Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

Mojiji had gone to Kawagoe for work, so he learned about the fire in the evening of the following day. He heard a little about it that very evening. Since Lord Kawagoe (Matsudaira Naoharu) was in residence at his castle, there must have been an urgent report from his Edo estate—it was said that the fire had burned quite extensively. People raised in Edo were accustomed to fires, and since it was still early September, they didn’t pay any particular mind to it.

“A September fire ain’t much of a fire,” Shōkichi said, “Besides, there’s no way a big blaze would break out while I’m away.” Among the three companions he had brought along, Shōkichi—now twenty years old—was called a fire fanatic. He too was a homegrown apprentice of Dairu, but ever since he was thirteen or fourteen, he had loved fires and would dash out the moment he heard the fire bell. Dairu’s shop stood in Iwai-cho, Kanda, but distance meant nothing to him—he once raced all the way beyond Senju Ohashi and didn’t return until around nine o’clock the next morning.

If there's a fire, carpenters profit—fire is a carpenter's guardian deity. There had even been times when he'd been beaten by Master Tomezō for saying such things.

The afternoon of the following day, just as they had finished eating their lunch, Kuro—now eighteen years old—came rushing in. His real name was Kurōsuke, and there was nothing particularly dark about his complexion, but he had been called Kuro from the very beginning. He had come by a relay of fast palanquins, it was said, and delivered Sukejirō’s message: “We need the Young Master Carpenter to return immediately.” “Can I return in the middle of work?” Mojiji said. “What’s this about anyway?” Kuro evaded the question.

Mojiji had come as his father Tomezō’s proxy. For the construction of a restaurant-teahouse called Natsune in this area, Dairu had taken on the full contract. They had summoned plasterers, roofers, and joiners from Edo too, along with fourteen or fifteen local craftsmen and day laborers. Of the three men Mojiji had brought along, Dairoku—now thirty-one—acted as his guardian of sorts, but Mojiji couldn’t just abandon all this work for Dairoku to handle alone and go home. As he prepared to demand again what this urgent matter was, Mojiji abruptly remembered yesterday’s fire.

“Hey,” Mojiji said, “did our place burn down or something?” Kuro nodded vaguely. “Did our place burn down?” Mojiji raised his voice. “Are Dad and Mom safe?” Kuro silently hung his head. Mojiji turned pale and looked at Dairoku. Dairoku stood up and came over. “Kuro,” Dairoku said, “what’s wrong? The Master Carpenter and his wife are safe, right?” Then Kuro started crying. Mojiji tried to lunge forward, and Dairoku barely managed to grab and hold him back. Kuro covered his face with his arms and began to cry out like a child. Kuro’s weeping, echoing through the quiet construction site on an autumn midday, seemed to lay bare the gravity of the situation itself, leaving everyone so violently overwhelmed that none could move a muscle at first.

“Shōkichi, I’m counting on you to watch over the Young Master Carpenter,” Dairoku said calmly. “Kuro, come here.” Dairoku led Kuro away to the side.

Mojiji sat down on the lumber in front of the wooden hut. His angular, sturdy face had lost its strength as if in a daze, his eyes grown vacant, staring blankly at the parched white ground. Dad’s dead, Mojiji thought to himself. His father Tomezō had collapsed in April of that year and had been alternating between bedridden and upright states. The illness had been a very mild stroke, and three doctors had said he would surely make a full recovery by winter. He must have seen the fire and had a second attack.

He knew that strenuous activity and stress could easily trigger a second attack. It must have been the second attack. Mother must have been so shocked, he thought. Though emotionally fragile, she had been strong-willed, but when her husband collapsed in April, she completely lost her composure, and since then had become a withdrawn, timid woman who startled easily. Even when Mojiji had come to Kawagoe for work, the image of her—looking so terribly anxious about what might happen in his absence—remained etched in his mind.

I have to go back right away. For Mother’s sake too, he should return immediately—as Mojiji was thinking this, Dairoku came back. “Young Master Carpenter, I’ll go to Edo and come back,” Dairoku said. “No, it’s better if I go—you should stay here.” “What do you mean?” “I don’t know the details,” Dairoku said, staring straight at Mojiji, “but knowing you, I’ll say it plain—both the Master Carpenter and your mother… didn’t make it.”

Mojiji stared vacantly at Dairoku, then—his tongue gone leaden—asked in return, "Mother too?"

“There’s no way to put it,” Dairoku said, lowering his eyes, “so that’s why I think it’s better if I go. I think it’s best for you to handle that later, Young Master Carpenter.”

Mojiji remained silent. Dairoku waited for a while, but Mojiji did not move a muscle.

Dairoku called out, “Young Master Carpenter.”

Mojiji remained silent. "Young Master Carpenter," Dairoku said, "you've got to pull yourself together—this won't do." Then Mojiji suddenly lifted his face and barked, "Shut up! You're the one who needs to get a grip! If Dad and Mom are dead, any slip-up handling the aftermath will tarnish Dairu's name. Don't forget that—make damn sure you do it right!" "Right," Dairoku said, lowering his head.

Mojiji stood up and barked toward the craftsmen, "Let's get to work." Dairoku went to Edo with Kuro and returned on the fifth day to report the details to Mojiji.

The fire had broken out at 10 AM on September 7th. It had started at Botan Nagaya in front of Yushima Tenjin Shrine’s back gate and, driven by a northwest wind, spread from Sangumi-cho to Kanda Myojin. From that point onward, the wind grew fiercer; the flames devoured Kanda all at once and burned as far as Nihonbashi, while spreading eastward from Horiechō, Koamichō, and both theaters in Fukiyachō to Bakurochō and Hamachō. There, flying embers carried the fire to Kumaichō and Aikawachō in Fukagawa, burning down even the first torii gate of Hachiman Shrine and reducing the entire area around Nakachō to ashes. The fire, being unseasonal, likely spread extensively, and the number of casualties also seemed considerable. Having said that, Dairoku paused his words. Dairoku must have been hesitating over how to say what came next; Mojiji immediately discerned this.

"I'm asking the questions here," Mojiji said. "Only answer what I ask. Did they die in the fire?" Dairoku answered, "Yes."

“Together?” Mojiji asked. “Or separately?” “They were together—your mother was positioned as if embracing the Master Carpenter.” “I get it. Stop talking,” Mojiji said, turning his face away. “Don’t ever let me hear about Dad and Mom again.” Dairoku nodded and said they had arranged for the funeral to take place once Mojiji returned.

II

Dairoku went to check on Edo three more times after that.

Within the town, the pawnbroker and money exchange "Fukudaya" had remained unburned. Master Kyūbei served in the five-man association and was considered foremost in Kanda both in assets and public esteem. The eldest son Rikichi was twenty-three—the same age as Mojiji—with a seventeen-year-old sister named Oyū below him. Both had been childhood friends with Mojiji and still maintained close ties. The shop occupied a corner lot with three earthen storehouses, faced by a canal embankment to the front and bordered across the northern road by samurai residences. Perhaps these geographical advantages had spared it—along with a section of the neighboring town’s samurai quarters—leaving Fukudaya alone standing unburned.

“I heard that due to the entire area being burned ruins and thus unsafe, the people from the residence are still staying with relatives in Mejiro, but the shop has already reopened.”

“That’s good,” Mojiji said. Dairu had also been building a temporary hut in the burned ruins.

In the fire, Tomezō and his wife perished alongside two apprentices—Kurata and Ginji—but Kuro had gone to assist at Sukejirō’s house and survived. Sukejirō served as Dairu’s accountant on a regular basis, was forty-five years old, and had three children with his wife Oroku. Their house was in Okachimachi, Shitaya, and Kuro had been staying there to repair the kitchen entrance. Among the regular craftsmen, around two had perished in the fire, but the others immediately rushed to the scene and, after consulting with Kiba’s “Washichi,” embarked on rebuilding Dairu.

The previous master of Washichi was Izumiya Shichibei, who had twice saved the failing Kiba shop for the deceased Tomezō and remained deeply grateful for it throughout his life. The current Shichibei was his son and—likely intending to honor his father’s wishes—came himself to declare, “I’ve settled matters with the lumber—I can supply any amount you need.” Thus it was decided to first erect a temporary hut. On his third return, Dairoku reported there were three construction orders and that Sukejirō had taken command, already assigning craftsmen and timber allocations. He then informed him that besides Kuro, three apprentice craftsmen displaced by the fire were staying at the temporary hut due to work obligations, and that they had hired a woman to tend to them. Mojiji listened with noncommittal grunts, but Dairoku faltered there, scratching his head slightly.

“What is it?” Mojiji asked suspiciously. “Do you know a girl named Oritsu?” Dairoku said. “She lives in the tenement behind the charcoal shop—her mother used to come help at our shop.” “I know,” Mojiji said. “We hired that girl.” Mojiji looked at Dairoku’s face. “—Wasn’t that girl supposed to be serving at some tea house?” “It was supposed to be Tenkawa in Namiki-cho,” Dairoku answered. “But apparently her mother also ended up dying in that fire, so she was completely at a loss.”

“Her mother died in the fire too—” Mojiji’s eyes grew distant. “That’s rough.” “So she lost her reason to keep working at the tea house,” Dairoku explained. “Says if she can manage it, she wants to live proper-like in her home district—take charge of cooking meals and washing clothes for everyone.” “Got it. Oritsu’s fine then.”

