Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Honda Shōhei had confidence in his ability to endure things.

It may have been his innate disposition, but it would not be unfair to say he had spent the majority of his twenty-six years training for that purpose.
The fact that he was merely the fourth son of a 3,000-koku hatamoto would be understood by those who understood such things.
At that time, in society at large,

“Second and third sons might get cold rice at best, but fourth and fifth sons were like cast-off sandals with no one to claim them.”

There existed such an impudent common saying.
Considering the standing of all four classes—samurai, farmers, artisans, and merchants—the samurai’s reality was considered the most dire, given both their lack of adaptability and the unnecessary burden of maintaining appearances.

That morning too, Shōhei endured.

“How vulgar to get angry over food; if a man must rage, it should be over matters of principle—something as trivial as an empty stomach.”

He muttered such soliloquies to himself while trying to tighten his lower abdomen and take deep breaths before turning toward his desk.
On it lay an unfinished manuscript—a pseudo-classical gesaku piece of exceedingly coquettish nature whose subject was the extravagant aristocratic life of the Muromachi period, particularly focusing on how the Silver Pavilion Shogun indulged in romantic affairs.
For years now he had been copying this sort of literature to supplement his meager pocket money.
Side jobs were strictly forbidden and this one required absolute secrecy given its nature; yet between its favorable pay relative to effort and his own chance to savor an air of elegant refinement, it ended up being rather ideal work that killed two birds with one stone.

“A person won’t die even if they go without food for two or three days.”

Shōhei set about copying.

“I’ll get some work done until they come to call me.”

But it was no use.
His hands were trembling, and he couldn’t write properly.
The brazier held only embers as faint as fireflies, and his stomach growled incessantly.
To make matters worse, the text he was copying depicted the Silver Pavilion Shogun hosting an extravagant feast, creating extremely poor conditions for sustaining endurance.

“Tch, what the hell are they even doing?”

He set down his brush.
Lately, they had been late in coming to notify him of breakfast—a trend of increasing tardiness—but that morning was particularly delayed.

"Damn it all! What matters of principle?"

Seeing sunlight streaming through the shoji screens, Shōhei finally lost his patience.

"When you're hungry, you get hungry—isn't that just human nature? I'm human too!"

While thinking "Don't mock me," he went outside somewhat indignantly.

He lived in a samurai tenement.
Stepping on the frost in the side garden and entering the kitchen, the smell of warm rice and miso soup assaulted his nose, his stomach gurgled loudly, and raw saliva flooded his mouth.
Under the morning sunlight streaming through the lattice window, the maidservants were eating.
Shōhei said, swallowing hard.
“What about my meal? Is it still not ready?”
The maidservants all stopped their chopsticks at once and silently exchanged looks.

They’d forgotten, had they?

Shōhei tried to say that.
At that moment, one of the maidservants said, “I’ll go ask Madam,” and clattered out into the hallway.
“Let me know when it’s ready.”
Suppressing his urge to shout, Shōhei returned to his quarters.
“Go ask Madam,’ huh? … So I can’t even eat a meal without Madam’s permission?”

Shōhei felt like crying.

A hatamoto with 3,000 koku was not so destitute as to be utterly impoverished; his eldest brother Yasauemon served as the finance magistrate’s accounting officer, earning considerable additional income beyond his official stipend.
Despite this—or perhaps because he was a miser—he had sent his second brother to work as a clerk at the town magistrate’s office, employed his third brother as a substitute family steward, and as for the fourth son, Shōhei...

A good-for-nothing unmatched in the Honda family.

Though they called him that, he was treated almost like a servant. To be fair, the servants received regular wages, but Shōhei only occasionally received a pittance as insignificant as flea droppings, so in practical terms, he may have been worse off than them.

Don't go outside—it's disgraceful.

We have guests—stay hidden.

Don't go shuffling around—you're an eyesore.

Every time they saw Shōhei, his brothers would bark at him like this. The clothes he wore were all hand-me-downs passed down one after another; because there wasn't a single satisfactory item among them, it was only natural that he looked shabby.

Who’s the one making me look this disgraceful?

There were times when he felt like retorting with such words, but imagining what would happen if he did, he ultimately had no choice but to stay silent and endure.
That wasn’t all—the sister-in-law was also extremely heartless.
It was said she had come with a dowry of three hundred ryō or so, but her body was stout and squat, her face round and flat—yet somehow her entire being exuded a thorny, fox-like quality.

"In my Abe household, the upbringing of men was most rigorous, I'll have you know," she would say whenever she laid eyes on Shōhei.

Her maiden family belonged to a hatamoto clan of some 4,000 koku—a household renowned for its austere discipline, where meals consisted of barley mixed with millet. From early childhood, boys were made to scrub floors and wash laundry. At ten years old, they learned needlework and became responsible for mending all their own garments, or so the family prided itself.

“It’s preparation for when real battle comes, you know—one can’t very well bring women onto the battlefield.”

She mustered a sardonic smile.
In other words, it meant he should do his own mending and laundry. [...] With his brothers acting this way and his sister-in-law no different, the maidservants naturally treated him coldly—though perhaps it was his own bitterness distorting things—glancing at him with looks that sneered “Hmph, deadweight,” or adopting scornful postures.

“Um… Your meal is ready.”

Finally, one of the maidservants came to inform him.

“Oh, thank you. I’ll be right there.”

