Pathway to Japanese Literature

Dad

I

The tenement residents could reliably hear Jū-san’s boisterous tirades on the evenings of the 14th and last days of every month.

It went without saying that the 14th and last days were settlement days—when artisans received their wages, and when their families waited for their breadwinners to return home with those wages.

Setting aside day laborers, many artisans working at fixed workshops and their families had looked forward above all else to these twice-monthly settlement days.
Feast dishes would grace the evening meal trays, and sake would be prepared for the master.

Having settled the half-month accounts, the children might get something bought for them tomorrow.
Of course, in any case, it was a modest affair—but modest though it was, it made for a heartwarming evening, if only slightly so.

On such nights after ten o'clock—sometimes even later—Jū-san would come staggering through the tenement gate while rambling incoherently.

“There’s no money,” Jū-san said slowly, enunciating each word, “spent it all… drank it all.”

Because he was drunk, his legs wouldn’t obey him.
He staggered, clattering the ditch planks, collided with a trash bin, and then hiccuped.

“I drank it all,” Jū-san slurred in a tongue-heavy manner, “No money left… Ah, just one kan and two hundred mon remaining.”

The tenement lay hushed.
Jū-san staggered slowly to the front of his own house and collapsed in a heap at the doorway.
Then, sliding open the storm shutters, either Jū-san’s eldest son Ryōkichi or his wife Onao would call out.

“Come inside, you,” Onao would say. “You’re troubling the neighbors—come in without making such a racket.”

She spoke in a voice choked back in her throat.

“Dad, come inside,” Ryōkichi would say. “You can’t just sit there. C’mon over here, Dad.”

“I can’t come in.”
“Spent it all,” Jū-san drawled languidly, “only one kan and two hundred mon left… Ah, drank it all… Can’t come in.”

The tenement remained deathly quiet.
Some were still awake, yet they kept silent, feigning sleep or pretending not to hear.—

The tenement residents were fond of Jū-san and Jū-san’s family.
Jū-san was a good man, and his wife Onao was a fine woman.
Fourteen-year-old Ryōkichi, thirteen-year-old daughter Otsugi, seven-year-old Kamekichi and three-year-old Oyoshi.
They were all hard workers and well-behaved children.

The reason Jū-san carried on with such ranting and raving was that his work had been going poorly for some time now; because of this, Onao, Ryōkichi, and Otsugi had each been working diligently to earn money, while Jūkichi himself was normally oddly quiet and docile.
Therefore, the tenement residents remained silent and pretended not to notice.

In most cases，Onao and Ryōkichi would handle Jū-san．
However，when even that didn’t work，the youngest daughter Oyoshi would come out．
Though three years old，she was slow to speak and would sometimes put on airs while lisping out words．

“Dada．”
Of course，this meant “father．” “You’re being weird again．Weird Dada．”

II

Around Jūkichi, winter lingered.

The season was undeniably turning toward spring.
Frosts became less frequent, and the wind’s touch softened.
The plum blossoms had passed their peak, and the daphne had begun to bloom.
As one walked along, a faint floral scent lingered—now noticeably shifting from plum blossoms to daphne.—

Yet such seasonal changes remained distant from Jūkichi.
As he walked through the dusk-filled streets now, even the faintest wind pierced cold to his bones, the road lay hard as frozen ground, and relentless shivering seized him as though he were trudging through bitter cold.

From a house on the side street where lights were beginning to be lit, a middle-aged woman emerged and hung a lit paper lantern under its eaves.
The lantern was a small, stylish one with "Ochō" written in feminine script.

“Oh my, if it isn’t Jū-san!” the woman called out. “What’s wrong? It’s cruel to just walk on by like that.”

Jūkichi's legs slowed, and he slowly turned around indecisively.

“Do come in—Shin-san’s here too, you know.”
“Shin-san... From Hinokimachi?”

“Kanrokuchō—Shinzuke-san.”

When the woman said this, a man poked his head out from inside the house and called, "Hey."

“Long time no see. How about joining me for a drink?”

“Mm,” Jūkichi mumbled haltingly, “I could do that, but well—let’s make it next time.”

“What are you talking about?” the woman snapped. “That’s your bad habit, Jū-san. Just come inside now—come on, get in here.”

The woman pushed Jūkichi in.
Then, after hanging a decorative curtain over the entrance, she went inside to find Shinzuke sitting alone, fiddling with his sake cup.

"I went to the back to wash my hands," he said to the woman. "But what's wrong, Ms. Ochō?"

The woman called Ochō was likely the proprietor of this establishment. She circled around the earthen-floored area, entered behind the counter, and sat down with an oden pot beside her. The cramped shop measured less than ten square meters, with wooden benches arranged around the counter space; beyond the noren curtain at the far end of the earthen floor appeared to lie the proprietress's living quarters and kitchen area.

"What's wrong?" Shinzuke jerked his chin toward the noren entrance. "You said that's a bad habit—what did you mean?"

“It’s nothing.”
Ochō said this, took the heated sake flask from the copper pot attached to the oden pot, lightly touched its bottom, then placed it in a holder and set it before Shinzuke. “It got too hot—sorry.”

“I see,” Shinzuke nodded, stifling a laugh. “That’s just like him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about us here,” Shinzuke said. “But let me make this clear—I’m paying today’s bill. Put it on his tab and he’ll blow up.”

Ochō turned around and called out loudly, “Otama!”

A reply of "Almost ready" was heard from the back, and Jūkichi emerged from behind the noren curtain.
Shinzuke made space for Jūkichi, and then the two began drinking.
Before long, a woman named Otama appeared, and Ochō went to the back in her place, but when she returned after fixing her makeup, two new customers had arrived at the shop.—

The side street in Nihonbashi Otowa-chō was lined with such modest drinking establishments, each staffed by two or three young women, growing lively with shamisen music and singing voices as dusk fell.
Even now, the sound of shamisen music began drifting from nearby shops, and before long, a few customers joined Ochō’s shop as well, until nearly every seat was filled.

“Did you meet Shinjirō of Hinokimachi?”

When their conversation lapsed, Shinzuke suddenly changed his tone and asked.

“Nah,” Jūkichi shook his head.

“He said he was going to discuss things, but didn’t he come by our place either?”

Jūkichi shook his head again. “Doesn’t look like he came. Does he have some business with you?”

“Hmm.” Shinzuke hesitated, taking the heated sake flask and offering it to Jūkichi. “Well, have one—you’ve gone soft, huh?”

“What business does Hinokimachi have with me?”

“Have another,” said Shinzuke as he poured him a drink. “We’ve been talking—me and Shinjirō of Hinokimachi—for a while now, Nagasawa-chō... I mean, you, Shinjirō, and me—we were raised eating from the same pot.”

