap in your tool bag. Right there next to you, and he missed something so vital—couldn’t stop the disaster hitting the person he’d staked his whole life on. That’s his sin. A sin he’s got to atone for no matter what it takes. Wouldn’t that be just like Saburō? Others might brush it off, but Saburō? He’d absolutely think that way.”

Eiji stared fixedly at Osue’s face. “—You’re trembling.” “Just because Saburō did more than most would for you doesn’t mean you should suspect him—that’s not like you at all.”

“Then how am I supposed to take this—this wording written here?” Osue lowered her stiffened face, then said, “I’ll fetch some water,” and stood up. Eiji poured sake into the cup and brought it to his lips, but furrowing his brows, he stopped drinking and lowered the hand holding the cup onto his lap. Just then, Osue returned and sat down. “I have something to confess.” Osue stared at her knees and whispered, “—I meant to take this to my grave no matter what happened. But if you start doubting Saburō and break your bond with him over this, that’d be beyond fixing—so I’ll tell you now.”

Eiji silently watched Osue. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me." Osue pressed both hands against the wooden floor. "—It was me who put the scrap of gold brocade in your tool bag." "Hey now," Eiji cut in. "If you're trying to defend Saburō, you should quit with that clumsy fabrication." "It's not a fabrication. It's the truth." Osue returned both hands to her knees and looked at Eiji with wide-open eyes. "I wanted to become your wife. To have you take me as yours, I was prepared to do anything."

Eiji shook his head side to side, fixed his gaze, and studied Osue’s expression. Then he abruptly stood up, left the workshop, and shut the front door. The motion seemed meant to swallow the meaning of Osue’s words—to carve out mental breathing room for himself.

“Let me hear it.” Returning to his spot and sitting down, Eiji said, “What does this mean?” “You were quite popular at Watabun-san’s,” Osue said. “Both Miss Okimi and Miss Osono—they were close to you more like siblings than a shop’s daughters would be to a visiting craftsman. There were even rumors that one of them would end up marrying you.”

“Don’t call me ‘Eiji-san’ like that.” “When I heard those rumors,” Osue continued, “every time I heard them, my chest would tighten so much I couldn’t even eat.” “You should’ve known how I felt.” Osue nodded. “I knew—I knew all along—but maybe women are just narrow-minded creatures. The rumors I heard seemed truer than reality itself. I couldn’t go on like that—me, a mere servant; them, the daughters of Watabun-san. There was no competing. Sooner or later they’d take you from me. What could I do? How could I stop it? I agonized—racked my brains—until days passed where I couldn’t sleep at night.”

“Understood,” Eiji said. “If that’s the truth, then stop.” “No—let me speak, just one more thing,” said Osue, wiping the inner corners of her eyes with her fingers. “—To keep you from being taken by those young ladies, I had to stop you from going to Watabun. I was so fixated on that idea. And then... even now I don’t understand how I could’ve done such a thing... but knowing how dearly Mr. Watabun treasured that scrap, I just... acted in a daze.”

“That’s enough,” Eiji said. “I already know the rest without hearing it.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t cry,” Eiji said as he scooted closer on his knees and embraced Osue’s body with both hands. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” Osue clung to Eiji’s chest and sobbed, “I just wanted to be your wife—that’s all I could think about. I couldn’t consider anything else.” “That’s fine. That’s just fine,” said Eiji, tightening his arms around her, “The proof is right here—look, we’ve become husband and wife like this, haven’t we?”

“Will you forgive me... you?” Osue pressed her face against Eiji’s chest while choking on sobs. “Don’t drive me out... please don’t drive me out.” Then the sobs swelled louder as Osue began crying aloud. Eiji kept holding her with his left arm, stroked her back with his right hand, and pressed his cheek to hers. “You’re my wife,” he whispered. “Did you forget what I told you from the start—that in this world, you’re the only wife I’ll ever have?”

Osue’s sobs grew even louder, and he once again wrapped both arms tightly around her.

“What I’m about to say may sound strange, but hear me out without laughing,” Eiji said quietly. “—I’m glad they sent me to that island. During those nearly three years in the labor camp, I was taught things—human bonds you’d never encounter in ordinary society, the duplicity of feelings, the hardships and sufferings of survival—truths that seeped into my very being. Not from didactic texts or secondhand stories. Through this living flesh of mine, I was shown these things directly.”

Osue had stopped crying, but her hiccupping sobs still hadn’t subsided. “Those nearly three years in the labor camp taught me more than ten years in the outside world,” Eiji continued. “—This is my true feeling. Don’t think it’s a lie. Right now, I feel like thanking you.”

Osue suddenly clung to Eiji’s neck with both hands and cried out, “You!” Eiji kissed Osue’s lips, kissed her cheeks, kissed her ears, then, while embracing her with all his strength, kissed the soft nape of her neck.

At that moment, a knocking sound came from the outer rain shutters.

“Eiji-chan,” came a voice from outside. “Are you there? Eiji-chan, I’ve come back now.”

“It’s Saburō,” said Eiji. “Have mercy, Eiji-chan,” came the voice beyond the rain shutters. “My ma’s at death’s door right now—right this moment—she’s about to pass. That’s why I kept putting it off till today. I messed up, Eiji-chan—show me some mercy. It’s me—open up here—it’s Saburō.”