Shōhei inadvertently replied in an agreeable tone and eagerly stood up, only to then click his tongue in irritation at his own spinelessness.

II

Next to the kitchen was a dimly lit, long four-and-a-half-mat room.
That was his dining room.
Two sides were walls, one side was a storage closet, and only the hallway side had a paper screen; but since across the hallway lay a sliding-door compartment and another wall, even at noon the room remained as dim as twilight, perpetually musty, damp, and oppressively gloomy.

Shōhei sat before the tray.

Of course, no one served him; he ladled out the soup and rice himself. But as he did so, he suddenly made a strange face.

“What the hell is this?”

He tentatively tasted the soup and rice.
Both were completely cold.

Shōhei flew into a rage.
Just moments ago, hadn't those maidservants been eating steaming rice? Hadn't they let that stomach-teasing smell of hot miso soup hang thick in the air?

"And yet what's this? Last night's leftover cold rice? You expect me to eat this?"

In his fury, he flipped the tray over.

The self-control he'd spent twenty-six years perfecting snapped clean through.
It broke like a thread—one sharp, decisive pop.
Shōhei burst from the room, raced back to his quarters, changed at breakneck speed, strapped on his sword, and charged outside again. He cut across the courtyard and stormed into his sister-in-law's parlor through the main house's veranda.

The sister-in-law was mending old tabi socks.

“Hand over the dowry money.”

With these words, Shōhei drew his sword.
The sister-in-law was dumbfounded, her flat fox-like face slackening as she gaped at him with her mouth hanging open.
Shōhei thrust his sword toward the tip of her nose and said.

“What do you take me for? Hand over the money.”

When the sister-in-law realized her brother-in-law was serious—his eyes bloodshot, the tip of his sword trembling minutely—she suddenly turned deathly pale and let out a shriek like “Eek!”

“Don’t make a sound! If you thrash around, I’ll cut you down!”

“I-I-I’ll…”

“Hand over the money—all of it. Stay quiet. Hurry up. Don’t say a word.”

He thrust the sword forward.
The sister-in-law leapt up nimbly, like a marionette jerked by its strings.
He was agitated, but his resolve had been steeled far beyond ordinary measure.
Precisely because she had always dismissed him as a "good-for-nothing," this resolve now struck her with inversely amplified force.
Trembling violently, she started to reach toward the shadow of the Buddhist altar, then abruptly stopped and opened a small drawer in the utility chest.
Her legs trembled unsteadily as though she might collapse at any moment, but what she retrieved was a worn-out purse.

“Don’t insult me—that’s not nearly enough.”

Shōhei thrust his sword at his sister-in-law’s obi.

“Hand over what’s behind that Buddhist altar. Trying to cheat me now—you’ve got some nerve. I’ll cut you down!”

“B-b-but, th-th-that’s…”

When he prodded her obi with the sword, the sister-in-law let out a sharp “Hssk!” and retrieved a large fukusa-wrapped bundle from there.

“Open it yourself. Don’t dawdle.”

After making her unwrap the fukusa cloth, he found about eight packets of koban coins inside.
Shōhei took six packets, stuffing them into both sleeves, then hesitated and returned one.

“When Brother returns, tell him this—I’ve come to collect what was owed to me all this time. This isn’t mere theft—do you understand? You… you greedy, wicked woman!”

He stepped out into the hallway but, wanting to hurl some magnificently scathing curse at her, turned back and snorted derisively before saying:

“Go eat my leftover cold rice!”

He couldn’t come up with a stronger curse than that.

After exiting through the service entrance, he dashed about two blocks and boarded a street palanquin.
From Kōjimachi Omote Yonbanchō, he descended Kudanzaka slope, switched to another street palanquin there, and commanded, “To Asakusabashi.”
It was his first time riding in a palanquin, and it felt good.
He felt not an ounce of regret, nor did he consider his actions immoral.
When he recalled the sister-in-law’s cowering figure in clumsy panic, the “Eek!” of a scream she let out, and her slack-jawed, flat face resembling a fox’s, he even felt his own approach had been half-hearted—too restrained by far.

“I should’ve said something more cutting.”

Shōhei made a face that prickled with restless irritation.

“This fox-woman—this bitch who deserves a slap—hmph! I had endless chances... I should’ve scared you senseless.”

He imagined smacking his sister-in-law’s cheek with the flat of his blade.
If he’d really wanted to make her understand his years of endurance, maybe he should’ve sliced off a hank of her hair.

“Brother’ll come home and get the shock of his life—wonder what face he’ll make? Might even piss himself… After all, it’s the most useless coward who pulled this off. Hmph—wish I could see that look.”

III

That night, Shōhei headed to a brothel in Shin-Yoshiwara.

He hadn’t intended to rebel so thoroughly himself, but while drinking near Ryōgoku Bridge, it seemed he’d resolved to go through with it in a burst of resolve. Whether to go by palanquin or by boat—it seemed he had such an exchange with someone. He couldn’t remember whether he had come by palanquin or boat; when he came to his senses, he found himself in a spacious tatami room, surrounded by a crowd of female geishas and male entertainers. Hundred-monme candles were lined up in rows, and the entire space was filled with sake bottles and plates and bowls heaped recklessly with delicacies.

He was momentarily startled.

This has turned into a real mess!

But he quickly steadied his resolve.

Doesn’t everyone do things like this? I’m human too—born into a 3,000-koku hatamoto family—what’s wrong with indulging a little?
Until the age of twenty-six, I hadn’t so much as indulged with geisha, let alone drunk my fill of sake.
I’m human too—a man!
They never even gave me decent pocket money, made me eat cold rice and such—what the hell.