Shinzuke spoke of the main store’s “Gokiri.”

The shop located in Nihonbashi Ryōgae-chō produced braziers called Gokiri.
Now in its third generation, until the previous generation’s time, it had been a renowned shop.
The brazier featured a paulownia wood body measuring over 1 shaku 2 sun (approximately 36.4 cm) in diameter, decorated with maki-e lacquerwork using gold and silver to depict paulownia leaves and flowers. As the maki-e design invariably contained five paulownia leaves, it came to be called the Gokiri (Five Paulownias) brazier. Its construction employed unique techniques that defied imitation, making these pieces highly prized artifacts.

The three of them had been apprentice-trained artisans at that shop.
Jūkichi was one year older than them, and Shinzuke and Shinjirō were the same age. However, about five years prior, Shinzuke and Shinjirō had taken leave from Gokiri—one opening a shop in Kanrokuchō, Kyōbashi, and the other in Hinokimachi—establishing their own businesses.

The two had discontinued the Gokiri braziers.
Until the previous generation's time, they had been prized, but as times changed, their reputation declined and orders rapidly dwindled.
Cheap imitations of Gokiri’s products had proliferated, and popular tastes had presumably shifted as well.
Even when they slashed labor costs and lowered prices, the number sold only continued to dwindle.

―
Under these circumstances, Gokiri could no longer sustain their business and reluctantly switched to producing new braziers; however, wanting to preserve at least the name, only Jūkichi continued making the traditional ones as before.
Shinzuke had brought up that matter.
He was already thirty-five years old with four children to support and possessed unmatched skill as an artisan, yet he still lived in a tenement house, commuting daily to earn meager labor costs.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you started considering your own circumstances?” said Shinzuke.

Jūkichi listened while drinking.
He said nothing, but his drinking gradually quickened, and when neither Ochō nor Shinzuke poured for him, he served himself.

“I’m grateful for your concern,” Jūkichi eventually said, “but there doesn’t seem to be anything else I can do besides this work.”

“So I discussed it with Shinjirō of Hinokimachi.”

“Hold on a second.”

“Just listen,” Shinzuke cut him off. “Your determination to preserve the Gokiri braziers is admirable, but the world no longer values them that way. That maki-e technique alone—taking ninety days from lacquer undercoating to raised designs—is absurd. The wood grain selection for the base, the aging process—all of it’s too antiquated, work that’s out of touch with today’s world.”

“Jū-san,” Shinzuke continued, “I’ll be straight with you—you need to reconsider here. The times have changed. Trends come first now. Customers buy what’s cheap and fashionable. Use it for a year till it breaks or they tire of it, then they’ll buy new ones. A brazier’s just a brazier—that’s all it needs to be. That’s the world we live in now.”

Three

Shinzuke took a sip and spoke again.

“Even if you pour your heart into making them single-mindedly, there’s no longer a world that savors such craftsmanship—no customers with eyes for it either. It’s about time we switched to work that suits the times. If you’re serious, Shinjirō of Hinokimachi and I will handle everything.”

Jūkichi smiled weakly with his lips. “A brazier’s just a brazier... Yeah, that’s right.”

“The three of us grew up together—Shinjirō of Hinokimachi and I managed to set up shops, managed to learn society’s ways. Now we can help you out. It’s your turn—you’ve got to decide here, or Ms. Onao and the kids’ll keep suffering.”

Jūkichi stared at his cup, drank from it himself, then slowly shook his head.

“Friends are kind,” he said in a low voice. “They’d say that for me because we’re friends. Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

“You get it now?”

“I get it,” Jūkichi nodded. “Hearin’ it from you, I really get it now.” Then his tone suddenly turned brisk. “Truth is—even the shop in Ryōgae-chō’s barely givin’ me work these days. ’Course that’s ’cause they ain’t sellin’. No customers comin’ to buy even if I wait around, so I gotta go round to old regulars myself beggin’ for orders.”

“Even you—you’re doing it yourself?”

“Damn embarrassing it was,” Jūkichi replied. “I’m used to it now, but at first? Sweated through my shirt from shame.” He poured himself two drinks back-to-back, eyes fixed on the empty cup. “Used to it now... But you’re right. Thirty-five with a wife and four kids. Can’t keep dragging them through this muck.”

“Enough now,” Ochō cut in sharply. “Let me pour properly—get good and drunk like you ought to, Jū-san.”

“Wait a second,” said Shinzuke. “We still have more to discuss.”

“Enough—more than enough of that talk,” Ochō shook her head vehemently. “Jū-san’s said he understands, and this is a drinking house. Let’s drop the matter and drink. Tonight I’ll join you too—that’s fine, isn’t it, Jū-san?”

“Yeah,” Jūkichi said, bowing his head. “Sure, you bet.”

Friends are a blessing.
Drinking as others kept pouring for him, Jūkichi muttered inwardly.
Customers came and went; Otama raised her shrill voice.

―I’m about to cry.

Jūkichi shook his head. Friends tell you these things because they care—how grateful I should be, he muttered silently without letting the words escape. Ochō said something that made Shinzuke snap back in a confrontational tone. Jūkichi drank deeply, swaying his head loosely on his neck before blurting out loud: "So damn kind of them."

—I'm gonna cry.

Crying'd make me look pitiful, Jūkichi warned himself. That's why he staggered outside. Shinzuke tried calling after him, but Ochō held the other man back. Someone shouted something about washing up; as Jūkichi crossed the threshold he mumbled "Yeah yeah" without turning around.

After leaving Ochō’s place, he drank at Genpei.
Not only Ochō, but Genpei too would be in a foul mood if he didn’t drop by every night.
Having been a regular for nearly ten years, on nights with few customers he would often be invited to the back room to exchange cups over a long brazier—a common enough occurrence.
Genpei and his wife had no children and ran the shop by themselves; devoid of romantic allure, it seemed Genpei’s knife skills and Okuni’s hospitality served as their selling points instead.

Jūkichi merrily drank about two bottles and then became deeply intoxicated.
There were three other customers, and Genpei, while using his knife, watched Jūkichi's condition with suspicion.
The sudden intoxication came from the earlier drinking, and Jūkichi took offense at Genpei's gaze.
Just as he meant to say "Quit staring with those strange eyes," Ochō entered.
Ochō was thoroughly drunk—her face gone pallid and stiff, eyes glazed wide.
After greeting Genpei and Okuni, she sat down beside Jūkichi and took the cup from his hand.

“Ms. Ochō,” said Okuni, quickly averting her gaze, “the back room would be better.”

“Yes, thank you,” Ochō replied. “I’ll be going right back.”

“What’s wrong?”
Jūkichi looked at Ochō. “If it’s about settlin’ the tab, I’m sorry but it’s no good—I ain’t got a single penny on me.”

