Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Luffa Tree

I

When Bōjirō sat down, the man who had been right across from him was drinking sake while eating salt-grilled horse mackerel.
Bōjirō ordered sake and said he didn't need any side dishes.
The pouty-faced young girl shouted in a disdainful voice, "One bottle of sake, no side dishes needed," her tone dripping with contempt.
Bōjirō, seemingly accustomed to such treatment, pretended not to notice, while the man glanced over briefly before pushing aside his plate of salt-grilled fish—bones sucked clean—and called for taro soup.

The restaurant called "Sawashige" was small.
The place could barely hold ten customers. Though the woodwork still looked new, the entire structure had been built with absurd pretentiousness.
The servers were two young girls, both likely from the countryside. While their lack of makeup was to be expected, their limbs were filthy, their reddish hair unkempt, and their movements clumsy—they looked like wild bear cubs left to roam.

"It was only once or twice a year," he said, "but..."
At a side dining counter, two middle-aged craftsmen-like men were drinking and talking. "The brat went and did it again just recently. A little would've been fine, but he soaked everything from the futon down to the tatami mats."

"Tombo was still five, wasn't he?" asked the other man.

"He's six this year," the man said. "At six, you can't let bedwetting slide. I made him carry that futon on his back and march around the neighborhood three times."

"I remember it too—what a pain it was. Everyone saw me, some even laughed. Poor Tombo must've had it rough."

“Who knows,” said the man. “I told him to go around the neighborhood, but the brat went all the way to Kanda instead.”

The other man, as if thinking he had misheard, retorted, “Where did you say?”

“Kanda. The brat went all the way to Tamachi in Kanda.”

“But,” retorted the other man, “your place is across the river, ain’t it?”

“Across the river is still across the river—all the way out past Kameido.”

"Well now, that's a real shocker."

"Shock ain't the word for it! When I got back from the accounts office, the whole neighborhood was in an uproar searching for the brat."

Bōjirō slowly sipped his sake while listening to their conversation, smiling involuntarily as he did so. At the same time, he closely studied the man sitting directly across from him.
The man appeared thirty-five or six, with an average build of medium stature and fleshiness. Yet his parched dark brown skin, deeply set restless eyes, and lips that stood out vividly red for no discernible reason inexplicably drew Bōjirō's attention—the so-called taro soup apparently contained some white fish and green vegetables mixed into grated yam broth. The man drank a bottle of sake with this soup, then proceeded to order more sake and sweet simmered dishes.

“It was the next day that folks from the neighborhood found the notice posted at Tamachi’s guard post.”

“So it was the parent who learned their lesson, huh?”

“It was like getting perfectly paid back in kind.”

Bōjirō smiled again, but immediately furrowed his brows.
The child had been found through a neighborhood-wide search.
What about my family—are Father and Mother and my older brother and sisters out there searching for me?
No—that couldn’t be right. They were probably relieved to have gotten rid of the nuisance, he thought.

"Hey, shrimp," called the man in front to the girl, "You there, shrimp! Can't you hear me?"

The young girl who'd been pointed at puffed out her cheeks in irritation as she approached, protesting that her name was Otsuyu, not some ridiculous nickname like "Shrimp."

"So it's Otsuyu," the man said, staring at the girl with his restless eyes as he bared his teeth in a silent laugh. "My apologies. You look like a sturdy Miss Otsuyu. Your bowels moving properly?"

Bōjirō nearly burst out laughing.

"What kinda customer goes talkin' nonsense like this," the girl said. "What d'you want?"

"Sake and sashimi," the man said. "The sashimi had better be medium-fatty tuna."

What a strange order, Bōjirō thought.
After salt-grilled horse mackerel came taro soup, then sweet simmered dishes followed by sashimi—wasn't that reversing the proper sequence?
Tastes might vary between people, but having sashimi as the fourth course was unusual; this man didn't appear ignorant of that fact. Which meant—Bōjirō intuited—there must be some underlying motive.
That intuition proved correct.
As soon as the two men drinking at the side counter settled their bill and left, the man at the front who'd eaten two or three slices of sashimi called out loudly to the young waitress.

“Hey there, Shrimp,” the man said. “Go call the chef for me.”

“My name’s Otsuma,” the girl said. “What’s your business?”

“I’m telling you to call the chef over.”

“The master’s busy and can’t free up his hands right now. What’s your business?”

“Who said anything about ‘master’? It’s chef, chef!” the man said. “I’m telling you to call the chef who made this sashimi!”

“That’s the master. Here he does all the grilling, boiling, and sashimi-making. What’s your business?”

“That’s why I’m telling you to call the master,” he said.
The man raised a hand. “I won’t have you saying he’s too busy! Customers here are just me and this guy. Got it?”

Because it was a small shop, the man's voice carried straight through to the kitchen.
Before the girl could even go, a man in his forties with an apron tied over one shoulder came out this way.

"Did you call for me?"

“Ah, so you’re the master and chef of this joint?”

“Yes, I’m both owner and chef of this shop.”

“Then try eating this sashimi.”

“Is something not to your liking?”

“Try eating it,” the man said, shoving the sashimi plate forward. “If you’re in the business of wielding kitchen knives, you should damn well know how to use one properly. Go on, taste it—stinks of metal, doesn’t it?”

The master seemed to startle.
The man thrust his right elbow onto the meal counter, resting his cheek in his hand as his restless eyes glinted sharply.

“You used the knife straight after sharpening,” the man pressed in that insistent tone of his. “A proper chef rinses his blade clean before use. That metallic tang comes from skipping the wash. Don’t tell me you’re ignorant of basic knife care—what’s your excuse?”

"My deepest apologies, Boss."
The master chef untied his single-shoulder apron and bowed low. “We’re short-handed these days—ended up cutting corners like some amateur.”

“Hold it,” the man cut him off sharply. “If your staffing’s so thin you’re serving tinny sashimi, maybe you ought to board up this place for good.”

"So you've made your move," Bōjirō thought.

"I'm Kinai Ōkoku from Bunkadō—the kawaraban publisher in Bakurochō," the man said. "We're putting out a ranking of popular small eateries starting this month. Heard this Sawashige serves good food, so I thought I'd stop by for a taste."

"I'm deeply sorry," said the master with repeated bows, scratching the back of his head. "This is my first such blunder—our customers usually enjoy our food."

“Enough. Settle the check.”

“No, not at all—it’s I who must apologize for serving you unsatisfactory fare.”

“Enough of that!” the man shouted shrilly, “I didn’t come here to skip paying—it’s out of concern for Sawashige’s good name!”

“Now now, Boss,” interjected a middle-aged woman—presumably the mistress of the house—as she deftly slipped a small paper packet into his sleeve. “Please don’t trouble yourself over payment—visit us whenever you please.” She flashed an ingratiating smile before adding: “In return—we’d appreciate your discretion regarding the kawaraban matter.”

"Boss," called Bōjirō, "No—you there! The boss of Bunkadō—Mr. Kinai Ōkoku, was it?"

The man spun around as if startled.

"Sawashige" was located in Nihonbashi Koamichō, and a man called Kinai walked through the darkening streets toward Shinbori.
The road teemed with passersby, and some turned at Bōjirō's voice.

“What’re you?” Kinai said, looking Bōjirō up and down with sunken eyes. “—Oh, you’re the one from Sawashige.”

“Well, let’s walk,” Bōjirō said, placing a hand on the man’s back. “We’re drawing a crowd here.”

“What do you want?”

“Let’s put aside what Ms. Otsuma was saying, Boss.”

“You’re a cocky bastard, ain’t ya? The hell’re you?”

“Name’s Bōjirō—call me Bō,” he said. “That act back at the restaurant was something else. Got a real good look at your performance, Boss.”

“What act?”

“Let’s walk,” Bōjirō said. “You’re headin’ wrong for Bakurochō, ain’tcha, Boss?”

“Quit yappin’ ‘Boss’ this ‘n’ ‘Boss’ that! Spit it out—what’re you after?”

“Don’t get so worked up—I can’t think of you as a stranger anymore. Let’s get along from here on out.”

“What’s this ‘let’s get along’ crap?”

“Don’t play dumb—that business back at Sawashige.”
Bōjirō laughed lowly, “Creating rankings for small eateries as a kawaraban publisher—making the rounds to reputable shops for that purpose. What a tearjerker of an excuse. But Boss—a place serving metallic-tasting sashimi ain’t no kawaraban publisher’s business. You must be some proper restaurant’s chef.”