“Come on, make a ruckus—lively and loud!”

Shōhei shouted, brimming with courage.

“I’ve got money! I hate being stingy!”

And then once more, he lost all sense of what was happening.

Women and men sang and danced.
The woman at his side kept talking to him in words peppered with strange auxiliary verbs—rinsen and namashi—leaning against him, clasping his hand, subtly pinching his knee all the while.
To summarize: she was utterly delighted to meet a charming man like him; she seemed likely to lose her way over him; she worried she might come to regret ever meeting him; this was the first time she’d felt this way tonight; and depending on how things went, she might even develop a leg cramp.
That was roughly the gist of it.

At the last part, Shōhei was taken aback.

“You said you get leg cramps... So, does that... mean you’re feeling unwell?”

“My, such a loud voice—how improper!”

The woman said this and grabbed his knee again.
She then explained that whenever she did such things with someone she truly liked, she had a habit of ending up with leg cramps.
Though he didn’t fully understand, it seemed to signify profound affection.

Shōhei was moved.
For a woman of her station to speak so openly—this was no ordinary sentiment.
He felt this was no mere performance of sincerity.

The commotion was magnificent.
Everyone merrily drank and ate, took turns singing and dancing, and then drank and ate some more.
They called Shōhei by various flattering names, piled up smooth compliments that buoyed his spirits, took turns coming before him to flash ingratiating smiles, and bowed obsequiously without restraint.

“I understand. I’m happy. I truly grasp everyone’s feelings. I’m truly happy.”
Tearing up, he spoke from the heart: “Tonight—for the first time in my life—I’ve known the preciousness of people’s kindness. This joy is entirely new to me. Go on, drink! Everyone, drink and eat to your hearts’ content!”

But apparently merely saying such things wasn’t enough. Words alone wouldn’t please them—one had to spend money, the woman beside him (his companion, named Hanayama) taught him. Moreover, she explained that using Kogiku notes for this purpose—to be exchanged later—was both a convenient method and a mark of connoisseurship. Since she said, “Leave it all to me,” he entrusted everything to her.

“I’m sorry—for all the trouble I’ve caused—truly sorry.” Shōhei bowed his head in a somber mood. “—I’m truly happy. Somehow, you no longer feel like a stranger to me. Later, I want to tell you everything about myself—will you listen?”

She laughed alluringly. “If ‘even one night together makes a wife a wife,’ then of course we can’t possibly be strangers.” “I’ll hear your story out—and ‘tonight we’ll stay awake loving each other,’ no doubt.” She whispered meltingly and coquettishly of how they would pledge themselves to each other long into the future.

Everything was joyful and luxurious, abundantly overflowing. Moreover, after that came a dreamlike, wonderful time when he would share joy with the opposite sex for the first time in his life. He got drunk—how could he have stayed sober? He got drunk, collapsed, and then bellowed at the top of his voice.

“What’s the Ginkaku-ji Shōgun to me? I won’t do manuscript copying anymore! I won’t eat cold rice! Don’t look down on me! Screw you all!”

The subsequent course of events was unclear.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying alone.
There, he drank the water by his pillow, slept, woke again, and drank.
He repeated this three or four times until finally awakening fully.
Looking around, he lay surrounded by folding screens amidst extravagant bedding.
A silk lamp draped with something resembling women’s undergarments dimly lit the room, its faint incense lingering.

"What’s this supposed to mean?"

Shōhei sat up.

As if all that commotion had been a lie, the surroundings lay hushed in slumber.
Somewhere echoed the sound of sandals along a corridor, while farther off came the bark of a dog.
From a nearby room rose the voices of a guest and a woman—their murmurs only sharpening the stillness of deep sleep.

His throat was burning, but there was no water left.
What’s more, he was ravenously hungry; when he thought about it, he hadn’t eaten a proper meal since morning—he’d picked at some appetizers to go with the alcohol, but nothing substantial enough to fill his stomach.

“Anyway, staying here like this…”

He stood up and went out into the hallway.
He was still drunk, but the cold was unbearable.
He wandered around searching for the restroom until thoroughly chilled, and on his way back was beset by constant sneezing.
To his dismay, he now couldn’t find his room; though certain of where the hallway turned, the identical appearance of every lined-up room left him unable to identify his own.
The cold bit deep, his stomach growled empty, his throat burned parched—when Shōhei noticed himself standing shivering in just a sleeping robe, pathetic sadness overwhelmed him with utter desolation.

Before long, an elderly woman around fifty came from the opposite direction, so he stopped her and explained his situation.

“My, how improper! Which courtesan are you referring to?”

The elderly woman stared coldly and intently.
He was fairly certain he’d seen her face in the parlor—vaguely recalled something about paper flowers being involved—yet she acted completely unacquainted with him, her responses brusque to the point of hostility.

“Well, what was it… that… Ka… Kasen… something like Kasen.”

“We don’t have any such courtesan here. Which area was your room in?”

“I think it’s around here… Came down the hallway like this, probably that…”

“What a strange customer.”

The elderly woman muttered under her breath—loudly enough to be heard, of course. She made remarks like “To not even know the courtesan’s name…,” then demanded accusingly, “Could it be Ms. Hanayama?” before pointing as though enraged—“Then that’s her room!”—and storming off with equal fury.