“Pour for me, please.”

“The tab’s piling up here too, I tell ya.”

“Pour for me,” Ochō said.

When Ochō drank the cup Jūkichi had poured for her, she took the warmed sake bottle and gulped down two cups by herself as if hurling them into her throat.

"I wanted to see your face, Jū-san," Ochō said, gazing into his eyes. "It ate at me."

“There are customers here, you know.”

"When they spoke to you like that, didn't you have anything to say back?"
Ochō's suppressed voice thickened with emotion. "You had something you wanted to say, didn't you? Isn't that right?"

"Yeah," Jūkichi gave a light wave of his hand, "there was something I meant to say—just forgot to mention it. Was gonna ask you to take care of things properly."

Ochō remained silent, staring fixedly into Jūkichi’s eyes.
Though brief, the silence felt as though a thousand words were sparking between them.

“Here.” Ochō returned the cup to him, poured a drink, and stood up. “I slapped that man—right across the cheek with my open hand. Made a real satisfying smack.”

Jūkichi, still holding his cup, looked at Ochō.

“Goodbye——” said Ochō in a childishly bright voice.

The customers turned around, and Genpei and Okuni exchanged glances.
Jūkichi made as if to stand up, but Ochō turned a bright smile his way, waved her hand, and left with a slight stagger.

“Goodbye——” came Ochō’s voice from outside, “I’ll come again, thank you for having me.”

“Jū-san, you ought to go after her,” said Okuni. “She seems terribly drunk—it’s dangerous. Escort her back to her shop.”

“Yeah,”
Jūkichi stood up.

When he went out, Ochō was three or four *ken* ahead, walking with a remarkably steady gait. The drinking houses on either side were starting to fill with customers, their lively clamor of shamisen music, singing voices, shouts and laughter audible.—Jūkichi stood there silently until Ochō vanished from sight, then slipped down the side street toward the moat.

IV

“Stop it, stop that,” Jūkichi said. “Don’t hit me.”

He woke to the sound of his own voice.

When he came to his senses, he found himself lying sprawled out, with Oyoshi right beside him.
He was lying directly on the tatami mats, though he had a pillow under his head and a quilt draped over him.
The three-year-old youngest child Oyoshi held a chiyogami paper doll and watched her father with eyes that seemed both reproachful and suspicious.

“Dad,” Oyoshi said, “who’s hitting you?”

Jūkichi felt a dryness in his throat.

“Who’s hitting you, Dad?”

“Where’s Mom?”

“I won’t tell you!” Oyoshi snapped. “Since Dad won’t tell me, I won’t tell you that Mom went to the wholesaler either!”

Jūkichi sat up. “Be a good girl now, Oyoshi, and bring Dad a glass of water.”

“I’m not a good kid!”

Jūkichi sighed and looked around with bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes.
The six-tatami room was cluttered, slightly grimy, and looked utterly wretched.
In reality, Onao was such a neat freak that the room was kept perfectly tidy.
Lined up with the chest of drawers and mousetraps bought secondhand from the start and used unchanged for over fifteen years, along with the long brazier and mirror stand, stood a chest with a missing lid—upon which lay the piecework tools used by his wife Onao and daughter Otsugi.

Bathed in the pale afternoon light filtering through cloudy shoji paper—a dull, metallic sheen devoid of any warmth—these items appeared far dingier, more forlorn, and depressingly wretched than they truly were.
Jūkichi looked up at the Buddhist altar atop the chest of drawers.
It was a small built-in Buddhist altar, its door with peeling lacquer closed.
Inside, among their parents’ mortuary tablets, there was also the mortuary tablet of their eldest son, Wakichi.
Having died less than fifty days after birth—so young that Jūkichi couldn’t even remember his face—the child nonetheless loomed larger than Ryōkichi in his mind, appearing far more grown-up.

——If he were alive, he’d be fifteen.

The children had been born in quick succession up through Otsugi.
Jūkichi looked around the room once more and thought everything was just as it was in the past.
He was still maintaining a household with Onao—only a few more pieces of junk had accumulated, and nothing else had changed.

――All that remained were the children?

Having toiled for over fifteen years, all that remained was four children. Moreover, even those children he couldn’t raise satisfactorily—and now he was already making the two older ones work.

You had it good, Wakichi.

_You were better off dead,_ Jūkichi thought in his heart.
If you'd lived, you'd be hounded by poverty—forced to work before your bones had even set.
Look at Ryōkichi—he's only fourteen.
Though his build leaned toward largeness, his legs and waist remained slender—still just a child.

Yet there he was, peddling day after day—rising before dawn to reach the riverbank, trudging through rain and snow to sell fish.
He boasted about becoming a wholesale fish dealer someday, but truth be told, he still lingered at that age where he wanted to play with friends.

――You lucked out by dying, I tell you.

It’s true, I tell you, Jūkichi thought to himself. To hell with this world. There’s no damn point in living—even if I work my ass off at a single job without looking sideways, a bungler like me’ll never amount to shit in this lifetime. The more earnest you were, the more lightly people treated you, mocked you, hounded you with poverty—and made even your wife and children suffer.

Enough—more than enough.

He’d had enough of this world, Jūkichi thought.

“Dad,” Oyoshi said, “should I bring you some water?”

Oyoshi kept her eyes fixed on her father and seemed to instinctively sense compassion.
Her once-reproachful gaze had now taken on a pitying hue (despite being only three years old).
Even at three years old, a girl was still a girl—likely because in their impoverished life, she had seen and heard the mother and siblings showing care and concern for the father.
Her facial expression showed an oddly adult-like, excessively serious look.

“No need.”
Jūkichi averted his eyes. “I’ll go drink by myself. Aren’t you going out to play?”

“I’m not going,” Oyoshi said. “Mom told me to watch Dad and keep watching till she gets back.”

Jūkichi stood up and went to the kitchen, where he drank three ladlefuls of water directly from the water jar with a ladle.

Onao and the kids are pitiable, I tell you.

Shinzuke had said that.
"That was three days ago," Jūkichi thought, still holding the ladle.
That had been said out of kindness.
Shinjirō of Hinokimachi was the same.
I grew up sharing meals from the same pot as those two.
Both Kinrokuchō and Hinokimachi were shrewd men.
The two had made a clean break from Gokiri, neatly taken their leave, opened their own shops, and switched to modern-style business—all because they were shrewd.
Thanks to that, their businesses prospered, and their families could live as they pleased.
Hinokimachi sent his eldest daughter to dance and nagauta lessons, and Kinrokuchō was said to be keeping a mistress.

“Even so, they still worry about me.”
Jūkichi gazed at the ladle in his hands and muttered vacantly, “Friends... friends’re a damn precious thing.”