Kinai Ōkoku burst out laughing.
In the twilight streets, the laughter was so boisterous that passersby turned to look.

II

"This's my roost here," Kinai said. "Care for a drink, kid?"

“Shochu’s no good.” Bōjirō furrowed his brows at the alcoholic stench rising from his own collar. “I’ve had enough liquor as it is.”

"You're a samurai, aren't you."

“Who gives a damn about that? Whether you’re a laborer or a palanquin bearer, a human’s still a human.”

The four-and-a-half-mat and six-mat residence in the back-alley tenement contained only an unlit long brazier, a small tea cabinet, and a single bamboo trunk.
They appeared to have been bought from a secondhand shop—the long brazier had chipped edges, the tea cabinet showed cracks in its panels, and the bamboo trunk had torn corners.

"But if you're going to work at Bunkadō," Kinai said while sipping shochu from a teacup, "you'll need to get your family registry sorted out first."

“That’s one hell of a luffa tree situation.”

“What’s this about a luffa?”

“It’s about me,” Bōjirō said. “Family name Ikehara, given name Bōjirō, age twenty-three—the Ikehara are hatamoto with twelve hundred koku, residence in Shiba’s Sakurada Lane. I’m the third son who was about to be packed off for adoption, so I ran away from home. Will this suffice, Boss?”

“If you’re not lying—” Kinai began, then his eyes bulged. “A twelve-hundred-koku hatamoto?!”

"That's not mine—it's the family stipend."

"But Mr. Bō, over a thousand koku would make you high-ranking hatamoto, wouldn't it?"

"The household finances are a mess, and my arranged marriage? They're just after money. Heh."
Bōjirō shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a man too—you think I can just shamelessly become some son-in-law shouldering a dowry? That's how it is, right Mr.Kinai?"

Each time he was called "Boss" or "Mr.Kinai," Ōkoku seemed to feel both an awkward ticklishness and a swelling pride.
He would narrow his lively eyes, stroke his small wrinkled face, purse his lips, and perform the poor man's shake with his entire body.

“It might sound like nonsense, but I understand how you feel,” Kinai said. “Let’s head to Bunkadō first thing tomorrow. They’re short-handed right now, so I don’t reckon they’ll turn us down. ’Course—you can handle this part, yeah?”

Kinai Ōkoku made a hand gesture as if writing something.

“Cut it out,” Bōjirō replied. “At Shōheikō Academy, I was Matsumuro Neisai’s prized disciple.”

“Academic learning and kawaraban are completely different things, but fine—I suppose the old man at Bunkadō has his own considerations. But about that roost...”

“I’m fine staying here.”

“Two guys bunking together won’t work.” Kinai waved his hand. “One’s already breeding maggots here—two’d be more than I can handle. Once we’re set at Bunkadō, I’ll find you a place myself.”

“I just can’t see you as some stranger no more—I’m beggin’ you here, Boss.”

“I do got some money,” Bōjirō said, and Kinai Ōkoku told him to stay the night.

The Bunkadō publishing house in Bakurochō 3-chōme stood facing a magistrate's residence across the road, where pine groves thrived on an earthen embankment. Within that embanked enclosure—whether containing a pond or not—one could hear waterbirds calling to each other and see them taking flight or gliding down.

Bunkadō was a two-story storehouse structure selling picture books, yellow-covered books, sentimental novels, and even cheap sweets downstairs, while in the cashier's cage, the housewife Osoide always sat imposingly.

It later became known that their picture books and sentimental novels all used printing blocks cheaply purchased after becoming unsellable elsewhere—particularly with yellow-covered books and sentimental novels, these were simply older works with altered titles and authors' names passed off as new editions.

The store was run by two people—a twenty-five-year-old maid named Okatsu and the housewife.

Okatsu stood tall with reasonably attractive features, but her stutter and constant being ordered about by Osoide through mere nods kept her perpetually on edge.

Osoide was thirty-eight or thirty-nine years old, with a large frame that made the floorboards creak loudly whenever she stood or walked.
Yet her face was as narrow and bony as a fox’s, her sharp sanpaku eyes ceaselessly scanning her surroundings as if declaring all humans to be enemies, while every word she spoke carried thorns that seemed to pierce whoever heard them.

"This store belongs to that vixen," Kinai Ōkoku whispered to Bōjirō. "The previous husband apparently made a killing in rice futures right before dying. That goatee fellow ingratiated himself to take over the money, then reportedly started this Bunkadō."

“There sure are some mad ones in this world,” Bōjirō said.

“Shh, they’ll hear,” Kinai said.

In modern terms, this would be what you called the editorial department. On the second floor facing the thoroughfare, there was a room made by combining two eight-tatami mat spaces containing five old desks—one side served as the article-writing room while the other housed painters, printers, and woodblock carvers. Tsune-san the painter and Gen-san the woodblock carver were both around fifty and unmarried, perpetually wearing bitter expressions that seemed to mutter "This world ought to turn upside down," their very bodies brimming with confidence that they were Edo's finest craftsmen. Matsu-yan the printer was about thirty—a slender, handsome man already with a wife and three children. He remained humble and taciturn, scarcely ever speaking to others. Having been trained as a printer from childhood at Kōbundō in Kyōbashi 2-chōme, he'd apparently clashed with the studio's master and mistress when marrying his current wife, resulting in his official exclusion from top-tier positions in Edo's printing world.

There were three writers: Kiya Shōsho, Kinai Ōkoku, and Kihara Ōsui.
Shōsho was a refined man in his fifties; Ōsui was short and stout, probably around twenty-five or six, always smiling and affable. Even the housewife Osoide seemed to speak to this man alone in an overly saccharine voice.

"That vixen’s bedding Heiji," Kinai whispered to Bōjirō. "Kihara Ōsui ain’t his real handle—he’s a carpenter’s brat called Heiji, buttering up the fox-woman to milk her for pocket money."

“No matter how you look at it, with that woman... You don’t say!” Bōjirō said. “If that’s true, that’s one hell of a luffa tree situation.”

And the proprietor Nishikawa Bunka was thirty-four or thirty-five years old—just over five feet tall, thin and restless, sporting a thin mustache beneath his nose.
His constant fidgeting movements, his small facial features, even that squeaky voice and goatee—everything made him look exactly like a rat.
“Seyasakai” was his catchphrase, and he insisted that since Edo dialect was too rough for business dealings, one should stick exclusively to the Kansai accent.

“Even if you keep goin’ on about payment,” he squeaked when the block maker came collecting one day—a voice Bōjirō heard clear as day—“we can’t settle accounts ’less this here business starts turnin’ proper profits.”

The article room faced north—dimly lit, damp, and by September, the drafts through its gaps were already cold.
Kawaraban were mostly single-sheet prints, but sometimes they were bound in three or even five sheets.
When they had multiple bound sheets, the kawaraban often featured novel-style fabricated articles using red illustrations—contents resembling sensational official-looking notices. The vendors were young showmen, with seven regulars working on a commission system where they earned a set amount per sheet sold. Bringing in story leads apparently yielded substantial fees, and besides these regulars, several others would submit breaking news about fires, lightning strikes, love suicides, or assaults.

Bōjirō rented a room in Koamichō.
It was one that Kinai Ōkoku had found for him—a widow living alone who taught sewing and had nearly twenty girls coming daily.
The landlady Orui, though petite in frame, possessed an unusually striking beauty. The delicate features of her face and the proportions of her figure were in such harmony that she appeared gracefully tall.
Even though Kinai Ōkoku had arranged the lodging himself—had he failed to notice Orui’s beauty?—about half a month later, he began persistently teasing Bōjirō.

“Bō-chan, haven’t you hooked up with that widow lady yet?”

“What’s this about some ‘widow lady’?”

“Ms. Orui from Koamichō—playing dumb ain’t gonna work.”

Bōjirō chuckled softly, “First time I’m hearing that name. You mean the old woman at my place—the one I’m renting from?”

“Old woman my ass.”

"I don't know her exact age, but she must be thirty-four or thirty-five by now. To me, she's more like a mother figure."

In a side alley of Bakurochō 2-chōme, the neighborhood adjacent to Bunkadō, there was a small shop called Tonbi.
Run solely by a couple in their fifties, the shop’s structure and utensils had a makeshift quality, and though they couldn’t prepare more than three dishes, their sake was reportedly procured directly from Shinagawa—a point of pride for them.
It was Bōjirō who discovered it, and on their way back, he began stopping by with Kinai for drinks about every other day.