“I thought the same way too, but…”

Mojiji looked at Dairoku’s face again. “—What aren’t you saying?” “It’s not like I’m holding anything back,” Dairoku scratched his head again, “but when I went there this time, that girl had gathered children she’s looking after—kids who lost their parents and siblings in the fire.”

"So?" Mojiji urged impatiently. "So, in other words—one or two would've been manageable, but it's ended up being twelve or thirteen kids."

“No way,” Mojiji shook his head. “That’s impossible—throw them out.” Dairoku looked troubled as he explained it couldn’t be done—the girl had argued logically and flat-out refused to comply. “She’s always been a nosy busybody,” Mojiji said. “Fine—leave it. I’ll handle it when I get back.”

The construction of Hatsune was completed in early October.

During this time, two men—Daii of Takanawa and Kenroku of Asakusa Abekawa-cho—came to Kawagoe to offer their condolences. Daii’s Ikichi had been a junior disciple of the late Tomezō, and Mojiji had called him “Uncle Takanawa” since childhood. Kenroku was someone who had come from Dairu—the most senior in apprenticeship lineage among the disciples—and was already nearing sixty years of age. Both men offered condolences for Tomezō and his wife’s deaths and praised Mojiji for not abandoning his worksite. They then said they would advise him regarding funeral arrangements and Dairu’s reconstruction. Mojiji had always been awkward with words—anything he said came out curt and brusque, like snapping a dry branch—and true to form this time too, he thanked them for their condolences but flatly refused their offer to consult on reconstruction plans.

“I don’t intend to hold a funeral anytime soon,” Mojiji said. “There’s no money for that—what funds exist should go toward work first.” “That’s precisely why we came to discuss it—we’ll manage any financial needs,” they countered. “No,” Mojiji shook his head obstinately. “No funeral for now. And when rebuilding Dairu—if it comes to that—I’ll do it through my own skill. Just leave me be.”

Knowing Mojiji’s stubborn nature, the two men said they would discuss the matter again in Edo and left. Dairoku had been listening to this exchange with bated breath, but as soon as the two men left, he angrily declared there was no excuse for such conduct. “It depends on who you’re dealing with! Takanawa and Abekawa-cho are practically family. For them to come all this way to Kawagoe and offer to support your endeavors—that’s no small matter! And yet you—”

“Shut up,” Mojiji cut in. “I’ve got my own plans—I’ll make this clear. From now on, keep your damn mouth shut about anything that ain’t work.” Dairoku silently bowed his head.

“Understood?” Mojiji said.

“Understood,” Dairoku answered.

Once the construction work was fully completed, Mojiji returned to Edo with everyone.

By the time they reached Itabashi, the sun had set. As they descended from Hongōdai toward Soto-Kanda, it was already too dark to take in the view, but below Yushima stretched an expanse of blackened ruins, with only scattered lights here and there—a truly desolate sight. Until they crossed Izumi Bridge and reached Iwai-cho, wherever they looked, there was nothing but burnt ruins. Even the houses sporadically built along the main streets were all either temporary huts or similarly crude structures.

Dairu's shop stood in its original location, but set back from the plot reserved for proper construction, it had been built at the edge closer to the second block. It was a slapdash temporary hut fashioned from nailed-together planks, stretching lengthwise with its entrance facing Sakumacho. A lantern bearing the inscription "Dairu" cast stark light across the surrounding burnt ruins. Listening to the welcoming party—gathered at the entrance through Matsuzō's advance notice—vie to offer their greetings, Mojiji muttered softly under his breath.

“Dad… Mom… I’ve come back now.”

Three

The next morning, Mojiji was awakened by the clamor of the children.

The long horizontal hut was divided into three sections. The east end belonged to Mojiji, while Oritsu’s room occupied the west end with its attached kitchen. The central area—spanning roughly twelve tatami mats—had been where the craftsmen held their drinking party the night before, though no children had been visible then. Oritsu herself had only ferried sake and snacks without ever settling down, leaving no chance for conversation. This was why he’d forgotten about the children entirely—until their racket jolted him awake, sending him leaping up to slam open the shoji screen with a roar: “Shut your traps!”

There was a wooden floor with thin mats spread out, upon which bedding had been laid for sleeping. The shoji screen of the slit window glowed with daylight, revealing Kuro alone in the corner sleeping under a futon pulled over his head, while in the wide central area, a dozen or so children were rampaging across bedding they had thrown into disarray. At the loud shout and the sight of Mojiji, the children stopped their brawl and fell completely silent.

“This ain’t no open lot—keep it down!” Mojiji barked again. At that moment, Oritsu slid open the opposite shoji screen and emerged, wiping her hands on her work apron. With a hand towel draped over her head and a work sash across her chest, she gave Mojiji a respectful nod while scolding the children. Mojiji scanned their faces—one looked about thirteen years old, the youngest maybe five; when he counted properly, there were twelve of them. “Need t’talk to ya. Come here,” Mojiji said to Oritsu, then roared at Kuro without turning his head, “How long you plannin’ t’sleep, Kuro? Up now!”

Shōkichi and Matsuzō were nowhere to be seen. They must have gone out to play after last night’s drinking party. He thought Kurata and Ginji were also missing, but immediately realized the two had perished in the flames. Feeling his chest tighten, he averted his eyes.

“I’m preparing breakfast right now,” Oritsu said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Would after the meal be all right?”

Mojiji nodded and closed the shoji. As he was changing clothes, Oritsu came in and said preparations were ready by the well while folding the bedding. Mojiji went out back. What had once been an indoor well now stood exposed to open air since the house burned down. The wellside was new, the sink new too. He rearranged the filled water bucket, scrubbed his teeth with a hemp-stalk toothbrush while thinking this spot used to be the kitchen's earthen floor—then shook his head sharply and looked away.

“Hey,” Mojiji said to himself, “don’t think about this again.”

At the edge of the burned ruins, Fukudaya came into view. Although the branches of the planted pines and parts of the black-painted fence were scorched, both the two-story residence and three storehouses remained completely intact. "It survived damn well," Mojiji thought as he muttered under his breath. "I'll catch up soon enough."

In Mojiji’s room stood a makeshift Buddhist altar where two urns wrapped in bleached cotton cloth—containing remains—had been enshrined. Candle holders, a bell, incense stick holders, vases—cheap but complete—were all arranged there. Yet Mojiji had cleared away every last one of those ritual implements. Oritsu, arriving just then with an offering tray in her hands, eyed the bare altar and spoke hesitantly. “These were brought by the honorable head priest of Genshinji Temple...”

"Return them all," Mojiji said. Then he took the ritual offerings Oritsu was holding, placed them on the Buddhist altar himself, and said, “I’ll handle this from tomorrow onward, so don’t touch the altar.” “I’ll bring your tray right away, Young Master Carpenter,” Oritsu said. “Since it’s chaotic over there, please eat here.”

Mojiji nodded sullenly.

Having likely been told something by Oritsu, the children remained quiet. As Mojiji was finishing his meal, Shōkichi and Matsuzō seemed to have returned; their furtive whispers with Kuro could be heard. Then they came to the other side of the shoji screen, and the three of them exchanged morning greetings. Mojiji sipped his tea, then immediately stood up and went outside.

After surveying the town area, he crossed the moat to Shirokane Town, Honcho, and as far as Ichiikokubashi Bridge, then returned and stopped by Fukudaya. The shop was still closed; when he peered toward the residence, Rikichi, the son, was sweeping the garden.

“I just made a round,” Mojiji said. “Every place I knew has been wiped out.”

“Did you go to Masuya at Ichiikokubashi?” “Even the storehouse had burned down completely.” “Ōnoya was destroyed, and Shin'ishimachi was hit too,” Rikichi said. “Since all my friends’ places burned down and only ours remained, it feels like I did something wrong—I can’t bear the shame.”

And so, all the friends who had been burned out had left; it seemed only these two remained. He added that it seemed the others wouldn’t be coming back.

“Are the aunties still in Mejiro?” Mojiji asked. “Given how things are around here, it’s too dangerous otherwise.” “Yeah,” Mojiji nodded. After a brief hesitation, he continued: “Came to give you my refusal. From now on, I need to rebuild everything from scratch. Until Dairu’s fully recovered, I’m cutting off all social connections.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t connections be exactly what’s useful in times like these?”

“I want our dealings to be on equal terms,” Mojiji said. “Might come off as bullheaded, but that’s just how I’m wired—so I’m askin’ this of you.” Rikichi pressed his lips together. “For not bringin’ up the old man or mom—” Mojiji continued, voice roughening, “—thanks.”

And then he briskly left the spot.

As he returned, in the vacant lot behind the hut, the children were playing; upon seeing Mojiji, they all suddenly fell silent. They all stopped playing, stiffened their bodies, and stared fixedly at Mojiji. On every face, fear and anxiety were clearly visible. Mojiji stopped and looked at them. The older children averted their eyes and edged backward. As Mojiji continued to stare, a boy of about five pulled a much smaller girl beside him closer and, while forcing a smile that looked on the verge of tears,

“Master Carpenter, sir,” he called out. “Master Carpenter, sir, this child is called Acchan.” The way he held the girl close looked as though shielding her from something Mojiji might do, and his forced smile—more wretched than a tearful face—was almost unbearable to behold.