Four

I have no desire to write of what transpired until morning.

Shōhei was alone, trembling from hunger, thirst, and the sobering cold that came with his fading drunkenness.
His sneezes alone came out vigorously, but whether he tried to ask for water or reach for food, there was no one at all who would oblige him.

That was... manageable enough. Such endurance was something he had grown relatively accustomed to. That Ms. Hanayama—the courtesan—had whispered about staying awake all night to love each other, eagerly listened to his life story, even murmured warnings about potential leg cramps, only to then stand him up so utterly and completely... Well, considering she was a courtesan after all, he found himself unable to summon one-sided anger about it.

"This must be what they call being dumped—though I must say, even by my standards this is one spectacular rejection."

Well, he could resign himself to the fact that this too was an elegant part of the game.

But what came next was disastrous.

Just as he finally began to doze off before dawn, a harsh voice roused him, and he was informed that since it was now past the appointed hour, he must decide immediately whether to stay on or settle his bill and leave.

When he looked, it was the elderly woman who had shown him the room in the hallway, and behind her waited a burly-looking man.

“Of course I’ll leave, but what about the woman?”

Shōhei retorted with some irritation.

“The courtesan’s thrown a fit and is lying down.”

The elderly woman answered with a sneering laugh, declared “Here’s your bill,” and slapped down an absurdly long itemized list. It was a jumbled mess of writing, but there was no way to make sense of it. Just looking at it made his eyes swim in a dizzying blur, and when he saw that the total came to “107 ryō, 3 bu, and 1 shu,” Shōhei let out an involuntary groan, then, driven by a kind of public outrage, he spoke.

“This is absurd! Just because I’m a complete stranger doesn’t mean you can treat people like fools!”

“My, what a peculiar thing to say! Are you suggesting there’s something dubious about this bill?”

If Shōhei had known even a little about how this world worked, he wouldn’t have wasted his breath like that—he would surely have taken off his helmet right then and there. However, he dug in his heels and began spouting an outrageous argument.

“I don’t know whether there’s fraud here or not. But plenty of samurai live on three ryō in stipend a year—three ryō and some change—supporting their families as proper warriors. Now I’ll admit I indulged myself, even splurged quite extravagantly. But no matter how you slice it, over a hundred ryō for a single night?!”

“See there, Okura-san?”

The burly man who had been standing by said to the elderly woman.

“I’d had my suspicions since last night—somethin’ smelled fishy.”
“No decent person nowadays could throw money around like that—ain’t no way.”

“How dare you say such things! I won’t let that stand!”

Involuntarily, Shōhei shouted those words.

After having been ridiculed mercilessly up to this point, he could no longer endure being spoken to so directly by such a man.
But of course, the man was fully aware—in fact, he might have anticipated it.

“Don’t raise your voice—I ain’t deaf. I can hear just fine.”

The man snickered and glared at him with a nasty look.

“If you’ve got complaints ‘bout the bill, go ahead an’ point out exactly where on that document—this here’s a 107-ryō-an’-some big spender’s indulgence for one night.”
The man looked over [Shōhei’s] attire. “Ain’t nothin’ special ‘bout that here—but that getup o’ yours sure don’t match what you’re claimin’ t’be. We’re the ones thinkin’ somethin’s fishy. Perfect timin’ for complaints though—this town’s got a magistrate’s office.”
“Let’s head there an’ settle this once an’ for all. That way, the bill’ll be clear, an’ your esteemed status’ll be clear too.”
“Both sides cleanly settled with no hard feelin’s—why don’t we head there together?”

Had he had his sword, there’s no telling what might have happened. However, his sword had been deposited at the entrance—apparently a brothel regulation—and in the end, Shōhei had no choice but to shut his eyes and endure it.

“I was wrong. Let’s settle the bill.”

He spoke with a gut-twisting feeling. The man snickered derisively again.

“If you’re gonna pay anyway, best keep yer trap shut. Ain’t no fool dumb enough to fork over cash ’n’ still wear the shame.” Still standing, he added, “Nothin’ but bad juju first thing at dawn, Okura-san. Make sure ya sprinkle purifyin’ salt later.”

Every single word dripped with scathing malice and venom.
Upon reflection, it seemed that because they demeaned themselves daily, they were eager to retaliate whenever given the chance.
Moreover, because their sensibilities were simple and direct, their expressions became straightforward and were effectively polished.

Shōhei left that house feeling utterly crushed in both body and spirit, trampled down, as though everything within him had been shattered.

And as soon as he passed through the main gate, as if seeking salvation, he suddenly leaped into a roadside tavern.

Five

Shōhei then wandered for three days and three nights, utterly immersed in drink.

He had no memory of where or how he had wandered. He did recall a place called Nezu, but it must have been one of those unofficial pleasure quarters. In a small, cramped house reeking of filth and dingy with neglect, there were only foul-mouthed women and old crones—all far beneath even Shin-Yoshiwara. They didn’t bother with sweet talk or pleas.

“Quit bein’ such a tightwad!”

“Hurry up and do it already, I’m tellin’ ya! You’re one unlikable good-for-nothin’ loser.”

“This ain’t no place for your high-and-mighty talk!”

And so it went.
Though perhaps meant to show affection, they pummeled his back and shoulders without restraint, suddenly knocked him down, or even mounted him and sank their teeth in.

“This is how the world works—serves you right.”

Shōhei constantly muttered such soliloquies.