“Your mother?” Kinai said, sipping his sake with a bitter expression. “Hearing things like that just reminds me of my own age.”

"More importantly," Bōjirō said, "what's the deal with those two—Kiya Shōsho and Kihara Ōsui? You and I are stuck in that article room from morning till night, writing through every fact and fiction we can muster. Yet those two waltz in whenever they please, toss in some measly short articles, then scamper off home as they like. What's that about, Mr.Kinai?"

"They're juggling multiple shops," Kinai said. "They work with several kawaraban publishers, skillfully placing articles where they'll fetch higher prices versus cheaper ones. What comes to Bunkadō's the bargain bin stuff—but in exchange, we get to skip the legwork."

“But ain’t the vendors bringing in story leads?”

“The approach to gathering articles is different,” Kinai said. “Take that Fukagawa parent-child suicide piece you wrote today—ah, never mind. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

III

"I suppose so," Bōjirō said with a tone of bitter resignation. "As humans grow older, they come to understand all sorts of things. The more they understand, the clearer it becomes just how despicable the world is—how utterly wretched humans are."

“Making a living ain’t no joke, y’know.”

“Fair enough,” Bōjirō said, picking up the emptied sake flask and shaking it. “Old man, more sake!”

“No good,” the owner of Tonbi stubbornly shot back. “We’re a shop for savoring sake, not for getting you drunk.”

Around the counter sat two other middle-aged men who appeared to be shop regulars, quietly drinking as the wife poured for them.
Bōjirō flushed with irritation at the proprietor’s curt words.
He thought that even if they were running a business, there shouldn’t be such a dismissive way of addressing customers, but considering the other two patrons, he bowed with normal courtesy.

“Fair enough,” Bōjirō said. “Shall we settle the bill then?”

Bōjirō startled and raised his head from the monk's pillow. In the dim glow of the darkened lantern, he noticed a woman lying beside him—her bare feet and hands entwined around his body.

"Hey, wake up," he said, shaking the woman's shoulder. "Where are we? Who are you?"

The woman clung to Bōjirō, pressing her face against his chest as she whispered, "Keep sleeping quietly."
"Just stay like this, please. I'll move over soon," she added.
He fell back asleep exactly like that.

The next morning, in Bunkadō's article room, Bōjirō sat with a pallid face, gulping down nothing but water.

"Hangover?" Kinai Ōkoku smirked, his brush never pausing. "Our Bō-chan here ain't much of a drinker, eh?"

"How much did I put away last night?"

"Two go and change's what I saw you swallow. Whatever came after—your business, not mine."

“Ugh.”
Bōjirō groaned, “Where did we part ways?”

“You’re being reckless,” Kinai said while diligently working his brush. “Wouldn’t listen after one drink—kept insisting we go somewhere else. Must’ve hit five or six places. I got worn out, so we split up in Koamichō.”

Bōjirō whirled around in alarm. “Koamichō? Don’t tell me it was Sawashige.”

“That was Sawashige.”

“This ain’t no joke.”

“He absolutely wouldn’t listen about going—‘This time I’ll test the sashimi quality myself,’ he kept insisting.”

“This ain’t no joke—makes my hair stand on end.” Bōjirō hunched his shoulders. “Did you eat the sashimi then?”

“Didn’t touch a thing.” Kinai smirked again. “Must’ve ordered five dishes or so. Everyone just kept poking ’em with chopsticks, complaining about something.”

“Horrifying. Disgusting. I can’t handle liquor really,” Bōjirō said, peering at Kinai. “Since that marriage talk started, I’ve been drinking desperate-like—five cups and I’m out cold. When we split last night... Did I look headed straight back to Kobunechō?”

“How was it? I was drunk too, so I don’t remember.”

At that moment, from the back room separated by the corridor came a housewife's shrill scream.
That eight-tatami room served as the sleeping quarters for the master and his wife; whenever Osoide raised her voice like that, it invariably signaled a jealousy-fueled quarrel, prompting Nishikawa Bunka to immediately flee to the article room as was his custom.
For whether in physical strength, brute force, or indeed eloquence, Bunka stood no chance of opposing his wife.

“Bunka,” Kinai whispered to Bō-chan, “managed to seduce that vixen with his goatee—of course aiming for her money. But that whiskered fool only proved useful for luring her in. The vixen’s kept a death grip on the purse strings, and when fights break out like now, he’s not worth three coppers—pitiful goatee bastard.”

“Is the article not ready yet?” Gen-san the carver called out from next door. “We’ve got our hands free and are waiting over here!”

"Nothing fresh yet," Kinai answered loudly. "Why don't we have them do a reprint of yesterday's Fukagawa double suicide?"

"What's this? Getting tricked by some slippery whore!" Osoide's shriek echoed from the eight-tatami room behind them, accompanied by what sounded like a slap to the cheek. "You stole two bu from my purse and gave it to that damn mistress, didn't you? Return it now! Right here, right now, you idiot bastard! You buck-toothed fool!"

The sound of what might have been another slap echoed through the air, accompanied by Bunka's low, gentle voice desperately trying to placate her.

"Alright, time to slip in a pause here," Kinai Ōkoku said without stopping his brushwork. "Unsun Karuta cards, Unsun Karuta cards."

He wrote relentlessly. Placing a 1.8-liter sake flask beside his desk, he poured it unchilled into a cup and sipped while muttering to himself and smirking, scribbling furiously from morning till evening. What Bunkadō called their "early articles"—equivalent to modern breaking news—included theater reviews and scandals between actors and women, all fabricated pieces without exception. Their content leaned brazenly into vulgarity, while their expressions might as well have been lifted straight from erotic books.

“Unsun Karuta again?”
Every so often Gen-san the carver would say, “Once these patterns get set in stone, there’s neither fun nor humor left in ’em. You oughta try bedding some different women once in a while yourself, Mr. Kinai.”

“Well, Gen-san and I are of different generations.”
Kinai scrunched up his face but fired back, “I do plan to study up gradual-like, but if you know any women that peculiar, I’d appreciate the tip.”

“I’ve refused women since thirty-five,” Gen-san said while facing the printing block. “But not a single one of those creatures ever resembled another—faces differ of course, but so do their tastes down there, their body shapes, even how they moan. Your writings are just carbon copies—not one real living woman comes through. With this tripe, even bargain-bin kawaraban wouldn’t sell.”

“So why’d you swear off women at thirty-five, Gen-san?”
Kinai kept moving his brush as he deftly changed the subject. “There must be some story there.”

“Ever heard how Benkei quit women after just one tumble?”

“I’m asking about you.”

“I ain’t senile enough to spill my sins to you.”

The quarrel in the back room had subsided, leaving only Osoide’s nasal moans drifting through intermittently.
Soon Kihara Ōsui appeared—voice polished, gestures refined—handing Kinai a sheaf of articles. “This’ll make fine kawaraban,” he declared before departing with equally cultivated grace.

Where had he stayed last night?—Bōjirō kept wondering.
Who was that woman? If he had parted ways with Kinai at Sawashige, he obviously didn't know Nakachō [Shin-Yoshiwara], and he'd never even been near any places where one would sleep with women.

When the maid Okatsu came to announce lunch, Bōjirō said, “If you want it, you can have it.” “I don’t want anything,” he said.
Painter Tsune-san, carver Gen-san, printer Matsu-yan—even Kinai Ōkoku—all brought their own lunchboxes when coming to work, but Bōjirō alone got his midday meal from a neighborhood lunch shop.
“R-really?” The maid Okatsu asked again, her face turning red as she stammered, and upon realizing she could truly have it, her entire face lit up with a delighted smile. “Th-thank you,” she said, bowing repeatedly as she stuttered over her words.

"They don't serve anything decent in this household," Kinai said. "Barley rice and pickles all year round—miso soup only on the fifteenth and last days of each month. When they do serve it, they just ladle out the broth into a bowl as your side dish. Doesn't look like they'll even give you pickles otherwise."

“Does that go for married couples too?”

"It depends on the vixen’s mood that day."

“What an unbelievable story,” Bōjirō said, shaking his head. “Should I help with that article?”

"No good."
Kinai said as he unwrapped his lunchbox, "This story's about a husband who caught his wife with another man in the act and slashed them with a kitchen knife. Once you feel better, just keep doing your copying work."