He averted his eyes and moved toward the entrance, where Oritsu was sweeping the front area. "Welcome back," she said.

“Come here for a second.”

With that, Mojiji entered the house.

IV

In Mojiji's room, Oritsu spoke. After a major fire, orphans were inevitably created—whether few or many. Those with relatives or connections in the countryside would be taken in there, but others would be gathered in relief huts and eventually placed back in their original neighborhoods. In most cases, that settled things; however, those facing poor conditions or refusing to burden others ended up becoming street children. The children staying here now were all like that, and for those whose original addresses were known, Oritsu had gone to check in their respective neighborhoods. “However, the children said things like ‘I’d rather die than go back to such a place,’ and the neighborhoods didn’t want to take them in either.” “There were even some who said things like ‘We want nothing to do with those brats!’”

As he listened to her report, Mojiji watched Oritsu’s demeanor.

She was eighteen. Her father Heiroku had been a plasterer’s laborer, but when Oritsu was seven, he fell from a ladder at a worksite, injured his spine, and remained bedridden for eight full years until dying. During that time, her mother Oiku did every kind of work to earn money. She had even labored as a manual worker, and after Heiroku died, she too became completely worn out. When Mojiji’s mother heard of this, she hired her for kitchen work—though just before that, Oritsu had been serving at a teahouse. With medical debts piling up and ordinary odd jobs proving insufficient, she had likely taken a live-in position at Tenkawa—a sizable restaurant-teahouse in Asakusa Namikichō.—Mojiji had known Oritsu since long ago. As a child she had a thin, petite frame with an ashen complexion and large eyes. Exceptionally strong-willed, she often wrestled with boys and usually won. Even when defeated, she never cried—she would grit her teeth while tears streamed down her face.

—The hellion from behind the charcoal shop. The neighborhood boys would tease her with names like that. However, she often protected weaker children and those from poor families, looking after them, so she had a good reputation among the neighborhood parents. —She’d grown into quite a woman. Mojiji thought.

Mojiji thought. Oritsu now looked about two years older than her eighteen years. Her petite build, ashen complexion, and large eyes seemed just as they had been in the past, yet her entire form now carried a soft roundness and luster. Even in her casual movements and the corners of her eyes, there was a vibrant sensuality that could be felt.

“Oh,” Oritsu suddenly said, “aren’t you listening?” Mojiji averted his eyes and said, “Yeah, I heard.” “I get why you’re saying this, but it’s impossible,” he continued bluntly. “I’m stripped bare as it is, and just rebuilding this place is more than I can handle. You’ve never even had kids yourself—raising that many brats is out of the question.” “But it really doesn’t take that much effort—after all, we’ve managed just fine up until now, you know.”

“Up until now, maybe,” Mojiji cut in, “but from now on there’ll be more people. Even just looking after me and the craftsmen—you alone won’t be enough hands.” “Then what should we do?” “How should I know? Take it to the town office—they’ll sort it out,” Mojiji said sullenly. “That’s the government’s job. We’re paying steep taxes exactly for that.”

Oritsu bit her lip.

“Understood,” Oritsu said after a moment. “I’ll do as you say, but will you please wait until things are settled?” “Fine,” Mojiji nodded.

Oritsu stood up, tried to say something, but closed her mouth.

“What?” asked Mojiji.

“It’s nothing.” Oritsu shook her head and left, averting her face.

For the next four or five days, Mojiji was consumed with setting up work procedures. He visited Washichi in Kiba accompanied by Dairoku and made rounds of the construction sites. One was a sake wholesaler below Kanda Myojin shrine, another a kimono fabric store in Iwatsuki-chō, and the third was a restaurant-teahouse called Uoman in Nihonbashi Yoshikawa-chō—Minosuke and Tōzō were handling them all. All three were projects managed by Dairu’s elite craftsmen, with carpenters who’d long operated under Dairu’s influence.—But plasterers, roofers, and joiners had abundant work after the great fire; unless you greased their palms with silver, they wouldn’t budge as needed. He knew the funds from the Kawagoe job and deposits from contracted projects would dry up in no time.

“What should we do?” Sukejirō from accounts asked twice. “I’d like to take measures now—wouldn’t it be best if we went to consult Takanawa?” “Neither Takanawa nor Abekawacho,” Mojiji shook his head. “I’ll handle it myself.”

Dairoku, standing nearby, asked, “What do you mean by ‘handle it’?” “Just watch and you’ll see—I won’t trouble you all.”

One day, Ikichi of Takanawa came with Kenroku of Abekawacho. Just before dinner was ready, when Mojiji returned from the bath, he found Dairoku and Sukejirō dealing with the two men. While greeting the two men, Mojiji said to Dairoku and Sukejirō, who were starting to rise, “Stay here,” and the two sat back down. “Since I’m the senior member here, I’ll speak first,” began Ikichi of Takanawa. “There’s also the matter of work, but let’s set that aside for now. First, we need to discuss the funeral arrangements for the deceased.”

“I already told you back in Kawagoe,” Mojiji cut in. “I hate repeating myself, but I’ll say it again: I won’t hold any funeral for now, so just leave me the hell alone.” “That won’t fly,” Ikichi said. “We get your stubborn streak and that you’ve got some sort of endgame in mind. But society’s got its own rules. Even if you tell us to butt out, we can’t just roll over—our debts to the community alone won’t square things that easy.”

He tried to explain about Dairu’s relationship with their group and their interactions as fellow master carpenters. But Mojiji cut him off again, saying, “I don’t want to hear any of that.” “Since I’m the one making this request,” Mojiji said, “Uncle and Abekawa-cho shouldn’t feel burdened by social obligations. If anyone in society dares gossip behind your backs, tell them plainly—I’ve got no intention of playing the good little boy.”

Kenroku restrained Ikichi. Ikichi’s complexion changed. Sukejirō and Dairoku were also startled and began to admonish Mojiji, but instead, Mojiji turned to the two and said, “Remember what I just said—we’re not relying on anyone. We’ll rebuild Dairu with our own two hands. Just us. Got it?”

Five

Dairoku and Sukejirō looked at a loss and silently bowed their heads. "If that's how it is, we'll withdraw," said Kenroku. "But Mr. Mojiji, the thirty-fifth-day memorial for the deceased is approaching soon. You'll at least hold the service, won't you? You'll inform us when the time comes, I trust?"

“No—I won’t hold the memorial service either.”

“So you won’t even hold the memorial service,” Ikichi said. “Then what about”—he jerked his chin toward the altar—“the deceased’s remains? What’ll you do with them?” “They’ll stay as they are,” answered Mojiji. “Entrusting them to a temple would just bleed us dry with sutra fees and whatnot. The monks at Genshinji keep mistresses and guzzle booze every night with meat dishes—that’s what most monks are like anyway. Having those bastards chant sutras won’t do squat for the dead’s repose, and we’ve got no reason footing their mistress allowances and drinking bills. The remains stay right here for now.”

Ikichi stood up without saying a word.

Dairoku and Sukejirō escorted the two men out. They had likely gone to offer apologies. Mojiji called Oritsu and said, “Make some food.” Oritsu apparently had been crying; the area around her eyes and the tip of her nose were red. Dairoku and Sukejirō returned, but without saying a word, they simply exchanged greetings and headed back to their own homes.

The very next day, Mojiji went off to "Washichi" in Kiba. When he had returned from Kawagoe and visited earlier, he had made a request regarding money. Dairoku probably hadn’t noticed, but Mojiji had mortgaged the property of over three hundred tsubo he owned in Iwaicho. Washichi refused the need for collateral or written agreements and undertook to arrange the funds without fail. When he went there, the promised money was ready, and Mojiji received it by mortgaging the property in exchange for a written agreement. Washichi said he couldn’t accept such things, but Mojiji insisted that if that were the case, he wouldn’t borrow the money either, and finally Washichi was the one to concede.

After returning to Iwaicho, Mojiji handed the money to Sukejirō and was waiting for Dairoku when Fukudaya Kyūbei and the neighborhood head Kansuke arrived, guiding a townsman constable named Nakajima Ichizō.—Kyūbei first expressed condolences for the misfortune, introduced the constable, and then broached the matter. To put it concisely, they asserted that supporting a large number of orphans was unlawful. The handling of orphans from disasters had established procedures; for an individual to gather and support so many like this was simply wrong. They must either have them taken back to their original neighborhoods or entrust them to the authorities. If things continued like this, they argued, it would be disrespectful to the authorities and a nuisance to the neighborhood. At that moment, Oritsu rushed forward and said, “I’ll explain that.” However, Mojiji pushed Oritsu aside.

“I understand what you’re telling me,” Mojiji said to Kyūbei. “I’d meant to handle it that way myself, but you mentioned it’s troubling the neighborhood—what exactly does that mean?” “To put it plainly, the children are too ill-mannered,” Kyūbei said. “I’ve witnessed it repeatedly—these kids here are downright vicious. They attack innocent children, damage neighbors’ fences, hurl stones into homes, and pilfer from shopfronts. We’re endlessly fielding complaints about them.”

“That’s not true—no, it isn’t!” Oritsu retorted. “I’m not saying all the children here are perfect, but if the neighborhood kids wouldn’t tease them, they’d never do such bad things in the first place.” “So you’re saying it’s the neighborhood kids who are teasing them?”