Jūkichi jolted.
The waist-high sliding door at the kitchen entrance was suddenly flung open from outside.
It was Ryōkichi, the eldest son, who had opened it. Ryōkichi himself seemed startled; holding his carrying pole, he stood gaping at his father.

“Dad,” Ryōkichi stammered, “what’s wrong?”

Jūkichi looked flustered as he showed the ladle he was holding. “I came to drink water.”
“Water, huh?” Ryōkichi said. “You startled me, I tell you.”
“Same here.”

“Did you take the day off today?”

“Something like that,” Jūkichi said as he put the lid on the water jar and placed the ladle on top. “Went to hear Mr. Yoshioka of Honjo’s order and came straight home after.”

“Mom...”

“She seems to have gone to the wholesaler’s with Otsugi.”

“Let’s go to the bathhouse, Dad,” Ryōkichi said while taking a scrub brush and box of polishing sand from beside the sink. “I’ll go wash the tools now—we’ll head out together once I finish tidying these.”

“Oyoshi’s here.”
“We’ll just leave her to watch the place—it’ll be quick, so wait up, ’kay?”

As soon as he returned to the six-tatami room, Kamekichi brought the girl next door and began playing with Oyoshi.
O-Tatsu next door was five and Kamekichi seven, but both were being dominated by Oyoshi.
When they played house, Oyoshi would always be the Mom, O-Tatsu her daughter, and Kamekichi would end up as "the son who’s nothing but trouble."
And so, strangely enough, it worked smoothly, and Oyoshi’s performance as Mom was perfect.

“Come on now, let’s have dinner,” Oyoshi said in a put-upon tone. “There’s nothing today, so we’ll just eat miso soup. Come on now, both of you go wash your hands.”

Five

“Mom’s doing night work, so you both should go to bed already,” Oyoshi declared. “Hurry up and sleep! If we don’t finish this night work and deliver it to the wholesaler, we won’t be able to buy rice. Hurry up and go to bed!”

That time was no different.
The small household was desperately poor—O-Tatsu still too innocent to be of help, Kamekichi requiring constant attention yet contributing nothing, and Oyoshi alone preparing meals, mending clothes, and working day and night at piecework to earn their keep.

“Noisy, noisy!” Oyoshi said again. “If you’re just going to clutter up the place like this, I can’t get any work done. Both of you, go outside and play.”

Jūkichi wanted to cover his ears and, unable to bear it any longer, stood up.

"The Tenth-Day Ebisu Festival’s wares are—"
Moving to the upper two tatami mats at the entryway, Jūkichi gazed outside as he began singing in an unsteady, low-pitched melody: "—haze bags and tori-bachi bowls, coin-stuffed straw sacks, koban coins and money boxes..."

He stopped there and shook his head. “Can’t even sing a single song properly?”

Jūkichi gazed vacantly outside with eyes that seemed drained of vitality.
At the well across the way, Ryōkichi’s voice could be heard.
While scrubbing the fishmonger’s pan stand, he appeared to be chatting with a neighbor’s wife.
Amidst the spirited voices came the sharp clatter of water.
Ryōkichi’s voice carried vigor, his speech patterns unnervingly mature.
Jūkichi listened in a lifeless daze, as though his body were dissolving into weakness.

Soon Onao and Otsugi returned home, Ryōkichi coming back from the well afterward.
Onao and her daughter carried bundles of piecework on their backs, telling Jūkichi—with what gratitude—that their work would continue through next month as they entered the six-tatami room to unload them, while Ryōkichi efficiently stowed away his tools.

“Mom,” Ryōkichi called out from the earthen floor, “can I go take a proper bath?”

“What a loud voice. How embarrassing,” Onao said from the six-tatami room. “If you’re going, take Kamekichi with you.”

“No can do, not today,” Ryōkichi replied. “I’ve got something to talk about with Dad today.”

He signaled his father with his eyes and said, “I’ll take you next time, Kame. Go with Mom today, okay?”

"That's mean, Ryō!" came Oyoshi's affected voice. "Take me with you, Ryō! That's so mean!"

"Heh," Ryōkichi shrugged. "I'd love to see the face of the guy who'd take her as his wife. Dad, let's go."

Otsugi brought Jūkichi a hand towel.

The bathhouse was located on the canal bank facing Kawaguchi-cho. As they walked along the dusk-lit road, Ryōkichi smiled at his father and said, "I'll treat you to a drink on the way back." "Don't joke about that." "I ain't jokin'—it's for real," Ryōkichi pouted. "Let's stop by Higashiya on the way back—I made good money today, really, Dad." "Well, fine—I already took a sip earlier," Jūkichi said, though he felt his throat tighten.

Since it was still early, the men's bath was empty.
"Let's give ourselves a quick rinse and get out," Ryōkichi said, rubbing his father's back.

"I know this might sound odd, Dad," Ryōkichi continued massaging as he spoke, "but what exactly is Ms. Ochō like?"

Jūkichi's shoulders tensed imperceptibly.

"Ms. Ochō—which Ms. Ochō do you mean?"

"The one running that drinking spot in O-Towa Town."

"Then there's nothing more to ask about her—she's just the woman managing that tavern."

“That’s it?”

“That’s all there is to it. If I had to add anything, I’d say there’s just a pile of unpaid tabs.” Jūkichi changed his tone. “Ryō—why are you asking about this?”

Ryōkichi lowered his voice. “If that’s really all there is, then I…” He cut himself off there, then continued thoughtfully, “—it’s just that Mom’s been worried.”

“I see,” Jūkichi said after a slight pause. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

“They say she used to be Mom’s friend.”

“She used to live in this neighborhood,” Jūkichi said. “Her father was a plasterer, but he died when Ochō was fifteen. Her mother had a timid disposition, and about two years later, she ended up taking in a husband who practically forced his way into their home.”

The husband was a wastrel, and the mother and daughter apparently endured considerable hardship.
It was around the time when Jūkichi and Onao started their household that Ochō would often come to Onao’s place, crying as she vented her troubles.
Before long, they abruptly vanished.
They moved away like those fleeing debts, and all communication ceased entirely.

Could it be that Ms. Ochō had been sold off to Yoshiwara or some such place?

The neighbors were saying such things, and Jūkichi and Onao discussed whether that might indeed be the case.

And then one day, about five years later, Jūkichi was stopped by Ochō in that side alley of O-Towa Town and learned she had opened a drinking establishment.

“That stepfather put her through hell,” he said while suddenly twisting his torso away from Ryōkichi’s scrubbing. “She wouldn’t give details—too ashamed to even speak of it—but sounds like pure misery.” His shoulders jerked sharply under the washcloth’s friction. “Ease up already! You’ll scrub my damn skin off at this rate.”