"This is what we all are—fellow human beings to each other, neither enemies nor adversaries. What do you say, Shōhei? Got any complaints? Heh. Serves you right."

Five packets of twenty-five ryō each.
After first being stripped of nearly 110 ryō in Shin-Yoshiwara, it had been plain to see that he’d hit rock bottom if he continued this reckless spree.

On the morning of the fourth day, at an hour when it was still dimly lit, he was driven out from one of those peculiar brothels.
It was a cloudy, cold morning that threatened snow.
Though drunk, he was ravenously hungry—yet he no longer possessed the courage to enter any establishment and eat.

"What vile creatures—what vile people."

Shōhei was stripped bare.
He knew his pockets held nothing but a pitiful amount of small change; though not as merciless as Shin-Yoshiwara had been, they too squeezed Shōhei without mercy.
Bluntly, openly, they wrung him dry with insults and violence.

“Ha ha… This good-for-nothing—exactly. Serves you right.”

He wandered aimlessly through the cold streets.

The Shin-Yoshiwara courtesans’ coquettishly sweet, heart-pounding whispers; their shoulders leaning softly against him; their fervent grips filled with passion—all of it was pretense and deception; moreover, without showing the slightest shame, they boldly revealed their true nature themselves.

It was no different in the unofficial pleasure quarters.
They were friendly until they seized the money.
They were even pleading.
Hitting and knocking him down seemed to be their form of courtesy, but at any rate, it left him feeling somewhat pleased.
But once the exchange of money was completed—no sooner had it been settled—they would immediately cast off their masks and reveal their cruel, heartless true selves.
The women, of course—and even the man and old woman who had just received their tips—transformed into demons in an instant.

“In short—just squeeze ’em dry! Human compassion’s nothing but weaklings’ whining—ain’t no such thing in this world.”

He crossed a long bridge—he didn’t know what to call it.

At the bridge’s edge stood a guardhouse, and there he was made to pay a “bridge toll.”
As he was handing over the small change, the rain began to fall.

“Might even turn to snow if this keeps up.”

The old man at the guardhouse said.
Shōhei responded with petty sarcasm.

“Aren’t you going to charge a road toll?”

Even after crossing the bridge, he continued walking completely aimlessly.
Because the rain showed no sign of letting up, he covered his head with a hand towel, but for a samurai wearing two swords, it must have been a rare sight.
Those who passed by would look at him strangely or hurriedly step aside to let him through.

“Now where was that Buddhist altar?”

There being a small shrine, Shōhei entered it, circled around to the back where he couldn’t be seen from the road, and climbed up onto a high corridor whose wood appeared decayed. There the rain could be avoided; he took his sword, sat down, and heaved a deep sigh.

“That’s it—the Buddhist altar in the Kōjimachi house.”

Shōhei frowned as if in pain.

He first turned to his sister-in-law and demanded she hand over the dowry. He hadn’t intended it that way, but it must have been lingering in his mind all along. My elder brother might be an elder brother for taking a bride with a dowry, but that sister-in-law of mine was every bit the sister-in-law—flaunting her status like some flat-faced fox while putting on airs.

"And you were hiding money all along, weren’t you?"

When she tried to produce a purse of small change, he thrust his sword at her—making her retrieve the money from behind the Buddhist altar. Whether this formed part of the dowry or was merely a secret stash mattered little—it was undoubtedly ill-gotten gains either way. No matter how stingy my elder brother might be, as a samurai he’d never hide money in such a place.

“A marital game of deception?”

Shōhei flopped down.
He was cold; his hunger grew fiercer by the moment, but more than anything, he felt exhausted and desperately sleepy.

“What a fool I am—taking six parts of that money and returning just one.”
Lying there, he muttered self-mockingly, “What did I think I was doing back then? Must’ve been this warped nature of mine—this shriveled-up old sandal of a disposition… In the end, I’m just made to be cheated and ridiculed. Nothing but a duck lugging leeks on its back—serves me right.”

He eventually fell asleep.
How long he had slept he couldn’t tell—when he awoke to an intense cold, sneezes came one after another.

There was no use staying like this; he left the shrine and started walking again.
His joints ached; sneezes kept coming.
His nose ran.
His head throbbed intensely; his legs had no strength.
His hunger had subsided, but with the drunkenness apparently worn off, he now craved sake.
His body shook violently; his teeth clattered.

_Nice frost. Serves me right._

There were no other words beyond that.

“Won't let you sleep till mornin’.”
“Ain’t no endurin’ this kinda time.”
“Leg cramp’s comin’ on.”
“You useless lump.”
He constantly heard those auditory hallucinations.

“Over a hundred ryō in a single night—I’m the one who’s bewildered here!”

“Hand over the money—money! Money! Payment! Payment!”

“Go settle things at the guardhouse.”

As if accompanying these phantom voices came the squelch of his soaked straw sandals—a desolate sound that seeped into his bones with its bleak chill.

VI

The day was growing dark, and the rain continued to fall.

People wearing raincoats or straw capes passed each other by, and a soaked dog walked past with its tail drooping.
A street of low eaves and huddled houses—utterly poor and desolate in appearance.
However, at every household’s kitchen entrance, the clattering sound of knives could be heard, and the smells of things being boiled or grilled wafted over as if flaunting their happiness.

Shōhei walked blankly through the rain.