“I make those children play in the back lot and keep them from wandering out,” Oritsu said. “But the neighborhood kids come calling them strays, parentless brats, thieves—hurling insults and throwing things.” “Then—” Constable Nakajima Ichizō cut in, “you’re claiming this neighborhood’s to blame?” “I’m from these streets.” Oritsu lifted her chin. “Born here, raised here. Folks who’ve lived here since before the fire all know me—I’d never badmouth our neighborhood. But kids’ll be kids—they see outsiders, they tease and bully. Same anywhere. I’m not saying our local kids are wicked. It’s just…” Her voice cracked before she pressed on: “Our children couldn’t bear how they got treated wherever they were sent—worked like slaves, treated like vermin. Everywhere they went—mocked as parentless brats, thieves, strays. I lost my ma in the flames too. No parents, no siblings, no kin left. That’s why I know—what they crave more than food is kindness. That’s their lifeline. So why’d they go making folks hate them?”

Everyone fell silent for a moment. "I get what you're saying," Kyūbei said, "but you know, these things happen precisely because you're keeping the children here. You should just follow the authorities' instructions." "Master, if I may ask," Mojiji interjected, cutting off Kyūbei as he addressed Nakajima Ichizō, "is it forbidden for us to raise those children here?" "It's not forbidden by law," Nakajima answered, "but there's no precedent. To care for over ten children, you'd need sufficient resources and proper conditions."

“What kind of conditions—” “Whether there’s adequate space, whether you can sufficiently provide food and clothing without shortages, and whether you can properly discipline them.” “Since we’re carpenters,” Mojiji said, “if space is tight, we’ll build an extension. We can’t provide food and clothing like the wealthy, but we intend to manage at least what’s ordinary for folks.” Oritsu shot a quick glance at Mojiji, her cheeks flushing red, and said, “I’ll take care of them.”

“It’s impossible,” Nakajima shook his head. “You’ve got to feed and clothe over a dozen children, not to mention discipline them—and you have your own work here too.” “But we’ve managed all this time up until today.” “It’s impossible. Such a thing can’t be kept up forever—it’s impossible.”

Then a girl came in from outside and said, “I’ll help.” Everyone looked that way, and Kyūbei widened his eyes. “Oyū, what are you talking about?” That was Fukudaya Kyūbei’s daughter Oyū—Rikichi’s younger sister. Though she was one year younger than Oritsu, her merchant-family upbringing ill-suited her headstrong disposition and refined elegance—traits that had long made her stand out in the neighborhood.

Six "I'm free all day long, so I'll come here during the daytime," Oyū continued without regard for her father. "And if that's still not enough, I have maids to help. Though it might sound like boasting, I can at least teach them reading and writing."

Kansuke, the neighborhood head who stood to the side, made a face as if he’d muttered something like “Hey.” “No,” Mojiji shook his head. “We don’t need Oyū doing that sort of thing. If we’re short-handed, we’ll hire people ourselves.” “Do you think I’m trying to put you in my debt?” Oyū looked up at Mojiji. “This is meant as penance.” “Oyū,” Kyūbei said. “In this whole neighborhood, ours was the only house left unburned—just a scorched fence, while our home stayed whole and everyone safe. What’s more, since Father serves as a town official, it’s only right our family should take responsibility for those children.”

The corners of Oritsu’s eyes lifted. Mojiji started to say something, but Constable Nakajima spoke first—“Fukudaya”—and looked at Kyūbei. “Once she gets an idea in her head, she won’t listen,” said Kyūbei. “If that’s acceptable, I suppose we could let my daughter help.”

“I’ll consult with the relevant department first,” said Nakajima, “but in any case, make sure the household registry is properly sorted out. If it’s approved, I’ll try to arrange for a stipend.”

“Oyū-san,” Kansuke spoke up for the first time, “that was quite a feat.”

And everyone left, with only Oyū remaining behind. Oritsu spun around and hurriedly left toward the kitchen area, while Oyū expressed her condolences to Mojiji. Perhaps disliking to hear that, Mojiji changed the subject by asking, “When did you get back here?” Just then, Oritsu returned and reported that five children had run away.

“Escaped?” Mojiji spun around. “They heard what we were talking about earlier, right?” Oritsu stammered, “Th-they must’ve caught part of the conversation and thought they’d be taken back. All five ran off just a little while ago.”

Mojiji rushed to the back. Oritsu followed, and Oyū also came up. When they went to check, eight children were huddled together outside the kitchen entrance, standing with frightened expressions. The child who had once called out to Mojiji was holding the girl named Acchan close in the same way as that time. “Is it true that five ran away?” Mojiji asked. “They’re not just hiding somewhere, are they?” Then the oldest child, who was about eleven or twelve, answered, “They ran away.”

“Jippei and Tada told everyone to run away,” the child said. “Since both Jippei and Tada had stolen things before, they got scared. I tried to stop them, but in the end three went along.” Mojiji nodded and said, “Don’t worry—you can all stay here. The officials have given permission, and I’ll get along with you from now on. And this here is Oyū-san—she’ll help take care of everyone.”

“Hello,” Oyū smiled warmly, “Just call me big sister, okay?” “Big sis,” little Acchan immediately called out, then blushed and hid her face. The corners of Oritsu’s eyes lifted again, and she bit her lip tightly.

When Dairoku arrived, Mojiji went out to inspect the construction site. He had asked Oritsu and Oyū to prepare the household registry, but he was troubled by Oritsu’s angry face lingering in his mind all day.

That night—after dinner—Mojiji spoke with the children for the first time. While looking at the household registry Oyū had written, he called out to each child one by one and talked about how they would manage going forward—without mentioning the fire at all. His words were clumsy and his manner of speaking blunt, but somehow, the children seemed to understand his feelings.

Kikuji, eleven years old, Shirakabe Town Roku, 9 years old, Aioi Town Jūkichi, nine years old, Aioi Town, Daichi district Mata, eight years old, Toshima Town

Ume, eight years old, Sakuma Town Denji, seven years old, Ryūkan Town

Ichi, six years old, behind Oshoro-san’s place Atsu, four years old, same location The household registry was written as above, and Oritsu said she had tentatively confirmed the addresses. Among the five who had fled, there were those who had falsified their addresses and others who had refused to speak clearly, but those who remained were said to have been honest. Mojiji did not understand what "behind Oshoro-san’s place" referred to. Oritsu didn’t understand that part either; Ichi only remembered that much, and though Acchan seemed to be from the same neighborhood, she too would only say “the same place.” When Oritsu tried to draw out their vague memories, it somehow gave her the impression that they were from across the Ōkawa River.

“Then I should take them along to see,” Mojiji said. “That might help them remember something—there might even be survivors.”

Oritsu shook her head firmly and signaled with her eyes to silence him. Mojiji floundered and fell silent, then stood up and said, “Let’s call it a night.”

Mojiji began playing shogi with Kuro in his room. After dinner, Shōkichi and Matsuzō went out to play, leaving Kuro behind, which left him sulking heavily. Since Kuro clearly had no intention of playing seriously and kept making foolish moves, Mojiji threw down his shogi piece and barked, "Go to bed!" Shortly after Kuro left, Oritsu brought tea and sweets and spoke about Ichi and Acchan. The two were afraid of their own homes—they wouldn’t say why, but even just asking about their former households made them put on frightened looks. Mojiji frowned and grunted "Hmm" in a low voice.

“The other children don’t want to talk about their former neighborhoods either,” Oritsu said. “They seem to have had such a terrible time that they don’t even want to remember it—so please don’t bring up those topics.”

Mojiji nodded. Oritsu brewed tea, took the lid off the sweets bowl and offered them while saying, “And then—” before falling silent. Mojiji looked at Oritsu while sipping his tea.

“What is it?” Mojiji asked.

“I wanted to say thank you,” Oritsu said, looking down. “When I heard you’d let the children stay—I was so happy—”

“I get it—” Mojiji cut her off brusquely, “but isn’t there something else you wanted to talk about?”

Oritsu looked up at Mojiji. “That all?” Mojiji said.

VII

“Are you talking about Oyū-san?” Oritsu countered. Seeing Mojiji stay silent, she gave a decisive head shake. “Other things aside,” Oritsu said, “since I’m illiterate and don’t know proper manners, I want that part left to Oyū-san.”

“That’s right,” Mojiji pressed further. “It’s true.” “Then it’s fine,” Mojiji nodded. “—If it doesn’t work out, tell me.” From the moment they had met, Mojiji had thought this would be trouble. Oyū had been acting nonchalantly, but clear resentment and jealousy showed on Oritsu’s face. In terms of strong will they were evenly matched, but their differing upbringings and education made it inevitable that Oritsu felt inferior—that resentment and jealousy would stir within her. Especially after thirty-odd days of caring for them with unaccustomed hands—days spent earning the children’s trust. At times she must have feared Oyū would steal them away. He’d been certain things would never go smoothly between them, yet as days passed no such signs emerged. Mojiji spent his days away from home except for two monthly rest days—rarely crossing paths with Oyū. But each night Oritsu’s reports let him piece together the day’s events. Her accounts centered on Oyū—praise and admiration flowing endlessly.

“I’m thinking of asking Oyū-san to teach me how to read and write,” Oritsu said one night. “I plan to start tomorrow with the children.”