“Oops.”
Ryōkichi panicked. “Ah! Oops!” he exclaimed, wetting his hand with spit and stroking his father’s back. “It’s all red. Does it hurt, Dad?”

“It’s fine. Let’s warm up.”

The two stepped into the bath.

“Tell Mom this,” Jūkichi said softly in the dim bathwater, “not to worry—I just drop by for drinks sometimes, and there’s only a small tab built up. Got that?”

“Ah,” Ryōkichi said. “—Is that person still struggling?”

“Probably,” Jūkichi answered. “Her stepfather’s dead, but her mother’s been bedridden, and seems there’s someone looking after her. She didn’t go into detail, but sounds like the hardships never let up.”

Ryōkichi fell silent, then asked in a probing tone, “—Is it true Ms. Ochō was supposed to become your wife?”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“But Mom said so! Ms. Ochō herself told her that once!”

“Enough of this nonsense,” Jūkichi cut in. “Even if Ochō did say that, it’s none of my business. Tell Mom not to fuss over such trifles—we’ve got worse troubles to handle here.”

“Let’s go, Dad,” Ryōkichi said in a bright voice. “Hurry up and head out to Higashiya.”

Six

Higashiya was an eatery located on the canal bank near Kamejima Bridge, renowned not only for its affordable prices but also for serving excellent sake.
The shop was large enough to seat forty or fifty people, employed no women whatsoever, and had five boys around fourteen or fifteen years old and five young men who attended to the customers.

Just as the lights came on, the shop was terribly crowded, but Ryōkichi nimbly found seats where they could sit side by side.

“Dad, you’ll have sake—what about side dishes?” Ryōkichi said cheerfully. “I’ll get rice with loach soup. Why don’t we ever have loach at home?”

“Because I’m a Year of the Rabbit.”

“So being a Year of the Rabbit makes it bad?”

“Because they share the ‘u’ sound, Mom believes eating loach would be like eating your own kind.”

“But eels and loaches are different, aren’t they?”

“Seems she thinks they’re the same kind of thing, Mom does.”

“That’s hilarious,” Ryōkichi snorted.

Jūkichi drank sake with shark preserves and tofu soup, while Ryōkichi ate rice.
He got seconds of loach soup and talked nonstop while eating heartily.
More than treating his father, he seemed to feel pride and satisfaction in doing so with just the two of them—as fellow men.

He soon began talking about his catering fish business, talked about the proprietor of Awajiya, and talked about the boss of Uomasa.
Both were names unfamiliar to Jūkichi, but in any case, the proprietor of Awajiya was a patron of Ryōkichi’s and had apparently promised to lend him funds when he opened his own shop, while the boss of Uomasa was said to be teaching him the tricks of catering.

“I’ll make life easier for you soon, Dad,” Ryōkichi said, his face flushing red. “Just five or six more years of endurance—no, even sooner than that! Once I have my own shop, I’ll let you take it easy. I mean it, Dad!”

Jūkichi smiled happily and nodded repeatedly.

That occurred in early March, and soon the fourteenth arrived.
Late that evening, after the lights were lit, Jūkichi appeared at Ochō’s shop, drank just two bottles, paid a portion of his accumulated tab, and then stopped by "Genpei".

Before going to Ochō’s, he had already been drinking.
The payment he received at the shop was less than half of what he had expected.
The shopkeeper offered excuses, but in essence, it boiled down to Gokiri braziers not being profitable and that they would only pay for what had sold.

To hell with it, Jūkichi thought. Suit yourself then! If that’s how you’re gonna play it, I’ll play my own game. If it’s come to this, I’ll become a thief or whatever—a burglar even! Just you watch! With that thought, he left the Gokiri shop and immediately stopped at the first sake vendor he saw for a quick drink. He gulped down cold sake at three establishments and quickly wrapped up his visit to Ochō’s place, but it was only after going to Genpei that the drunkenness hit.

He himself hadn’t noticed the drunkenness setting in.

Because it was the evening of a settlement day, the place was crowded with customers, and among them was a man who caught Jūkichi’s eye.
He looked about forty-five or forty-six years old, wearing a worn-out workman’s livery coat and loose work pants, with frayed hemp-lined sandals on his feet.
His face and build were emaciated and gaunt, and he sat hunched over, drinking with only some pickled vegetables as a snack—

A sharp pain wrenched through Jūkichi’s chest.
The customer appeared to be new to this establishment and seemed aware of his own incongruity there; he kept glancing around nervously while shrinking into himself as he drank.
Jūkichi felt that man was just like himself.
The sight of him—lacking the courage to speak to neighboring customers, hunched over as he sipped at a single bottle of sake with exaggerated care—felt like being shown a perfect reflection of his current self.

“Landlady,” he called to Okuni, “can I borrow the back room?”

“Yes, go ahead. I’m sorry for the mess.”

“Nah, I want to drink with that customer.”

Jūkichi jerked his chin. “Yeah, that customer. I’ll head to the back first. Mind callin’ him over for me?”

“But Mr. Jū, he’s a stranger.”

“Just do as I ask,” he said, pressing his hand to his chest. “I’ll leave some money today.”

Okuni glared. “If you say such things, my husband will get angry,” she said.

Jūkichi went into the back room.
Okuni quickly brought over drinks and snacks, and once everything was ready, she called the man.
The man groveled apologetically, but nevertheless came up and sat across from the tray, accepting the cup with an air of genuine delight.
And when the fourth bottle of sake was opened, Jūkichi could no longer contain himself and spoke.

“Cut out that ‘Master’ crap—the name’s Jūkichi. Call me by my name, damn it. And,” he looked at the man, “all this bowing and scraping’s ruining the drink. Quit the act and loosen up.”

The man forced a smile and scratched his head. "I beg your pardon," he said. "The name’s Kisuke. Please forgive my offense."

"That’s exactly what I mean by standing on ceremony! Can’t you relax a bit more?"

By that time, he was already drunk.

The man named Kisuke called him "Master Jū-san," likely trying to stay in his good graces, and spoke of his own misfortunes and the hardships of his life.
Jūkichi's agitated mind remained preoccupied with other thoughts, and he barely registered most of what Kisuke said. Yet fragments lingered dimly in his ears—that Kisuke had three children with one newborn; that his wife still alternated between bedrest and brief activity due to poor postpartum recovery; that he lacked steady work, surviving on daily odd jobs with many idle days when he couldn't even feed his children sweet potato porridge; and that he was unexpectedly young at just thirty-six.

“If this keeps up,” Kisuke said with an ingratiating laugh, “I’m thinking I might just turn thief or kill my wife and kids and end up dead myself.”