Bōjirō had been copying a text called Kana-gaki Onna Teikin ever since joining Bunkadō.
The original work was by a renowned Chinese scholar; titled Enlightenment for Women: Household Precepts, it had been a widely read and well-regarded book.
They planned to gradually alter the text and sell it as kana-gaki.
In other words, they were creating forgeries, and with every character Bōjirō wrote, he felt such shame that it made him break into a sweat.

"It's business, just business," Kinai Ōkoku comforted him. "When humans gotta keep living through this world, there's times you gotta endure even the most shameful things. Quit worrying about it—you'll get used eventually."

IV

“You can’t sleep there—you’ll catch a cold. Wake up, Mr. Ike.”

“Who the hell are you?” Bōjirō said. “Where the hell am I?”

“Isn’t this the house with your room? Koamichō.”

Bōjirō raised his head to look at Orui, muttered “Ah, it’s you,” then closed his eyes again and rolled onto his back on the tatami.

“Hopeless—can’t hold your liquor yet still drink.”
Orui stood up and brought a monk’s pillow and coverlet, positioned Bōjirō’s head on the pillow, and draped the coverlet over him. “Feeling sick? Want me to fetch water?”

It seemed Bōjirō hadn't heard her. "I should've just become a beggar," he muttered, hiding his face in the coverlet.

Bōjirō had absolutely no recollection of how he had ended up in his own room.
When someone shook his shoulder and he awoke, Orui was by his pillow, offering him a teacup.

“Drink this,” Orui said. “You might hate it, but they say a morning-after drink works best for hangovers. You can pinch your nose if you have to—just try drinking it.”

Bōjirō sat up and accepted the teacup, but the moment he caught the scent of warmed sake, his stomach churned violently. Nearly vomiting, he averted his face and thrust the cup back toward Orui.

"Then rest today and sleep properly," Orui said.

"I will."
Bōjirō spoke while lying down, "Could you have someone deliver this to Bunkadō?"

“There’s no need for that,” Orui said while adjusting his coverlet. “You should just quit that vile shop.”

“Quit and do what?”

“Last night you said you should’ve become a beggar,” Orui said. “But if you truly set your mind to it, you’ll surely stand above others in whatever work you take up.”

“I don’t want to become someone like that—I’d rather disappear into the mountains.”

“What are you talking about? You’re still just a youngster who’s barely peeked at the world. Now go get some sleep.”
Orui adjusted the coverlet and said, “That way you’ll get your strength back.”

Bōjirō fell asleep immediately.
He felt he'd only slept briefly when voices woke him - opening his eyes to find the lamp lit and Kinai Ōkoku drinking sake at the tray beside it.
When Bōjirō spoke up, Kinai narrowed his darting eyes and creased his face into a laugh.

"A messenger came from our shop this morning," he said. "I stopped by to check your condition."

“You didn’t need to worry about me.”

“Well, given last night...”

“By that—did something happen?”

“Did you forget?” Kinai said, savoring his sake. “I pressed Goatee to set your allowance starting this month.”

“Ah,” Bōjirō said, grimacing.
He recalled his exchange with Goatee.
About forty days had passed since being hired—as a trainee, he hadn’t received a single sen in allowance.
With funds from his Sakurada Lane home nearly gone, he’d finally approached Bunka.
Bunka—over three sun shorter than Bōjirō—stroked his goatee while coughing repeatedly.

“Even if you keep whining about an allowance,” Bunka said, repeating his usual refrain, “we’re barely keeping this shop afloat. The truth is, us scribblers are supposed to turn story ideas into coin—not beg for handouts from the shop.”

“What do you mean by turning ideas into money?”

“Go ask Mr. Kinai about that,” Bunka retorted, squinting his triangular eyes mockingly. “And you—living high on free bento shop meals—prattling about cash? Doesn’t become your station one bit.”

At that moment, Bōjirō felt like striking Goatee, but suddenly ashamed of himself, he withdrew from Bunka’s presence.
For he found himself utterly wretched—this self who had engaged in such base transcription work and even contemplated accepting wages.

“Mr. Kinai, were you listening to that?”

“That’s why we drank together,” Kinai said. “You kept shouting at the top of your lungs during your bar-hopping spree—‘I wanna be a thief!’—just like that other time.”

He understood that feeling well.
But he knew better than anyone - you couldn't survive in this world on noble ideals alone.
There were plenty of kawaraban shops around alright,
but only a handful managed to sell papers with honest reporting free from deception.
The rest scraped by through varying degrees of malice - fabricated tales or outright lies,
barely making ends meet with their sensational drivel.
"Bunkadō only keeps its doors open because Osoide's got deep pockets," said Kinai Ōkoku,
his voice sharpening like a woodblock carver's chisel.
"She owns ten rental properties and dabbles in petty moneylending.
Without those crooked ventures,
we'd never survive just rehashing old woodblocks and hawking cheap seals."

“Even I feel ashamed doing work like this now.”
Kinai sipped his sake and bowed his head. “Ain’t nothin’ to boast about, but when you were Bō-chan’s age, I wanted to be a playwright. Frequented all sorts of writers’ rooms, ghostwrote five scripts under Takebaya Sōshichi’s name that made it to the stage. If things had gone smooth from there, might’ve become a proper playwright by now.”

He was about to say it concerned women when Orui entered carrying sake.

“Oh, you’re awake?”
Orui looked at Bōjirō with concern. “Are you feeling better?”

“Seems so,” Bōjirō said as he sat up. “I’ve gotten a bit of a craving for sake.”

Orui placed the sake on Kinai Ōkoku’s tray, hurried over to Bōjirō’s side, draped the kimono and tanzen jacket over his shoulders from behind, then untied the fastened flat cord and handed it to him.

“If you’re going to have sake, wait a moment,” Orui said. “You haven’t eaten anything since morning. The porridge is ready—have that first.”

“I don’t want anything to eat—let’s get to the sake first.”

“No,” Orui said, tapping Bōjirō’s shoulder. “It’s already ready, so wait. Drinking on an empty stomach will only make you suffer again.”

“It’ll be ready soon,” Orui said and hurried out.
Kinai Ōkoku grinned and said, “You’re just like a married couple.”
Bōjirō sat down opposite and, holding out a hand, said he wanted the cup.

“No.”
Kinai shook his head. “Liquor on an empty stomach’s poison—just like the widow said.”

“That sarcasm doesn’t faze me one bit,” said Bōjirō, abruptly raising his eyes. “I’d forgotten—what does ‘turning article ideas into money’ actually mean?”

"Better not think about it. You couldn't pull it off even if you tried—and I wouldn't want you trying anyway."

"But I've got to survive too," Bōjirō said. "If possible, I want to keep going as a reporter—and I'll do whatever it takes for that."

Orui entered carrying a tray, placed Bōjirō's meal tray before him, arranged the rice bowl, teacup, small plate of pickled plums, and chopsticks, then said, "Sorry to keep you waiting."
Bōjirō said he'd handle it himself, but Orui paid no heed, scooping egg porridge into a bowl and passing it to him.
He told Kinai to wait a moment and picked up his chopsticks.
When he smelled the porridge, hunger suddenly gripped him.
The porridge was perfectly seasoned, the egg soft-boiled. Wondering if anything could taste this good, Bōjirō ate two bowls.
Orui watched his eating with evident pleasure and asked, "Was the flavor too bland?"

“I can’t say,” Bōjirō said as he set down his bowl. “After all, this is my first time eating porridge since I can remember. But it was good.”

“That’s good. If you’ve eaten that much, you’ll be fine.”
Orui transferred the rice bowl and teacup to the tray while replacing them with a warmed sake decanter, cups, and two small dishes of snacks on the meal tray. “But be careful,” she said. “Don’t drink out of desperation if you don’t even want to.”

“Looks like I’m the one getting scolded here,” Kinai said, hunching his shoulders.

When Orui left, Bōjirō poured himself a cup of sake but did not attempt to drink it. “Let’s get to it,” he said with a tense expression.

“It’s pointless even if I tell you.”
Kinai sipped his sake and said, “Nah—might help me get it off my chest though. Let’s lay it bare—this ‘turning article seeds into cash’ racket? Oldest trick there is—shakedowns.”

“Shakedowns?”

“We dig up some rich house’s dirty laundry,” Kinai said. “Draft a kawaraban piece about it, then go to them claiming, ‘We’ve got to print your name—just doing you the courtesy of advance notice.’ Any big merchant or moneybags’ got two-three scandals they’d slit throats to keep buried. If gold can hush it up, they’ll pay rather than face public shame—that’s how the article gets bought.”