Mojiji looked at Oritsu as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Humans need education—I’ve truly come to realize that.” Oritsu met his gaze and said, “You know about Chīsakobe, don’t you?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” “Chīsakobe—you know about that, don’t you?”

Mojiji silently shook his head. "That’s not true," Oritsu said. "Come on, you know—back in the days of some Emperor or other, there was a man who gathered lots of children from other families."

“What’s that got to do with anything?” “That’s Chīsakobe—don’t you know?”

“Why does that make it Chīsakobe?” “The Emperor said, ‘Bring me silkworms,’ but since he’s the Emperor, he dropped the honorific and just said ‘ko.’ The man thought he meant ‘children’ instead of ‘silkworms,’ so he gathered a whole bunch of kids from other families! Then the Emperor laughed and gave him the name ‘Chīsakobe no Sugaru’—right?” Oritsu said. “So Oyū-san says this house is like Chīsakobe too—that we might as well call it Chīsakobeya. When she can just pull out these ancient stories like that… I really did come to think you need an education after all.”

“It’s good to know how to read and write kana at least,” Mojiji said, “but there’s no need to go as far as proper studies.” “Oh? So reading and writing are different from proper studies?”

“Someone’s crying,” Mojiji said. “Ain’t that Acchan?” Oritsu tilted her head. “That sounds like Acchan,” she said as she stood up.

In mid-November, they built an addition onto the house. The number of craftsmen staying over had increased by two due to work requirements, and even without that, it would have been inconvenient for both sides to have them together with the children. They expanded Oritsu’s kitchen and the four-and-a-half-tatami room slightly, made the children’s room twelve tatami mats, then created two six-tatami rooms for the craftsmen, and made Mojiji’s room at the end eight tatami mats. These were lined up side by side in a single row with a veranda running along the south side. Dairoku and Sukejirō suggested, “How about making it full-scale construction?” but Mojiji ignored them.

Then, as if they had been waiting for the completion of the extension, two of the children who had been lured away by Jippei and run off—Tomi and Kōji—returned. Tomi was nine years old and Kōji was eight; both looked like beggars, covered in grime and crawling with lice. After dark, they were found by Oritsu standing in the vacant lot. When she called out in surprise, they clung to her, saying "We're sorry," and burst into tears.

“I just lashed out without thinking,” Oritsu said. “Smacked their bottoms over and over—this mix of joy and vexation I can’t even explain myself,” she told Mojiji. “Completely lost my temper.”

Mojiji nodded. "I'm sorry," Oritsu said softly while looking at him, "we've got more mouths to feed now." "Good we built that extension," Mojiji said. "Mind their meals for now—they say stuffing starved folks full ruins their bodies." "Yes." "Yes," Oritsu nodded. "Both have limbs like bamboo sticks, their bellies puffed up like frogs'."

“Bamboo stakes, you say?” Oritsu caught herself immediately and laughed sheepishly, “Oh! You mean burnt-out stakes?”

“Let me ask you something,” Mojiji said, looking at Oritsu. “Are things going well with Oyū-san?”

Oritsu smiled. "I can already write half the iroha syllabary—why would you ask something like that?" "The other day during dinner, one of the children was badmouthing you—I didn't catch it clearly, but I heard something like 'Even if Oritsu's gone, we've got Oyū-san here,' that's what I heard." "That's Jūkichi, isn't it?" "Kids just blurt out things like that," Oritsu said plainly. "It happens all the time, but they don't really mean it deep down."

“That’s fine,” Mojiji nodded. “As long as you understand.”

Oritsu started to rise but sat back down, lowering her voice to say, “Hey.” “There’s something troubling me.”

Mojiji silently waited for what followed.

“I don’t want to say this, but—”

“Is it about Oyū-san?”

Oritsu vigorously shook her head. “It’s about Kikuji,” she said.

Mojiji looked at Oritsu with a puzzled expression. Oritsu flushed red as she explained that Kikuji had been making improper gestures. When she did laundry, he would stare from across the way; when hanging clothes to dry, he seemed to peer at her underarms. Early mornings when Oritsu changed clothes, he'd sometimes slide open the shoji with a "Good morning"—always watching her from somewhere with a gaze that lacked childish innocence, instead resembling that of a lewd adult, she reported.

“Kikuji’s the biggest kid, isn’t he?” Mojiji asked. “How old is he again?” “He says he’s eleven, but I think he’s really twelve or thirteen.”

Eight

“He’s twelve or thirteen.” “Listening to his stories makes me think so—he knows about the Ox year fire and talked about escaping with his mother then. That fire was five years ago now; he once let slip that he was eight at the time.”

“Yeah,” Mojiji sighed. “What kind of life was his family living?” “I’ve only heard that his mother had been chronically ill, but he doesn’t say anything else about other things.” “If that’s true—” Mojiji fell silent there, thought for a short while, then raised his eyes and continued, “If he’s twelve or thirteen, you’re the one who needs to be careful.”

Oritsu looked at him with puzzled eyes. “Even I... have experienced it—it’s embarrassing,” Mojiji stammered. “I don’t understand why it happens. Why these feelings come—I get flustered at myself, ashamed of myself—but women’s bodies strangely catch my eye. Even when I’m not thinking anything particular, like with Kikuji—when I encounter a housewife doing laundry in slovenly clothes, or a girl bathing behind just a wooden plank barrier, or a woman washing her hair stripped down to her underrobe... I can’t help looking. Afterward, I think I’m a disgusting guy and feel so ashamed I could die—but in that moment, there’s nothing I can do.”

“I—” Oritsu turned her flushed face away as she said, “I don’t do laundry looking all sloppy like that!” “Ain’t talkin’ ’bout you—’bout the kids,” Mojiji said. “They hit that age. Some might not notice it themselves, but most folks’d remember goin’ through it. And them kids ain’t got a single lewd thought—can’t help it, just happens on its own. It’s adults thinkin’ it’s indecent. ’Cause they got dirty minds themselves, makin’ ’em see filth in kids’ eyes.”

“So you’re saying *I’m* the indecent one?” Oritsu’s eyes flared wide. “I told you I’m talking about the children!” Mojiji roughly cut her off. “This ain’t about you—the kids are at that difficult age, so we gotta be careful on our end. Don’t you get it?” Oritsu nimbly twisted her body away. The combination of his shouted “Don’t you get it?” and Mojiji’s flushed expression made her flinch as if about to be struck. Mojiji, seeing Oritsu’s reaction, flinched in turn and averted his face with a gruff, “Enough.”

“You startled me!” “That was a scary voice,” Oritsu said. “I thought you were going to hit me.” “What a stupid thing to say.”

“I was hit when I was little, you know.” “Don’t talk nonsense. Even if I were scum, I wouldn’t lay hands on some girl.” “I was hit when I was seven—I still remember it clearly.” Oritsu said teasingly, “That spot in front of the tofu shop on the backstreet—you suddenly smacked my cheek there, didn’t you?” “If you were seven back then, I’d have been twelve. For someone that age to hit a girl—” There, Mojiji trailed off.

“Right?” Oritsu laughed with her eyes. “You remembered, didn’t you?”

He remembered. Every time she spotted him, Oritsu would tease—he’d forgotten what she’d said to provoke him, but after being mocked time and again, he once grabbed her and struck her. That’s right—she had shed tears back then, Mojiji thought. Without resisting, she looked this way with her large eyes, tears streaming from them.

“That…” Mojiji said awkwardly, “that was your fault—you kept mocking me every time you saw my face.” “I remember,” Oritsu said. “I liked you—liked the Young Master Carpenter—so I suppose I said mean things to get your attention. That’s why I never spoke harshly again after that, right?” “Kids are complicated creatures.”

“I suppose so,” Oritsu said. “I’ll keep an eye on Kikuji too.”

On the fifteenth-day holiday of that month, they took the children to Dōkan Mountain for an outing. Oritsu and Oyū made rice balls and seaweed rolls, and prepared boxed side dishes. As the one-way trip was nearly one and a half ri—about six kilometers—they brought Kuro along too. When the younger ones like Acchan, Ichi, and Den grew tired, Mojiji and Kuro carried them on their backs. Kuro, already at the age where he wanted to play with his senior apprentices, sulked throughout the entire journey there and back.—It was then that Mojiji first observed how Oyū interacted with the children. Their attitude toward Oyū differed completely from how they treated Oritsu. They seemed to regard Oyū’s elegant appearance, beauty, and intelligence with a mix of reverence and longing, edged with something like fear. Though they might talk back to Oritsu, they obeyed Oyū promptly and ceased mischief when reprimanded. They keenly read Oyū’s expressions—acting spoiled, joking around, then suddenly quieting down. Oyū rarely scolded them, yet even in her silence, she made them sense a certain sharpness. Among them all, only Kikuji refused to leave Oritsu’s side. Even when the others surrounded Oyū in boisterous play, he stayed near Oritsu, trying to make himself useful. When Oritsu irritably shooed him away, he would step back but never let his eyes stray from her.

"If something goes wrong here, it could lead to trouble," Mojiji thought. Kikuji seemed genuinely devoted—as long as that affection wasn’t rejected and guided properly, there’d be no issue. But if Oritsu took this as "disgusting" and pushed him away, Kikuji might wound himself deeply—maybe even spiral into self-destruction. "It’s delicate—dangerous ground," Mojiji concluded.

When it was time to return, Mojiji suggested to Oyū that she take a palanquin. However, Oyū laughed and declined, walking back to Kanda together with them.