“Don’t go spouting fancy words,” Jūkichi shook his head violently. “I’m the one who wants to turn thief here, thief!” he said, jerking his face upward. “—Thief? Who’s calling who a thief? Who the hell’s the real thief?”

“You’re drunk, Master Jū-san.”

“Hey, should I tell you the truth?”
Jūkichi repositioned himself. “Can I tell you the truth?”

“By all means.”
Kisuke swallowed his saliva. “Please tell me the truth. I’m listening.”

“The name’s Jūkichi.”
He stiffened his repositioned knees and planted both fists on the floor. “An artisan raised from apprenticeship at Ryōgaemachi’s Gokiri shop. I dare say—if you put me to making Gokiri braziers, I ain’t inferior to nobody, you hear? You doubtin’ that?”

“Not at all,” Kisuke hurriedly shook his head. “Everyone knows that full well.”

Jūkichi took the cup and drank.

Seven

"I work using every ounce of my skill—any proper artisan would do the same. The old master trained me this way, and I believe I’ve done work surpassing what I was taught."
Jūkichi kept holding his emptied cup as he stared at the man. "Listen close now—if you’re gonna call yourself an artisan, you should do work that uses all your skill. Work nobody can copy. Work only you can make. That’s how it’s meant to be. Ain’t that right?"

“Exactly right, exactly right, Master.”

“You’re a good man,” Jūkichi said. “Where’d you say you’re from again?”

“Well, let me pour you another.”
Kisuke poured the drink.

Jūkichi drank it and let his head drop heavily.
Kisuke quickly downed two cups himself, then plucked a candied arrowhead from the bowl on the tray and flung it into his mouth.

“I’ve lived by that with my whole damn being,” Jūkichi said. “Whether what I’ve got’s high skill or low don’t matter a whit—whatever it is, I’ve done work that’s honest through and through, put every ounce of myself into it. That’s been my sacred vow. But they call it wrong now. Say times changed. Claim that kinda work’s got no place left. That sticking to it makes me cruel to my wife and kids.”

Jūkichi raised his face, lips twisting as he spoke in a slightly malicious tone, “It’s a world where trends reign supreme now. If it’s cheap and catches their eye, customers’ll buy. Use it till it breaks or they tire of it within a year—then they’ll buy another. That’s this age for you. In the end, a brazier’s just a brazier.”

“What d’you think?” Jūkichi looked at Kisuke. “You call that right? Everyone chasing trends first—good if it sells, good if it profits—just pumping out half-assed work that suits the times. You think that keeps society upright? Sure, do work that fits this era and you might make money. Like you know—Hinokimachi and Kinnrokuchō opened shops, stacked coin, won folks’ respect. Fine for them. They wanted that life—so be it. You know Kinnrokuchō and Hinokimachi?”

“Well now, Master—that much goes without saying,” Kisuke forced an ingratiating smile. “Let me pour you another.”

Jūkichi stared at the cup.

“To those two, I must look like some clumsy, bumbling, thick-headed blockhead. But I am who I am. It’s hard on my wife, but I just want to preserve an artisan’s pride. I can’t fool myself into doing work just for money.”
Jūkichi drooped his head heavily again. “—That’s what that Kinnrokuchō bastard hated.”
“That Shinzuke bastard resented it too.”
“A brazier’s just a brazier—a brazier’s… a brazier…”

And Jūkichi began to cry.
The final words were swallowed by rising sobs, his drooped head bobbing up and down as if nodding.
Kisuke was perplexed and tried to say something, but hurriedly gulped down three cups by himself.

“It was frustrating,” Jūkichi wiped around his eyes with the hand still holding his cup, “They’re them—ain’t nothing to be done. They ain’t artisans no more. No point arguin’ ’bout artisan pride with folks who’ve washed their hands of the trade. I kept silent—kept silent—but damn, it ate at me. Get that?”

“I understand—I understand perfectly.”

“You’re a good man,” Jūkichi said, raising his eyes to look at him. “—What was your name again?”

“Come now, Master—didn’t I tell you I’m Kisuke?”

“Ah—Kisuke-san. Udagawa Town, eh?”

“Well, let me pour you another.”
Kisuke poured the drink.

Then Kisuke ordered another round of drinks.
He remembered that.
Okuni came and acknowledged how severely drunk Jūkichi had become, saying he should stop drinking now.
Jūkichi took out his wallet—then Genpei arrived and they had a brief scuffle.
Genpei made what sounded like a taunting remark, and Jūkichi flung down his wallet before standing up.

“To hell with this! I’ll become a thief with this person!” Jūkichi roared. “If it’s come to this, I’ll do anything—even break-ins! Just you watch!”

That might have been something that happened after they went outside.

Kisuke kept trying to calm him as they stumbled along entangled.
Jūkichi staggered unsteadily while praising his wife Onao, lauding Ryōkichi, extolling Otsugi, and commending both Kamekichi and Oyoshi.
He boasted about everyone even as he disparaged himself, then turned his scorn upon Kisuke too.

“We’re both worthless scraps, ain’t we?”
Leaning against the other man’s shoulder, Jūkichi said, “You and I ain’t worth a damn—just scraps, the both of us. We’d be better off not existing at all. You plannin’ to oppose me now?”

“I’m taking you home—it’s Nagasawa-cho, right?”

“I’m stayin’ over,” Jūkichi declared. “Tonight I’ll talk proper with you. Talkin’ with an old friend feels good. Gonna stay.”

“We’ll go to your place first, Master—you must have your own affairs to manage there.”

“So you’re saying you ain’t stayin’ over?”

“Careful! You’ll hit the rickshaw!”

Kisuke supported Jūkichi and steered clear of the rickshaw.

They returned to the Nagasawa-cho residence where he forced Kisuke to stay.
Though the hour was late, he insisted Kisuke was an old friend and declared they should stay up drinking and talking together after so much time apart.
The children all appeared to be asleep.
Onao prepared sake while Kisuke kept making refusals.
Listening to this exchange, Jūkichi grew too exhausted for words, became drowsy, and lay down where he was.

“You keep at it,” Jūkichi said while lying down. “I’ll rest a bit—just a little while.”
Then he said to Onao, “I’ll get up soon, so don’t you dare send this friend home.”

He fell asleep just like that.
He knew nothing.
Probably near dawn—he heard the word “thief” twice in his half-awake state, thought he must be dreaming, and realized his throat was parched with thirst.
Yet he kept sleeping, lacking even the strength to reach for the water jug.
In this twilight between sleep and wakefulness, he heard Onao and the children’s voices, the clatter of bowls and chopsticks at mealtime.
When those sounds faded, he sank back into sleep—only to be roused again by the tofu seller’s call.
Onao stopped the tofu seller entering the alleyway and said, “Two blocks of tofu.”

Jūkichi awoke with a start and, "Dammit," shrank his neck into the quilt.