Bōjirō took the cup from the tray, furrowed his brows as he gulped, and said, “Huh… So that’s how it is. Huh… That’s one hell of a luffa tree situation.”

“You keep sayin’ that,” Kinai shot back, “but a luffa ain’t no damn tree.”

“Why?” Bōjirō retorted, slamming his cup down. “Don’t everyone call eggplants trees?”

“Eggplants stand upright on single stalks—you could stretch it to ‘tree’ if you squint.” Kinai leaned forward, calloused fingers tracing imaginary vines in the air. “But luffas? They’re clingy vines wrapping round bamboo poles or whatever’s handy. No way in hell you can twist that into being a tree.”

Five

In his dream, Bōjirō felt the soft, clinging weight of a hot woman's body pressing down on him.
It must be that woman from before, he thought vaguely through the haze.
The feminine form enveloped him from above, alternately pressing and constricting.
As he heard what sounded like a voice straining through pain, he realized—not for the first time—that he must have drunk too much again.
When an alien sensation erupted in his loins and abruptly peaked, a faint incomprehensible cry escaped her lips as every muscle in his body went slack.

“Mr. Ike, if you don’t get up now, you’ll be late,” Orui said, “that is, if you’re planning to go to Bunkadō.”

“I’m going.”
Half-asleep, he murmured this; then Bōjirō opened his eyes and looked at Orui standing by his pillow. “Oh... it’s you.”

“I told you not to drink so much. If you keep drinking like this, you’ll ruin your health.”

“That hurts,” Bōjirō said. “But for men, there are times when dying’s a whole lot easier.”

“Do you think women don’t have such moments?”

"That hurts," Bōjirō said again, his face taking on an embarrassed look as he continued, "I've only just peeked into society—I don't even properly understand myself yet." He paused before asking, "...Was I out dreadfully late last night?"

"You don't remember?"

"I was with those vendors Danpei and Kyūbei—they dragged me around unfamiliar places. That's why I can't recall when or how I made it back."

A coquettish smile surfaced on Orui's face. "Those vendors are yakuza affiliates, aren't they?" she said. "You didn't go to any... unsavory places now, did you?"

“Nothing like that.”
Bōjirō turned his face away. “Though to be honest, I was too drunk to remember exactly where they dragged me.”

“There was a woman involved though?” Orui probed, her tone laced with insinuation. “You dallied with some girl last night, didn’t you?”

"I'll wash my face," he said, sitting up. "Can't just keep lying around like this."

"The egg porridge is ready."

Bōjirō looked puzzled. "Huh... Why?"

"After getting drunk, you like that, don't you?"

"Did I say something like that?"

“You needn’t say it for me to know,” Orui said as she stood. “Now rise. I’ll draw hot water for the basin.”

In front of Bunkadō, he met the vendor Danpei.
He held a stack of kawaraban in his left hand and an old folding fan in his right.
He wore a steamed bun-shaped woven hat, and under his tucked-up cloth robe, his legs clad in slender navy blue leggings looked thoroughly dashing.

“Thanks for last night,” Bōjirō said. “I must have made you spend quite a bit, didn’t I?”

“Nah, just our regular spots,” Danpei said with a wry smile. “Didn’t spend a coin—we settle up later.”

Bōjirō took out some money from his wallet and, saying, “It’s probably not enough, but take your share,” handed it to Danpei.
Then, cutting off Danpei’s attempt to refuse, he asked where they had parted ways the previous night.

“In front of your place—since you were way too drunk, I ended up escorting you back,” Danpei said. “Did something happen?”

“I’m sorry for causing you trouble,” he said.

When he entered the article room, Kinai Ōkoku sat facing his desk with a headband tied around his forehead, vigorously wielding his brush while drinking sake as usual.
After sitting down at his desk, Bōjirō took out his wallet and checked inside.
When leaving home earlier, Orui had handed him this wallet saying she’d put some money in.
Having just paid Danpei a small share yet noticing the wallet still felt surprisingly heavy, he inspected it again to find three ichibu-gin coins, two nishu coins, and thirty mon coins.

If what I gave Danpei was two nishu... that makes nearly one ryō.

As he put away the wallet, Bōjirō grimaced.
The room's rent had piled up, and he had absolutely no obligation to accept this money.
He needed to return it immediately, but having already dipped into it, he couldn't repay it as things stood—nor did he have any means to do so for the time being.
Bōjirō felt completely weighed down.

And then there was the woman from last night—he thought she might be the same one from that other evening—but just what sort of woman from which household was she anyway?

He had seriously considered asking Danpei, but found himself utterly unable to voice the question.
When he left the house on Sakurada Lane, he thought he could simply step into a living life.
Yet until now, society seemed only to reject him and push him back.
Everything remained discordant and irrational, showing him nothing but disgustingly sordid aspects.
He had assumed his constrained life stemmed from being a third son, but the sensibilities cultivated in a 1,200-koku hatamoto household recoiled from every facet of establishments like Bunkadō—managed through shoddy machinations—and the townsfolk existence he now touched.

“Let’s get a raise!”
Suddenly, while dashing through his article writing, Kinai started proclaiming: “Monthly stipend hike! Come on now—raise! Raise! Raise!”

“We’re demanding a raise too,” came Gen-san’s voice from the eight-tatami room next door. “There’s plenty of other shops out there—working for these wages has become downright unbearable!”

Upon hearing that voice, Bōjirō saw Kinai Ōkoku grin slyly and shrug his shoulders.

“That’s right—a raise!” came Tsune-san’s voice from the eight-tatami room next door. “Even drawing children’s picture books should earn me better coin than this!”

Printer Matsu-yan said nothing; only the incessant squeak-squeak of his baren working the blocks could be heard.
At that moment, Kihara Ōsui entered wearing a sardonic smile. "Quite the commotion here," he said, placing a story draft on Kinai Ōkoku's desk.

"A street slashing and a child crushed by a cart," said Kihara. "The slashing occurred outside Asakusa's Nitenmon Gate—the child was killed in Kanda's Kajichō district. A three-year-old girl, they say."

“Once in a while, bring something that isn’t scrap material.”
Kinai said without pausing his brushstrokes, “With articles like that, no matter how much the vendors shout themselves hoarse, these kawaraban won’t sell worth a damn!”

“Isn’t that where Mr. Kinai’s skill comes in—making such trash sellable?” Kihara said with a smarmy grin. “Didn’t that Shin-Yoshiwara courtesan’s double suicide story sell like hotcakes this summer? They were both supposed to be dead, but the woman’s still breathing fine. Thanks to that kawaraban, I hear she’s become the talk of the town.”

“Cut it out,” Kinai Ōkoku said. “I don’t wanna hear that crap.”

“It’s the power of your brush.”
Kihara laughed frivolously, “If Mr. Kinai writes it, there’s no doubt it’ll sell—no matter how much scrap material it is. I’m counting on you.”

And grinning flippantly, Kihara Ōsui left.

“What a piece of work,” Kinai said while writing, “he takes the profitable scoops for himself and dumps the cheap scraps on us. Ends up skimming way more from Goatee than I ever do actually writing this crap—what’s so funny?”

Bōjirō waved his hand and said, “No—that’s not it. That’s not what I meant,” then continued, “When Kihara mentioned Kanda Kajimachi earlier, I remembered when I first met you.”

“You mean Sawashige?”

“It’s not about the damn sashimi incident,” Bōjirō said again, chuckling under his breath. “There were two customers next to us back then—one of them made his kid carry the futon he’d wet and walk around the neighborhood three times as punishment.”

"I remember that too!"

“However—though the man’s house seems to be around Kameido, they say the child ended up going all the way to Ta-chō in Kanda still carrying the futon on his back.”

“It’s just a kid,” Kinai said while continuing to write. “They’ll go wherever they please.”

Bōjirō was about to say that afterward, the whole neighborhood had been in an uproar searching for the lost child when he suddenly clamped his mouth shut.
A voice rang out: What about you?
Having fled the Shiba mansion to do this vile, worthless work—aren't you yourself a lost child?

All humans are lost children.

Kinai Ōkoku had once aimed to become a resident playwright for a theater troupe, but now he was scraping by writing fabricated articles for kawaraban.
While engaging in work that deceived society and swindled people, Goatee—who cowered under his wife’s constant nagging—along with Gen-san, Tsune-san, Matsu-yan, and even the nameless men he had met at drinking establishments whose faces he could barely recall, when he thought about it, everyone seemed to feel like lost children.