That night, one of the construction sites burned down in a fire.

Nine

The one that burned down was "Uoman" in Nihonbashi Yoshikawachō—nearly finished with its construction, it was completely reduced to ashes.

This was a major blow to "Dairu". Not only because it was a restaurant, but due to both its clientele and owner Manbei’s preferences, expensive materials had been used throughout—from the wood grain down to every detail. It had been reduced entirely to ashes.

"If it had been completed and handed over, that would be one thing—but since it’s still in our hands, Dairu has to bear the damages." As for roofers, plasterers, joiners, and others—the payments were ones Dairu had to make. The supervisor there was Fujizō, who—while inspecting the burned ruins with Mojiji and the others—kept exclaiming "What should we do?" as if worked up into a panic. “It was a mercy it was a spreading fire,” Mojiji said. “If it had been our own fault, we’d have had our hands tied.”

And he visited “Uoman”. This was a temporary hut across the street that had fortunately escaped the fire. Mojiji met with Manbei and announced they would begin reconstruction immediately. Dairoku and Sukejirō, who stood beside Fujizō, gaped at Mojiji in astonishment. Manbei too seemed taken aback and began to say “That might be unreasonable”, but Mojiji flatly replied “It’ll be done”. “However, I have one request,” Mojiji continued. “To speak plainly—we’ve been stretched to our limits until now, so we haven’t had leeway to inspect materials properly. Once Dairu recovers, we’ll redo the construction from scratch as needed. So even if there are parts that displease you this time, I ask that you overlook them.”

“Of course I’m fine with that,” said Manbei, still seeming unconvinced, “but are you sure this isn’t impossible?”

Mojiji did not answer that and said, “Please.”

On the way home, Dairoku and the others had been whispering about something, but the moment they returned, the three of them launched into “We need to talk.” Mojiji cut them off. “Save your breath,” he said. But the three took turns insisting that reconstruction was impossible. “We’ve just been hit by a fire ourselves,” they argued. “Uoman knows our situation.” “The reasonable course is to return the deposit and apologize.” They pressed that this was the only logical path.

Mojiji countered them: “Would my old man do that?” “However,” Dairoku said, “this isn’t the Master’s time anymore. The Master’s gone, and you’ve cut ties with Takanawa, Abekawachō—even fellow carpenters. With Washichi from Kiba as your only ally, do you really think you can manage things like the Master did?” “I never said that,” Mojiji shot back. “I’m asking—in a situation like this, would the old man apologize? You think he would?”

“That’s—but the circumstances here are completely different.”

“Then why did you take on those construction contracts?” Mojiji said. “After the fire burned everything to ashes and my old man died—taking on three major projects in that state was impossible from the start. If you’d told me, I would’ve refused. I’d have had Takanawa or Abekawachō take over, settled things down first. But—” He paused. “You all took them on in my absence, determined to rebuild Dairu. I understood that drive, so even though I thought it was impossible, I didn’t say a word.”

The three hung their heads. “When you contract to build a house,” Mojiji said, “the master carpenter’s job is to finish it as promised and hand it over to the client. Not once did my old man ever apologize mid-project just ’cause we hit a rough patch. I’m still wet behind the ears, but I’m his damn son—you think I’d fold over somethin’ like this?” Then shifting gears, he added, “Since we’re at it—cutting ties with Takanawa, Abekawachō, our carpenter brethren and neighborhood obligations wasn’t just pigheadedness. Didn’t want to saddle anyone with our troubles.” “Keep up Dairu’s old connections unchanged, and they’d feel duty-bound to help.” “That’d weigh heavy on them—and shackle us for life.” “Bouncing back on others’ charity? My old man’d spin in his grave. We’d die of shame.” “So remember—that’s why I severed those ties,” Mojiji said.

The three exchanged glances. Their faces had a fresh clarity as if splashed with cold water, and even Fujizō was smiling. "I have one more impertinent question," Dairoku said. "What about the money arrangements?"

“Don’t worry about that.” “Is there anything we can do?”

“I’ll leave the work to you,” Mojiji said. “The money will be handled.”

Then, he told Sukejirō to investigate the hometowns of the two craftsmen—Ginji and Kurata—who had perished together in the fire, as he intended to hold their seventy-fifth-day memorial service.

That day after dinner, Mojiji visited Fukudaya. Carrying the wrapped Dairu signboard that had been temporarily stored under the eaves, he entered through the shop entrance and said he wanted to meet Master Kyūbei. In the shop was Isuke, the head clerk, who told him they were currently having a meal in the back rooms and that he should go directly there instead of coming through here. But Mojiji replied, “Tonight I’m a customer of the shop,” and entered the small room adjoining the shop—used for those wishing to avoid encountering other patrons—where he waited. The apprentice must have notified them, for soon Oyū arrived bearing tea.

“Welcome. Why are you insisting on staying here?” “I have business with the Master.” “Calling him ‘Master’—how awful you are,” Oyū glared. “What’s gotten into you? Why are you being so formal?”

Mojiji looked at Oyū with a sullen face. Oyū smiled faintly with her lips and nodded. "Fine," she said, standing up. "You're so stubborn, aren't you?"

Mojiji said nothing. After Oyū left and some time had passed, Kyūbei came with his own teacup, sat down there and said, "I hear the construction site in Yoshikawachō burned down."

“That’s actually why I’ve come—to make a request.” Having said that, Mojiji assumed a deferential posture.

Ten

He spoke in his usual blunt manner yet withheld nothing. Then he unwrapped the package, produced the "Dairu" signboard, and stated he wished to borrow five hundred ryō using this as collateral. Kyūbei listened in silence, and even after Mojiji finished speaking, continued slowly sipping his tea while pondering at length as if scrutinizing the proposal. "I have one question," Kyūbei said after a while. "I understand about Takanawa and Abekawachō—but what was your reasoning in coming to me?"

“This is a pawnshop, right?” Mojiji said. “I’m borrowing money with this as collateral, and you’re lending money with this as collateral—of course, this assumes you’ll agree to the loan. But since this is a business transaction, I believe it’ll keep things clear between us.”

His tone suggested he utterly believed that the "Dairu" signboard could serve as collateral for five hundred ryō anywhere.

“Very well, I’ll provide the loan,” Kyūbei said. “But Mojiji-san—this money bears interest.” “Of course that’s my intention.”

Kyūbei stood up and left.

The next morning, when Sukejirō came out, Mojiji handed him five hundred ryō, and the two allocated the necessary expenses. As soon as Dairoku arrived, he instructed him to make arrangements for Yoshikawachō, then took two hundred ryō and set out for "Washichi" in Kiba. Three days later, they began reconstruction in Yoshikawachō. For over ten days after that, Mojiji went to the construction site with his lunchbox. Whenever he saw that they were short-handed, he would take up a chisel or plane himself and lend a hand moving lumber. Also during this time, he held memorial services for Kurata and Ginji. It was merely a perfunctory seventy-fifth-day memorial, but they invited the two men’s parents, served sake with vegetarian dishes, and handed over two ryō each as offerings for the sutras.—Mojiji apologized for having let their sons die alongside his own parents, while they in turn expressed repeated gratitude for holding memorial services for their children even before their master’s funeral had been conducted.

That night, when Oritsu came to lay out the bedding, she was acting unusually curt, her face pale and stiff. Mojiji, suspicious, asked what was wrong.

“What do you mean?” Oritsu replied in an exaggeratedly stiff tone, “Have I done something wrong?”

Mojiji flared up, stood and strode over, then suddenly slapped Oritsu. A sharp crack echoed from Oritsu’s cheek as Mojiji barked: “If there’s nothing wrong, quit making that sour face.” Oritsu clutched her reddening cheek, gaping at him. When he met her wide-staring eyes, Mojiji jolted as if struck himself. “My bad,” he muttered, turning away abruptly.

“I’m sorry—I was on edge,” he said clumsily. “Things have been piling up—just forgive me.” “You don’t need to apologize to me,” Oritsu said tremblingly. “If you’re going to apologize, then apologize to Buddha.”

Mojiji slowly looked at Oritsu.

“To Buddha—what am I supposed to do?” “I’m the one who made you—the Master Carpenter—angry. Getting hit is only natural, so I don’t mind at all. But—” Oritsu covered her face with her apron and sat down there as she said, “You hold memorial services for Mr. Kurata and Mr. Ginji, so why do you leave the Master and Mistress like that?”

Mojiji said “Don’t talk about that,” and sat down beside the laid-out bedding. “No, I will say it.” Oritsu lowered her apron to her lap and said, “You told us not to touch the Buddhist altar and left it shut tight—you don’t offer incense or water, you don’t hold memorials on their death anniversaries. How can that be right? Inside that altar are your own parents’ bones! If you won’t hold a funeral or entrust them to a temple, then at least you should offer food, light a lamp, burn some incense—that’s only proper! But you won’t even do that much, yet you hold services for Mr. Kurata and Mr. Ginji? That’s too cruel—how can you treat your own father and mother so heartlessly?”

Oritsu once again covered her face with her apron, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Mojiji lowered his head and listened for a while to Oritsu’s sniffling sobs. “I meant to keep this to myself, but I’ll say it,” Mojiji eventually spoke in a low voice. “The reason I’ve kept the Buddhist altar closed is because I don’t want to treat my old man and old lady as Buddhas.”