"Seems I've done something terrible," he muttered under his breath. "Must've made some huge blunder... ugh."

Then, someone came to his bedside and whispered softly.

“Dad, wake up.”
It was Oyoshi. “That p-person’s a thief.”

VIII

“I told you not to say that—what a hopeless child,” Onao said. “This bit looks done enough now.”

She stirred the tofu in the pot with her chopsticks.
Beside the meal tray, atop the charcoal stove, the pot of simmering tofu sent up vigorous plumes of steam.
Jūkichi kept holding his sake cup while intently studying the rising vapors.
He had woken about an hour earlier, gone to the public bathhouse, and drunk two cups at the meal tray—yet the sake’s smell only clung to his nostrils without any sign of intoxication, his mood remaining utterly flat.

“Try eating some,” Onao said. “Putting something hot in your stomach will refresh you.”

“What did he take?”

“I tell you to forget about it—having our kindness repaid with betrayal stings far worse than losing things,” Onao said. “Besides, if he’d been your friend it would’ve been trouble, but since he’s just some stranger we don’t know, we can write it off as plain misfortune and be done.”

Jūkichi raised his eyes and looked at Onao. “Didn’t anyone see him leave?”

“Ryō apparently saw him,” she said. “He turned back at the doorway and said in a low voice, ‘Thank you for your kindness.’” Onao adjusted the charcoal stove’s vent. “Ryō thought he was trying not to wake the family, so he just kept pretending to be asleep,” she said.

“That guy…”
Jūkichi opened and closed his mouth two or three times, then said as if ashamed, “Ryō must’ve been angry.”

“What’s there to be angry about?”

“That I brought that bastard here.”

“Shall I tell you what Ryō said?” Onao looked at her husband. “—‘If Dad had done something like this, it’d be a huge scandal. Better that we got robbed instead.’ That’s all Ryō said.”

“I see,” Jūkichi said in a thin voice, lightly raising his cup upward.
He seemed about to say something.
Or perhaps he said it in his heart—placing the cup back on the tray, he flopped down where he sat. “Still sleepy...”

“Eat a little and get some sleep. Going to bed on an empty stomach isn’t good for you.”

“Ah well, let me get some sleep.”

Onao stood up while complaining.

She brought a pillow and placed it for him, then spread the quilt over him.
Jūkichi tried to think.
He seemed completely sober yet still hungover—his head was foggy, and his chest felt terribly heavy.
Intending to stay awake, he ended up dozing off, then woke to the children’s voices but remained lying there with the quilt pulled over his head.

When the lamp was lit and dinner was ready, Ryōkichi came to wake the father.
Jūkichi gave a vague reply while Oyoshi called out something from across the room.
Then Ryōkichi snapped at her—“Quiet now!”—before returning to start his meal.—Meanwhile Jūkichi lay thinking until every shred of doubt had been burned away.
Having tested his resolve again and again till it rang true as hammer on anvil—he waited for their supper’s end.

“Wait a moment, everyone.”

When the meal ended, Jūkichi rose up and reseated himself where he was. "Stay as you are. I... have something to say to everyone."

“Cut it out,” Ryōkichi said. “No need to be so formal. It’s just sake, Dad.”

“Yeah,” Jūkichi nodded. “—Sake.”

“I’ll pour,” Otsugi said, standing up.

Jūkichi said to Onao, "Hold off on clearing things away. Leave everything as it is, and have everyone stay seated there."

“Dad’s drunk again, huh?” Oyoshi said.

Onao stood up. "Let's clean up while the sake is heating—it's too messy to leave things like this," she said, deftly clearing the meal tray as Oyoshi and Kamekichi helped her.
Ryōkichi had recently started attending reading and writing lessons.
In the house of a ronin living in the alley across the way—who ran a small temple school that Ryōkichi attended only at night—he said, "I'm late tonight," ignored his father, gathered his tools, and stood up.

"Oh right," Jūkichi said as realization dawned on him. "You've been taking lessons."

Thwarted at the very start, Jūkichi's face took on a relieved expression as if he'd escaped calamity; he relaxed his formally straightened knees and sat cross-legged.
—Ryōkichi went out, and the sake preparations were completed.
Onao and Otsugi spread out their piecework while Jūkichi began drinking by himself, teasing Oyoshi and Kamekichi all the while.
This time the sake went down smoothly, and a pleasant drunkenness began to take hold.

“The wares of Tōka Ebisu are—”
Jūkichi began singing in a nasal, low voice—“haze bags and tori bowls.”

“Whoa, the same song again,” Oyoshi jeered. “The rhythm’s all messed up with that same tune!”

“Oyoshi,” Otsugi scolded.

“It’s fine. Oyoshi’s right.”
Jūkichi laughed cheerfully, “All Chan’s ever known since the old days is this one song. Plus I’m singing it off-key—can’t find another man this worthless, eh?”

By the time Ryōkichi returned home, he was completely drunk and boasting about how he’d drunk away all the settlement money last night.
Soon after that, he lay down and fell asleep while muttering some incoherent ramblings.
He believed he was still talking when he suddenly awoke to find the lantern dimmed and their sleeping breaths audible around him.—He remained fully clothed yet properly under the covers, with Kamekichi sleeping pressed against him.
In the neighboring house, the sound of someone talking in their sleep could be heard, and a dog barked from the direction of the main street.

Jūkichi remained motionless, listening to everyone's sleeping breaths for quite some time, then quietly slipped out from under the covers.
Kamekichi flinched but became still once his bedding was adjusted and he was gently restrained.
Jūkichi looked around and muttered under his breath, "Just a single hand towel will do."
At that moment, the sound of a bell tolled from afar.
It must have been the timekeeping bell of Shirokanechō—counting the tolls, it was eight (2:00 AM).
After finishing listening, he stood up and went to the kitchen.

The kitchen was located in the two-mat space at the back.
He stealthily slid open the shoji, took a dry hand towel from its rack, and wrapped it around his face.
Then, just as he began painstakingly easing open the kitchen door's storm shutters with utmost caution, Onao's voice sounded behind him, making him whirl around in surprise.

“What are you doing?” Onao stood in her nightclothes—her face invisible in the darkness, her voice trembling violently. “What do you plan to do? You—what are you trying to do?”

“I’m just, uh, going to the outhouse.”

Onao quickly came over, pushed him aside, and quietly closed the door that was open about three inches.

“You cover your face to go to the outhouse?” Onao said. “Come on, let’s go over there and hear your reasons. Tell me what you’re planning to do.”