The smell of fish being grilled and soup simmering.
The frantic clatter of kitchen knives.
That was the footfall of daily life.
A life in ceaseless motion without a moment’s rest.
……Shōhei’s chest filled with despairing sadness.
A life of working oneself to the bone—eating, sleeping, working again—was miserable too.
Cast out from such a life and now at a loss with nowhere to rely on tonight—he himself was filled with sadness.

"Maybe I should just cut someone down at a crossroads."

The rain had soaked through even to the undergarments.

“If society remains society, then I’ll be myself—if I’m going to fall anyway…”

In one part of the twilight-darkened street, there on the right was a rope-curtained entrance with an eaves lantern bearing "Nakaya".
Shōhei sullenly entered the shop and sat down facing the long counter.

"If it comes to it, I can just sell the sword."

To have just muttered about cutting someone down at a crossroads and now already speaking of selling his sword was a contradiction—one he himself failed to notice. When he sat down, a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl approached, prompting him to demand: “Give me sake.”

He was putting on a not inconsiderable show of bravado.

It must have been peak hours; the tavern was nearly full of customers. He couldn’t tell for certain, but they were likely day laborers, construction workers, craftsmen, and the like—young ones and middle-aged men, even shockingly old men, and among them were women too (apparently working with children in tow).

Due to the steam from food, the smells, and the press of bodies, even with the eight-mat lamp lit, the tavern’s interior remained a cluttered mess with poor visibility.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

The same young maidservant promptly brought the ordered items.
Shivering from the cold, Shōhei’s stomach growled involuntarily. When two small plates bearing some appetizers were placed beside the warmed sake flask, he thought, *Not this again*.
Throughout his wanderings, he had fallen for this trick at every place he went.
They place items I never ordered and extort an outrageous sum of money.

Not this time.

Shōhei called out to stop the young maidservant.

“I didn’t order such things. Does this shop force-sell to customers?”

The young maidservant looked puzzled.

“That’s the complimentary appetizer.”
“I’m telling you I didn’t order this.”
“But it’s a complimentary appetizer.”

“Whatever the reason,” Shōhei’s voice rose. “I won’t pay for things I didn’t order!”

The man around thirty sitting immediately to his right, having likely grasped the meaning of their exchange, turned a friendly smiling face his way and spoke.

“It’s alright, samurai. That’s the shop’s complimentary appetizer—comes with the sake, so we don’t charge for it.”

“You don’t charge? So it’s free?”

“If you order another bottle, you’ll get another plate with it. But unlike other places, this tavern carefully selects its sake and keeps the food cheap—that’s why it’s so popular.”

“Ever since this place became Chii-bo’s, the sauce has gotten way better.”
The man on the opposite side said with a sullen face, “She’ll be out shortly, samurai. She’s the daughter of this house—filial, elegant, and one reason this place thrives so much is thanks to that girl’s work.”

Shōhei felt relieved and was moved.
It might not have been worth much, but in any case, being provided free appetizers with the sake—not being charged for them—was a relief.

“Oh my, sir, you’re completely soaked through, aren’t you?”

The man on the right exclaimed in surprise.

“That ain’t good—if ya stay like that, you’ll catch yer death o’ cold! Hey, missy! Missy!”
The man called to the maidservant, “C’mere quick. This gentleman’s soaked clean through. Take him to the back and have Chii-bo dry him off proper.”

“That’s very kind of you, but... well, I’m drenched down to my skin.”

“All the more reason then! We’ve got fires aplenty back there—you’ll be dried quick as spit.”

“That’s a good idea.”
“Please do so.”
In this manner, people’s voices gathered.
Troubled by the difficulty of declining, Shōhei reluctantly stood up.

He was utterly bewildered. Likely the “Chii-bo” he had just heard about—a fair-skinned girl of about eighteen—emerged from the kitchen and suddenly exclaimed in a scolding tone, “Goodness, what happened? You’re completely soaked!” She produced what must have been her father’s belongings—a lined kimono layered double, an obi sash, a haori jacket, even tabi socks—and hurriedly made him change right there, treating him as if he were her younger brother.

“There’s no need for such formalities.”
She continued her scolding: “What do you think will happen if you catch a chill wearing these soaked-through clothes? Honestly, men—no matter how old they get, you can’t take your eyes off them for a second! No need for that now—hurry over there! We’ll dry them while you have something hot.”

She adjusted his collar from behind, patted down the haori jacket and kimono hem, and gently ushered him back toward the main tavern area. Shōhei was filled with an indescribable emotion—the only thing he could clearly articulate was the sudden sting in the back of his nose. As for his heart’s condition, he couldn’t tell whether he felt happy, sad, or wistful.

“Well now, look at that! We’ve got ourselves a fine young master here.”

The man from earlier greeted him with a laugh.

“Just as I thought—when we folks try acting like samurai, it’s a clown show, but a samurai dressed as a townsman’s got real class! Here, have a round of this humble man’s sake—no offense meant—while yours is getting simmered.”

“Then this one here’s better.”
The man across from him thrust out a sake flask. “This here’s fresh in—seein’ as I’m partial to simmered sake, I’ll give ya this first.”
“Right then—here’s yer round, sir.”

The man on the right passed it along to him.

Seven

“Don’t talk nonsense, four-eyes—get your ass outside!”

Until he heard that raised voice, Shōhei had been drinking with the urge to weep, sinking deeper into mournful drunkenness. He was simply happy—a sensation as if something warm, abundant, and joyful were overflowing throughout his entire body. To put it another way, it was as if after a long journey, he had finally reached his destination—enveloped in a sweet weariness and a sense of rest.