Oritsu’s sobs ceased.

“It might sound like a foolish, childish way of thinking—but I just can’t accept that my old man and old lady are dead. Sure, having two urns there means there’s no mistaking they’re gone. I don’t think they’re alive. But I don’t want them becoming Buddhas either. Until I rebuild Dairu, I want them to stay exactly as they were—my old man and old lady—watching me from that altar. The world will call this nonsense. They’ll say I’m disrespecting the dead. Let them talk. Until that day comes, I won’t treat them as Buddhas. Not ever.”

Oritsu choked up, desperately holding back her tears as she falteringly said, “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry for saying unnecessary things—I didn’t know anything about it.”

“If you understand, that’s enough,” Mojiji cut in. “But never speak about this again.” “Yes.” Oritsu nodded, wiping her eyes with her apron as she said, “But if that’s the case, there was no need at all to badmouth the priest like that, was there?” “Having a sharp tongue is just how I was born,” Mojiji said, looking at Oritsu. “I shouldn’t have hit you. Forgive me.” Oritsu smiled at him with eyes still swollen from crying, then said, “That’s the second time now.”

When December arrived, first the construction at the Myōjin-shita sake wholesaler was completed, followed by the work in Iwatsuki-chō being finished. Before that—likely because word had spread about Uoman’s reconstruction project—requests for construction work came pouring in one after another, but Mojiji only took on two projects: five tenement buildings in Shichiken Nagaya and the paper wholesaler in Kojimachō. Dairoku and the others had opposed the tenement project in nearby Matsueda-chō since it wasn’t Dairu’s work, but Mojiji dismissed them, stating, "The ones truly suffering from homelessness are those living in those tenements."

As soon as the Myōjin-shita and Iwatsuki-chō projects were completed, Mojiji took two hundred ryō and went to Fukudaya, telling them to apply it toward the borrowed deposit. Kyūbei did not accept it. “There’s no need to rush,” Kyūbei said. “If you’re repaying it, return all five hundred ryō at once.” Mojiji thought for a moment, then had them bring out the wrapped signboard he had deposited. He placed two hundred ryō inside the package and handed it over, saying, “Please keep it like this for now.”

"But—" Kyūbei asked suspiciously, "won't you still need money for the time being?" "If my resolve slackens, it'll be trouble," Mojiji said. "I intend to keep tightening things up."

Then, Mojiji stood up sheepishly.

Eleven

Dairu seemed to have no year-end nor New Year beyond taking breaks on New Year’s Eve and the first three days of the year. They had gathered as many workers as possible for the construction in Yoshikawa-chō, but it remained unfinished by year’s end. Because of this, Mojiji only took New Year’s Day off, then from the second onward commuted to the construction site with Shōkichi and Matsuzō. Dairoku and Sukejirō likely hadn’t known, but when it came to work like plastering and joinery, they did everything they could to help.

“Once this job’s done, I’ll give you a break,” Mojiji said to the two. “I know it’s the New Year and all, but hang in there.”

Kuro had returned to his home in Honjo from the 28th of December, as his father was reportedly ill. His father’s illness was just an excuse—it seemed he no longer intended to return to Dairu. Since he wasn’t being treated as a full-fledged member no matter how long he stayed, he must have decided to start taking on odd jobs himself. Mojiji merely said, "Stupid fool," and left it at that.

On the 20th, the construction of Uoman was completed. Mojiji had been invited by Manbei to a celebratory gathering but sent Dairoku instead and gave Shōkichi and Matsuzō seven days off. Then he suggested to Oritsu, “Why don’t you go see a play or something?” But she dismissed this, saying, “You’re the one who should take a break, Master Carpenter.”

“Being swamped with work and staying cooped up at home will wear your body down. Go somewhere to clear your head.” “You’re starting to sound like an old lady,” Mojiji said. “I’m staying home for New Year’s.” “That’s exactly what makes you seem like an old man,” Oritsu said, though her face showed she was secretly delighted by this. True to his word, Mojiji remained shut in at home for two full days. He kept his bedding spread out in the room, lying down immediately after meals to read gōkan books or sleep.

On the evening of the second day, as he was dozing off, loud voices at the entrance woke him. There came a child's crying and a man's hoarse booming voice shouting "Thief!" Mojiji rose up, tightened his workman's sash properly, and went out. In the entrance dirt-floored area stood three men—Jūkichi was seized by one of them and crying while Oritsu kept bowing in apology. One man was Yahatoku from Second District, another Heisuke from the neighborhood watch post, and the third a middle-aged man who looked like a merchant—a face Mojiji didn't recognize.

Mojiji went over there and asked what was going on. "Jūkichi took a mandarin orange from Yahatoku’s shopfront," Oritsu answered. “I am the witness here,” said the merchant-like man. “When I happened to pass by, I saw this child stealing a mandarin orange, so I caught him.” Mojiji apologized. Tokujirō the greengrocer was one year older than Mojiji—he had taken a wife two years prior and already had a daughter—but when they were children, they had often played together and even fought. Their differing professions meant they weren’t close, but even now they would exchange brief chats whenever they met—such was their relationship. But now Mojiji apologized with deliberate formality: “Our discipline has been lacking. We’ll naturally pay for the oranges and take better care henceforth.” As he spoke these apologies, Tokujirō interrupted.

“There’s no point in you apologizing, Master Carpenter,” Tokujirō said. “He’s not even your kid. And this isn’t just the first or second time it’s happened—these brats are rotten to the core. That’s why I’ve decided to hand them over to the neighborhood watch.” Mojiji turned to Heisuke and said, “Release the child.” Heisuke, who was holding Jūkichi, looked helplessly at Tokujirō. Mojiji again said, “Release him,” and when Heisuke let go, he told Oritsu, “Take him over there.” Jūkichi left for the back with Oritsu while sobbing, and two mandarins remained on the step.

“Someone just called him a thief,” Mojiji said, looking between the three men’s faces. “Who was it?” Heisuke muttered something inaudibly under his breath. Assuming it was he who had said it, Mojiji ignored him and looked at Tokujirō. “Listen Tokujirō,” Mojiji said haltingly, “you called these kids rotten just now, but all children are the same. When I was little, I stole coins from my mother’s hibachi drawer. I swiped picture books from that shop in front of the embankment too. Big or small, we all did things like that. You must’ve done it once or twice yourself—or have you forgotten? I could jog your memory if you’d like. Well? Never once?”

“That’s a different matter!” Tokujirō retorted, flushing with anger. “You’re right—it’s different,” Mojiji nodded. “We had parents and homes, so no one ever called us thieves. These children lost their houses to flames, got separated from their families by death, and ended up in a stranger’s care—that’s the difference. But they’re still kids—every kid goes through this phase at least once. I’m not good with words, so I can’t explain it right.” Mojiji flushed red with frustration. “Even if they’re not in need, there comes an age when children just reach out and take things on impulse. Everyone’s done it two or three times—surely you remember that. Not that it makes it right, but calling them thieves or handing them over to the neighborhood watch—that’s too much. Don’t you think that’s too heartless?”

The three said nothing. "If you still can't swallow this after what I've said, then take me instead," Mojiji declared. "The failure in their discipline rests with me. Turn me over to the neighborhood watch or wherever you please. But I won't hand over the children. Doesn't matter who comes—not one child leaves here." "I get it," Tokujirō said. "If that's where you stand, fine. Was only tryin' to do right by the kids myself."

“As long as you understand,” Mojiji said calmly. “I’m sorry for stirring up this pointless fuss. I’ll send payment for the mandarins right away, so please let this go.” Mojiji repeated his apology, and the three men left. Heisuke of the night watch looked flustered, mumbling incoherently as he bolted out while clutching his head; the merchant-like man kept his eyes averted and scurried away as if escaping. After seeing them off, Mojiji slid open the shōji door to the children’s room. Oritsu stood just inside, while in the shadowed far corner, the children clustered together in a tight group.

“I’m sorry,” Oritsu whispered, looking into his eyes. “It was my fault.”

Mojiji went over to the children. The children huddled together, leaning on one another, and looked up at Mojiji with fearful eyes. Acchan was held around the shoulders by Ichi, Jūkichi wore a pallid, twisted face, and all the others stared up at Mojiji with rigid expressions, holding their breath.

Twelve Mojiji went over to Jūkichi and made an effort to smile gently. “Jūkō,” he said. “Had enough?”

Jūkichi trembled as he said “I’m sorry” and began crying. Mojiji placed his hand on Jūkichi’s shoulder and tapped it lightly two or three times.

“Don’t cry. You’re a man, aren’t you?” Mojiji said. “If you think what you did was wrong, just don’t do it again. That goes for all of you—understand?” The children all nodded in unison, and Jūkichi broke into violent sobs. Oritsu rushed over and hugged Jūkichi, who cried out through his tears, “I won’t do it again! I’m sorry!” Then Acchan, in Ichi’s arms, started crying and saying, “I’m sorry,” so Mojiji looked at Oritsu helplessly.

“Please go.” “I’ll bring the meal right away,” Oritsu said while bustling about.

Mojiji went out into the corridor.

When she brought the evening meal tray, Oritsu reported, “I paid for the mandarins.” Since Tokujirō wouldn’t accept payment and they had just run out, she bought two boxes of mandarins. “Since Jūkichi only took two, there should be some change left,” Oritsu said. “Shut up about that,” Mojiji said roughly. “And tell the kids never to mention today’s incident again.” He picked up his chopsticks but then looked at Oritsu as if suddenly remembering something.