If you really think about it, aren’t all human beings just lost children searching for their own path in life, wandering in confusion until the end?

Bōjirō’s heart grew heavier still. Recalling relatives who had lived their entire lives as lost children, he let out a deep, long sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Kinai called out. “Hangover again?”

“That’s about it. How far did we go together, Mr.Kinai?”

“It was the alley in Ryōgoku Hirokōji, wasn’t it?”
Kinai said without stopping his hands, “Since you were surrounded by Danpei and Kyūbei, I don’t know what happened afterward. Did something happen?”

Bōjirō did not answer and sighed again.

Chapter Six

On a snowy morning in December, Bōjirō set out for Bunkadō half an hour earlier than usual.
Ever since childhood, whenever he saw snow falling, he couldn't stay still at home—he would immediately rush out to gather friends, and if none were available, he'd wander alone through Akasaka's Tameike pond, the riding grounds, and Sannō's forest; this had been his constant habit.
However, the snow in downtown areas would be swept up immediately after falling and discarded into gutters; what little remained in narrow vacant lots lay filthy and soiled, bearing no resemblance to the snowscapes he had known as a boy.

Akasaka must still be beautiful.

While thinking such thoughts, he went to Bunkadō, and when he tried to climb the stairs beside the shop, the maid Okatsu hurried over, her face reddening as she stuttered, "Thank you again for the other day."
It was gratitude for the lunchbox he’d given her when she hadn’t wanted to eat—the other day’s meal of mackerel miso stew, fried tofu, and greens with sesame dressing—she’d never eaten anything so delicious in her life, and tears had streamed down her face as she ate.
She recounted this matter with the detailed expressions characteristic of someone who stutters.

“I get it, I get it,” Bōjirō cut her off. “You can have today’s too if you want—I don’t need it.”

He climbed up to the second-floor article room as if fleeing her gratitude.
Whether due to the early hour or the snow, even the printing room remained empty.
Just as he started to lower himself into his chair, a crash echoed from the back room, followed by the proprietress Osoide’s ear-splitting shriek.

“Who’d believe this ‘meeting’ nonsense?” Osoide shrieked. “Don’t take me for a fool! Now—where’d you shack up last night? What cheap slut did you sleep with? Out with it!”

“I’m sorry—truly sorry for stayin’ out,” Bunka’s voice was heard saying, “but the meetin’ was with fellow tradesmen, and even after that ended, I couldn’t just up and leave by myself. Kept thinkin’ ‘should head back,’ but before I knew it...”

Osoide threw something again.
Bunka slid open the fusuma and fled, then prostrated himself in the hallway.
Unfortunately, as the maid had likely just finished cleaning and the shoji screens in this article room remained open, Bunka’s scrawny, diminutive, wretched figure—crawling flat on his belly—was laid completely bare.

“Like this,” Bunka said, pressing his forehead to the hallway floor. “I stayed out for business, but I swear I ain’t slept with no woman! Ask anyone! C’mon, forgive me—look, I’m beggin’ here!”

“You stayed at some okabasho dive and expect me to believe you slept without bedding a woman?”

“It’s the honest truth!” Bunka insisted. “Even I can’t figure why I didn’t—it’s downright strange myself.”

Osoide shrieked and threw something again.
It was a teacup that didn’t break even when slammed against the hallway floor, rolling all the way to the article room.
Bunka kept repeating “Forgive me! Forgive me!” while crawling flat on his belly, alternately raising his head and pressing his forehead to the floor.
The scene looked like a living illustration of the phrase “like a grasshopper.” Bōjirō could no longer bear to watch. He stood up, left the printing room for the hallway, descended the stairs, and went into the shop.
Just then Kinai Ōkoku entered, so he gave a meaningful look, pointed upstairs, and shook his head.

“Anyway, let’s head to Tonbi.”
Bōjirō took the shop’s umbrella and said, “We’ll talk once we get to Tonbi.”

Tonbi’s shop was closed.
The two went again to “Sawashige” in Koamichō.
This was a place that opened early since boatmen and cargo foremen gathered there.

“Humans are such amusing creatures.”
After hearing the story, Kinai shook his head with a laugh and said, “That vixen had her fling with Kihara’s young buck about seven days back. When she brought in the article material and found Goatee wasn’t around, she just dragged him straight to a love hotel.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like a love hotel before.”

“There’s plenty in the back alleys here,” Kinai said, slurping his sake while scrunching up his face into a sarcastic smile. “You wouldn’t get it, being raised a thousand-koku hatamoto.”

“Does Chobihige not know about that?”

"He knows," said Kinai. "As I must have said before—when you're married, you can't help noticing such things through mannerisms alone. Chobihige definitely knows."

"Then why doesn't he retaliate today?"

"It's money, Bō-chan."
Kinai's darting eyes flashed sharply. "Chobihige's eyeing the vixen's cash, and she knows it full well—meaning they're deceiving each other."

“Makes me want to puke.”

“Take a good look at the world—everyone’s just pulling the wool over each other’s eyes.”

Kinai Ōkoku said that and laughed hollowly. Bōjirō slumped his shoulders, let out a sigh, and said, “Bring me some sake too.” He had been sipping roasted grain tea until then, but he had reached a point where he couldn’t bear it without drinking sake.

"Is that okay?" Kinai asked. "I'm flat broke."

“It’s fine—probably.”
Bōjirō pressed his hand against his chest and said, “Given how that woman’s carrying on—this’ll drag out quite a while longer—I never want to see such a commotion again.”

"If only that were possible."
Kinai let out another sardonic laugh. "If people could do that, they wouldn't struggle to survive. But if you mean to become a kawaraban writer, you can't turn away from anything—no matter how vile or filthy. You've got to charge straight into it."

"I never imagined things would come to this."

The young waitress Otsuma brought sake and appetizers, then asked, "What's so unexpected?"

“This is our conversation,” Bōjirō said. “Right—I’ll have the sea bream sashimi.”

“That’s a bad pun,” Kinai said.

“Are you really ordering?” Otsuma grinned slyly. “Today we’ve got some tasty quail skewers, you know.”

“Sashimi,” Bо̄jirо̄ said, taking a drink by himself．“Tell Kanakke not to worry about it．”

“That’s a bad pun,” Kinai said again．

When he returned to Bunkadо̄，everyone from the printing room had gathered．In the article room，Kotani Sakurajo sat composedly before his desk，reading through what Bо̄jirо̄ had written with deliberate calm．
It was immediately clear he had been reading Bо̄jirо̄’s copied writings．
When Bо̄jirо̄ sat down at his own desk，Sakurajo stood up and came over．He quietly placed the bundle of written papers on the desk．“I have reviewed them，” he said．

“I have reviewed your work,” Kinai Ōkoku said with affected refinement, “but this is classical prose. Since ‘Kana-gaki Onna Teikin’ needs to be readable even by nurserymaids, I believe you must write in more vulgar language for it to sell.”

“What exactly distinguishes colloquial language from elegant prose?” Bо̄jirо̄ retorted. “Please enlighten me.”

Sakurajo smiled gently, “It’s the language you use when walking through the streets or listening and talking in drinking establishments. This should go without saying.”

Bо̄jirо̄ was taken aback, but seeing Sakurajo’s genial smile, his resolve faltered and he couldn’t bring himself to shout back.
Sakurajo left with a leisurely bow, whereupon Bōjirō sat down at his desk and clicked his tongue. “What an affected bastard.”

“Different folks,” said Kinai Ōkoku. “Sakurajo’s got his own way of surviving too. And—what he said ain’t wrong. Might rub you the wrong way, but this work was never decent from the start. It’s garbage meant to hoodwink folks and turn a profit. Those copy jobs should be done in two-three days—you gotta work knowing they’ll end up as scrap paper anyhow.”

"Is that really human work?"

"That's just how society works."
Kinai smirked. "Let me say it again—"

"I get it."
Bōjirō shook his head and cut him off. "When I first met you at Sawashige and got into Bunkadō, I'd prepared myself for this. But even in this mess, I thought maybe I could still do some proper work—no, that precisely in this world, we must do proper work."

“So you’ve realized the world isn’t so sweet after all.”

"How sad," said Bōjirō, covering his face with both hands, "I'm losing confidence by the day, but if I'm to become a kawaraban writer, I'll make myself get used to anything."

"Dangerous path," said Kinai. "You'd best quit while you can."