Nine

The two sat facing each other in the two-mat space.
The paper lantern was in the six-mat room, and since it had been dimmed, their faces were only faintly visible to each other.
That was at least some relief to Jūkichi. He remained sitting rigidly and spoke in a hushed voice as he explained his reasons.
"My words fail me, so I can’t express myself properly, but I’ve said all I can. Please... just let me go like this," he pleaded, bowing his head.
Onao was trembling violently, and for a moment, words wouldn’t come out.

“Yes...” Onao finally nodded. “That’s how it is,” she said through clenched teeth. “And then—you plan to go off with Ms. Ochō, don’t you?”

Jūkichi held his breath and looked at Onao.

“You,” he said, drawing a deep breath and exhaling slowly at length, “that’s not it. I’ve got nothing to do with Ochō or anyone like that. What I’m saying is—with me around, I’m no good for any of you.”

“What do you mean you’re no good for any of us?”

“Didn’t I just say that?”
Jūkichi spat out with fraying patience: “I’m a worthless man—spoutin’ grand words ’bout an artisan’s pride, though ’course I got no real pride. But even I got some human feelin’! I ain’t wantin’ to make your wife ’n’ children suffer! If I could, I’d do modern work—let you ’n’ the kids live easy! Tried thinkin’ that way, tried doin’ it countless times—but whenever I try, it just won’t take! However I lie to myself, that kinda work... I can’t do it!”

“If you can’t do something, there’s nothing to be done about it, isn’t that so?”

“Will that solve anything?” Jūkichi cut in. “The other day, Shinzuke told me too—‘Consider the times! If things stay like this, your wife and children will suffer!’ Not that I needed to be told—you already knew that well enough. But hearing it said out loud... for the first time, I truly realized how pitiful all of you are. Shinjirō and Shinzuke are doing splendidly as you see—both offered to advise me. But I’m no good—no matter what I do, I can’t imitate those two.”

“If you can’t do something, there’s nothing to be done about it,” Onao interrupted this time. “People can’t all rise up in the world—they’re born with their own natures, and there’s such a thing as good or bad luck too. Shinjirō of Hinokimachi and Shinzuke of Kanroku-chō had the disposition and talent to rise up—that’s why they succeeded. You don’t have those things, so there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“That’s why—that’s why I—”

“What do you mean ‘that’s why’?” Onao said. “If your work’s gone downhill and you can’t handle anything else, isn’t it only natural that me and the children should step in? Staying because you want to make our lives easier, leaving because you think you’re making us suffer—since when did such selfishness become proper?”

“I ain’t saying this outta my own self-interest.”

“Then whose sake are you talking about? Do you think we’d be happy to see you leave? Is that what you believe?”

Onao said, suppressing her trembling voice, “About twenty days ago, Shinjirō of Hinokimachi came here and told me the same thing—that we’ll never get anywhere like this. He urged me to have you take up their work so our life could become a little easier.”

“So, Shinjirō of Hinokimachi did come after all?”

“He did come, but I didn’t tell you about it. And to Shinjirō of Hinokimachi, I made it clear I wouldn’t meddle in work matters—that’s how I refused him.”
Onao continued in a voice edged with anger: “—You’d never take up that sort of work anyway, and we’d never want ease bought by making you do jobs you hate. Ryō’s fourteen, Otsugi’s thirteen—and I’m still strong myself. Isn’t it exactly because all six of us are together that enduring hardships feels worthwhile?”

“I thought about that too—all day, thought real hard,” Jūkichi said. “But it’s no use. When I got my settlement at the shop yesterday, turned out it was less’n half what I’d figured. They said from now on they’ll only pay for what actually sells—means they’re washin’ their hands of me. Never earned proper wages to begin with, drank away what little I had, then dragged home some stranger who stole from our empty house. Had enough. I’m sick o’ myself—I’m this family’s harbinger o’ misfortune. Beggin’ you—don’t stop me. I just... can’t stay here no more.”

“That’s a good idea,” a voice said.

The suddenness made both Jūkichi and Onao nearly leap up as they turned around. In the six-mat room stood Ryōkichi, with Otsugi and Kamekichi visible beyond him—even little Oyoshi standing there too.

"That's a great idea, Dad," Ryōkichi said. "If you really can't stand staying here, let's leave this house."

"Ryō, what nonsense are you saying?" Onao interjected.

"But listen, Dad," Ryōkichi pressed on undeterred, "if you're leaving, you ain't going alone—I'm coming with you."

“Me too—I’m gonna go!” said Oyoshi.

“Oyoshi can’t come,” said Kamekichi. “Girls can’t go. It’s gonna be me and big bro—we’re men.”

“We’re all going,” Otsugi said. “If being torn apart is the alternative, we’d all rather starve together.” And Otsugi began to cry. “You’re right, Ma—that’s better that way.”

“Alright, it’s settled then,” Ryōkichi said eagerly. “No objections now, right? If you’re ready, Dad, let’s get prepared.”

“Ryō—” Onao called out in a voice overflowing with emotion.

Jūkichi hung his head low and covered his face with one arm.

"You all," Jūkichi muttered disjointedly, "you're all fools—every last one of you idiots."

"That's right," Ryōkichi said. "We're all your kids, Dad. No wonder there's nothing strange about it."

Otsugi burst out through tears, then Kamekichi burst out, and even Oyoshi began laughing without understanding why, while Onao pressed her face firmly between both hands as if in prayer.

Ten

Needless to say, the family did not leave that tenement house.
At Onao and Ryōkichi’s urging, Jūkichi closed the "Gokiri" shop and decided to work from his own home.

Since he had always been the one making rounds through old connections to secure orders, handling everything himself without the shop meant that even if quantities were small, whatever sold would go entirely into his own hands.
He wouldn’t need to use the “Gokiri Brazier” name anymore, and he would change the gold lacquer patterns too.
In time, society’s tastes might change again, and his braziers might come into favor.
In any case, they concluded it was worth trying.

Whether that plan would proceed as intended was something no one could predict.

The people of the tenement house wished for their success.
Because they all liked Jūkichi and his family—and yet, even after that, the people of the tenement house would continue to hear Jūkichi drunkenly rambling.
This time it was the fourteenth—not the month’s end—and occurred at most once a month, beginning around ten o’clock at night at the tenement gate and proceeding in its usual sequence all the way to their doorway.

“Drank it all... every last drop,” Jūkichi slumped down outside the doorway. “Not even two kan and five hundred left... really... drank everything... y’know?”

“Come inside,” Onao’s hushed voice urged through the doorway, “you’re troubling the neighbors. Please come in.”

“Can’t,” Jūkichi slurred back languidly. “Drank it all up... every last coin... see? Nothin’ left... no way.”

Ryōkichi stepped forward to intervene when Oyoshi piped up with practiced affectation: “Daddy’s bein’ weird,” she announced. “You’re sayin’ he’s weird too, right? Weird Daddy.”