Serves you right! See—it does exist.

He wanted to cry out like this.

"There’s such a warm world—such good people—right here all along! Serves you right!"

He wanted to say those words to his three elder brothers and sister-in-law.
To the entire Kōjimachi estate—no, to all samurai.
And to those cunning and vile women and men who began in Shin-Yoshiwara—
They looked down on Shōhei, deceived him, stripped him bare, and reviled and humiliated him.

—In the Honda household—a good-for-nothing without equal.

Stop loitering around—get lost!

His brothers’ voices rang out with vivid clarity.
And there was his own figure, copying sensual books while hiding from his family’s eyes.
The days until he turned twenty-six—days like stagnant, soured dregs.
...Now, more than ever, he wanted to stick out his tongue in defiance at that past.

――Serves you right!

Shōhei’s mind reeled.
He had entered this "Nakaya" like a lost dog.
He wore hand-me-downs passed from older brother to older brother, carried a sword with a peeling scabbard, was soaked from head to toe, and made his old straw sandals squelch.
……and even complained about the side dishes.
If one were to judge objectively, he was ultimately nothing more than a contemptible nobody—and moreover, someone entirely unrelated.
They had gone to such lengths for him.
They had worried about him so unconditionally, shown him such profound kindness.

I want to show this to them—that places like this exist in the world, that there are still such good people.

Shōhei got drunk.
He seemed to have spoken at length about his emotions; he remembered drinking and talking for quite some time with the man on his right and the man across from him.
The man on the right, who appeared to be a regular patron of this establishment, said things like “Name’s Sahē” as he introduced himself.
The man across from him constantly wore a sullen expression, though this was simply his natural look—he wasn’t particularly ill-tempered. Shōhei recalled him earnestly introducing himself as an insignificant metalworker living behind the Fudō statue, adding that anyone would recognize him if they heard the name Tokuji.

But when he looked up after some indeterminate time had passed, different customers now occupied the two men’s seats.
Then they were replaced by other customers, and those too changed into different faces.

Sahē and Tokuji were gone.

He was assaulted by intense loneliness and solitude.
He wanted them to come back—if they weren’t there with him, he felt something unthinkable might happen.
So Shōhei made the request.

“Call those two back here for me.”

In his own mind, that’s what he intended—but in reality, it wasn’t the case.
His drunkenness had crossed a threshold, and because of that, his mind had begun to reel again.

Serves you right, you vile vermin!

He shouted those very words.
(An even cruder torrent of abuse—) Needless to say, it was all directed at the same targets as before.
Yet the people there knew nothing of his circumstances.
To make matters worse, the dinner hour had long since ended, leaving only regulars who did little but drink.

“Don’t talk nonsense, four-eyes—if you want a fight, I’ll take you on! Get your ass outside!”

“What do you mean by ‘four-eyes’?”
Shōhei bellowed back, “Are you lot still mocking people? Or haven’t you mocked them enough yet?”

He stood up.
The opponent was right before his eyes—a young man in a workman’s coat, a headband perched mockingly atop his head in a manner that seemed to taunt others, his salmon-red face glaring straight at him.
To Shōhei, he appeared like that man from Shin-Yoshiwara—the burly one who had stood behind the ruthless old woman—... Shōhei flew into a rage.

“I can’t take it anymore! Return my sword! I’ll cut this bastard down!”

“Don’t make me laugh! If I say get out, then get out!”

The young man grabbed a heated sake decanter with his right hand, stood up, and lunged across the counter to strike.

A short white stick-like object came straight down toward his face.
“Stop!” A woman’s scream rang out, and something shattered with a crash against his face.
A crowd of faces and eyes turned this way.
Shōhei tried to grab the sword.
It was always supposed to be on the right side of his seat.

――I’ll cut everyone down!

He reached his hand to the right.
But the sword was not there; grabbing at empty air, he toppled over sideways in that posture.

“You’re a damn fool! Throw him outside!”

“Wait—that person’s got it wrong!”

“Yoshikō—this’ll get addictive! Crush him!”

“Wait, please! Don’t be rough!”

The shouts of men and a woman’s scream were heard.
Shōhei struggled in the narrow space between the stool and counter; he couldn’t get up.
Someone grabbed his leg and, with tremendous force, dragged him out roughly.

――I’ve been caught—Brother.

Shōhei thrashed.
The stingy eldest brother’s terrifyingly angry face appeared, and the sister-in-law’s merciless, flat sneering face appeared.
She held eight gold bundles in one hand, pointed this way with the other, and shrieked in a shrill voice.

“This man did it! This man took the sword—that one’s a thief!”

Shōhei thrashed.
Then someone struck his head.
His body spun round and round as the ground tilted and swayed.
He fell somewhere—was struck—was choked.

"I’ll slaughter them all—cut every last one down!"

He wanted to grab his sword.
But his outstretched hand only clutched wet, cold mud.
Choked again, he tried to leap up—and was struck.

"Mother," Shōhei cried out involuntarily, "—please forgive me. I won’t do it again."

Eight

It was morning when Shōhei came to his senses.
But he had been ordered by the doctor not to speak and had to lie still in silence for three full days.

He was seriously ill.

It was later discovered that the cause seemed to be that absurd journey and getting drenched in the rain.
The high fever persisted, and initially, he was tormented by nausea.
However, his consciousness remained relatively clear; he was well aware that he had been laid to rest in the back of Nakaya and of the comings and goings of people.