At that moment, Bunka entered.

"I just heard from Sakurajo," Bunka said while stroking his goatee, addressing Bōjirō. "Seems those copies of yours won't sell. What d'you think?"

"That's not true at all," said Kinai. "Sakurajo's got his opinions sure enough, but if we put Mr. Ike's elegant-style copies out there, they might just keep selling."

"You can't judge what sells using some hack writer's gut feeling," Bunka snorted through his nose, snatching up the copied papers from Bōjirō's desk. "--Let me take a proper look at this."

Seven

"Huh?" Bōjirō looked up.

“The pounded quail dish,” Orui said. “What’s so surprising?”

“Ah, right,” he said, shaking his head. “No—it’s nothing. I just heard somewhere the other day that they’re making quail skewers.”

“That’s the shop called Sawashige in Koamichō, right? I heard about that.”

“That’s terrible—did someone go and blab about that?”

“That’s why I keep telling you not to get so drunk! If you wanted to drink, you should’ve had your fill here after coming home—then at least there’d be no question about you passing out drunk!”

On the tray were arranged ankake tofu in thick sauce, a quail stew bowl, and pickles.
He took the quail stew bowl, ate one bite, said "Delicious," then returned it to the tray without eating more and sipped sake from his cup.

"Not only am I behind on rent," Bōjirō said, hanging his head in evident shame, "but I'm taking pocket money I can't repay and stuffing myself with this feast. I'm such a luffa tree—might as well turn into a dog."

“Even though I’m doing this because I want to, there’s no reason for you to blame yourself.”

“That’s just how Auntie feels.”

“Oh, how pitiful Auntie must seem,” Orui said, appearing to notice their age difference for the first time as she smiled and nodded. “Yes—there’s seven years between us. No wonder I’m your auntie.”

“That’s not what I meant—there’s just no proper way to address you.”

“It’s fine.” Orui smiled beautifully again. “You fuss over every little thing too much. You ought to relax more—do as you please.”

“Sorry, but I’ll have to turn in.”

Bōjirō stood up unsteadily, and Orui hurriedly said, “Wait a moment,” while rising to support him.
Bōjirō staggered slightly and grabbed Orui’s shoulder.
And as he made his way to his room, he casually slid the hand that had gripped her shoulder down to stroke Orui’s back.

“Wait, you can’t go like that.”

As Bōjirō tried to crawl into the futon still wearing his clothes, Orui held him back and said—

“I’ve warmed the nightclothes,” Orui said. “Please change before going to bed.”

“Later.”
He burrowed into the futon. “I’ll definitely change later—definitely.”

“I remember those shoulders,” Bōjirō murmured. “Small soft shoulders, the feel of that supple resilient back—vague on the first night, but on the second I knew immediately it was the same woman as before. Definitely those shoulders, that back.”

“What’re you grumbling about?” Kinai Ōkoku turned and said. “Still nursing that hangover?”

“Hangovers come in all varieties,” Bōjirō continued copying while saying, “I never knew society had so many different pits waiting to swallow you.”

“That’s how you grow up bit by bit.”

“I think it would’ve been better if I’d been born a stray dog instead.”

“Even stray dogs have to work hard to scavenge meals.”

“It’s like getting slapped across the cheek,” said Bōjirō. “Ever since I ran away from home, it’s been nothing but getting slapped around. I’m sick of it.”

“That’s where it begins,” said Kinai, “tasting each bitterness, sweetness, and spiciness one by one. You’ve crossed the threshold now.”

"Threshold..."

"It means you've been hit by adult winds," said Kinai Ōkoku with a soundless laugh. "Bō-chan's a late bloomer."

"I don't know what your threshold and winds were like," said Bōjirō, "but the threshold I crossed and the first winds that blew on me—they're different from yours."

"Everyone seems to think that way."
Kinai continued writing while saying, "Humans all reckon their first experiences belong solely to them."

“And so you gradually stop being surprised,” Bōjirō said. “—And then you’ll stop feeling things like ‘How beautiful’ or ‘How pitiful’ or ‘How sad’ or ‘How heartrending.’ Just thinking about it makes me shudder.”

“When you think about things you don’t know yet,” Kinai said, “it feels terrifying—no, repulsive, downright squalid. Yet despite that, it’s humans who keep wanting to touch those unknown things.”

“When it comes to talking, I can explain everything from the ground up to the heavens,” said Bōjirō. “After all, they say another’s burns don’t sting.”

And then something painful happened.
That evening, Goatee entered the article room, handed a small paper package to Kinai Ōkoku and Bōjirō, and told them they didn’t need to come starting tomorrow.

“This is but a trifle—a token of my regard,” said Bunka, stroking his goatee. “Don’t think ill of it—take it and be done.”

Just as Bōjirō was about to say “What about my copying work?”, Kinai abruptly sat up from his desk and bowed repeatedly to Goatee.

"Please, Mr. Nishikawa," said Kinai Ōkoku, "just wait a little longer—I may have written considerably until now, but I'll write even more from here on. I'll handle Mr. Sakurajo and Mr. Sakuramizu's portions too, and produce two or three books under my mark each month."
Kinai bowed again. "You can reduce my monthly allowance too—I'll do anything you ask."

Before Bōjirō could say "Stop it, Mr. Kinai," Goatee sneered and said, "So you're taking that proposal elsewhere now, eh?"

“Mr. Kinai,” Bōjirō called out.

“I beg you, Mr. Nishikawa,” Kinai said, bowing three times again. “Please don’t do this now—grant me at least six more months. Then you’ll see how indispensable I can be.”

“Enough!” Bunka said while stroking his goatee. “No beggin’ll change what’s decided. ’Stead o’ wastin’ breath here, go find someplace that’ll fatten yer monthly wages—then pour on the honeyed words thick.”

Kinai Ōkoku fell silent, planted both hands, and bowed his head.
Once, Kinai and the two from the printing room had shouted for an allowance increase.
And during their marital quarrel, I saw Bunka dart out into the hallway and apologize while rubbing his head as if flattening it against the floor.
"So they're trying to get their revenge now," Bōjirō thought.
At that moment, Goatee turned to Bōjirō and smiled ironically, baring his teeth.

"We never paid Bō-chan proper wages—truly sorry about that," Bunka said. "Don't hold it against us now."

Bōjirō's patience snapped there.
He stood up and, with his left hand, grabbed Bunka by the collar—a man five inches shorter than himself—then struck his cheek with an open right hand.

“Here’s your allowance from me,” Bōjirō said, delivering another slap. “If I thought you were human, I wouldn’t settle for just this. Remember that well.”

He shoved Bunka away.
Bunka staggered and fell backward into the hallway, taking the shoji screen with him.
At that instant, Kinai Ōkoku sprang up, suddenly straddling Goatee, grabbing his collar with one hand while striking his cheek with the other in a caressing blow.

“Don’t mock people, you bastard!” Kinai roared. “Don’t mock people, you shitstain! You Goatee bastard! What the hell do you take us for?!”

When humans truly rage, they can never achieve the revenge they envision,” Bōjirō thought with bitter self-awareness, sorrowfully tapping Kinai Ōkoku’s shoulder before saying, “Enough. Let’s go home.”

At that moment, the vixen Osoide came running up from downstairs and let out a shrill shriek like a madwoman upon seeing Goatee being pinned down.

“Thieves! Murderers!” Osoide stomped her feet and screamed, “Someone help! Thieves! Murderers!”

She then tried to lunge at Kinai Ōkoku.
Bōjirō shoved her aside and grabbed Kinai by the shoulder, pulling him away from Bunka.
The printing room fell utterly silent—no voices, no sounds.
Osoide lay sprawled on her back, her crimson undergarments clashing obscenely with age and dark brown legs appearing before Bōjirō’s eyes in unspeakable vulgarity.

“Let’s go, Mr. Kinai.”
He said while hoisting Kinai up, “There’s nothing you need to take along, right?”

“Murderer! Thief!” Osoide continued screaming while flailing her legs. “Someone come! Someone report this to the guard post!”

Bōjirō descended the stairs supporting Kinai Ōkoku as if carrying him.
The vixen was still screaming upstairs, but when they reached the bottom, the maid Okatsu had their sandals neatly arranged and was waiting—she seemed to want to offer some consolation, but being a stutterer, she merely flushed red and emitted unintelligible noises.

"You'd better get out of this place quick," Bōjirō told Okatsu. "If you want to work in service, there's gotta be better houses than this. Stay here and they'll suck you dry to the bone."