“What were you trying to say back then?”

“Back then—” “When we first talked about the children—when I said I couldn’t keep them—you started to say something. You glared at me like you wanted to speak, then stopped and walked away. Have you forgotten?” “I’m surprised,” Oritsu said, eyes widening. “You remember things well.” “What were you trying to say?” “Hmm, what could it have been?” Oritsu shook her head. “I don’t recall. But why dwell on that now?”

“Wasn’t this what you were trying to say?” Mojiji said. “That it’s a good thing I’m not one of those children—right?”

“No way—that’s going too far!” Oritsu said, averting her eyes. “I couldn’t possibly say such a thing.”

“That’s why you left without saying it.” “No way—that’s…” Oritsu squinted at Mojiji as if dazzled. “—But why would you bring up such an old matter now?” “Ain’t that old,” Mojiji said. It wasn’t an old matter—with a look that said those words still rang in his ears, Mojiji began eating his meal.

For the next five or six days, Oritsu spent her time in heartfelt joy. It was only after Mojiji mentioned it that she remembered—but back then, she had indeed tried to say those words. The exact wording might not have been precise—since she hadn’t voiced them, there was no way to know—but her frustration with Mojiji’s stubbornness had made her want to snap back with something along those lines. —That’s right. I wanted to say something like that to you. Oritsu thought. But he remembered it well—something I never even said—it was strange how he could retain it like that. He even remembered hitting me when I was little, and there was that time he’d worried after hearing Jūkichi hurl insults at me. That’s right—he’d also once said, “If things don’t work out with Miss Oyū, tell me so.” There were too many other instances to count individually, but he paid close attention to me in small ways. His words were blunt and brusque, but glimmers of kind consideration could be glimpsed here and there.

He might actually like me more than Oyū.

No sooner had this thought come than Oritsu shook her head. Affection took many forms—such foolish notions weren't worth considering. Mojiji's bride could only be Oyū. Whether in upbringing, education, or refinement, Oyū alone was fit to be Dairu's mistress—someone like her could stand on her head and never come close. She mustn't even pretend to think such things, Oritsu scolded herself.

One night—after slipping into bed, Oritsu found herself dwelling on similar thoughts again. Caught between a lulling melancholy and a sorrowful mood, she indulged in resolute imaginings: if Oyū were to come as Dairu’s bride, she herself would leave this household. But soon, hearing a faint sound from the corridor, her heart leapt, and she held her breath.

The time must have been nearing eleven o'clock. Since everyone was fast asleep, whoever was approaching seemed to be making considerable effort to muffle their footsteps, but Oritsu could clearly discern someone moving down the corridor toward her room.

Thirteen Again. It must be that child again. Oritsu listened intently. Since Mojiji had once mentioned it to her, she hadn't told him anything about it, but such incidents had been occurring occasionally for some time now. When Oritsu had been in her bedding for a while, someone would stealthily approach down the corridor and seem to peer inside from beyond the shoji screen. Soon they would leave again with muffled footsteps, and upon hearing the shoji close in the children's room, she had concluded it must be one of the children—most likely Kikuji.

—How disgusting. Oritsu muttered to herself as she recalled Kikuji—who had grown noticeably taller recently—and his demeanor. The footsteps stopped outside the shoji screen. As usual, he was likely listening for her breathing. Oritsu too held her breath, perfectly still. Then came a soft clatter from the shoji, followed by the sound of it being opened—quietly, ever so quietly. Oritsu shuddered, every hair on her body standing upright. Her limbs instinctively curled inward as her breath caught in her throat.

He opened the shoji screen—what was he planning to do?

Oritsu squeezed her eyes shut. More than anxiety—sheer dread—stiffened her entire body until she began trembling rigidly. At that moment, she heard a whispered voice. Hoarse and low, yet sharpened by tension, it pierced Oritsu's ears with perfect clarity. “Mom,” the voice whispered, “—goodnight.” Then came the shoji screen closing with infinite care, followed by furtive footsteps retreating down the corridor. Oritsu stopped listening for the footsteps or the children’s room door. She lay wide-eyed in the lamplit gloom, motionless for an eternity. Tears soon overflowed her unblinking eyes as sobs clogged her throat. She rose choking back tears, snatched the workman’s coat from its lamp hook, and threw it over her nightclothes before slipping into the corridor. Oritsu stole through shadows to Mojiji’s room. There she sat covering her face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Mojiji was awake. He had woken when Oritsu entered and, suspicious, kept quietly watching her from his bedding. But hearing her cry, he called out while still lying down, “What is it?” “I,” whispered Oritsu, “will ask for leave tomorrow.” Mojiji sat bolt upright. “What’s this?” “It’s wrong for me to raise children—I’m an uneducated fool, and besides—” Oritsu choked out, her voice strangled, “And besides... I’m a mean, despicable woman at heart.”

“Wait a second,” Mojiji cut in. “You come here in the middle of the night and suddenly spring this on me—I can’t make heads or tails of it. What the hell’s going on?”

Oritsu recounted what had just happened. Hindered by sobs, her words faltered and broke off at times, but she recounted what had happened honestly and said she had realized—just as Mojiji had once told her—that "the indecent one was her own self."

“That child was always clinging to me, always wanting to do something or staring intently—he must’ve wanted to think of me as his mother,” Oritsu sobbed again. “But I just kept finding it indecent—how pathetic that I never realized until now. There’s no way someone like me could ever raise children properly.” “Hold on,” Mojiji said. “Just hear me out.”

He stood up and came to sit before Oritsu. “Don’t keep blaming yourself like this,” Mojiji said. “You’re still a young woman. Whether you have indecent thoughts or not, trying to protect yourself even in trivial matters—isn’t that natural for a maiden? I think it’s perfectly natural. So, though it’s strange to say this now—if you were to take a husband and become a parent to children, you’d stop making those kinds of misunderstandings. And wouldn’t things go better with the kids too?”

Oritsu looked at Mojiji. "It's strange to bring this up now," Mojiji repeated the same words, his tone gruff and awkward. "No—since we're talking about it, I'll say it straight. I don't know what you're thinking, but I want you to run this household for me."

Oritsu parted her lips in a silent "Ah." She made no sound but parted her lips, staring at Mojiji in astonishment.

“You don’t want to?” Mojiji snapped, “It’s better for the children too, and I want to be with you—I’ve been hesitating for a long time about when to say it. You don’t want to?”

Oritsu's face twisted. She stared at him with tear-filled eyes and said, “Master Carpenter, you have interest attached to you, don’t you?”

“Interest?” Mojiji shot back. “What do you mean by ‘interest’?” “I’m sorry—my mouth slipped,” Oritsu said frantically. “That’s how I heard it—and everyone knows about it—and even you intended it that way!” “No.” Mojiji shook his head and cut in. “Tell me plainly—what exactly do you mean by ‘interest’?”

“Oyū-san,” Oritsu answered. “Oyū—” Mojiji looked at Oritsu with a quizzical expression in his eyes.

Oritsu spoke. "In this neighborhood, they'd decided long ago that you and Oyū would become husband and wife." "I thought so too—until December, when I overheard our regular rice merchant talking." "When you borrowed money to rebuild 'Gyoman,' Fukudaya Kyūbei said there'd be interest attached to the loan." "That didn't mean financial interest," she continued. "It meant giving Oyū as a bride—that 'Oyū would be the interest.' I heard things were supposed to move that way come autumn."

Mojiji stared intently at Oritsu’s eyes with an expression as though some part of his body ached. Oritsu must have felt she had said something clumsy, for she spoke in a faltering tone, “Was it wrong of me to say such things?” “You fool,” Mojiji shook his head quietly. “It’s true I borrowed money from Fukudaya, and true they told me there’d be interest. But interest is what we pay on borrowed cash! Lending money then tacking on a daughter as extra interest—what kind of idiotic nonsense is that supposed to be?”

“But there—Mr. Fukudaya put it jokingly as—” she began, but upon seeing Mojiji’s expression, Oritsu hastily fell silent. “Hey, listen close,” Mojiji said slowly. “I mortgaged our shop signboard to borrow money. Fukudaya’s a pawnbroker—when paying back, you add interest to the principal. Could anything be plainer? And unless Oyū-san were some cripple or idiot—which she ain’t—why’d Fukudaya go through such roundabout schemes? Right?”

"But Master Carpenter, you like her, don't you?" "I do," Mojiji nodded. "She likes you too." "Hey, listen up," Mojiji said again. "I like Oyū-san, but wanting her as my wife and just liking her are two different things. Or rather—what a hassle." He stood up impatiently, went over to the bedding, and lay down on his back. "Just go to bed already."

Oritsu remained silent, sitting with her head bowed. And then, after some time had passed, she whispered in a low, soft voice. "You know, I can read kana perfectly now, and write it too." Mojiji did not say anything. Oritsu remained seated for some time longer, but eventually rose quietly, went to the temporary Buddhist altar, pressed her hands together, and bowed her head. As Mojiji watched through half-open eyes, Oritsu bowed to the Buddhist altar and whispered something under her breath. To Mojiji, only the words "I beg of you" reached his ears. And then, Oritsu slipped out on tiptoe.