A man named Sahē, the metal craftsman Tokuji, the young man he had fought with, and that one’s master came together to apologize.
The master was a plasterer named Kosuke, while the young opponent was said to be called Yoshikō—a twenty-one- or twenty-two-year-old with a fiercely confrontational air, yet somehow bashful—quite a striking young man.

“It seems this bastard here committed such outrageous disrespect, so please, let’s put this behind us.”

Kosuke the master plasterer bowed his head again and again.
Yoshikō also muttered an apology under his breath and bowed about one more time than his master.
When Tokuji the metal craftsman came for the second time with a sullen tone,

“We should’ve stepped in sooner,” he said with an apologetic tone, “—didn’t hear your side of things, and anyway, he’s a hotheaded bastard. Cut him some slack, would ya?”

They didn’t blame Shōhei even once.
They apologized, saying it was all their fault.

Shōhei stayed silent, his lips quivering as he fought back tears.

The one who wanted to apologize was me.
Everything was my own responsibility; I had gotten so drunk I lost all sense of boundaries with others, ranting selfishly and acting violently.

—If this had been the Kōjimachi residence.

When I imagined this, my skin prickled with goosebumps.

As for the kindness of Nakaya’s father and daughter, he had no words left.

Yahei, the father, was likely fifty-four or fifty-five—a thin, short-statured man who spent all day silently working on something in the kitchen,
“Hey Chiyo, ain’t ya gonna give him the medicine?”

He would call out things like this, seeming constantly concerned about Shōhei.

The daughter Chiyo was said to be eighteen.
She was their only daughter, and after her mother had passed away last year, it was said that she managed everything from caring for her father’s personal needs to running the shop—according to Sahē and the others—even more efficiently than her mother had.
……For the first two days, she stayed by his side almost constantly, nursing him.
Because his fever was high, she had to constantly cool him down, and even in the middle of the night, she briskly took care of disposing of vomit and administering medicine.

“The town patrol came because of the commotion that night.”
On the morning of the fifth day, Chiyo said, “Dad went out and told them the master was a relative—was that wrong?”

“Wrong? That’s not… I’m grateful.”

“Dad’s really worried, you know. When he heard your story…”

Chiyo was boiling the medicine, her downcast eyes growing moist as her voice softened into something subdued.

“Even if only half of what you said was true, we couldn’t bear sending you back to that mansion—it’d be too cruel… Mr. Sahē and Mr. Toku said the same.”

“I still can’t believe it—why is everyone being so kind to me?”

Shōhei closed his eyes and said quietly.

“When I open my eyes, everything might turn out to be a dream—I feel that so strongly. Truly feel that way.”

“It’s not a dream. And even if it were, if you truly wish it—”
Chiyo hesitated slightly,

“—then if it pleases you, it need never end.”

“I never imagined such things could cause this much trouble.”

“But Mr. Sahē means every word of it.”
Chiyo declared fervently, “He took your promise about staying here forever to heart! He’s already fretting over finding you a proper home.”

Shōhei felt that familiar sting deep in his nostrils again.
He clicked his tongue at himself and muttered under his breath.

“What utter lack of self-control… What on earth did I say?”

“About the mansion, your elder brothers, twenty-six years of your life, money matters, and then how you wandered everywhere only to meet with misfortune… But more than all those details—that single phrase you said during the fight. That one phrase made everyone gasp.”

Chiyo turned her face away. And while stroking the inner corner of her eye with her fingertip, she continued.

“Yoshikō—who’d been straddling you—and Mr. Sahē—who came rushing over—both froze with faces like their breath had stopped at that one phrase.
“…‘Mother, please forgive me—I won’t do it again,’…”

It seemed she could no longer hold back—Chiyo began to cry. Perhaps because she too had lost her mother—a loss that resonated all the more here—she covered her face with both hands and spoke haltingly through her tears.

“I’ll never forget that voice—‘Mother, please forgive me—I won’t do it again’… For the first time, I understood none of your story was lies… That you… you were a bullied child.”

From Shōhei’s tightly closed eyes, tears suddenly overflowed, reflecting the light from the small window as they trailed down his cheek and fell onto the pillow paper.
Chiyo’s voice hitched in choked sobs, harmonizing with the sound of the boiling decoction that murmured like whispers.

In Fukagawa Nakamon-mae, there was a thriving izakaya called Nakaya.
As recorded in An’ei-era enthusiasts’ chronicles, they adopted a samurai-born heir for their daughter Chiyo and were briefly known as “the samurai izakaya.”
They would skewer whole loaches, grill them, and serve them with miso sauce under the name “Dokaba”—essentially meaning loach kabayaki—and using this as their year-round appetizer became both their signature feature and what they were known for.

They prospered greatly and seemed to have amassed considerable wealth, yet Nakaya continued operating as an izakaya indefinitely.
There were some customers who suggested expanding the shop or even starting a tea house, but the samurai-born adopted son completely ignored them.

“Well, let’s leave that matter for after I’m reborn. While I’m alive, I’ve no desire to move an inch from this land.”

Then, from beside him, his wife would glance at her husband seductively out of the corner of her eye and, smiling even more coquettishly, offer advice that the customers couldn’t comprehend—or so it was said.

“Well, there’s no reason the dream has to end… Here you go—kept you waiting. Your red miso soup, folks.”