When they stepped outside the shop, they heard Okatsu’s voice from behind stammering out, “Th-thank you.”

“Let’s drink, Mr. Kinai,” he said loudly, “It’s embarrassing carrying this filthy money around—let’s drink it all up!”

“Yeah, let’s all drink up,” Kinai said without much vigor. “Today we’ll head to the other side of the river.”

Eight

“I can’t figure out what she’s feeling.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to figure out,” Kinai said. “She’s sweet on ya.”
“Don’t talk like that.”

"If that weren't the case, would there be any reason she'd make clothes for you and give you spending money?"

"But she's seven years older than me!"

"Don't waste good fortune," Kinai said as he sipped sake from his teacup. "You won't find that kind of refined beauty once in a thousand—and when it comes to love and lust, age means nothing."

"Oh my, doesn't that sound enviable," said the woman who brought the sake, leaning closer. "Do tell me more details."

“Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Bōjirō said, looking at the woman’s face before scanning the cramped room. “Where the hell are we anyway?”

“Oh, come off it!”
The woman tapped Bōjirō’s shoulder. “Don’t play dumb—here, let me pour you another.”

“We’re in Monzen Nakachō,” Kinai said, waving at the woman. “No more drinks—leave us alone.”

“What’s this now?”
The woman clung to Kinai. “Didn’t you just flirt with me now?”

“Shut it! I’ve got a proper wife!”

“You’re not the only one with a wife—what’s it matter?”
The woman clung tighter to Kinai. “Men without wives ain’t worth sleeping with anyway. C’mon, let’s go over there.”

“I’m going home,” Bōjirō said. “Somehow this has gotten depressing.”

“Let’s get out,” Kinai said. “Get us the bill.”

“The bill’s mine,” Bōjirō said.

“No way in hell,”
the woman pushed Kinai down. “You came flirtin’ with me—what’s this about?” She straddled him. “Ain’t lettin’ you sleep tonight. No way you’re goin’ home.”

Then she planted her lips on Kinai’s cheek.

How sad—to think that living could be this sad.

As he left that place and walked on, Bōjirō thought.
The woman hadn’t truly cared for Kinai from the heart.
Yet in the way she clung to him, embraced him, and sucked at his cheek—there was something beyond mere business.

A lost soul—that woman too is a lost soul, searching for some way to survive. A lost soul.

Bōjirō was seized by an impulse to cry out loud.

“That goateed dimwit bastard,” Kinai said, “I should’ve beaten him to death.”

“You did enough, Mr. Kinai,” said Bōjirō. “Someone like that wouldn’t feel a thing even if you sliced him into inch-long pieces. That was plenty—do more and they’d just slap cuffs on us, while he wouldn’t give a damn either way.”

“It’s the opposite,” Kinai said. “The world’s always like that. Let’s drink through the night—hey, keep the sake coming!”

Bōjirō had no idea where that shop was located.
Blown by the freezing river wind and recalling having walked along the riverbank, it seemed to be a drinking establishment in Ryōgoku Hirokōji or some back alley behind it.
They must have drunk at about three establishments in Monzen Nakachō, and after crossing the river to this side, it seemed they pub-crawled through two or three more places.
And they criticized Nishikawa Bunka, denounced the printing room crew for not supporting them, declared Osoide to be less a vixen than a she-wolf—no, a demon woman—and cursed the whole world besides.

“Mr. Kinai, you mentioned earlier that you have a wife,” Bōjirō asked. “Ah, that was at a drinking house in Monzen Nakachō—is that true?”

“That’s the problem.”

A cold wind blew as the two staggered through the lightless streets, their arms slung about each other.

“What’s problematic about having a wife?” Bōjirō said. “That bar woman said it too—you’re not the only married man around.”

“I wanna vanish,” Kinai slurred. “Disappear to some far-off place. You should go home too—surely you’ve realized this ain’t no world for honest living. Don’t you got kin who’d make amends for ya?”

“There’s no such thing. An uncle who married into a minor hatamoto family lives in Honjo—in Aioichō district, goes by Tsuchiya,” Bōjirō said.

“Ask that person and return to Sakurada Lane—that’s the best way.”

“Don’t sit there—your place is just up ahead, Mr. Kinai.”

Kinai Ōkoku sank onto weathered lumber lining the road, his hanging head swaying unsteadily like a broken pendulum as he muttered, “Ain’t no home for me to go back to.”

“Don’t say such foolish things.”

“Today I groveled on all fours before Goatee—you must’ve despised me, Mr. Ike. Thought I was human trash—a despicable bastard.”

Bōjirō said nothing.

"But Mr. Ike," Kinai continued with his head still bowed, "if Goatee had told me to piss right then and there, I would've done it—pissed like a dog or done my rounds like one."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I called my wife," Kinai said. "That bastard Nishikawa promised to increase my allowance starting next month, so I had her come from Hakone."

Bōjirō crossed his arms.
The cold night wind swept through, lifting the hem of Kinai Ōkoku’s kimono where he sat and exposing his gaunt, slender shins that appeared starkly desolate in the gloom.

"I think I told you once before," Kinai continued, "I meant to become a resident playwright for a theater troupe. I even took on several scripts as ghostwritten works. But then I got involved with a theater manager’s wife. When that came out, I was driven out of the theater world altogether."

“Your place is right there—let’s hear the rest after we get inside. If we keep dawdling here like this, you’ll really catch a cold.”

“We struggled—no, rather, it was Otane who did the struggling.”
Kinai said with his face buried in both hands, “Being expelled from the theater world was like having my feathers plucked clean. I tried everything I thought possible, but ultimately had no choice but to survive through this wretched writing. It was three years ago I stumbled into Bunkadō—the pay only covered rent for a ramshackle tenement and barely kept one person fed. That’s when Otane volunteered herself to work as a maid at a Hakone hot spring inn.”

“Given that,” Bōjirō said, “you were drinking quite merrily while writing articles.”

“My wife had been sending me money, you see.”

“So Hakone?”

“Hot spring resorts bring in money,” Kinai said, lowering his head again. “Bring in money... What must she have felt, struggling for three years in Hakone’s mountains?”

“You’re not gonna start crying now, are you?” Bōjirō said teasingly as he took Kinai’s arm and forced him to stand. “Just one more step to the tenement gate—come on, let’s go home.”

“That’s not possible.”

“What’s not possible? Isn’t that your house?”

"My wife is here," Kinai said in a drained voice. "Goatee said he'd give me a monthly allowance—I thought that'd be enough for the two of us to live on, so I had her come back from Hakone. Got her reply the day before yesterday—she was supposed to arrive here this evening."

The image of Kinai Ōkoku crawling prostrate before Goatee and shamelessly listing his complaints struck Bōjirō anew as pitiable.

"It'll be okay," he said. "You're husband and wife, aren't you? And she went all the way to Hakone to earn money for you—if you explain things properly, she'll understand."

"That's exactly why I can't face her—will you come with me?"

Bōjirō flustered, retorted "Me?" then immediately nodded. "Alright, if you want me along, let's go."

“Sorry ’bout this—owe you one.”

Kinai Ōkoku staggered and leaned against Bōjirō's shoulder.
He walked with Kinai propped against him and reached the tenement gate.
A night watchman passed by clanging his metal staff, while somewhere a dog barked raucously.—The gate stood open, revealing the tenement rows dimly on either side.
Although every house had extinguished its lights and lay dark, a single dwelling showed a quiet glow through its paper-paned door.
Although he had only stayed there once, it was undoubtedly Kinai Ōkoku’s residence.
To Bōjirō came the vivid image of a woman sitting dejectedly beside the lamp with a small cloth bundle at her side. Shuddering, he propped Kinai against the gate entrance, muttered "We'll meet again," and fled from that place.

"That too is human life."

As if to drown out Kinai's voice calling from behind, he muttered aloud while walking, “—A luffa doesn’t become a tree, huh? Thinking spitefully, it feels like they’re talking about me.”

He shuddered at the cold wind.
The couple from Bunkadō, the stuttering maid, Orui from Koamichō, the three in the printing room, and all manner of other people and scenery now felt strangely distant from him, as if belonging to another world.

"Some among my friends adapt easily to townspeople's lives," Bōjirō muttered. "But not me—seems I wasn't born with that disposition. No help for it—I'll go to my uncle's place in Honjo."

He bent forward, quickened his steps, and turned down the dark street toward the Ōkawa River.